by Jane Feather
Gareth was stunned by her tears. Anger he could have dealt with, but this bitter distress was so unlike Miranda, so painful to watch that he forgot all the urgency of the moment. Gathering her into his arms, he sat on the bed with her, rocking her as if she were a hurt child.
"Hush, sweeting. Don't weep so. Please, don't weep so." He took the towel from her and mopped at her drenched face, brushing her hair back from her forehead, with his palm.
"They're my family," Miranda gasped, pushing against his bare chest, struggling to sit up. "What did you say to them to make them leave me?"
"They knew it was for the best. They did it for you." He heard the note of desperation now in his voice and knew immediately that it would achieve nothing. He had to take back the situation, had to prove to Miranda that he was in control, that he was in the right. He drew her back against him and when she twisted in his hold, trying to free herself, he tightened his grip, enclosing her in a fierce embrace that was as much a vise as a hug. "Stop struggling and listen to me. How can I explain anything when you won’t be still?"
Miranda ceased a struggle that for all her sinuous strength was clearly futile. She found she was breathless, that her chest ached, that her throat was scratchy and her eyes stung. But she no longer felt like weeping. She remained very still, but her body was taut as a bowstring in his arms.
Gareth ran the pad of his thumb over her mouth, moving his open hand upward to caress the curve of her cheek against his chest. She didn't move or respond in any way. Her eyes remained open, but they were not looking at him.
"All I said to your friends was that I didn't believe you could substitute for Maude with proper conviction while they remained in London and you were likely to run off and join them whenever the mood took you." He spoke firmly. "I explained that it was difficult for you to have divided loyalties, and while you felt that you could help them, then you would want to be doing that and would find it hard to concentrate on playing the very different part you play here."
Miranda listened to the quiet, level tones, feeling his breath rustling across the top of her head. His hand continued to caress her mouth and cheek. The bare skin of his chest pressed warm through the thin material of her dress.
"Mama Gertrude and Bertrand both agreed that it would be easier for you if they left town."
"They decided that for themselves?" She spoke and looked up at him for the first time.
Gareth nodded and moved his caressing thumb to her eyelids, stroking delicately. "After I'd pointed the situation out to them."
"But why didn't they say goodbye? Where are they going? Where will I find them again?"
"Everything will be all right," he whispered, tilting her face further. His mouth hovered over hers, and when her lips parted on another question, he closed them with his own.
His hand moved down her throat and he raised his mouth from hers just long enough to murmur," Trust me, little one. That's all you have to do."
Miranda's eyes closed involuntarily as she tried to fight her body's insidious yielding to the practiced caresses. Her mind told her that his explanation was logical, but the less rational part of her brain screamed that something still wasn't right. She wanted to trust him, wanted to believe in him, wanted to surrender to the deft fingers unlacing her bodice, the hard assertion of his mouth on hers. But deep inside her the darkness of hurt still stirred.
She tried to push away, to turn her jaw against the fingers that held her face to his, but his free hand now globed one bared breast and its crown rose hard, totally independent of wish or will, against his palm. Prickles of arousal jumped across her skin and her belly jolted with the now-familiar current of lust. But still she struggled to resist, holding her mouth closed against him as if somehow it would protect her from this slow, sensuous assault on her hurt and her anger and her mistrust. But he explored the curve of her mouth with the tip of his tongue, not forcing entrance, but simply tasting the sweetness of her lips, even while his fingers on her jaw held her immobile.
Throughout the long, lonely reaches of the night she had ached for just this and now slowly her body was betraying her, refusing to acknowledge anything but its own hungry need. Her mind's protests grew ever fainter until they were little more than a vague and incoherent echo.
As he sensed this, the gentleness of his kiss changed, became a searing, insistent invasion that forced her lips apart. Her breasts were flattened against his chest and she could feel his heart beating hard almost in rhythm with her own. He lifted her, turned her sideways on his lap, and now she could feel the hard shaft of flesh pressing against her hip. With one last effort, she tried to push away again, but his hand had slid up beneath her skirt and now gripped her bottom tightly, clamping her against him as his tongue continued to plunder her mouth.
And Miranda was aware of a glorious sweetness in this captivity. The deep, instinctive knowledge that the very force that was battering against her defenses would bring her peace and the dark hurt would die in the light.
Gareth felt her surrender, her overpowering need for his strength and his loving. Her skin was hot to his touch, almost feverish, and her eyes were huge, luminous with desire, as they rested on his face. He released his hold on her jaw but his other hand remained firm and warm on her bottom. He pushed the unlaced gown from her shoulders, moving his mouth to the hollow of her throat, pressing his lips against the beating pulse before they burned a tantalizing path to her breasts. His tongue painted the soft curves, teased the small, hard nipples, and a soft moan escaped her.
He let her fall backward on his lap, the orange gown twisted beneath her, her body open and still in offering. He drew the gown away from her, tossing it to the floor, then spanned the slender indentation of her waist with his hands.
"Do you trust me, little one?"
For answer, she reached up to touch his face, cupping his cheek as he had done hers, tracing the taut angle of his jaw, the strong column of his neck. The urgency of his own passion was clear in the dark pools of his eyes, in the tendons that stood out in his neck, and yet she knew he was in complete control… in control of both of them. And Miranda knew she could yield her own defenses and he would not take advantage of her surrender. She could trust him to bring her joy and peace. In this, she could trust him.
He began to move over her body with delicate, sweeping caresses, whispering softly his delight in the sensuous glories he unfolded. He drew from her the murmured responses he required, obliging her to reveal for him the places and caresses that gave her greatest pleasure. She was adrift in enchantment, no longer alone with her hurt and her confusion, and she embraced the glorious obliteration of her body, her soul, her mind, with a cry of joy.
She was still lost on the shores of delight when Gareth lifted her and laid her on the bed. He stripped off his britches with rough haste and came down on the bed. He knelt between her widespread thighs, drawing her legs onto his shoulders, slipping his hands beneath her bottom to lift her to meet the slow, sure thrust of his entry. She was penetrated to her very core, filled with a sweet anguish that she could barely contain yet couldn't bear to lose.
This time they shared the wild, escalating spiral of glory, the tornado that caught them and swept them into the void, and when it was over Miranda lay awash in languor, limbs sprawled around his body just as they had fallen, aware of nothing but the ephemeral bliss of that joining. Gareth's head was on her shoulder, his body heavy on hers, pressing her into the feather mattress.
Sun fell in a dust-laden arc across Gareth's back and he came to his senses with a groan. "Christ and his saints!" he muttered, rolling away from her. His hand rested on her damp belly as he looked down at her, shaking his head with a rueful little smile. "You're keeping me from my guests, wicked one." He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, one hand massaging the back of his neck. "How are we going to get you out of here without being seen?" He stood up and began to dress swiftly.
Miranda sat up. The magic was over, shattered by
his words. And with it went her peace. After that wondrous loving, all Gareth could think about was how to ensure that she wasn't seen leaving his chamber. He had healed her… «he had believed he could heal her hurt… but he hadn't. Nothing had really changed. Nothing mattered to him but his ambition. And why had she ever thought it could be otherwise?
She remembered so clearly the moment on the barge when he'd confessed to the driving power of his ambition. His mouth had taken the cynical, bitter curve that she always shrank from. She was a fool not to have taken heed then. He had made no promises, he had freely admitted that he wanted to use her. And she had surrendered her soul in exchange for a few moments of physical pleasure.
She had only herself to blame for the hurt. "Don't worry, no one will see me leave." She picked up her orange dress, hauling it over her head, and went to the window.
"Hey! Where are you going?" He stepped quickly toward her, reaching for her.
"Out… this a-way." She gestured to the window.
"Don't be ridiculous, sweeting." He laughed at her, gently tipped her chin to kiss her, but his eyes were distracted. "Leave by the door. I'll check that the coast is clear."
"This is safer," she said stubbornly.
Gareth stared in half-laughing disbelief as Miranda flung her leg over the sill. Chip, with an eager jabber, leaped onto the sill beside her.
"Miranda, get back in here!" But she had gone, swinging herself over the sill. Gareth lunged for the window, knowing he was too late. Chip was already clambering sideways along the wall in the ivy, heading for Miranda's bedchamber window. Miranda, clinging to the wall like a fly, edged her way along until she could hook her fingers over her own windowsill. The bright orange splash against the lush green ivy disappeared.
Gareth drew his head back into the chamber. He finished dressing, reflecting that he would never have expected such an extreme reaction from Miranda to the troupe's departure. She was such a rational, pragmatic soul. So ready to flow with the tide, to laugh at inconveniences; so quick to search out the benefit to be found in apparent setbacks. He had expected her to be a little hurt when she found her friends had gone, just as she'd been in Dover. But he'd assumed she would decide that they had good and sufficient reason. Of course, he hadn't expected her to discover that he'd had a hand in it. Stupid of him not to expect the cobbler to let something slip.
It was to be hoped he'd settled the business now. Reassured her, regained her trust. He couldn't bear her distress. And even more, he couldn't bear her accusations of betrayal.
But he didn't have time now to pursue this train of thought. He was playing host to Henry of France. He looped the sheath of his dagger over his belt, settled it on his hip, and went downstairs, composing his expression to one of genial hospitality.
Imogen was in the dining room with their guests, looking much restored, and playing the attentive hostess to perfection.
"I give you good day, Lord Harcourt." Henry waved a mutton chop in greeting. "Did you promise me a stag hunt in Richmond forest today?"
"Most certainly, if you wish it, my lord duke." Gareth bowed before helping himself to the covered dishes on the sideboard. He was ravenous. Lovemaking did much to stimulate the appetite. He brought his filled platter to the table. "When do you wish to ride out, sir?"
"Oh, at your command, Harcourt," Henry said affably, gnawing contentedly on his chop. "Does your ward hunt?"
"Maude is not a comfortable horsewoman." Gareth filled his tankard from the ale pitcher.
"And she does not partake of breakfast, either?" "She should be here," Imogen said. "Perhaps she overslept. If you'll excuse me, my lord, I'll go and summon her."
Miranda was dressing in her borrowed plumage because she couldn't think what else to do. Her mind whirled in confusion. She thought she had accepted the earl's assurances that she could trust him, that all would be well. But now she knew she hadn't… or did she mean, couldn’t. She needed to know where her family had gone. She needed to know that she could find them again. Gareth hadn't seemed to understand that. Maybe it was expecting too much to think he would understand it. After all, they came from such very different spheres, and family feeling wasn't too obvious around the Harcourt mansion.
It should be easy enough to track down the troupe while their trail was still fresh. They would be making for one of the Channel ports: if not Dover, then Folkestone. Once she discovered their destination, then she would send a messenger, asking them to wait for her. She would be bringing fifty rose nobles with her so any expenses incurred in a prolonged wait could be settled when she arrived.
When Imogen entered the green bedchamber, as usual without knocking, Miranda looked at her as if she didn't recognize her for a minute, she was so absorbed in her planning.
"You must come down to breakfast," Imogen announced. " The duke is asking for you."
"Very well." Miranda adjusted the kerchief in the neck of her gown and tucked her hair into the jeweled cap. She was a performer and the show must go on regardless of personal dilemmas. "Let us go, madam."
She descended the stairs, crossed the hall, and entered the dining room. Her smile was gracious, her voice soft as she greeted the gentlemen. She had no appetite and toyed with a piece of bread and butter, trying to make it look as if she were eating it.
"No appetite, Lady Maude?" Henry boomed. His dark eyes were shrewdly assessing as he helped himself liberally to a dish of stewed eels. "Your guardian keeps a splendid table."
Miranda smiled faintly. The duke's mouth was glistening with mutton fat. Oddly enough, it wasn't repellent. It seemed in keeping with the powerful physicality of his presence. His doublet was tight over his shoulders, seemed to strain across his chest, as if his clothes couldn't contain him. He was not a man with the nice habits of a courtier; he was, as he'd said, a rough-hewn soldier, happier on a battlefield than making pleasant conversation in an elegant dining hall.
"I have little appetite in the morning, my lord duke," she said.
"We're riding out to Richmond to hunt stag. Will you not accompany us?"
Miranda shook her head. "I do not care to hunt, sir."
Henry frowned and his gentlemen read the flash of displeasure in his eyes. The king couldn't endure to pass a day idly in and around the house, but he had come to woo the Lady Maude, and riding to hounds in Richmond forest without her wouldn't advance that cause.
"We shall return well before dinner, sir," Gareth said.
"But we're bidden to the queen's table," Henry muttered, stabbing at a heel of bread with his knife, bringing it to his mouth.
"I had it in mind to request the Queen's Majesty to accept an invitation to my house instead," Gareth said.
"And Her Majesty will accept?" Henry looked rather less put out.
"I believe so," Gareth said with one of his sardonic smiles. The queen was never loath to accept invitations that would save her the expense of entertaining her own guests. "I will send my herald with the invitation straightaway." He rose, bowed, and strode from the hall.
Henry looked rather more cheerful. He considered the Lady Maude. She could be taught the arts of a horsewoman, she didn't strike him as a fainthearted maiden. She looked up as if aware of his gaze and her eyes stunned him with their beauty. Her long hands rested on the table, the serpentine bracelet glistening around her wrist. With a faint smile, she turned her head to answer a question from Lord Magret, and the pure white column of her swan's neck stirred Henry with the urge to kiss her nape, to plant his lips against the pulse at her throat.
Lord Harcourt's ward was everything her portrait promised. And an impeccable alliance for the king of France. He remembered hearing her laughter through the door the previous night. A lusty, joyful sound. And one filled with promise for a hungry man.
He took up his tankard of honeyed mead, a smile now flitting across his glistening lips. "I have a better idea, my lady, than hunting at Richmond. We shall go on the river, you and I. The sun's shining, the river is sparkling. And we shall ha
ve time to get to know each other a little better. What say you, Harcourt?" He waved expansively at the earl, who had just returned to the chamber. "A river excursion with your ward. Do we have your permission?"
"Willingly, my lord duke," Gareth replied.
Chapter Twenty
"Take your place?" Maude was stunned. "Why? What's the matter with you?"
"I have something else to do." Miranda paced Maude's bedchamber. "I went into the city this morning to see my family and the cobbler said they had had to leave in a hurry. I'm afraid they're in some kind of trouble and I have to find out where they've gone." She turned back to Maude. "You understand that, don't you?
"Well, yes," Maude agreed. "But I can't take your place with the duke."
"It's just a river trip. If I say I'm ill, everyone will ask questions and…" Her voice trailed off as she looked at Maude. "You could do it, Maude."
The intensity in her voice startled Maude into considering the question. " Take your place, pretend to be… Pretend to be me!" She fell back on the bed with a whoop of laughter. "You want me to pretend to be me."
Miranda managed a responding smile. "Put like that it sounds ridiculous, but there's no reason why it shouldn't work." She came over and sat on the bed. "You mustn't speak French, though, not unless you speak it flawlessly, as if it's your native tongue. Do you?"
Maude shook her head. "I speak it well enough, but anyone would know I'm not French."
"Then you mustn't speak anything but English." Miranda frowned. "We'll have to make sure your hair is piled on top of your head so there's not the slightest chance of its falling down."
Maude looked doubtful. She didn't think she'd agreed to anything and yet Miranda was talking as if it was all settled. "What will he talk about?" She was sobering rapidly.
"Oh, this and that. Nothing that you won't be able to manage. Just be yourself and don't say much. I was very quiet at breakfast, so he won't expect you to be dancing a jig or anything."
