Innocent Fire

by Brenda Joyce

  “That John won’t despise me.” She searched his face for the truth.

  “I know he won’t,” Bragg told her, coming back to reality with difficulty. “What happened wasn’t your fault, it was mine.”

  Miranda started. “It wasn’t your fault,” she protested.

  He held up his hand. “I refuse to discuss it.”

  She sighed, rubbing her eyes with a childish gesture.

  “We have a long day tomorrow,” Bragg said softly, touched despite himself. “Why don’t you get some sleep?”

  He stood and turned his back to her, hoping she wouldn’t cry herself to sleep and hating the feeling of vulnerability she aroused in him.

  Chapter 19

  The next morning Miranda rode with both her legs dangling over the chestnut’s right side, settled firmly upon Bragg’s lap. He kept one arm around her waist to hold her in place. She was hotly aware of his arm pressing against her stomach, his fingers lightly splayed. She was even more aware of the contact between her derriere and his thighs. Although she didn’t know it, Bragg had her strategically placed so that she wouldn’t touch any sensitive, revealing part of his anatomy.

  “I’m not comfortable,” she said about two miles out of their camp.

  “I’m sorry.” He replied curtly, not exactly comfortable either.

  “This is so improper,” she said a few moments later.

  “Forget propriety, Miranda,” he snapped, and felt her body tense as if he’d smacked her. He didn’t apologize. “This is Texas. Not England. Not a goddamn convent.”

  Miranda gasped, thoroughly shocked and angry. “Mr. Bragg, I’ve been meaning to tell you, your language is abominable, and I would greatly appreciate it if you’d refrain from using such…uncouth…curses in front of me.”

  “What?”

  “Please don’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” she said, her voice tight.

  Bragg chuckled. “That was a pretty speech. I’m sorry to offend you, but what the hell—er, excuse me, I’m only a backwoods barbarian, and I’ve never met an English lady before.”

  His breath, soft and warm, tickled her ear. “You’re making fun of me.”

  “Never.”

  “You are.”

  “You’re too beautiful to ever be made fun of,” he said, and his voice dropped, becoming a soft caress.

  A tingle ran all over her. “I’m not beautiful,” she said. “I’m skinny.”

  “Now that’s a fact! Skinny and beautiful. John’s going to want to fatten you up.” He chuckled again.

  Miranda stiffened and flushed. She was remembering how Bragg had seen her naked in Chavez’s arms. How he had come upon her naked the day before, bathing. Her color deepened. Her pulse raced. Her only coherent thought was: He thinks I’m too skinny.

  “I didn’t mean to insult you, princess,” he said softly in her ear.

  Miranda didn’t answer. Why did his breath make her body tremble and ache, in such a painfully sweet way?

  Suddenly Bragg’s arm tightened as the chestnut stumbled, and she felt herself being pulled back fully against him, from her buttocks to her head. The heat of his body burned her. Then his hold loosened, and they sat easily again as the chestnut continued on its way. Her face was burning.

  She didn’t know why she was so nervous, but she quickly spoke to hide her confusion. “Where do you live, Captain Bragg?”

  “Derek,” he said. His voice seemed hoarse to her. “I think you should call me Derek.”

  “Oh no,” she returned primly. “That would be so improper.”

  “John wouldn’t mind,” he said.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Anywhere I care to throw my bedroll.”

  “No! Really?”

  “Really.”

  “What do Texas Rangers do?” she said, after having absorbed the fact that he was something of a vagabond.

  “Fight Indians and outlaws,” he said easily. “You’re full of questions today.” He sounded pleased.

  “But you’re half Indian!”

  He tensed. “Now who in hell—oh! Welsh!”

  “Captain Bragg! Is every word out of your mouth a curse?”

  “Are you trying to convert me or reform me?” he asked suspiciously.

  “You are a lost lamb,” Miranda said seriously.

  He roared with laughter. “That’s very funny! Me—a lost lamb!” He chuckled again.

  She twisted so that she could see his face, peering up at him. “But you are! You’re heathen. I mean…” She flushed.

  To see him, she had shifted her left shoulder fully against his right side, her derriere slipping comfortably into his crotch, her hip against something uncomfortable—yet somehow familiar. Something hard and rodlike…

  Their eyes held, hers widening with understanding. His golden gaze was liquid and bright, like flames, burning and flickering. She swallowed, tried to push herself up slightly, and felt his maleness pressing harder against her hip. “Oh!”

  “I’m sorry, princess,” he said, swinging her into her original position. “I am sorry.”

  Her heart was racing wildly. Why was it like that? She knew for a fact that this morning when they’d mounted there had been no bulge in his pants. She had looked discreetly, wanting to know if she’d dreamed what she had seen last night. Worse, why was her body reacting to his as if she was ill with a fever? She could barely breathe.

  “Relax,” he said huskily. “I won’t hurt you.” He mistook her tense silence for fear.

  “Why…” she began, and trailed off. Her body ached unbearably.

  “Men can’t control it, Miranda, not always. I’m sorry.”

  She took a deep breath. “Derek? I think I’m ill.”

  “What’s wrong?” he said quickly, pulling her hard against him so that he could look down into her flushed face. He reined in.

  “I think I have a fever,” she breathed, staring up at him, unable to close her mouth, her gaze liquid and smoky. And then, for some reason, she found herself staring at his mouth. She heard a low, strange sound, a whimper, not even realizing it had come from her.

  He gasped as coherent thought and all self-control disappeared in the face of her all too apparent desire. His arm tightened, pulling her up higher, harder, against his straining manhood, while his other hand dropped the rein, found her hip, and slid up to her waist. She was staring at his mouth with hungry eyes, her red lips parted breathlessly. He lowered his face.

  She knew he was going to kiss her, and she couldn’t move, couldn’t protest, couldn’t even think. She didn’t know if she wanted him to or not. She sat frozen in his arms, unable to breathe, her body on fire. His lips came down on hers, softly, gently, and the tip of his tongue slid into her open mouth. Miranda closed her eyes, her hands finding his shirt, clinging. His mouth became more demanding. She didn’t kiss him back—the thought never entered her dazed mind—but she opened her mouth wider and pressed her hands harder against his chest. His tongue invaded her mouth—strangely, deliciously exploring her teeth, her cheeks, her own tongue. His hand on her waist caressed her flesh.

  The kiss was endless and intimate and devouring. His hand slid from her waist to her hip, paused, then went lower. He stroked her buttock, the back of her thigh, kneading along the way, coming back up to cup her buttock again. She whimpered, pressing her derriere back into his hand, straining for his seeking fingers.

  Suddenly she found herself sliding off the horse and onto her feet. She stumbled, panting, realizing that he had slipped her off the horse, and that he had leaped off the other side. Her legs were so weak that she crumpled to her hands and knees, trembling wildly.

  Suddenly she became aware of what had happened. She gasped, covering her face with her hands, ashamed and mortified. Bragg had been kissing her! Bragg had been touching her! Dear god! And it had been…wonderful…exciting.

  Miranda sank into a sitting position as she tried to collect herself. Harlot! an inner voice shrieked. Trollop! You let him touch
you, let him kiss you. You liked it! Whore! She gave an anguished cry and covered her face with her hands.

  That was how Bragg found her when he had gained sufficient control to approach. He was dark with anger at himself. “We have to talk,” he said harshly, glaring at Miranda as she sat hiding her face behind her hands. At the sound of his voice, she leaped to her feet and backed away, her eyes huge and wary.

  “Miranda, we have to talk,” he said again, angrily.

  She looked around wildly. She had to escape! Was he going to rape her? Would she enjoy it? Oh God! With a cry, she turned and ran toward the woods.

  “Oh, goddammit!” It was a bellow. He watched her race from him as if he were a monster, across the rocky ground, toward the shelter of oaks and juniper. “You’re going to cut your feet,” he yelled, fury overcoming him. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  He took off after her and caught her a moment later. Miranda struggled as he wrapped his arms around her, and he saw that her eyes were wide with horror and fright. “I’m not going to hurt you! What are you doing? Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  She stopped twisting and stood stock still. Her enormous violet eyes seared his. He frowned darkly and released her. “Look,” he began, “I’m sorry. Dammit! Why the hell am I always apologizing to you?”

  He saw it coming, but he let her slap him anyway. He felt he deserved it, and besides, her strength was pitiful. The smack stung—barely. “Feel better?”

  “I am sick of your language,” she said tersely.

  He straightened in surprise. “Is that why you hit me?”

  “Yes! I can’t stand your cursing! I—”

  Bragg laughed. “You know, every now and then you surprise me when you show some spunk, Miranda. I thought you hit me because of the kiss.”

  They both became very silent and tense, each thinking about what had happened.

  “It was wrong,” Miranda whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  He stared at her, then scowled. “You wanted me to.”

  Her eyes widened. “Never! That’s not true!” She hugged herself and stepped back a pace.

  “Da—Darn! You don’t even realize what you want, you foolish child!”

  “I know what I want,” Miranda said shakily. “I want to go home.”

  “Now you really sound like a child.” He grimaced in exasperation. “Look, Miranda, I accept all blame for what happened. You’re a woman, and I’m a man, and my appetites are too damn lusty, I guess.”

  She met his penetrating gaze, waiting with anticipation for she didn’t know what.

  “Anyway, from now on you’ll ride and I’ll walk. No sense in testing my willpower anymore.” He laughed bitterly. “Especially since I don’t seem to have any.” He stared at her. “Why did you run off just now?”

  Her mouth trembled. “I was afraid. Afraid you were going to—” She bit off her words.

  He looked black with anger. “Afraid I was going to rape you?” Fury swept over him. He felt like exploding, like shaking some sense into her—how could the little fool think he’d force himself on her? “Get on the horse,” he said, his words cutting like a whipcord. “And stop being afraid of me—I don’t like it.”

  Chapter 20

  No matter how often Miranda asked, Bragg would not let her take a turn walking. The problem was, her knees hurt terribly, for riding alone meant that she had to sit astride. She tucked the edge of the loincloth under her knees the best she could, and knew she was bleeding again. She didn’t want to complain. She didn’t want any attention from Bragg. She had trusted him and he had violated that trust. He was able to become a beast like Chavez. She was afraid of him. But in a different way than she had ever been afraid before.

  She was lost in a kind of fascination. A few hours after the shocking kiss, Bragg had slipped off his shirt and tied it around his waist. Miranda gasped aloud without meaning to, and tried to tear her eyes away from his broad, gleaming, bronzed back. She did not know how to ride, so Bragg led the horse, apparently tireless. She couldn’t stop staring.

  They didn’t stop once until nearly dusk. Bragg asked her twice, without looking at her, how she was doing. She replied both times with an abrupt “Fine.” She wasn’t fine. Her knees hurt terribly. Her hair was thick with sweat from the sombrero, which she wore to protect her face. Her body ached from using different muscles to hang on to the horse, even at a walk. When they finally stopped, Miranda was desperate for relief on all accounts.

  Bragg came over to her for the first time since that disastrous morning. He barely glanced at her as he pulled her out of the saddle, setting her on her feet. He led the horse away while he unsaddled him.

  Miranda could barely stand, and she couldn’t walk. Tears of pain came to her eyes. She sank as gracefully as she could onto the ground, gingerly stretching out her legs. She would much, much rather sit on Bragg’s lap than go through another day astride. At that thought, a tear spilled over her cheek. Had she really liked his touch, or had she imagined it? She couldn’t have liked it! No well-bred lady did, and she was a gentlewoman!

  Miranda decided that she hadn’t liked it. She remembered very clearly how she had felt sick to the point of nausea with Chavez. Bragg had just taken her by surprise, she decided, and he had been gentle—hence her passivity. Yes, that’s all it had been—passive acceptance. She felt greatly relieved.

  “Are you going to sit there all night?”

  Miranda looked up, met his golden gaze, and quickly looked past his shoulder. “I…I’m just tired.”

  He squinted at her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to get some game,” he said, staring down at her. “Are you stiff?”

  “A little,” she lied. She was so stiff she couldn’t move.

  He frowned, clearly displeased, and strode away.

  Miranda tried to ignore his cold anger. She debated wandering over to the riverbank, which was about thirty yards away, then decided it was too far. Sighing, she stretched out and fell asleep.

  She was awakened by Bragg’s harsh, angry voice as he shook her. “What?”

  “You stupid twit! Why didn’t you say something if you were bleeding! What’s wrong with you?”

  Miranda became instantly awake, and she struggled upright. He had bared her lower legs. “Stop it!” she cried, feeling sudden panic.

  Bragg had noticed the blood on the loincloth. “You have no common sense,” he said, pulling her to her feet.

  She groaned involuntarily.

  “That bad?” He grimaced. “Why didn’t you speak up? If you were so sore—come on.” His tone grew softer, and he started to lead her to the river.

  “Please, no. I’m fine.” Miranda stopped, refusing to take another step. Her body hurt unbearably.

  Instantly he swept her into his arms, tearing off the loincloth and tossing it aside. He grumbled beneath his breath, then dumped her unceremoniously into the river. The water first stung her raw flesh, then it became soothing. She just sat there, looking up to see Bragg staring down at her, his legs spread, his hands on his hips.

  “Are you stubborn or stupid, Miranda?”

  “Stop insulting me! Stop insulting me because you’re angry with yourself!” She glared up at him.

  “You’re right,” he said unpleasantly. His eyes were cold. “I am angry with myself—and with John. I’m angry at myself for wanting you, and angry at him for bringing you out here in the first place. You don’t belong in Texas. You belong in some fancy duke’s castle, tucked away nice and cozy, in fine dresses and silk stockings.”

  Miranda stared, her mouth open.

  “John is a damn fool.” His eyes held hers fiercely. “And so am I,” he added as an afterthought.

  Chapter 21

  “Sun’s coming up, Miranda,” Bragg said cheerfully. “Up and at ’em, princess.”

  Miranda groaned as she tried to stretch, and opened
her eyes to see him staring down at her with a strange look. The look disappeared, and he grinned, then sauntered off. She felt a rush of relief. He was apparently in good humor. She couldn’t have taken another day of his coldness, which was practically cruel. She sat up and moaned.

  She knew she couldn’t ride. Every muscle in her body ached. Just sitting up hurt. The only places that didn’t hurt, and were merely sore, were her neck and shoulders. Cautiously she rose to her feet, gasping as pain knifed through her hips and legs.

  “You’re in pretty bad shape, huh?” Bragg said, sounding sympathetic as he approached and handed her coffee. He was smiling.

  “It’s not funny,” Miranda said, taking the foul brew and sipping it. She wondered if John would have tea at the house. She had not had coffee in the convent and hated it. But Bragg’s brew made Welsh’s seem like beans roasted for the queen. It was like sipping thick, bitter mud.

  “You’re too weak, Miranda, woman or not,” Bragg said with a frown. “A woman has to be strong in this territory to survive.”

  “Oh, go away,” she grumbled, then was instantly shocked at her lack of manners.

  He chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “That bad, huh? Look, I’ve been thinking. If we ride hard, we can make John’s ranch in two and a half days.”

  Miranda stared, devastated by the idea. “I can’t even sit to a trot,” she cried.

  He waved at her impatiently. “I’m talking about the way we were riding before. And when I say hard, I mean hard. We only stop for a few hours of sleep.”

  Miranda stared, debating this idea. He wanted her to sit on his lap. What if he kissed her again? He did not seem too good at controlling his male appetites. What if…

  “I can read your thoughts,” he growled.

  “Can’t we take the day off and sleep late and rest?” she asked hopefully.

  “What?” He stared at her in disbelief. “Rest?” He said the word as if it were foreign. Miranda realized that it probably was, to him.