Innocent Fire

by Brenda Joyce

  Miranda gasped and fell back on her cushions, stunned.

  Bragg strode out, slamming the door behind him. The door frame shook and trembled in his wake.

  Chapter 37

  Miranda stood in front of the hearth and stared into the leaping flames. Her confusion and shock were dying. There was no fear, either—she wasn’t afraid of Bragg. He intended to marry her, and she knew him well enough to know that anything she said or did would make little if any difference. He was a powerful man, used to getting his own way. And did it matter? If not Bragg, she was sure her father would marry her to someone else. Perhaps next time his choice would not be someone as kind and gentle as John. At least she knew Bragg. And she respected him. He made her feel safe and secure—the way no one else had ever done before, not in her entire life. She was sure she would be safe as his wife—who would dare to harm the wife of a Texas Ranger?

  She supposed it didn’t matter, either, that he was marrying her with obvious distaste, because of his word to John and some Apache code of ethics. She knew him well enough to know that he was not mean or cruel. He would never hurt her—and wasn’t that the best she could hope for in a husband? She refused to think about sharing his bed, about the pain that would bring—maybe he just intended it to be a marriage in name only.

  She tried not to see John in the dancing flames. As usual, just thinking about him wracked her with guilt. She knew that his murder was her fault. She blamed herself. She had never caused another human being to be hurt before. She had been the instrument of her husband’s death. It tortured her. And—worse. She had denied him the love he had wanted so desperately from her. She had disappointed him in bed. She had not been a true wife to him—and those days had been his last on earth. The crushing guilt would not go away. Everyone thought she was grieving. She was, a bit, the way someone would for a new friend who had died suddenly. But it was not the grief of a wife for her husband, a woman for her man. She just felt so utterly responsible for John’s death.

  Yet there was one thing she would not be a party to, she decided firmly, her resolution strengthening. She would not desecrate John’s memory and make him a laughing-stock in front of all his friends by marrying a week after his funeral. Oh no. That was wrong, entirely wrong, and she would not give in on this point.

  Miranda hesitated, rebelting the robe tightly, debating the propriety of wandering downstairs in her sleeping attire. But this was her home. She marched to the door and down the stairs.

  Bragg looked up expressionlessly as she knocked on the open study door. His eyes were narrow, and the golden glow of the fire in the stone hearth warmed his rich coloring even more. He sipped the brandy he was holding. “Are you seeking out my company?” His words had a sarcastic ring.

  Miranda tightened her lips and closed the door behind her. She marched resolutely in front of him, debating the best way to bring up the topic.

  A faint smile touched his mouth and eyes. “I have a feeling it isn’t my company you want. I’m shattered. What’s on your mind, Miranda? Have you changed your mind about our wedding?”

  She ignored his dry, slightly derisive tone. “No, Captain, I will marry you. But not next week.”

  He raised a brow, and set down his glass. “No?”

  “I refuse,” Miranda said evenly, growing frightened by his cool manner. “It’s scandalous. You say it’s not improper, no one will care. Well, I will care. It’s improper to me!”

  Bragg seemed amused. “You always surprise me, princess, when your spirit shows.”

  She ignored the insult.

  “How do you expect to survive for a year, unwed, in this land? In this house? You will be besieged by suitors, and being that you are a widow, Miranda, many will not have proper intentions in mind. It is not done. It will not be done. I have not changed my mind.” He picked up the glass of brandy and appeared to have dismissed her.

  “You listen to me, you bully!” she cried. “Don’t you have any feelings toward your dead friend? How can you be so cold, so callous! How—”

  He stood and grabbed her, hurting her, and she cried out. His hold barely lessened. “No, you listen to me, dammit! No one loved John more than I! No one is sicker over what happened! But he loved you—you, dammit! And I intend to see you safe, to keep you safe, if it’s the last thing I do! You are not going to sit here and mourn for John for the next year! You’re going to go on living, like all the rest of us!” He released her, fighting for control.

  Miranda was ashen.

  He glared at her. “I have my duties as a Ranger, Miranda, and even though I intend to curtail them as much as possible, I’m a Texan, and I believe in this land. When I’m not here you’ll have an armed guard. And my name. That should keep you out of harm’s way.” He picked up the brandy. “Now. Is there anything else?”

  Miranda stared, her eyes glistening, knowing she had lost. Well, what difference did it make? Hadn’t she known all along that he would have his way? She turned to run out of the room.

  He grabbed her from behind before she even knew it, one arm around her waist, one around her shoulders, hugging her to him. She tensed, but when he did nothing more than hold her, her body began to relax, and she became aware of the wild, frantic beating of her heart. His face was pressed against her neck, between her cheek and shoulder. She could feel his breath on her neck, warm and soft.

  His hold tightened.

  She sensed, then, that he needed and was getting comfort just by holding her. She could almost feel his grief, which she had forgotten because he kept it so well hidden. She relaxed completely, leaning back into him. The heat of his body seared her, making her skin tingle deliciously. His grip tightened, not uncomfortably, and a soft groan escaped him. Then he abruptly released her.

  A huge disappointment flooded her. She saw that he had walked to the fire and turned his back to her. She started to approach, instinctively wanting to comfort him. She raised her hand, about to touch his back gently.

  “Go,” he said huskily. “Leave me alone.”

  Miranda could hear pain and desire in his tone. She wanted to ease the pain, but she was afraid of the desire. Silently she slipped through the door.

  Chapter 38

  Miranda was used to obeying. After all, she had spent her whole life obeying one form of authority or another. First her mother and father, then the sisters and the mother superior, then her aunt, Bragg, and her husband. She did not expect to make her own decisions; indeed, she never had. After a few hours of tossing and turning, she realized it was just as well that Bragg make the decisions that would affect her life, and not some man she did not know. No matter what Bragg was, or how crude at times, for some reason she trusted him.

  She had lost sight of the fact that Bragg had been closer to John than anyone, and she felt very badly about being so insensitive to his hurt. She pushed aside the rebelliousness which was so ungodly and resolved to forgive his high-handedness and lack of manners. After all, he was a barbarian, half Indian—it wasn’t his fault. She also tried very hard to forget that he really didn’t want to marry her, that this marriage was his duty. For some reason, that thought bothered her immensely, so she quelled it by shoving it way into the back of her mind.

  The next morning she lay in bed, awake, knowing it was late, thinking about him. She remembered how he had held her the night before, how his sorrow had been a tangible thing, communicating itself to her through every pore and fiber of his body. She rose resolutely and got dressed. He needed her right now, and she intended to help ease his grief.

  It was a new role for her, one she was enthusiastic about playing. No one had ever needed her before. Inspired by an idea, she dressed in a riding habit and hurried downstairs. Elena was the only one about, kneading dough in the kitchen.

  “Señora! I was just about to bring you breakfast.” She was beaming. “I am so glad you’re up. Come, sit. Eat.”

  “I’m not hungry, Elena,” Miranda replied, a bit breathlessly. “Where is Captain Bragg?”


  “He is out riding with the men across the valley.”

  Miranda’s face fell. Then her expression brightened. “Did they go far?”

  Elena was already cracking eggs into a black iron pan. Bacon followed, sizzling. “No, not far. Why?”

  Miranda didn’t answer. She knew she could handle Daisy, the gentle mare she had ridden with John, but she wasn’t thrilled about riding alone. Still, she wanted to see him. She wanted to be with him, to make him smile. She knew he was hurting deep inside, hiding it from the world, and she wanted to take some of the hurt away. It was an urge to comfort as old as time.

  She forced down some eggs and a strip of bacon, as well as a cup of the scalding coffee, which she was coming to appreciate. When Elena wandered out to the smokehouse, Miranda quickly packed a picnic lunch—an inspiration. Then she hurried outside, knowing that Elena would disapprove of her riding even just a few miles out to find Bragg.

  Daisy welcomed her with a snort, shoving her velvet muzzle into her hand. “I didn’t bring you anything, girl,” Miranda said, patting her. “I’m sorry.”

  Saddling and bridling the mare was not an easy task. Although she had seen it done a hundred times, she had never done it before. The saddle was heavy, and she was short, but she finally managed to heave it onto Daisy’s back. Cinching the girth was easy, and Daisy accepted the bit readily. Miranda was very proud that she had tacked the mare all by herself.

  Mounting was another problem, but she was becoming excited at the thought of surprising Bragg. She led Daisy to a bale of hay, climbed up on it, and from there slid on. They set off at a trot.

  By now she was used to riding, although she did bounce a bit. Both Bragg and John had told her that the secret to sitting well in the saddle was to relax her spine, but it was easier said than done. She slowed Daisy to a walk, which was much more comfortable, and they ambled leisurely through the endless meadow.

  The house disappeared behind them. Miranda had never been alone outdoors, and it was a heady feeling. She breathed deeply of the rich, crisp air and gazed with awed eyes at the splendor of the forested mountains, the jagged peaks, all around her. She imagined being a man like Bragg, able to come and go as he pleased with no fear of the wilderness, strong and free. It was exciting. She liked riding alone.

  Not for the first time since she had arrived in Texas, she felt a majestic sense of awe at this savage land. This time the feeling was strong, unquenchable, uplifting. She decided she would ride every day and explore the valley. Of course, she wouldn’t go far. Even now, she was only a few miles from the house. Although everyone said that no Indians bothered the ranch, she was not a fool. She had no intention of stumbling upon a band of Comanche.

  Exhilarated, the way she felt when she played the piano or danced the wild jig, Miranda urged Daisy into a lope. It was a brave thing for her to do because she knew she was no horsewoman. But, actually, it was easier sitting to the gentle canter than it was to the bouncy trot, once she got over her fear of going faster. Color rose in her cheeks. It was a magnificent morning, a magnificent day.

  Miranda heard the pounding hooves when he was almost upon her. She felt a flash of fear, wondering who could be racing up behind her like a madman, then looked over her shoulder and instantly recognized Bragg. The chestnut was going all out, lathered, and as Bragg came abreast of her he reached out and grabbed her reins, pulling up both his mount and the mare so abruptly that she almost lost her seat.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he shouted, his expression furious. He had urged his horse against hers so his knee touched hers, and he still held her reins. “Miranda, are you a fool? An idiot?”

  The pleasure of the morning fled. She looked at him mutely, feeling like crying under the harsh onslaught of his words.

  “Dammit,” he yelled, reaching out and shaking her by her shoulders. “You’re not allowed to ride alone, do you understand? Never! Never!”

  Miranda felt a tear creep down her cheek and fought as hard as she could to control herself.

  “Don’t you have a goddamn thing to say?” His voice was still hard, although he was no longer shouting. “You should cry. I hope you feel bad. You can’t possibly feel bad enough for doing such a stupid thing.”

  She wiped at her tears.

  “Dammit,” he said, and before she knew it, he had pulled her off her horse and onto his, wrapping her in his arms. “You scared the hell out of me,” he said, holding her tightly against his body, his mouth against her ear. “Don’t you ever scare me that way again.”

  “I just wanted to see you,” she said, her voice broken.

  “God, if something had happened…” He squeezed her, and she thought she felt his mouth pressing briefly against her neck.

  A warm, hot flood rose up in her. She snuggled closer, her face wet from tears. His embrace was so warm. His body was so hard. There was something fiercely possessive about the way he held her, and something infinitely tender, too.

  Miranda raised her face to look at him and saw that his eyes were closed. He opened them to meet her wide gaze. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “You’d better be,” he said gruffly.

  “I brought you lunch.”

  His eyes widened, then he smiled grudgingly. “You little fool! Did you really bring me lunch?”

  She felt him softening, saw that he was unable to hide his pleasure. “Yes.”

  He smiled openly then as she straightened in his embrace. “Why did you bring me lunch?”

  Miranda flushed. “To make you feel better,” she said after a pause.

  He gazed at her with surprise. She wriggled out of his arms and slid to her feet. “Are you too angry to have lunch with me?” She hesitated. “I am sorry. Everyone kept saying the ranch is safe.”

  “It is, usually,” he said, staring at her, then dismounting. “But a woman never rides alone, never. And you don’t handle a horse well enough yet, either.” He shook his head.

  “But…it was wonderful,” she said, holding his gaze. “I…felt so happy.”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “If you want to ride, Miranda, you certainly can. But with an escort. Also, I think it’s time you learned how to shoot and had your own pistol.” He thought about that idea for a moment, then grinned. It was the kind of smile that made her heart flutter. “I’m starved.”

  Miranda accepted the basket he took down from her mount and watched as he spread his bedroll out beneath two shady oaks. “What do you have in there?” he asked, a happy note in his voice as he sprawled casually on the blanket.

  Miranda sat down, careful not to sit too close, and placed the basket between them. “Sausage, cheese, bread, and peach cobbler,” she murmured, realizing that she was alone in the middle of the great sprawling valley with this rugged man. Her pulse seemed to be racing. “And wine. I hope you have an appetite,” she said softly.

  His gaze was golden and intense, holding hers. “I do,” he said, and for some reason the way he was looking at her, the melodious timbre of his voice, made her flush and wonder if he was referring to the food.

  Miranda laid out the food and served them while he opened the wine, pouring two glasses. As she handed him a plate, her hand brushed his, making her nerves tingle.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Miranda watched him eat. He wrapped the sausage in the bread and bit hungrily into it. Before her very eyes, half the sandwich disappeared. He took a swallow of wine, then glanced at her over the rim of his glass, his eyes sparkling with good humor.

  Miranda felt unaccountably nervous, and she drained half her wine.

  Bragg finished the food she had given him, and the wine, and refilled both their glasses. “What else is in there?”

  “Peach cobbler,” she said, handing him a huge slice.

  “How come you’re never hungry?” he asked, his eyes on her.

  “I just ate, before I went riding.” She smiled. “Elena wouldn’t let me out of her sight until I’d eaten.” She was feeling ve
ry relaxed.

  “How am I going to fatten you up?” His voice was teasing.

  Miranda blushed. She was remembering that he had said before that she was too skinny, and it bothered her. She resolved to eat more. The wine was making her feel dreamy and wonderful.

  “Elena is a great cook,” he said, studying her intently. “Can you cook?”

  She wondered why he was always looking at her with such great interest. Suddenly she had a thought, and she laughed.

  “That’s funny?” he asked, smiling and leaning closer, lying down and propping himself up on one elbow.

  “No, I was just thinking—if the mother superior saw me now…” She giggled, imagining that woman’s despair—no, horror.

  “I think you’re drunk.”

  Miranda gasped. “I am not. Ladies don’t get drunk!” Highly indignant, she finished the rest of the wine.

  He smiled, reaching out lazily and taking her hand. His hand was so big it swallowed hers easily, and it was warm and strong.

  Her laughter trailed off. The look in his eyes was so sensual, and in spite of herself she was warmed and mesmerized.

  Miranda wasn’t sure how it happened. He was lying there, so close, too close, holding her hand, pulling on it. The next thing she knew, she was on her side, facing him, his arms around her, his hands stroking her back. He was smiling slightly, and he kept staring steadily into her eyes. She knew beyond a doubt that he was going to kiss her. She wanted his kiss desperately. She ached for it.

  His face lowered slowly, too slowly. “You are so beautiful, Miranda.” His words were a husky caress.

  She closed her eyes, barely breathing, her lips parted—waiting.

  His mouth was soft and moist as it brushed her jaw. His breath tickled her ear. His lips played lightly over her cheek, one fluttering eyelid. His breath was warm, uneven. His hold tightened as his mouth caressed hers gently.

  Delicious sensations, exciting sensations, feelings such as she’d never experienced, ran through her. She opened her mouth, pressing against him, her arms going around his neck. He pulled her hard against him then, throwing one thigh over hers, his mouth demanding. His tongue probed through her lips. She gasped with pleasure, wondering dimly how she could ever have found this act revolting. She could feel his heart pounding fast and erratically against her chest—or was it her heart? He held the back of her head with one hand, holding her still so he could better plunder her mouth. She strained against him eagerly. She couldn’t think; all she could do was feel.