Innocent Fire

by Brenda Joyce

  His hands were everywhere, roaming her shoulders, her arms, her back. She gasped with surprise, wanting to protest when he captured one breast, cupping it, but the jolts of electric pleasure that shot through her destroyed all such intentions. She heard a strange sound—and it had come from her. Bragg groaned heavily, rubbing his palm over her stiffening nipple. She arched herself more fully into his hand.

  He rolled her beneath him, his full weight upon her. A warning voice tried to pierce the haze of wine and sensual delight. He had fit himself so intimately against her that she could feel his hard, hot manhood pressing against her belly, and the ache it brought was both sweet and painful, and very, very insistent. His kiss was savage. His hips moved against her. Her thighs opened, and he took the opening, pressing his own thighs between and moving hers farther apart. His hold tightened around her.

  “Miranda,” he whispered raggedly. “Darling, we have to stop, or I’m going to take you right here, right now.” He kissed her again, lingering, pulling at her lower lip. He groaned. She clung to him. With great effort, he pulled himself free and stood up.

  The withdrawal of his warmth and touch was like a splash of cold water. Her eyes flew open, to see him standing and staring at her with such a look of hunger that she couldn’t swallow. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. All she could do was stare back.

  Chapter 39

  Bragg whistled tunelessly as he walked across the clearing between the bunkhouse and the ranch house. His mood was fine, his spirits even better. He laughed out loud, feeling more than self-satisfied—almost smug. He thought about the coming night, about the kisses he would steal. His grin broadened. He tried not to think about his wedding night, which was still a week away. No, six days. He could barely wait.

  He had thawed the Ice Princess. Miranda had melted.

  He entered the house and strode into the kitchen, startling both women. “When’s supper?” he asked Elena, watching her slicing freshly baked, steaming bread. He sniffed a huge pot of stew, then lifted up a spoon to taste its contents.

  “Very soon, señor,” Elena told him, waiting expectantly for his reaction.

  “God, that’s good! Is Miranda still asleep?” He felt a bit foolish. Since the afternoon, he had not been able to stop thinking about her, lasciviously, of course. He was acting like a boy about to bed his first woman.

  “Sí.”

  Bragg turned and trotted up the stairs. He knocked on her door, listening intently to the sounds coming from within. Miranda told him to enter.

  He stepped in, grinning. “Hi, princess. I thought you were going to sleep right through dinner.”

  She was clad only in her chemise and petticoat, and she flushed, reaching for a wrapper and slipping it on modestly. “I thought you were Bianca,” she murmured. She did not meet his eyes.

  She was too tempting. He reached her in two strides. Before she could move, he had wrapped her in his embrace, pulling her intimately against him, his mouth seeking hers. There was nothing lazy or easy about this assault. She devastated his control, his very senses.

  To his complete shock, Miranda stiffened, then began to struggle. He lifted his head but didn’t release her. “What’s this?” he asked, confused.

  “Let go,” she cried. “Good Lord! Have you no manners, no sensibilities? Captain! Release me.” Her eyes were blazing, and so were her cheeks.

  He let her go, still confused. “Miranda—”

  “How dare you treat me like some trollop,” she cried, clearly upset and angry.

  He stared. “But—”

  Her face crumpled. “But how could you not? The way I acted this afternoon…like some harlot…” She turned away, her voice breaking.

  His reaction was swift. “No, Miranda, don’t do this to yourself.” He grabbed her shoulders from behind, but she wrenched out of his grasp. “Miranda!”

  “No! Don’t touch me, I mean it!”

  Angry now, he whipped her around to face him. “You liked my touch this afternoon,” he said bluntly. “You loved it!”

  “I was drunk,” she whispered, looking stricken.

  “What kind of excuse is that? We’re going to be married next week, Miranda. What’s wrong with sharing a few kisses? You’re going to be my wife, dammit.”

  “Everything’s wrong, that’s what! John isn’t even cold in his grave, and you’re lusting after me! If I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t even care that he was dead!”

  He tensed, fighting hard for control, trying not to hit her. “You know how I loved John,” he finally said, many moments later.

  “Then act like it,” she said evenly. “Show some respect. Stop acting like some wild beast!”

  Her words stung. “I forgot you were such a lady, Miranda,” he said, his words cruel and mocking. “Excuse me, but after this afternoon, how was I to remember?” He whirled and slammed out of the room.

  God, would he ever understand women? Then he quickly reminded himself that Miranda was not any woman, but a lady, the kind of woman he had never had to deal with before. So just how was he supposed to act? He could stay away from her for the next week, because, as much as he hated to admit it, she was right. But what about after that, when the lady became his wife? Just how was he supposed to treat her then?

  He had no idea.

  Chapter 40

  Miranda had risen at the crack of dawn, after a mostly sleepless night, to ask Derek if he would take her into San Antonio so she could go to confession. The answer had been a short, rude, and very unequivocal no.

  At first she was stunned, but she had no chance to argue the point, for he was gone all day. Apparently this was the time of the spring turnout, when all the cattle were driven to higher pastures for better grazing. She broached the subject again at dinner. Clearly in a foul mood, Bragg told her that she would have to wait until their wedding day, for he had no time or men to waste on a trip to town now.

  Finally Miranda refused to think any more about her shockingly unladylike behavior.

  The hours Bragg and his men worked were long, and Miranda didn’t see him at all the next three days. She performed her usual chores around the house, spending extra time in the kitchen with Elena, canning and preserving vegetables and jams. She did not dread this wedding as she had her wedding to John, even though she didn’t fully realize it. She knew Bragg. He wasn’t the stranger John had been when she’d married him. Besides, he was marrying her out of a sense of duty, to give her his name as protection. She assumed that was as far as their marriage would go. In fact, she was surprised he was even working the ranch, instead of riding with the Rangers. She asked him about it the next evening, when he returned in time for supper.

  “I’m curtailing my duties as a Ranger,” he told her, digging into a thick slab of steak. “This is a big spread, and now it’s yours. Someone has to run it or it’ll go into the ground. I’ll only ride with the Rangers during an emergency.”

  Miranda was shocked. “John left the JB to me?”

  Bragg smiled, studying her, his gaze momentarily soft, although a bit tired. “You were his wife, princess. Who else would he leave it to?”

  “But—didn’t he have any kin? Surely some cousin or brother would deserve it more than I!”

  “He left everything to you, Miranda. In fact, he had quite a few business holdings outside of the ranch, in Galveston and elsewhere. You’re actually quite a catch.” He grinned.

  His playfulness, as usual, took her by surprise. It was so rare, and so incongruous to the deadly man she knew he was. Miranda smiled. “But, do you mind it? Staying here, not riding with the Rangers?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “It’s funny, but my vendetta against the Comanche suddenly seems a bit old.”

  “What vendetta?” She was highly curious.

  “Why so many questions?”

  “You’re going to be my husband,” she said softly.

  Bragg smiled, looking pleased. “Well, I guess you might as well know, it’s common k
nowledge to a lot of folk.” He drained his glass of wine and poured another. “Sure you don’t want any?”

  Miranda shook her head, blushing, and sliced a piece of steak.

  “I was married,” he said casually. “She was Apache. We had a boy.”

  Miranda stared, registering the past tense, but he spoke as if he were discussing the weather. His face was relaxed, and he was eating as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  “They raided my spread.” He glanced at her. “Didn’t know I had land up the Pecos, did you? I was riding the range that day. I had left them behind, alone—Comanche don’t war that far west, it’s Mescalero country.” Seeing her confusion, he said, “The Mescaleros are my people.”

  Miranda nodded, barely able to breathe.

  He shrugged, draining the wine. “I found my wife a year later. After they took her, the Comanche sold her to a brothel in Natchez. I took her home, but she died a few months later—wouldn’t eat, just wasted away.” He leaned back in his chair, meeting her gaze.

  He was having trouble, she knew, maintaining his calm poise. His eyes were hooded, but she could feel the sadness, the unexorcised grief. “And…your son?”

  “He was only six when they took him,” Bragg said, his jaw clenching. “I never found him. They would have taken him into their tribe, raised him as a Comanche. He had his mother’s coloring—even her eyes.” He looked away.

  Miranda wanted to weep. She reached out to cover his large hand, but he pulled it away and attacked his potatoes. She wanted to ask more about what had happened, but she didn’t want to upset him any more. It was so tragic. So very, very tragic. She wondered how long ago this had taken place.

  “Eat up,” he said, glancing at her very briefly, with a forced smile.

  Eager to distract him, Miranda toyed with her food.

  “Didn’t you learn obedience in that convent?”

  She met his gaze and saw that he was amused. “Of course.”

  “Then it’s an order. Eat everything. Jesus! A strong wind could blow you away.” He grinned. “Then what would I do?”

  “Captain,” she reproved, “please don’t use the Lord’s name in vain.”

  He pushed his plate aside and watched her. “I was praying,” he said, smiling.

  “You add one sin on top of another,” she accused, almost choking on the bite of meat she had swallowed.

  He reached out and thwacked her on the back.

  “Thank you,” she managed.

  “You’re too Catholic.”

  “Nobody can be too godly,” she said, regarding him as sternly as she could.

  “Are you lecturing me?” He started chuckling.

  “Aren’t you afraid to go to hell?” She studied him and saw his smile broaden. “Oh no! You don’t even believe in heaven and hell, do you? Or God?” She was stricken. The thought of Bragg someday going to hell upset her greatly.

  “Sure I believe in God,” he said, pouring himself the last of what had been a full bottle of red wine.

  “God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost?” She was hopeful.

  “I have a feeling I shouldn’t get sucked into this discussion,” Bragg said, clearly enjoying himself.

  “What do you believe, Derek? Can’t you be serious?”

  “Are you going to try to convert me?”

  “Maybe.”

  He laughed. “I refuse to have a wife preaching religion at me.”

  “Tell me your beliefs. Do you really believe in God?”

  “You have the tenacity of a bulldog, princess. Yes, I do. In my own way.” He gazed at her with open, golden amusement.

  Miranda had to ask. “And? In what way is that?”

  He raised a large hand and gestured at the dining room. “I believe that God is the wind and the trees, the mountains and lakes. God is you and me.”

  She gasped, scandalized.

  “You look like you expect me to be struck down by lightning at this very moment.”

  “I…I wouldn’t be surprised,” she managed. “That’s heathen blasphemy!”

  “Not quite. I suppose, though, some might say it’s a perversion of Apache beliefs.”

  Miranda was afraid to ask about the Apache religion. Instead she said, “Would you go to confession with me next week?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said, throwing his napkin on the table, but he was smiling. “I’m a tolerant man, Miranda, and if you want to pray and confess and practice your religion, you can.” He straightened ominously, becoming very serious. “But—and it’s a big but—the day your religion interferes with me, this household, or us is the day I stop being tolerant.” He stood up and held out his hand. “How about a walk in the moonlight?”

  Miranda stared, her mind positively racing. Then she saw his hand and, a bit shocked, she rose and accepted it. They walked outside under the cottonwoods. The moon was big and white and bright, streaming through the newly leafed branches. They strolled in silence. Miranda couldn’t stop thinking.

  At least John had been a God-fearing man. Although he said he was really a Protestant, he had gone to Mass with her…even if it was just to make her happy. But Bragg was truly a heathen. Should she ignore it? Let him die a heathen and go to hell? And what about his threat—for that’s what it had been, a threat. If she were to convert him, she would have to do it so subtly he wouldn’t even know what she was doing. Oh dear!

  His soft, musical chuckle broke the silence. “I do believe I’ve given you a shock.”

  “Just a bit,” she said.

  Chapter 41

  “I now pronounce you man and wife,” Father Miguel intoned. “You may kiss…”

  Miranda was fully aware of every word the priest spoke, and even more aware of the man standing at her side. Bragg was clad in a black frock coat with a plain white shirt and gray cravat. He seemed uncomfortable in his formal attire. She was aware of his closeness, his even breathing, his presence—his body heat. When he slipped the gold band, so simple and plain, on her finger, she felt a rush of warm happiness. However, that emotion fled quickly. Before she could absorb the fact that she was indeed married to this enigmatic, powerful Ranger, he had pulled her against him. With no thought of modesty, his mouth captured hers. The kiss was not soft or gentle. As his lips played demandingly upon hers, hard and insistent, she felt a tremor shake him. Then he released her. He caught her as she swayed slightly, taking one of her arms and holding her securely against his side.

  The church echoed with silence.

  There were no guests, out of respect and mourning for John—only the newly wedded couple, Father Miguel, and the two Rangers, Pecos and Lakely. Pecos had given the bride away. They approached with smiles to congratulate the couple.

  “You lucky devil,” the tall, lanky Pecos was saying. He was grinning.

  “I think so,” Bragg said, confusing Miranda. His arm had now gone possessively around her shoulder.

  “Congratulations, ma’am,” Lakely said.

  “Thank you.” Miranda was suddenly, inexplicably, exhausted.

  “Ma’am, if I do say so, you are the prettiest gal I’ve ever seen, and I do mean that,” Pecos said gallantly, grinning.

  She smiled. “Thank you, Pecos.”

  “And if you ever get tired of ole Cap, you just let me know. I’d be more’n happy to help out.”

  This time, she blushed.

  “Are you all right?” Derek whispered in her ear, his breath warm. A pleasant tingle raced down her spine.

  “I’m a bit worn out, Derek,” she confessed.

  He chuckled. “Say that again.”

  She was puzzled. “I’m a—”

  “No, my name.” His gaze was so warm and so intent upon her face that she felt color rising to her cheeks.

  “Really, please,” she murmured.

  “You are so shy,” he said huskily. “I want to kiss you again…but I think you’d faint from embarrassment.”

  “Oh no, please!” Miranda was truly alarmed. It was bad e
nough that John was barely cold in his grave. And she was still very aware of the reasons for this marriage—duty, responsibility. Her new husband would be taking advantage of their situation if he kissed her again. She could not allow it. Fortunately, he seemed to be only teasing her.

  Of course he knew, just as she hoped everyone else did, that this was a marriage to give her the protection of his name—and that was all.

  They walked to the hotel, and Derek said, “Miranda, I’ll see you upstairs, but then I’ll leave you for a bit. I’m going to have a few drinks with the men.”

  “That’s fine,” Miranda said, wanting nothing more than to change out of her lavender silk gown and crawl into bed. Why was she so utterly exhausted?

  Bragg walked her to the hotel and upstairs to their suite. “I won’t be long,” he promised, opening the door but then reaching for her.

  Again he caught her by surprise. She opened her mouth to protest. No words came out; instead, he held her head still with one large hand while his lips plundered hers, his tongue exploring the space she had granted him. Bolts of lightning-sharp heat swept her—and then, just as abruptly, he released her.

  “I will see you soon,” he said, not smiling. His voice had a husky catch.

  Miranda began to protest, but found herself facing the closed door. She placed a palm over her breast, turning away. Her heart was racing. Good God, he didn’t think…He did! He obviously expected them to consummate this marriage!

  Miranda stared at the beautifully appointed sitting room without seeing a single detail of the furnishings. Was it possible Bragg thought to sleep with her? With John not two weeks dead?