Innocent Fire

by Brenda Joyce

  Of course not! She felt a huge, overwhelming sense of relief. A barbarian Bragg might be, but he had loved John, in a man’s way, and he certainly had an innate respect for his dead friend. He was just being—Bragg. Feeling relieved, she began to remove her clothes.

  By now, she had gleaned all the information about him that she could from Elena. His wife and son had been abducted by the Comanche eight years ago, and it had taken him close to a year to find her and free her. She had died not many months after he had brought her back to their people, where they had lived, for his spread had been burned out and he had never rebuilt it. His son would be about ten now; he would have been raised as a Comanche, and by now would think he was one. Indeed, if no one told him differently, he would never know the truth about his parents.

  Bragg had joined the first, earliest Texans in their fight against Mexico shortly after his wife’s death. He’d participated in all the bloody rebellion for Texas’s independence. He had ridden with the first Rangers, when their duties were not yet clear. His life for the past eight years—since his family’s abduction—had been nothing but an extended campaign of bloodshed and war, first in the fight for Texas, then in his vendetta against the Comanche.

  Could a man like Bragg possibly settle down? Miranda wondered. He seemed to think that was what he was doing. She wanted to see him release the past. He didn’t seem like a man driven by hatred, but she understood him well enough now to know that he kept his feelings buried deep inside.

  He was such a confusing man, she thought, sliding into bed clad in a flannel nightgown that buttoned to the throat. Sleep promptly overtook her.

  Chapter 42

  Boisterous male laughter rang out, deep-throated, a bit inebriated. Bragg leaned back in his chair, looking every bit a gentleman, although he had unbuttoned his coat and loosened his cravat. His feet were starting to throb, a sure sign that he’d worn his damn dress boots long enough. It had been about an hour since he’d left Miranda. He was still so damn excited. He didn’t want to be excited, he wanted to have control, he wanted to make love to her leisurely and languidly all night long. He wanted to make her happy, very happy.

  “He’s mooning again,” Pecos said, grinning. “Lovestruck calf!”

  Bragg smiled, not in the least insulted, and poured himself another shot of rye. “To envious dogs and other vermin,” he said, raising his glass. “To the color green—it suits you.” He drank.

  Pecos laughed, and Lakely smiled. Jed Barnes, a neighbor, said, “Who wouldn’t be moonstruck? I’m moonstruck, and I don’t mind admitting it.”

  “To honest men,” Bragg said blandly, trying not to think of her—of her white, slender body ready and eager for him. “Damn,” he said. He stood. “Linette! Where’s that champagne?”

  “Goddamn! I wish…right now, I’d sell my soul to be you,” Pecos said, meaning every word.

  “God, I ain’t ever had a sweet, good woman,” Jed said. “Damn, maybe I’ll get married too.”

  Bragg ignored them, but only after sending Pecos a warning glance. He didn’t feel like hearing any ribald comments, and to his surprise, Pecos didn’t make any. Linette appeared with a champagne bottle, nice and cold, and two glasses. “Thank you, sweetheart,” Bragg said.

  “Don’t you want to thank me proper before you go up?” she asked, standing with her hip thrust out, a long leg revealed. “As a proper goodbye?” She smiled seductively.

  “Sorry.” Bragg grinned, pleased, of course, that Linette wanted him. “But Pecos can stand in my stead.” He winked at his friend, who laughed.

  Bragg hurried out of the saloon and up the stairs, his heart racing. He wanted to slow down. He wanted to be in control. He just couldn’t keep a check on his vivid, sensual thoughts. He couldn’t wait to have Miranda in his arms.

  She was his! It felt incredibly good. Had he ever felt this good before? That was too complex a thought, he decided, setting down the champagne and glasses to unlock the door. He slipped in quietly, wondering what she was doing. The suite was completely hushed.

  He moved stealthily into the bedroom, his burden in both hands, and paused in the doorway. It was dusk. The light in the room was dim, but not so dim that he couldn’t see her asleep in the middle of the big four-poster bed. He saw she had braided her hair. Now why in hell had she done that?

  He set down the champagne and glasses on a table by the fireplace. He pulled off his boots and slipped off the jacket and cravat, feeling much more comfortable. He proceeded to light a fire, prodding it until the flames caught. Then he rose, turning to look at his wife.

  Miranda was awake and staring at him. She looked surprised and afraid.

  A warm melting began in his heart and spread all over. “Hi,” he said softly, smiling. Beauty incarnate, he thought absurdly. He noted, too, that she was holding the covers to her throat. He moved and lit a candle, and carried it to her bedside table.

  “What—what are you doing?”

  It took every ounce of willpower he had not to pull her into his arms and ravish her. The past week, having her so close, knowing that she was his but not being able to touch her, had been sheer hell. He wondered if he should have had a woman, any woman, to relieve some of his intense need. He had sent Bianca away with great annoyance the very first night he had brought Miranda home with John’s corpse. He had not minced words, either. He had no intention of bedding Bianca under his soon-to-be wife’s nose.

  “Getting ready for bed,” he said, wondering if he was really hearing his own voice—it was strangely tender and gentle.

  Miranda sat up. “What?”

  He stared at the ugly, childish nightgown. “After tonight,” he said, “I want you to throw that thing away.”

  She was momentarily confused. “What? What are you talking about? What do you mean, you’re getting ready for bed?”

  He forgot about the nightgown—he would buy her a hundred nightgowns, even if it broke him. Sheer, lacy silk things to enhance her beauty, not hide it. He cupped her face. “This is my room, too,” he murmured, trying to ignore the rush of blood to his loins. His hands slipped behind her, and he found the ribbon of her braid, untying it.

  She pulled back. “Derek! What are you—Stop!”

  He had freed her hair, and it fell in glorious, thick strands around her delicate oval face. He heard the panic in her voice. Why is she afraid? Certainly not of me? And the other question—had she learned passion? He stood and moved to the champagne, grateful for the dim light. He didn’t want her to see how eager he was. He realized she was still untouched—she hadn’t learned the joys of lovemaking. It fed his excitement. He was going to be the one to teach her.

  With his back to her, he poured two glasses of champagne. His hands trembled slightly. He carried them over, sitting beside her on the bed, holding one glass out to her. Her violet eyes were huge in the flickering candlelight.

  “Here,” he murmured.

  “I don’t believe this,” she said, looking stunned. She took the glass and set it firmly on the bedside table. “What is wrong with you?”

  Bragg blinked at the indignation in her tone. “Excuse me?”

  “Champagne? What, pray tell, are we celebrating?”

  He felt as if she’d slapped him in the face, and he sat straighter, his pleasure draining away. “This is our wedding night,” he said coldly, to cover the hurt he was feeling.

  “Have you forgotten the reason for this wedding?” Her voice was an incredulous whisper.

  Anger was etched on his face. He drained his champagne, then flung the glass at the hearth. At the sound of the glass shattering, Miranda jumped. He took her arms and pulled her close. “I refuse to share our bed with a ghost, Miranda.”

  She cried out, and he loosened his hold. “Our bed!”

  “Yes, dammit, I don’t care how much you loved him, life goes on, and our life starts now, tonight.” He smothered her protest with his kiss, his passion erupting in the storm he had wanted to control, holding her tightly, to
o tightly. Forcing her mouth open, he kissed her so hard his teeth caught hers, grating. He thrust his tongue in, forcing her down on her back, covering her with his own body.

  He was so close to being out of control—and that was not the way he wanted it. However, he was aware enough to feel her body stiffen like an unyielding board beneath him, until she began to struggle. Then she became wild, though her strength was pitiful. Abruptly he released her and jumped to his feet, stepping away. He was aghast at himself, and furious at her, at everything.

  Had she loved John?

  “How dare you!” she cried, her eyes blazing.

  “How dare I?” he asked, panting like an animal. “How dare I what? How dare I take what’s mine?”

  “In name only,” she shrieked. “You married me to protect me, you said, not to rape me!”

  He stared, shocked, his desire abruptly dying. “I have no intention of raping you, Miranda,” he said, his voice level. What in hell was she raving about? Did she really think he was some kind of bastard? “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “Yes, I think so,” she breathed heavily.

  He couldn’t help but notice her breasts rising and falling rapidly, stretching taut the ridiculous gown. Her nipples were hard. He looked at her face. “You are my wife, in every sense of the word. Yes, I gave you my name to protect you, but I intend to enjoy all my husbandly rights.”

  Miranda sat back, the color draining from her face.

  “Am I distasteful?” Another stabbing pain.

  “I thought…I thought it was just in name…a marriage in name only.”

  He laughed bitterly. “I’m afraid you thought wrong.”

  Tears fell from her eyes.

  Bragg cursed. “I intend for you to be my wife, Miranda, completely, and you won’t deny me.”

  “I refuse to allow you to—to exercise your rights, not until a proper period of mourning has passed.”

  He scowled. “Really?”

  “If you have no respect for me,” she cried, “then at least show some for your poor dead friend! I will not have you satisfying your lust on his barely cold grave! Don’t you have any sensitivity? Or are you completely selfish?” Her voice had risen to a scream.

  He moved slowly, pulling on his coat. “Of course,” he said stiffly. “I had forgotten propriety, again.” He sat and pulled on the boots, cursing clearly as he did so. He ignored her flaming face. “And what, Miranda, is a proper time of mourning?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. He was angry, hurt, and bitter. “Pray tell,” he said mockingly, “so I do not offend your delicate sensibilities by coming to your bed too soon.”

  “A year, of course.”

  He stood abruptly, staring. “I will give you three more weeks,” he said curtly, harshly. “This is Texas, not London, not Paris. A month of mourning is proper here.”

  Miranda looked ready to cry again.

  “And since you deny me,” he added cruelly, wanting to hurt her, “you can have no complaint should I not return to you this evening?” He raised a brow, waiting for her reaction.

  It took a moment for her to understand. Her color rose and she averted her eyes. “No, of course not. Do what—you must.”

  “I intend to,” he said, furious. He picked up the champagne bottle and drank deeply until it was almost empty. “To you, Miranda, a true lady. How dare I forget?” He finished the bottle. His mouth set in a hard line, he hurled it at the hearth. The bottle exploded, and he heard the bed creak as Miranda leaped in fright, but he felt no satisfaction. He stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter 43

  Bragg did not come to fetch her to return to the ranch until midmorning. Miranda could not forget his temper of the night before, in fact, she could not forget anything about the night before. She remembered his curiously soft voice—until they had argued about his rights as a husband. She shivered again, thinking about his violent temper. His temper frightened her. But even that sensation was lost to another, stronger one. True to his word, he had not returned that night, or that morning, not until close to ten o’clock.

  Then he had come in looking very rumpled, and quite red-eyed. He had told her in one sentence to be ready to leave in fifteen minutes. Ignoring her, he had changed into his buckskins. They had left fifteen minutes later.

  Miranda didn’t understand why she felt so sick inside—and she couldn’t stop wondering about where he had been the previous night. Had he really been with a woman? But then, what did it matter? Hadn’t she wanted a marriage in name only? Why was she so upset?

  They were traveling back to the ranch with a very gruff, hard-looking older man riding alongside their wagon. Bragg briefly introduced him as Brown. He was tall, buckskin-clad, of course, and heavily bearded. Miranda didn’t dare ask Bragg anything. His face was a mask of tightly controlled anger. He also reeked—of alcohol. He seemed oblivious of her presence.

  Miranda found out later that day from Bianca that Brown was her personal guard. She was shocked. Why did she need a personal guard? It was disconcerting that the man was outside her door when she was in her room, and followed her about at a discreet distance. This was only the first day, and she was annoyed, feeling his black eyes constantly upon her. Had something happened that she didn’t know about, to warrant this? Or was Bragg preparing to leave, maybe to ride with the Rangers?

  He came in late that afternoon, but his expression was still so hard that she was afraid to ask. He didn’t even seem to see her as he strode through the house and upstairs to his room. She heard him bellow for Bianca to bring hot water. Then, to her surprise, she noticed that Brown had disappeared, and she ran to the door and saw him walking toward the bunkhouse. She was confused, until she realized that she wouldn’t need a guard while Bragg was in the house.

  It took her a while to get up the courage to approach him. She knew that Bianca had brought the hot water for a bath up to his room, but she had not come back down. A stab of anxiety seized her. She had a vivid memory of Bianca clinging to Bragg in the clearing in the woods. Oh no. She gritted her teeth and marched up the stairs. She didn’t knock.

  Bragg was standing naked in the room, facing the door—and Bianca. Miranda felt a murderous rage. He glared at her with a flash of light in his eyes. Miranda closed the door behind her, then saw that her husband was handing Bianca his dirty buckskins quite disinterestedly. She averted her gaze from his naked body, flushing. “Please go, Bianca,” she said calmly.

  Bianca left.

  Bragg stood there, staring at her, and folded his arms across his chest. “Did you want something, Miranda?”

  She realized that she was standing in his room, not five feet from him, and he was stark naked. She had only had brief glimpses of his body in the past, and never a full view. For a moment she couldn’t talk as she stared fixedly at his shoulder. “Yes.”

  He waited.

  Her gaze traveled over his body of its own accord. Even with his arms crossed negligently, she could see that his chest was broad and hard and hairy, his muscles bunched. His belly was hard and smooth, banded with muscle, the hair narrowing into a delicate line. She gasped when her gaze found a thick, swollen member, and abruptly she turned her back to him.

  Her face was burning. She had never seen that before. Her heart was pumping, wildly, madly. She forgot the entire reason she had come to his room.

  Bragg felt a rush of amusement, then stepped into the steaming tub. “You act like you’ve never seen a man before, Miranda. Did you want something?” Against his will, his tone was not as frosty as he’d have liked. He knew he was sulking, but, damn—he wanted to sulk. He was still hurt and angry over her rejection, her obvious lack of desire for him.

  She turned, her face as usual giving away her every emotion. “It’s not proper that Bianca be in here,” she said stiffly.

  Bragg searched her face hopefully for a sign of jealousy. He smiled when he found it. It was indignant, but undeniably there. “She’s seen plenty of men naked,
Miranda, believe me. It doesn’t bother her.”

  “I insist,” she said, looking ready to cry.

  He suddenly realized what she was thinking, and he straightened in the tub. “Miranda! Don’t even think it. I am not sleeping with Bianca under your nose—and never will. Put it out of your mind.”

  She was relieved.

  His face softened. “I’m not such a cad, am I? Come here.”

  She hesitated.

  “I can’t scrub my back,” he complained. “Can’t you perform that one little wifely chore?” He flashed her a mischievous smile. “I promise not to bite.”

  Miranda approached, taking the washcloth and soap. “Derek, about that man. Brown.”

  He leaned forward, showing her a long expanse of broad, sinewed back. She began to soap him, surprised at the feel of his warm, bare skin. He was so silken—and so hard.

  Bragg sighed and closed his eyes. Heaven, he thought.

  “Derek? Is Brown necessary?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I want him around you—ahh…”

  She froze at his sensual moan.

  “Don’t stop,” he said, trying to sound casual but failing.

  “Your back is clean,” she said, rinsing it with her hands. They trembled. She had a crazy urge to lean her cheek against his warm skin, to nuzzle him. She quickly shoved the inclination away, shocked at herself. She stood up.

  But he caught her wrist. “Don’t,” he said, twisting to look up at her. He smiled lazily. “Wash my hair, my chest. Wife.”

  “Really, Derek, you can manage yourself.” Her voice sounded funny, cracked and shrill.

  “Is it really so much to ask?” His tone was husky, seductive. “I give you my name and all I ask in return is a woman’s gentle touch—a bath.”

  “You had a woman’s gentle touch last night,” she said before she could help it.