Innocent Fire

by Brenda Joyce

  “Jealous?”

  “It’s your right,” she managed. She was jealous! The thought shocked her.

  He still held her wrist, and he smiled, his golden eyes strangely bright. “You fool,” he breathed.

  “Please,” she said, barely able to breathe herself. She had, by mistake, glimpsed down, and the water had magnified and reflected that male part of him, seemingly straining toward her. She couldn’t believe she had ever had a thing like that inside her. Could John have been that big?

  Bragg suddenly wanted her to know the truth—it was so important. “There was no woman last night, Miranda. I don’t want another woman, and I want to make myself very clear. Do you understand?”

  His words, his tone, so serious now, forced her to look into his eyes. She flushed again, furious at having been caught staring, then realized what he’d said—and was unaccountably thrilled. “But where were you?”

  “Getting drunk,” he rasped, and closed his eyes. He wanted her—now. He had promised her three weeks to mourn, but he had only done so because he was fair enough to know that she was right. Despite what she thought, he did have some sensitivity. But if he tortured himself this way, he would go back on his word….

  “Why don’t you change and meet me downstairs,” he said.

  Relieved, Miranda extracted her hand and quickly crossed the room, feeling his eyes on her. It wasn’t until she had closed the door behind her that she realized she felt something suspiciously like disappointment. But that was ridiculous, of course.

  Chapter 44

  The next few days passed exceedingly slowly. Bragg was gone all day, every day, riding with the men. She had the feeling he enjoyed it. She was surprised to recognize her feelings of loneliness, and her eagerness when he returned. After their first night back, he had missed supper three times, to her great disappointment. She had remained downstairs, ostensibly engrossed in a book, waiting for him, wanting to see him if only for a few minutes before she went to bed. He had seemed surprised and then pleased on each occasion, but had behaved properly, sending her upstairs with a brief kiss on the cheek.

  Miranda denied that the touch of his lips on her skin had any effect. She was in mourning for her husband. She was also a properly raised and well-bred English gentlewoman, and a devout Catholic. It was the strangeness of his touch that made her body taut—with dread, not anticipation.

  She was delighted when he returned that day in the late afternoon, and smiled brightly as he strode in. “You’re home early!” She beamed.

  Bragg stopped, a funny expression crossing his features. Then he grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling in an adorable way. “I like the sound of that, princess,” he said. “I’m tired of beans and the boys.” He started up the stairs. “Tell Elena to outdo herself for us, will you?”

  Miranda felt a warm thrill watching him climb the stairs so effortlessly, so gracefully, as if he hadn’t been working the range all day. She informed Elena that Derek was joining her for dinner, then hurried to her own room to change. She wanted to wear something special, something he would like, something he hadn’t seen before.

  The gown she chose was a rich, vibrant turquoise, a color that was striking on her. It was low cut—immodestly so, she thought, a wonderful taffeta with full, billowing skirts. She left her hair hanging, tying it away from her face with a matching ribbon. The blue made her eyes seem even more purple, dark and mysterious, almost black. For some reason, her face was flushed, glowing.

  Bragg was sipping a brandy in the study when she paused in the doorway. He immediately jumped to his feet, the look in his eyes telling her that he approved—very much. He smiled, still staring intensely, his topaz eyes gleaming. “You are exquisite.”

  “Thank you.” She curtsied. She was overflowing with joy—everything in the world ceased to exist at that moment, except for the man standing before her, and his appreciation.

  “Hungry?” he asked, taking her arm.

  “Starved,” she said.

  “That’s a first! Do you mind how I’m dressed?”

  “Of course not, Derek, this is your home!” She meant it, and he smiled. He was clad in clean buckskins, his moccasins, and a plain linen shirt, open at the throat. She had become used to the way he dressed—it suited him. For her benefit, he removed his guns and knife when he was in the house in the evenings.

  They sat, and Bianca served them roast pork, dumplings, sweet potatoes, collard greens, and carrots in a sweet sauce. Bragg filled both their glasses with red wine, then raised his. “To you, Miranda.” His words, so simple, were spoken quietly, but his gaze was so intense it was almost unnerving.

  Miranda hesitated, remembering the last time she had so foolishly imbibed, then lifted her glass, touching his. “Thank you,” she said, sipping carefully. She put her glass down as Derek drained half of his. He drank too much, she thought. But it never seemed to affect him. She frowned.

  “What, princess? Why are you frowning?” His voice was soft, questioning.

  “You drink quite a bit,” she said bluntly.

  Bragg laughed. “Oh no! Do you intend to change my drinking habits, too? Will I always be judged and molded by my wife?” His tone was playful, teasing.

  “Oh, Derek, I didn’t mean you to think—I don’t judge you.” She stopped, flustered.

  “Of course you do,” he said, unperturbed. “You judged me the moment you met me, don’t you remember? I believe you called me a savage, uncivilized brute, a crude lout, and, oh yes, a barbarian?” He smiled.

  Miranda flushed. “I take it all back.”

  He chuckled, the sound warm and pleasant. “Don’t. You are right, and I’m sorry when I forget just how genteel and fragile you are.” His tone had become serious.

  To cover her dismayed confusion, and the warmth racing through her body, she sipped her wine. Then she began to eat. The pork was delicious. Bragg told her about his work on the range, and she listened with real interest. She realized that she had been right, he did enjoy it, and she asked pertinent questions. He refilled her wine-glass and his, and she was surprised that she had drunk the whole glassful. The evening was so warm and pleasant, so wonderful, it was like a dream. She felt safe, secure, and…cherished. When had she ever in her whole life felt this way?

  After dinner he took her hand and they walked out onto the veranda to lean against the rail. The moon was an exact crescent, almost white, set amid a thousand twinkling, glittering stars in a blue black night. There was a faint breeze, the tinkle of wind chimes, a horse’s nickering. She leaned against the man standing next to her without thinking about it, and was aware of his scent—brandy and buckskins, musk and soap. His arm went around her waist, and before she knew it, he was turning her toward him, pulling her against him.

  She melted into his body, her face resting on his chest. His other arm went around her, and he held her like that for a long time, the night suddenly becoming very, very still. She inhaled his scent. His warmth throbbed against her. She could hear his heart thudding. She slipped her hands from his chest and slid them around his neck. She could stay in his embrace forever. His hold tightened.

  “Oh, Miranda,” he said huskily, his mouth pressed to the top of her head. She thought he kissed her hair, but she wasn’t sure. His hands roamed her back, gently. Something long and hard rose between them, pressing into her belly. She wanted to stay there forever. Her pulse began to quicken.

  His hands began to quicken, too, becoming harder, stroking insistently. One moved over her shoulder, catching her chin. She opened her eyes, saw his hot, golden gaze fixed upon her, and felt his breath on her face. She closed her eyes, sighing, arching toward him. She wanted him to hold her tighter.

  Bragg growled, a male, animal sound. His mouth touched hers, gently, softly. His tongue traced the shape of her lips, which opened of their own eager volition, then darted just barely between them, teasing, tempting. She opened her mouth wider, wanting his violation. His lips brushed hers barely, lightly, flutteri
ng over her face, her eyelids, her nose, her ear. He nibbled her earlobe. A soft, weak sound came from deep within her.

  His mouth returned to hers, hard now, and she welcomed the assault. She pressed against him. His tongue demanded entry, and she gave it eagerly. He explored with a growing frenzy, thrusting his tongue into her rapaciously, cupping her buttocks, urging that strange, delightful hardness against her in the same rhythm.

  His mouth moved to her throat, kissing, nibbling, and she arched her head back to give him more skin, her hands in his hair, holding tightly, guiding him down to she knew not where. He gasped, accepting her invitation, his mouth descending, making her whimper. Then he nipped lightly, causing her to groan, and he buried his face in the soft swells of her bosom above the bodice of her gown. His breathing was loud and harsh and ragged.

  She was trembling from head to foot.

  He touched her breasts, gently at first, but she was mindless with wine-freed passion, and she arched herself toward him. He cupped her, teased her nipple, and she shuddered. She felt his bare hand, so warm and large, slipping into her bodice, cupping the bare, swollen flesh of her breast.

  A sane voice suddenly intruded upon her consciousness. What is he doing?

  Had she spoken aloud? Because suddenly, abruptly, Bragg was gone. She almost fell, opening her eyes and clutching the railing. She tried to catch her breath. She was light-headed, warm and unbearably achy. She wondered, disappointed, where he was. She realized stupidly that she was tipsy. She turned and saw him behind her, looking as if he was struggling with the devil. She realized how she’d acted—again. It was like cold water being thrown in her face. She straightened, horrified.

  “Release me from my word,” he said raggedly. He took a step toward her, then stopped. “Damn! Even if you do, it’s because you drank that wine. Damn!”

  Miranda stood there a moment longer, horrified and yearning all at once. The two feelings were so strong, so equal that she was overwhelmed with confusion and dismay. With a gasp, she rushed past him. She didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed when he didn’t follow.

  Chapter 45

  “When are we going to San Antonio?” she asked cautiously, flushing despite herself. He had been gone when she’d awoken that morning, and she had been very, very thankful. Later she had been torn between her desire to see him and her inability to face him.

  His glance was piercing. “I had no plans to do so, not until we need supplies.” He had bathed and changed, and smelled strongly of soap and cigars.

  Her face fell.

  He put his hands on his hips and stared at her. “There is nothing for you to confess, Miranda. Do you intend to go to confession every time I kiss you—or only when you like it?”

  She grew defensive. “I didn’t like it!”

  He laughed incredulously.

  “It was the wine! And you gave me your word!”

  His face grew tight. “If I hadn’t given you my word, princess, you would have woken up in my bed this morning—a much wiser and happier woman.”

  Miranda blushed and turned away, but not before she heard him cursing. She didn’t want to reprove him; she was too burdened by her own guilt. And he was wrong—she hadn’t enjoyed it. It had been the wine. She would never drink again!

  Dinner was a strained affair. She was too upset with her own reprehensible behavior to carry on the light conversation Bragg tried to sustain, so he gave up, and they ate in silence. She was concerned enough to glance at him from time to time, certain that he was in a black mood, but he wasn’t—he was just inscrutable.

  “Let’s walk,” he said after they had finished.

  “I don’t think so,” she said quickly, looking away. “I’m tired.”

  “Let’s walk,” he repeated firmly, taking her hand. He placed a shawl around her shoulders and slipped his arm around her waist, and they strolled beneath a row of cottonwoods. A fragrant scent she couldn’t identify hung on the twilight, sweetening it. He was holding her too closely.

  “Don’t squirm,” he said easily. “I know my touch isn’t repulsive.”

  She had no answer.

  They walked on in silence. She knew beyond a doubt that he had brought her out here to kiss her. Her heart was pounding with indignation. How dare he try to seduce her? What about his promise?

  He turned her toward him, smiling slightly, his hands on her shoulders. “Now tell me you don’t like this,” he said, and he bent and kissed her.

  Her heart leaped wildly in her chest. She stiffened and tried to draw away. His mouth was warm, soft but firm, insistent. His tongue touched the joining of her lips, teasingly, fleetingly. A warm, wet ache spiraled through her.

  He raised his head and smiled. “Stubborn, aren’t you? Shall we try again?”

  “You promised!”

  He pulled her closer. “I promised not to make love to you, princess,” he said, then claimed her mouth with his own again.

  She struggled this time instead of remaining passive. He ignored it, his hold merely tightening. She tried to twist her face away, but he caught the back of her head easily in one hand and continued to kiss her, without forcing her mouth open. She released an anguished sob. He released her.

  Miranda stumbled but didn’t fall, nor did he try to help her. She watched his back cautiously as he leaned against a tree, staring at the jagged line of distant mountains. She began to breathe easier. She was angry, insulted, indignant—and there were so many emotions roiling around in her that she couldn’t even identify them all. She ached.

  “Let’s go back,” he said, sighing heavily. She thought she could feel his disappointment, it was so strong.

  He didn’t return for supper the next two nights, and Miranda didn’t wait up. Instead, she sought the sanctuary of her bedroom. But she didn’t fall asleep until long after he had come in.

  She was awakened by the thunderous sound of many, many horses pounding up to the house. She blinked and fought sleepiness. What time was it? She heard male voices, taut and tense, but she couldn’t make out the words. She slipped to the floor, throwing on a robe and peering out her window. There were at least a dozen heavily armed riders in the yard, their horses wet, their faces grim. She grew frightened and rushed downstairs.

  She heard a voice, not Derek’s, coming from the study, and didn’t hesitate to burst in.

  “…a full day’s start…” a tall man was saying, but he broke off the moment she entered.

  “Derek! What is it?” she cried.

  “Miranda, go back to your room, and I’ll be up shortly,” he said, his voice quiet and even, his expression implacable.

  She opened her mouth to protest, but saw his gaze—hard and unflinching. Truly frightened, she obeyed. Back upstairs, she peered out her window again. This time she recognized Pecos and Lakely sitting easily amid the riders. Rangers. Something terrible had happened, she thought, for so many Rangers to ride together. She began to tremble. She wanted to cry.

  She knew he was going to go with them.

  She heard his footsteps and rushed to meet him at the door. “Derek! What’s happened!”

  He guided her into the room, gently, firmly. “Shhh. There’s been some trouble. Nothing for you to worry about. I’ll be gone for a week or two.” He held her hands and smiled into her worried face. “Don’t worry, princess, you have four good men here, and nothing will happen to you. Brown will stay by your side twenty-four hours a day. And no riding, at all.” He smiled. “Promise.”

  “I promise,” she cried, gripping his hands tightly. “What trouble? Comanche?”

  He nodded reluctantly.

  “Where?”

  He hesitated. “Miranda, you’ll be safe. But we’ve got to catch these bastards and get rid of them.”

  “You said your vendetta was old! Don’t go!”

  He grew grim. “They killed Hewlitt, Miranda. And his three boys, one only eight. They took Beth Hewlitt and her daughter captive. Her daughter is your age, Miranda, unmarried. We’
re going to get them back.”

  Miranda sat still, ashen and terribly afraid.

  He stroked her face with a surprisingly gentle hand. “Nothing will happen to you. I’ve got to go.” He stood, pausing, then he kissed her briefly on the lips. She was so frightened that she sat like a stone, unable to move, barely able to think.

  He stared at her for a moment, disappointment flickering in his eyes, then he turned and walked into his room. She heard him dressing, gathering his guns, his saddlebags, and the rest of his gear. Her mind began to shriek. Derek was leaving! He could be killed!

  She realized he had already gone down the stairs, that she might never see him again. With a cry, she fled after him. “Derek! Wait!”

  Someone had saddled his horse, and he was about to mount. The other riders were waiting impatiently, their horses moving restlessly. He turned, startled.

  Miranda flew off the veranda, her robe flying open around her legs, her hair loose and streaming like a flag behind her. She threw her arms around him, clinging tightly. His warm, strong arms held her tightly against him. She raised her face, tears swimming in her eyes.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said softly. “You’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not afraid for myself,” she said, her tears falling helplessly. “I’m afraid for you!”

  His breath caught, and his eyes blazed like golden fires. Miranda slipped her hands around his neck, grasping the thick hairs curling over his collar, pulling him down. She kissed him shamelessly. She clung, her mouth on his, demanding, seeking, frenzied. She heard him emit a deep sound in his throat. Someone laughed, and someone else suggested that Derek meet them later. Derek wrapped his hand in her hair, deepening the kiss, and she opened her mouth eagerly. She accepted his tongue desperately, urging him deeper. She could feel the whole length of his body against hers, hard and hot, even his manhood.

  “Let’s go, Bragg,” someone yelled.

  Bragg released her, putting her firmly from him. His gaze was smoldering. Miranda didn’t look away. She was breathless. He smiled. Their eyes held as another voice shouted at him to mount up. He turned and swung effortlessly into the saddle. She hugged herself tightly, miserably. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, wanting to memorize every last detail.