by Brenda Joyce
“You have the advantage, amigo,” Chavez said easily. “I am hit, remember?”
Bragg smiled again, took out his knife, and before anyone could move, sliced into the back of his thigh—exactly where he had hit Chavez.
Miranda screamed.
Chavez smiled.
Bragg frowned. “Pecos,” he said, not looking at anyone other than Chavez, “get her away from here.”
He heard Pecos ride away, heard Miranda protesting, sobbing, screaming his name again and again.
Chavez moved, taking advantage of the distraction. His knife appeared in his hand. Bragg leaped back, but not before a line of blood appeared on his chest through the buckskin shirt. They circled each other warily.
Bragg lunged. Chavez jumped back, but Bragg kept coming, and he slashed, opening a wide gash on the Comanchero’s forearm.
The fight became a dance of movement, back and forth, blades flashing, just barely missing skin. Both men, although wounded, were agile, expert. Both men used their knives like the Indians whose blood they’d inherited. Soon both were drenched with sweat and breathing heavily, yet the intricate dance never stopped.
And then Chavez lunged. Bragg let him come, then blocked the knife-wielding arm with his own forearm, stepping around Chavez with one leg, locking him into place. He sank his blade into him. Chavez screamed and crumbled.
“He’s a goner,” Lincoln said conversationally. “It’ll be hours before he dies, though.”
“Give me your canteen,” Bragg said, breathing heavily now, sweat pouring off his face. Lincoln complied. Bragg dumped the water on Chavez’s face. The man came to, coughing.
“I want you conscious, amigo, while you die slowly.” Bragg turned, then scowled. “What’s she doing here?”
“She wouldn’t leave,” Pecos said.
Miranda was white and still, her eyes huge in her face, which was thinner—haggard. He strode to her with a definite limp and clasped her by her shoulders. “Did he rape you?”
She gasped.
“Did he, dammit?”
“Yes.” It was a barely audible whisper.
He handed her to Pecos. “If you have to carry her, get her away. I don’t want her to see this.”
Pecos understood, and he lifted Miranda in his arms and strode toward the village. Bragg watched, waiting until they were too far away for her to be able to see. Limping heavily now, he made his way back to Chavez and stared down at him. The man stared back, refusing to beg.
Chavez’s eyes widened with astonished fear as Bragg slipped his knife out and held it, the sunlight dancing on the blade.
“I am dying,” Chavez said.
“Yes, I realize that.” Bragg bent casually and slit the man’s trousers at the crotch.
“No!” Chavez cried.
Bragg grabbed him.
Chavez’s scream was bloodcurdling.
Chapter 52
Pecos wouldn’t let her turn around, and when Miranda heard the scream every hair on her body stiffened. What had Bragg done? She was still stunned by the rapidity of events, by how suddenly the village had been attacked, by Bragg’s appearance and the fight with Chavez. Dear God, how she needed Derek now.
“Miranda?”
She whirled at the sound of his voice and ran blindly into his arms. “Derek!”
He held her tightly. His body was warm and hard. She felt so utterly safe. He smelled like sweat and horse and man, and she snuggled closer, his arms tightening around her, thinking she had never been more relieved in her life. She felt his hands in her hair, and then his lips pressing on the top of her head.
“Thank God,” Bragg said heavily.
Miranda suddenly remembered his condition and pulled as far away as he would let her, which was only an inch or so. “Derek, you’re hurt!”
“It’s nothing,” he said, gazing at her with sad, infinitely tender eyes.
But he was limping and bleeding, and it frightened her. “Let me care for you.”
“We don’t have time. Linc, fetch me a good horse, and my gear. How are we doing?”
“Just about ready to move out, Cap.”
Bragg looked at Miranda. “You can bind up this wound on the back of my thigh, then we’re riding out.”
“There are more of them,” she said anxiously.
“I know,” he said.
“How could you, Derek?” she cried, examining the gash in the back of his leg.
He didn’t answer.
She bound it quickly with buckskin. “This isn’t good enough at all.”
“My knife was clean. As soon as we stop, you can clean it and bind it properly.” He smiled. “I know how much of a stickler you are for propriety,” he said.
Miranda smiled, too. Her heart seemed to take on wings.
They rode all day until dusk. She sat on Bragg’s new mount, a rangy bay. Two men scouted ahead, two rode behind. About eighteen women and children were with them, but Bragg didn’t let that slow them down. Anyone who couldn’t ride well enough to keep up rode double with a Ranger. Fortunately, only the elderly woman could not ride. They made a fireless camp as dark descended.
“I’m cleaning you up,” Miranda said disapprovingly because Bragg had disappeared to give orders for four-man sentry shifts the minute they had stopped. “And let someone else unsaddle your horse.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted, grinning, as if he were pleased to be ordered around.
“Follow me to the stream. Can you make it?”
“Certainly. You are a bossy wife, aren’t you?”
For some reason, his tone of voice made her feel wonderful. She ordered him to sit and remove the blood-soaked bandage, then deftly sliced off the leg of his pants.
“Now why did you do that?” he complained.
“I’ll repair it,” she told him. “Turn over and lie still, Derek.”
He obeyed.
The wound was quite clean and not deep. However it hadn’t clotted yet, and she frowned, wishing he didn’t have to be mobile and on horseback. She cleansed it with water, then whiskey, and Bragg didn’t even flinch. She realized she was terribly proud of him. He was so brave, so utterly fearless, so strong. I’m going to try to learn from him, she thought as she bandaged the wound with linen strips taken from Lakely, who had handed her the material without a word.
“You’ll be as good as new in no time,” she said.
Derek gingerly turned over and sat up, keeping his bad leg bent at the knee and off the ground. He pulled off his shirt. “Aren’t you going to clean up the rest of me?” he asked innocently.
His chest glistened, all hard, sinewy muscle. For a moment, Miranda couldn’t respond, and then he chuckled. “Come here, I can’t wait.”
Before she even knew it, he had pulled her closer with one strong arm and was kissing her, tenderly but with rigid, restrained passion. She stiffened and closed her eyes, but didn’t pull away. He wouldn’t, she was thinking. He just wouldn’t.
He released her and stared at her. He was no longer smiling. She was too familiar with that look of lust—she had learned what it meant from Chavez. Her mouth trembled. She didn’t move. She felt concerned and trapped, afraid again.
His hand went to her hair, to tendrils that had escaped the one long braid she wore. “I want to make love to you,” he said huskily. “I want to wipe out Chavez’s print. I want to claim you for myself. I want you…so bad.”
Miranda stood slowly. She tried to find the words she needed. All that came out was, “Please don’t.”
She saw the disappointment, and something like pain or grief, flood into his eyes. Then he lowered his gaze, a somewhat bitter smile crossing his features. “I can clean myself up now,” he said evenly, and rose stiffly to his feet.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, breathless. “Please, let me take care of you.” Her voice broke. She was suddenly shocked when tears started pouring from her eyes. She turned away.
“Hey,” he said, startled, and wrapped his arms around her, pr
essing his chest against her back. “It’s all right,” he soothed.
She sobbed harder.
“Miranda, I’m sorry,” he said, agonized. He kissed the top of her head, then tucked it under his chin. “Shhh, shhh, darling, don’t cry.”
“I’m sorry,” she cried.
“I understand,” he murmured. “I understand. I’ll never hurt you, never.” He rocked her from side to side in the cradle of his body.
Chapter 53
Bragg thought he did understand. She had been raped. Brutally, probably many times. He wanted to know all the details, for some damn reason. He wanted to share what had happened with her, but he refrained from asking. She was so gaunt and fatigued right now, and he wanted to protect and shelter her. He wanted to take away her grief and shame. The urge to make love to her was overwhelming. He felt that if he could take her in his arms, he could stroke and kiss away everything that had happened. He felt that once he buried himself deep inside her, he could remove Chavez’s mark, his memory. He could claim her, truly, as his own.
But Miranda had always been afraid of sex, and now she was probably even more afraid. He loved her. He would never hurt her—he had meant that when he said it. He wouldn’t ever force himself on her. He wanted her to want him, too. He would wait. He would comfort and care for her, cherish her, and they would start their lives anew, from this day forward. After all, making love was only one part of a relationship, and in this case it would be the bonus, he rationalized. Then he heard himself and laughed aloud. He sounded like some romantic fool. Certainly not like the crude rake, Derek Bragg, who had been taking women with the slightest provocation since he was sixteen.
The camp was quiet and everyone asleep, exhausted, especially the captives, who were a sorely abused, gaunt lot. Bragg approached his bedroll silently, and a soft smile crossed his features when he saw Miranda curled up there, on her side. He dropped down beside her.
She immediately turned over and sat up, facing him.
“Waiting for me?” he teased softly.
He wasn’t sure, but he had the feeling she blushed. “Yes.”
He raised a brow, absurdly pleased. “We both need to get a good night’s sleep,” he said, trying to be straight-faced. “But…”
“Oh, Derek, I meant…what I mean…”
He chuckled, sitting beside her. Putting his arm around her, he pulled her close. “I know what you meant, princess.”
Miranda looked at him, her face inches from his. “Are you sleeping here, too?”
“Yes,” he said. “Isn’t this my bedroll?”
“But…” She swallowed nervously.
Bragg smiled and slid onto his side, pulling her down into the curve of his body. “Don’t tell me you’d be more comfortable sleeping alone?” He hugged her gently.
She sighed. “No.”
He pulled up the blanket and tried not to feel so much—so flooded with tenderness and caring that it made his eyes ridiculously moist. Worse, he tried not to feel the warm softness of her body, her little derriere firmly nestled against his belly, her silken hair teasing his chest and face.
“Derek?”
“Um?”
“What happens after San Antonio? After we drop off Bianca and the other captives?”
He hesitated. “How would it sound, Miranda, if it was just you and me? I want to take you up to the Pecos, into the country I was raised in. It’s peaceful. You’ll have time to…heal, and I’ll never let you out of my sight.” He kissed the back of her head.
“To your ranch?”
“There’s nothing there, princess, just water and trees and meadows. But yes, I did mean that area.”
“That sounds…fine.”
“Do you mean it?” He felt tense asking the question. He wanted to take her there so badly, and his arms tightened a bit around her.
“Yes.”
“I’m glad,” he said quickly. “Now why don’t we both get some sleep? I have last watch.”
To his surprise, he fell asleep after only an hour or so, and his dreams were full of the woman he held in his arms.
Chapter 54
Miranda felt as if everyone was watching as they rode into San Antonio, and everyone was.
Of course, she realized it would be impossible for twenty Rangers and almost as many freed captives not to attract the notice of everyone on the streets and in the shops. People lined the boardwalks, and soon there was cheering and hollering. A man ran alongside them, asking for details, but the Rangers just grinned and answered cryptically. Bragg said nothing, but his hold on her was warm and reassuring.
He took a room at the hotel and went upstairs with her. “I have to make my report, princess, but on my way back I’ll bring you some clothes. Tomorrow we’ll go shopping together for everything we need.” He flashed her a warm smile. His golden eyes were so tender these days. She knew he felt sorry for her, and it made her feel sorry for herself.
“Take your time,” she said, and she looked longingly at the bed. Sweet Jesus! How long had it been? The endless riding, the week in captivity…no! She was not going to think about that.
“I’ll have a bath sent up. I’ll see if I can’t talk one of the girls into lending you a wrapper.”
Miranda smiled at him gratefully. When he left, she wondered what had happened to the gruff, crude, hard man she had met in Natchez. Then she knew she was fooling herself. She remembered how he had gone after Chavez. She still didn’t know what he had done after Pecos had led her away, but she was sure it had been awful, and she didn’t want to know. She climbed onto the bed and lay thinking about her husband.
She also marveled at herself. Who would have thought that the daughter of an earl would become what she was right now? Clad in buckskins, just freed from Indians, married to a half-breed Ranger—good God! And Bragg had told her the kind of life they were headed for. They would live in a wickiup, like his people, the Mescalero. They would hunt and harvest their own food, make their own clothes. It would be a very primitive existence. He didn’t say it was forever. They didn’t discuss the future.
For some reason, he wanted to take her up to his valley, as he called it, and live there for a while. She truly didn’t mind. The JB was gutted. It was hers, and now Bragg’s, because he was her husband, but she didn’t want to go back there. Maybe later, in the future. She didn’t want Bragg to leave her alone. He was resigning from the Rangers, and she was glad. She knew it was selfish, but she didn’t care. She understood now how much a woman in this land needed a man to protect her. She never, ever, wanted to have to live again through a horror like that week as Chavez’s prisoner.
Miranda had no tears left. She rolled onto her side and shut her eyes, but the memories were strong, vivid. They refused to leave. They haunted the back of her mind constantly and gave her nightmares. But there was always Bragg to turn to, to hold her, to say soft, sweet words and chase the awful dreams away. She had gotten used to sleeping with him, and she didn’t think she’d ever want to sleep alone again.
Her bath came, and with it a servant bearing a flimsy wrapper of white wool trimmed with pink ribbons. She ordered a huge meal from the woman, thinking that if Derek came back he would be hungry. Then she soaked for a long time in the tub. After she had washed and dried off, she threw the robe over her bare skin. It wasn’t sheer, but it seemed to mold itself to her lithe contours. Miranda didn’t notice. It felt so good to be out of buckskins—at least out of those particular buckskins.
She was eating heartily when Bragg returned, tossing some packages onto the bed. “Eating without me?” he asked coming up to her and plopping a kiss on her mouth before she could blink. She was surprised—he hadn’t kissed her since that time at the stream, days ago. And…she was pleased.
“There’s enough for two,” she managed, her body tingling deliciously for a moment.
“I can see that.” He grinned, then sat down opposite her and stared.
“How did it go?” She began to serve him since he was ju
st sitting there.
“Miranda,” he began, then he looked uncertain.
She gazed at him calmly. “What’s wrong? Oh! Another assignment?” She tried not to show her intense disappointment.
“No, nothing like that. Damn!” He dug into his pocket and produced a small padded box.
“What’s that?” she asked, feeling foolish.
“It’s not much,” he said, grimacing. “I’m not a rich man, not like John. In fact, except for my land, I’m downright poor. But…here.”
Miranda took the box and stared at him. “Derek, you are rich. You own all of John’s properties now.”
He waved at her. “They’re yours. Are you going to open it?”
She suddenly smiled. They would discuss that issue later. She opened the box. Inside was an amethyst pendant shaped like a heart, hanging from a delicate gold chain. “It’s beautiful!” she said, meaning it. She was truly touched.
“It’s the exact color of your eyes,” he said, watching her.
“Would you?” she asked, smiling, standing. She stepped over to him, lifting her hair and turning her back.
He sucked in his breath. He couldn’t help it. He wanted her as he’d never wanted any other woman, and here she was, clad in such a lightweight, clinging robe, and it dawned on him that she had nothing on beneath it. Instead of looking at the nape of her neck, he found himself staring at her firm little behind, and his hands, of their own volition, settled on her hips. She gasped.
He hated the way she stiffened defensively. He quickly fastened the chain around her neck. He owed the jeweler just about every skin he could trap this winter, but he didn’t care. He hated trapping, but he would do it. He wished he could have gotten her diamonds and rubies.
She turned to face him, smiling. “Thank you, again. I love it.”
He wanted to tell her he loved her, but he had never said those words before, and he knew she didn’t love him back. He just couldn’t tell her, not yet. “Thank me with a kiss,” he said instead.
