by Brenda Joyce
He rolled one nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and she felt his manhood swelling against her back, throbbing. She grabbed his wrists, anger outweighing the beginning of desire. He ignored her, his hand roving down her belly, still nuzzling her neck and ear. He cupped her womanhood and began to rub it through the soft buckskin.
With strength and fury she didn’t know she had, she wrenched free and slapped him as hard as she could across his face. She rose to her feet, shaking. “How dare you!”
He was stunned.
“How dare you!” she screamed like a shrew, hysterical.
“Miranda,” he gasped, his eyes wide, totally uncomprehending. He stepped forward, about to grab her by her shoulders.
“Don’t touch me!” she yelled. “Don’t you dare!”
He froze.
She whirled and raced away, running as hard as she could into the woods, tears streaming down her face. She sank to her knees when her lungs felt like bursting, and wept. What he had done was too much. To come up on her in the open, in the middle of the day, and paw her crudely, as if she was a whore. Is that what he thought? Why would he treat her like a whore if he didn’t feel that she was one? She certainly acted like one—every time he touched her!
“Why are you crying?” he said stiffly behind her. He stood above her and stared, bewildered and helpless.
“Leave me alone,” she ordered. “Go away!”
He hesitated and squatted by her side. “I know I haven’t done anything wrong,” he began, uncertain. “Or have I?”
Miranda raised herself into a sitting position, her face streaked with tears, her eyes huge and angry and incredulous. “Nothing wrong?! You treat me like a whore and you tell me you’ve done nothing wrong?” She clenched her fist because she wanted to hit him wildly.
Derek was shocked. “What are you talking about? What nonsense is this?”
Her face crumpled. Of course he didn’t understand, didn’t care.
But he did care. “Miranda, talk to me,” he pleaded, touching her hand tentatively. “I can’t believe you’re reacting like this to my hugging you that way.”
She stared and wiped her eyes with her fists. “Hugging me? You were pawing me!”
“I…I guess I was. But…” He stopped, not knowing what to say. She waited almost belligerently. “I love touching you,” he managed, realizing as he said it that the statement was totally inadequate.
“I don’t like the way you treat me.”
“I don’t treat you like a whore,” he said with a flash of anger. “And I’m insulted that you think so.”
“How can you deny it?” she cried. “If not just now, then what about last night? No lady is treated the way you treated me!”
Bragg stared, gaining an inkling of understanding. “I wanted to please you, make you happy.”
Miranda knew he meant it. “I don’t like doing those…things, Derek.”
“You liked it,” he said, trying and wanting to understand.
“My body is wanton, but not my mind,” she replied.
He stared, comprehension dawning.
“I know you have every right to take me to your bed, but not that way. That is wrong! Your pawing me in the middle of the day, out in the open, is wrong! And sinful!”
“No,” he said abruptly, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward him. “Nothing we do in love is wrong. How I touch you is good and right, Miranda.”
“No, it’s not!”
He frowned, but he didn’t release her. “What are you trying to say? What do you want?”
“I want proper lovemaking.” She saw a flash in his eyes and looked away. “It’s God’s will to make babies, Derek, but not for you to do the things you do to me.”
“Crap,” he said succinctly.
She stared, and their gazes met. She saw that his was hard and uncompromising.
“I love you,” he said. “And you’re the finest lady I know. And I don’t want to make ‘proper’ love to you. I don’t want a frigid lady in my bed. I want a lady of passion—the kind of lady you are. Your passion doesn’t make you a whore, Miranda—how can you even think that? It just makes you incredibly beautiful.”
“It makes me dirty,” she said
“No!” He grabbed her, commanding her gaze. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I love you—and that’s why I want to touch you and give you pleasure. It’s right—it’s the way it should be.”
Miranda felt herself weakening. He loved her. She could feel it, see it in his fierce eyes. She certainly felt it when he took her in his arms. Could anything so magnificent be so wrong? Maybe God intended two people who loved each other to find such pleasure in each other’s arms. Would Father Miguel know?
“Miranda? I’m not much with words. But when I touch you it’s my way of showing you how I feel.” His gaze held hers. “And I know, sweetheart, how much you like my touch. That doesn’t make you a loose woman. It makes you a real woman, not a hypocrite, that’s all.”
She thought about that, too. She wanted to believe him.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her loosely. “What are you thinking?”
“I want to accept your ideas, Derek, but I was raised differently. Well-bred ladies don’t act the way I have.”
He smiled. “They say they don’t. But, Miranda, have you ever thought that maybe you’re expressing how much you care for me, too?”
She stared.
“If you were wanton, you would have liked Chavez’s touch, and not been reluctant with John. Did you ever think of that?”
She hadn’t. That thought relieved her immensely, and she felt guilt and shame flowing away from her like an ebbing tide.
Derek relaxed when he saw her features soften. “Also, you make me happy,” he whispered. “Isn’t that important, too?”
She smiled slightly. “You know I want to be a good wife.”
“We’re on our honeymoon, darling. And on honeymoons newlyweds are free with their love.” He studied her. “Miranda, I won’t change. I’m a virile man. Before you, there was never much time when I didn’t take a woman to my bed. It’s the way I am. I’m thrilled to death that you’re so passionate because it fulfills my needs without going against yours. Don’t you see? It’s perfect.”
Miranda sighed. He was so much stronger than she was, and she felt so good in his embrace, even now. It was like being home, safe and secure, but exciting and exhilarating, too. She leaned her cheek against his chest.
“We’re perfect together,” he whispered, stroking her back.
She raised her head to look at him. Tears of gladness came into her eyes. “I think I love you,” she said, and then realized she did. If love wasn’t this strange soaring of her heart, this need to be with him, the desire to please selflessly, the fear of being apart, the craving of union—then what was?
He trembled. He gently tipped her face up higher and then he kissed her with all the feeling in his heart and soul.
Her arms went around his neck, and their pulses quickened. Miranda returned his kiss, needing more, and tenderness vanished before the flood of hot need. “I’m going to show you how much I love you,” Derek said, pushing her onto the soft earth of the forest floor.
She looked up at him, his long, hard body covering hers, his face inches from hers, his eyes golden, glowing. He didn’t kiss her, but waited silently, his arms encircling her. She closed her eyes. The love was there, in his face, in his golden gaze. She wanted him, more than ever, wanted to love him in this way. In that moment, she decided that he was right. She opened her eyes to look into his. “Show me,” she breathed.
He did.
Chapter 66
The next morning Miranda awoke with love in her heart, and she lay for a minute thinking about her husband and how much she loved him. He was already gone, to cut timber for their new home. She sighed. It was time for her to get up, too. She sat up, then stood, and a wave of nausea overwhelmed her.
She barely made it out of the wickiup bef
ore she began retching uncontrollably. After the spasms had passed, she lay still, curled on her side, naked, so sick that she was afraid to move. She knew she was deathly ill.
She lay there for hours, afraid to drag herself back inside, until she fell asleep. When she awoke she was startled to find herself outside, sleeping, with no clothes on, until she remembered what had happened. She sat, a touch groggy, but otherwise fine. What had been wrong with her?
She listened to the sound of a tree crashing not far away, then straightened and went inside to dress and begin her day’s chores. She was immensely relieved that whatever had struck her was gone as soon as it had come.
The next morning she was ill again, but this time she had gotten dressed and made it to the creek before the dreadful sickness began. It was there that Derek found her. The day before he had felled enough lumber for the cabin frame, today he was hauling it into their camp. He saw her, dropped the horses’ reins, and came running.
“Miranda, what’s wrong?” he cried, panic-stricken, crouching beside her and about to take her into his arms.
“Don’t touch me,” she moaned, and then she moaned again.
But he did anyway. “You’re sick. Let me get you inside,” he said grimly, lifting her.
“No! Oh!” She began retching violently, and Derek promptly sank to the ground, waiting until it had passed.
“Is it just nausea?” he asked, his face tight, carrying her rapidly to the wickiup.
Miranda was afraid to talk. She was going to be violently sick again if he didn’t stop. But then he gently laid her down on the bed. She curled up, moaning.
“Miranda, has this happened before?” Derek asked curtly, standing above her.
“Yes,” she whispered, and closed her eyes tightly.
“I’ll bring you some herb tea that will help,” he said, wheeling and striding out. He felt incredibly angry as he yanked the herbs Apache used for morning sickness. He did not want to raise this child. He did not want to see Miranda grow big and swollen with this child; to go through the agony of childbirth for this bastard, the product of another man’s violence and lust.
“Damn!” His fist hit the trunk of the tree he was kneeling before. The pain felt good. He wanted to break the damn tree, maybe even his hand.
Every time he looked at that child, he would remember how Chavez had raped his wife. Every time.
When he brought back a tea made with the leaves, Miranda was sleeping, so he let her be. He went to the horses, still standing with six huge pine logs attached to a makeshift harness, and led them down creek, to the site they had decided on for their house. Here the meadow spread out endlessly. It was actually part of a valley, and the vista was incredible, the sky etched by green-forested, white-tipped mountain peaks. The valley was lush and dense, too rocky for crops except on a small scale to meet their own needs, but perfect grazing for cattle. In fact, he mused, longhorn survived on much less than this. Maybe he would do some crossbreeding, something better for beef that would gain the longhorn’s incredible durability.
But in the back of his mind he kept thinking about the child.
Miranda was preparing their noonday meal when he returned later, hot and sweaty and too angry to speak. He sat down wordlessly, saw her smile, but refused to acknowledge it. He felt like his whole perfect world had just crashed in.
“Derek? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
She paused. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with me. I feel fine now.” Her gaze searched his closed face innocently. Why was he so hard-looking?
“Haven’t you ever heard of morning sickness, Miranda?” he snapped.
She flinched at his tone. “Are you mad at me?” Her voice trembled.
He stood, dropping his plate and kicking it aside. “No, Miranda, I’m thrilled to death to have you bear Chavez’s bastard. Can’t you tell?”
Her eyes grew wide, and there was no mistaking her shock. “Are you sure?”
“Dammit, yes! Women in the early stages of pregnancy have morning sickness, just what you have.” He turned stiffly. “I’m not hungry. I’m going back to work.”
She stared, watching him pace with tense, coiled strides, his body rigid with anger. He went over to the team, leading them into the woods for the felled lumber. Tears rose in her eyes. Dear God, she thought, why?
Why did You give me a child conceived out of violent, cruel rape? Why?
She held her belly self-consciously and tried to figure out how far along she was. Two tears trickled down her cheeks as she watched her husband disappear into the woods. We’ve only just discovered each other, and now this, she thought. I don’t want a child conceived out of violence and brutality. I want my husband’s child. She started to cry.
The tears were soft, helpless, self-pitying. When she had gotten them all out, she felt better, stronger. She gathered their laundry and took it down to the creek, all the while thinking about God’s will, and how no man could possibly understand it. This child was His will, and He worked in mysterious ways. There was a reason. She didn’t know what that reason was, but she did know that this babe was completely innocent of any wrongs his father had done. She felt a surge of protective maternal warmth, and realized that she wanted this child.
As she pounded the clothes with a large paddle, she thought of Derek’s son, and was struck by instant understanding. His son was half Apache, raised by Comanche. This boy was partly Comanche, and would be raised by a man with Apache blood. She almost threw the paddle aside. It was as if God was giving Derek back his son.
He returned later than he ever had before, almost at dusk, and she’d begun to worry he had had an accident. He had not come back with any lumber, so she didn’t know what he had been doing. But when he sat down, she saw instantly that he had been drinking. She could smell an alelike odor, although he was not staggering. She had waited to eat with him, but he didn’t speak. Barely glancing at her, he ate ravenously. She felt incredibly hurt, and wanted to cry.
This isn’t my fault, she wanted to say. Why are you being so cold and mean?
After their meal, he put out the fire, leaving her with all the cleanup, and stalked into the wickiup. He always helped her at night, and if he was trying to get his point across, he was doing very well. When she crawled into bed with him she knew he was awake. He was lying on his back, staring into space. She wanted to crawl close and seek the warmth of his body, wanted to be reassured that he still loved her. She was afraid, because since their marriage he had been nothing but kind and gentle. Still, she slid toward him, placing one hand on his chest, her head on his shoulder.
He rolled over onto his side, his back to her. “Not tonight, Miranda,” he said.
She rolled over too, facing away, and silent tears welled up in her eyes and fell.
Chapter 67
“Would you consider giving the child to some childless family?”
Miranda stared, horrified. “No!”
His jaw clenched. “Just thought I’d ask.” He turned away.
She grabbed his sleeve, not about to let him go. She had been too ill to discuss this with him earlier, but she was fine now. “I want to talk.”
He glanced at her, his face expressionless. “There’s not much to talk about.”
“Yes, there is! Derek, I’m going to have another man’s child, and you’re treating me as if it’s my fault.”
He softened slightly. “I know it’s not your fault.”
“Then stop being so cold and cruel! I can’t take it!”
He stared. “I’m only a man, Miranda, not a saint. What do you want, for me to be thrilled to raise some bastard as my own?”
Miranda slapped him across the face. “Don’t you ever refer to my child that way again!”
He stood a moment, shocked, and then he said, “I apologize.” He turned on his heel. “I’ve got work to do.” He strode away.
She was angry—angry and upset. How long was he going to be like this? For the rest of his l
ife? Was he going to take out his anger and hatred on the child when it was born? She ran after him.
“Not now, Miranda,” he said, not looking at her.
She was out of breath, and she clung to him with both hands until he stopped. “Yes, now!” she exclaimed, panting.
“All right.” He wouldn’t give an inch.
“The baby is innocent, Derek, innocent, and it’s God’s will.”
He grimaced. “I don’t believe in God’s will.”
“But surely you agree the babe is innocent.”
He nodded. “What’s the point?”
“Will you be a father to this child? Will you give him your name, protection, and caring? Will you?” Her voice rose. She had to know.
“I told you, dammit, I am no saint. Every time I look at this child I’m going to remember what Chavez did to you, and I’ll be filled with anger and hate. Yes, I’ll give the child my name. But don’t ask me to give him love, because it’s not in me to give!”
Miranda stood trembling, feeling sick deep within her heart. He was cool. “Anything else?’
She shook her head, watching him leave. She walked back to their camp, everything a blur. I never knew this man, she thought. He is not who I thought he was. He is a selfish beast, like any other man. He is kind only when it suits him. What am I going to do?
It was all she could think about all day. How could she raise this child with a father who would hate him, or at the very least be coldly indifferent? She knew she couldn’t, and her heart ached unbearably with that knowledge. There was only one solution, one that broke her heart. She brought it up after supper.
“Derek?”
He was sitting in the growing twilight, his profile to her, looking amazingly handsome, his bronzed face still. He glanced at her.
She was afraid. Her heart was pounding wildly. But she had to do this for the baby. She wet her lips. “Derek? I would like to return to England.”
He stared, completely attentive. “What?”
“I would like to return to England…please. It would be for the best.” She looked into his stunned eyes and wanted to cry. She didn’t, with great effort.
