[Once Upon a Wedding 01.0] The Fairy Tale Bride

by Kelly McClymer

She twisted to glance up at him, and Simon enjoyed the feel of her soft curves pressed against his torso as he looked down upon her serious face. With her bottom lip caught between her teeth, she turned back to see Grimthorpe walk stiffly away from them.

  He felt the tension drain from her, leaving her weight resting against him. “Simon, why is it that some men cannot believe that a woman does not desire him?”

  He wondered that very same thing. “Lust is a strong emotion in most men, Miranda. I have seen it turn the most reasonable man into a gibbering idiot, and yet I cannot tell you why.”

  Smiling, she turned, bringing herself into his arms.

  She laid her cheek against his chest. He could not resist encircling her with his arms, despite the ache of need that filled him immediately.

  “I am so glad that you are not like other men, Simon. I cannot imagine you behaving so foolishly.” There was a touch of wistfulness in her voice. It called to the spreading need that he felt almost all the time nowadays.

  He buried his face in her elegantly coiffed hair, enjoying the faint scent of roses there. “Nor can I,” he lied, knowing how close he was to taking her upstairs to his bed then and there, be damned with their guests, be damned with begetting a child. Be damned with dying.

  He released her and stepped away. It was becoming harder and harder to resist the urge to bed her, to make her his true wife. To make love to her. He groaned softly. If only there were some way to bring her with him. But he could not ask her to exile herself from her sisters, her brother. Nor could he ask her never to hold a child of her own in her arms. He knew what it felt like to lose a family.

  He forced the sorrow away again, though he found it more difficult each time. Still, there were serious matters that needed his attention. He could not waste any time cursing fate. “Katherine discarded the toadstools in the dustbin. We checked. There are several missing.”

  Her eyes darkened. He knew she would not miss the meaning of such a thing. “But who would have known that they were poison? If only we could find out, we’d have some answers.”

  Nothing about this matter would be easy. “There were several guests around who might have overheard Katherine’s lecture to the girls about the danger of those particular toadstools. She spent several minutes going over the dangers, and the way to recognize those toadstools from nonpoisonous mushrooms.”

  “She did not know who, then? She gave you no names?”

  “At the time, her concern was with ensuring that the girls understood the danger fully; her attention was given over completely to them.”

  Miranda shivered, her eyes huge in her pale face. “What does this mean? There is no doubt now that someone is trying to do away with Arthur. But why?”

  He embraced her tightly, wishing that he could reassure her. “It seems that someone does not want Arthur to succeed me to the title.”

  She nodded. “How long have you suspected?”

  ‶Since I learned that the heirs who came before Arthur on my list all died unexpectedly before my agent found them.”

  “Is there nothing we can do?”

  “I may send you to stay with your family for your own safety.” He had just thought of it as he held her in his arms and realized how vulnerable she was. The murderer, if this was the work of one fiend, had no way of knowing that his bride was — and would remain — a virgin and in no danger of giving birth to a ducal heir.

  “I won’t leave you. I’m no coward.”

  He smiled. “You are indeed no coward, my fairytale warrior. Still, I would rest easier if I knew you were out of harm’s way.”

  “I’ll consider it.” Her voice was cool, and he looked down to see her watching the deserted ruins of the decorated dance floor. “As soon as our last guest has left. “

  He would have felt a bit more comfort if the hairs on the back of his neck did not prickle when she spoke. He had no doubt he needed to find his answers swiftly, or risk having her launch herself into the effort beside him.

  He wished once again, as he held her tight, that he had never been struck with moon madness and married her. He had brought her nothing but heartache, and he would never be able to bring her anything else.

  Katherine’s patient recovered quickly from his poisoning, and the next morning Miranda found him in the library with Hero. Her sister was reading in a clear and steady voice. Arthur sat with his eyes closed, an expression of bliss on his narrow features.

  Miranda waited for Hero to come to the end of a line. “Good morning. How are you feeling?” She shot a troubled look at her sister. Did she not realize that Arthur was included in the category of men she should be careful not to allow herself to be alone with? Or had she so quickly come to think of him as family, though he was not?

  Hero flushed guiltily as she hastily marked her place in the book and sat it on the table next to her chair. Arthur himself sat ramrod stiff upon the sofa, his color higher than that on Hero’s cheeks.

  “Good morning, Miranda. I was just keeping Arthur company. He did not feel like taking breakfast this morning.” Her eyes did not meet Miranda’s — a clear indication that she knew of her own forwardness. At least, thankfully, she had not sat beside him on the sofa.

  “That was thoughtful of you, Hero.” With her eyes, Miranda conveyed that no matter how thoughtful the gesture, it made it no less unwise for a young unmarried girl. “Why don’t you go in to breakfast now. I wish to speak with Arthur alone.”

  Panic flared in Hero’s eyes, a quiet mortification that expressed itself only in a slight gasp of protest.

  Miranda, realizing that her sister was afraid that Arthur would be chided for her own transgression, put her fears to rest quickly. “I just want to see to his health. Katherine said he could easily have died last night. I must find out what happened so that I can prevent it happening again.”

  Hero paled and swallowed convulsively. Tears made her eyes bright as stars. Without further comment, she hurried out of the room. Miranda doubted she would be indulging in much breakfast, however. It was difficult to eat with a bruised heart.

  Arthur hurried to say, “Your sister and I share a love of literature, that is all. Please be assured that I would not think to hurt her reputation in any way.”

  Miranda wondered if she had been too hasty in her judgment. She sighed. It was a sin she had committed before. She would do her best to try not to commit it now. “Exactly how many accidents have you had since coming here, Arthur?”

  Miranda tried to keep her question casual. She knew that Simon would know the answer. Of course, he would refuse to tell her and be forewarned that she was asking questions. She did not want Arthur to let slip that she had winnowed the details from him. But she need not have worried. Arthur apparently had not a suspicious bone in his body.

  “Let me see — ” He closed his eyes to concentrate.

  “When I was but a few miles from arriving here, my carriage broke a wheel and I was thrown a distance. Fortunately I landed in a boggy spot and wasn’t hurt. Not that Laddensby was any too pleased about the state of my clothing, I can tell you.”

  He was silent for a moment, whether in sympathy for his valet’s annoyance or in thought, Miranda could not be certain. But she watched him closely, and saw the exact moment that suspicion leapt into his face.

  “I say.” His voice was pitched higher than normal, as if his mind might be racing. “It’s quite extraordinary, really. Counting that incident, which actually happened before I arrived, I have fallen down the stairs; my room has been afire once; the girth of my saddle broke twice.”

  He sat forward, his voice sharp with excitement. “Oh, and I was set upon by a mad swarm of bees. The doctors have told me that if I am so set upon again, several stings at once might kill me.” He settled back against the sofa, obviously drained of energy.

  Quietly, he added, “And, of course, that unfortunate substitution of poisonous mushrooms. Indeed, I have been quite unlucky of late.”

  Miranda smiled and nodded
. Indeed. Or it could be that Arthur had actually been quite fortunate.

  Fortunate enough to make someone quite desperate. But who?

  Miranda could not help the frisson of guilt that assailed her at her intrusion into the dowager’s privacy. She was in the garden gazebo, resting, a piece of sewing on her lap.

  The older woman had worked tirelessly these past weeks to ensure a successful party and deserved whatever moments of rest she might steal in between seeing to the needs of the guests and the duties of the servants.

  However, of all those involved, the dowager had motive. She had been vocal about the fact that she counted Arthur a worthless heir apparent. Though the thought was absurd on the surface, Miranda could not dismiss it. Arthur had nearly been killed. Who knew if his luck would hold him safe if there were to be another attempt? The question must be asked.

  And so she asked it boldly, without pretense. “Why do you object to Arthur as Simon’s heir?”

  A sniff of disdain met this bluntness. “The sniveling ninny has lucked into being a duke’s heir, and he hasn’t got the sense to appreciate his fortune. Not to mention his lack of ability in running the affairs of his own wardrobe, never mind an estate the size he will inherit.”

  Again, Miranda chose to meet the dowager’s acidity with a blunt question. “Do you find his accidents suspicious?”

  The dowager paused in her stitching. “Odd, yes, but not suspicious. He is simply clumsy — carriage accidents, riding accidents, bees ... “ Her voice trailed off and she met Miranda’s eyes sharply.

  “I find them suspicious.” Miranda did not elaborate.

  As the needle flew, the older woman dismissed the possibility. “Who could possibly benefit from his untimely death — especially now that Simon is married? You, perhaps?”

  The dowager shook her head, answering her own question. “But not unless you had a male child to be Simon’s heir. Otherwise, you have naught but a few coins and baubles to pawn in your later years.”

  The needle slowed. “Is that a possibility?” Her voice, uncharacteristically tentative, whispered across the distance between them.

  Inside, Miranda quivered, but she did not allow that to show in her curt answer. “I am not expecting a child.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Her smile was bitter. “I do know my son after all these years.” There was an infinite weariness borne of sadness in her words.

  Miranda abandoned any suspicion that the dowager might have poisoned Arthur. She couldn’t believe it of her. For as much as Simon and his mother hurt each other, there was love beneath it. The dowager had never tried to physically force Simon to her will. She had fought her battles with words.

  Nerves raw, Miranda could not stop her own sharp words. “And yet, you don’t know him well enough to know what he wants most from you.”

  “Perhaps I do know. And, perhaps, in hard-won wisdom derived from all my years, I know that it would only make him hate me more.”

  “What is it that divides you?” Miranda leaned forward, wondering if she might find the key to unlock Simon’s heart in the dowager’s answer. If she answered.

  “The truth.”

  “How can truth divide you? I have always found it to be a healing thing.” Except when she tried to tell Simon she loved him. Then it seemed to be razor sharp.

  “The truth is a regrettable thing in this case. And it would hurt Simon more if I were to tell it to him.”

  “The truth can never be regretted, only dealt with,” Miranda said with a practicality born of dealing with her own odd differences that had caused so much dissension for her with her parents. “Simon seems to be able to face truth. Why don’t you try to patch up whatever rift has split you?”

  “If only circumstances had not been different. For a moment, I had hoped...but no, I cannot tell him.”

  Angrily, Miranda turned to leave. “Of course you won’t. Instead, you will poke and prod until his control hangs by a threat. Sometimes it seems you mean to provoke him to murder.”

  The dowager’s mouth tightened so that her lips turned white at the edges. But then, to Miranda’s astonishment, she merely nodded. “Perhaps. I can see what you say. Although I can’t appreciate how horrible you make me sound.”

  “What I think of you is of no import. It is your son’s desire to understand, to heal the hurt between you, that you must concern yourself with.”

  “And if it is not in my power to heal him? If I hold the power to hurt him immeasurably more?”

  “It seems impossible to me that either of you could hurt the other more. Especially if you tell the truth.” Miranda felt the tears rising in her eyes, and added, “You might regret not having tried when he is gone.” As she would. She knew she would.

  “And he will be going soon, will he not?”

  The dowager paled at the reminder of her son’s pending death. “I suppose there is only one way left to break through to him. I shall tell him what he demands to know.”

  Miranda felt as if a burden had been taken from her. “You will not regret it.” She hoped this would be the beginning of peace between them. And then she looked into the dowager’s face.

  “I will tell him.” She looked grim. “But it will not make him happy.”

  Miranda felt a chill of fear shiver through her, but she had no time to ask why.

  Simon’s voice cut through the conversation as cleanly as a knife. “What will not make me happy?”

  Chapter 23

  Miranda noted that the dowager jumped as perceptibly as she herself did at the sound of his voice. He had come as if called — by angel or devil she could not say.

  The dowager craned her neck to look up at the towering figure of her son. Each determined gaze met and clashed together — and neither gave quarter as she answered him. “I have decided to answer the question you have been demanding answered since the day your father died.”

  So she had meant what she said. Miranda grew numb, knowing what was coming and yet not knowing at the same time. Would the dowager’s confidences heal the rift, or split them apart forever?

  “Your tongue could not shape the truth, Mother.” Simon lashed out at her as he reached a hand toward Miranda. “Come, Miranda, we have guests to see to.”

  She did not move.

  Simon’s jaw flexed in anger. “Miranda?” He had not raised his voice, but that did not mean he was not angry. He was. Very angry. She did not move.

  The dowager picked up her sewing and resumed stitching, the needle flashing in the sunlight “Are you so foolishly spiteful that you would walk away from me now, when you are only moments away from the truth you hold so dear?”

  Simon glared at her, but did not move toward the house. Miranda could see his desire to have the truth from his mother etched upon his face. There was fear etched there, too. She could not help but wonder what awful secret lay between them to be exposed.

  A dreadful thought made her catch her breath.

  Was his mother somehow the cause of his fatal illness? She pressed her hand together. Oh, please, let that not be the case.

  Simon’s mother sighed and indicated the bench next to her. “Sit please, Simon. I have a tale to tell you, and I do not like to crook my neck to look up at you.”

  He did not move. “It cannot take you long to say one name.”

  One name. Miranda tried to puzzle out his statement. Whose name? How could one name cause such a rift between mother and son? What infamy could one name hold?

  The dowager’s needle paused for a moment and then resumed. “I will tell the story in my own way, and you shall be patient. After all, you will have your answer — not, I expect, that it will make you any happier.”

  Her glance caught Miranda, held her, pulling her into the whirlpool of emotions. “But your wife seems to feel that I shall never overcome this rift between us if I am not honest with you.”

  His breath caught and his voice was harsh as he asked, “Have you told her? You have no right — ”

  �
��I have told her nothing.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Although she has guessed some things, she does not know what ails you, of that I am certain. Should we send her away before we have this conversation?”

  Miranda could see that he was considering it, and she was torn between wanting to know what had hurt them so very much and running away from the painful purging she sensed would soon take place.

  “No.” His voice was crisp, decisive. “She might as well know.”

  “You trust her, do you?”

  “With my life.” His answer made Miranda’s heart ache with a tightly controlled joy. She wondered if he would still feel the same way once his mother had spit out her awful truth.

  He sat on the ground, heedless of the grass stains that might mar his clothing and, after a brief glance at Miranda, stared in challenge at his mother. “Tell me your story, Mother. But do not expect me to be swayed by touching pleas or sad tales.”

  “Never, Simon. You are much too much like me.”

  The dowager composed herself, suddenly seeming to be at a loss for words. And then she began, softly. “Your father ... “

  “The duke,” Simon interrupted.

  “Sinclair Watterly took me to wife for one reason and one reason only — his older son, your brother Peter, desired a commission in the Navy. At first, Sinclair forbade it and refused to pay for a commission.”

  The sharpness in her face erased for a moment, as if she had been drawn back in time. “I heard from the servants that it was quite a battle.”

  Simon interrupted impatiently. “I knew his temper well, Mother. But that happened long before I was born and is not of importance to me and what I want from you.”

  Her eyes focused on Simon. “Sinclair won the battle, of course. He was the father, and he held the purse strings tight to himself. Still, he knew it was only a matter of time before Peter attained his majority and received an income that could not be controlled.

  “Since he did not want the dukedom to revert to another branch of the family if anything were to happen to his son, the duke decided that the solution would be to marry again and have another son of his own.”