So Wild A Heart

by Candace Camp

  “Yes.” Dev looked at her, and a smile played about his lips. “I would say that she is.”

  Miranda settled into her life at Darkwater with an ease that surprised even her. Both the architect and the landscape expert arrived, and there were meetings with them about restoring Darkwater. She was pleased that Devin often attended the meetings and even got involved on more than one occasion in the discussion of what should be done. When she expressed her surprise at his participation, he replied in his light way that he had been bored, but she could tell that he had more interest in the old house than he was willing to let on, and he certainly knew a great deal more about it than she would have guessed.

  She also was examining the estate finances, though she quickly saw that she made poor Mr. Strong so nervous that she had Hiram Baldwin do much of the research and discuss his findings later with her. It was, apparently, a wearying succession of crop failure and depleted land, of failed tenants and unpaid rents.

  But, despite her meetings, she had ample time left over to visit with Rachel, whom she was growing to like more and more every day, and to tramp about exploring with Veronica. Devin sometimes accompanied them, which always made the excursions more fun. He was good with Veronica, teasing her and making her laugh, and he could usually be counted on to come up with something interesting to do even when they were confronted with a wet, miserable day that kept them indoors the whole time.

  He did not mention their sleeping arrangements or try again to seduce her, a fact that worried Miranda a little and often left her feeling restless and dissatisfied. Devin seemed to have accepted her decision too easily for her comfort, and sometimes she wondered if he felt so little desire for her that it did not bother him to stay away from her. And knowing that Leona was only a few miles away at Vesey Park, she also could not suppress the fear that Devin was seeking the fulfillment of his masculine needs elsewhere. Neither thought was encouraging.

  However, sometimes she would glance over at Devin—in the music room after supper or on a walk in the afternoon, or even sitting across the dinner table from him—and she would catch a certain look in his eyes, a glimpse of a smoldering, banked fire that made her own loins tingle. At those moments the very air seemed to hum between them, and Miranda would be certain that he was not indifferent to her at all.

  She would have felt better if she had known that Devin, far from being indifferent to her, was becoming daily more and more consumed by lust for her. At first he had decided to abide by her decision. He wanted to bed her, but, after all, he reminded himself, he had had many women and would doubtless have many more. He did not need this particular one. It was a trifle annoying that she was so easily able to turn him down, but he knew that she was right—he was not interested in any sort of marriage but the kind she described, where he was free to do as he chose and sleep with whomever he chose. After a time he would leave Darkwater and return to London and Leona and his life there. Darkwater and his new marriage had not yet started to bore him to tears, but he knew that they would, and when that happened, he would be gone. Bedding Miranda would be a diversion, but it was scarcely important, and the last thing he wanted was for her to become attached to him and turn into a lachrymose, clinging female who got upset every time he left.

  Therefore, he had not attempted again to seduce her into his bed. But he had found, strangely, that staying away from her had been difficult. Thoughts of her occupied his head. He wanted to see her, to be with her. When she was not around, he thought about her, and more than once he sought out pen and paper, trying to sketch her face and finding with frustration that he could not quite get the look in her eyes that fascinated him so.

  Nights were the worst times. He would lie awake in his bed, thinking about her, only a door away from him, and his thoughts would become more and more feverish, until he would often get out of bed and begin to pace the room, more than once ending up downstairs in his study, drinking away the thought of her. It annoyed him that he could not turn off his desire for her, that the more he tried not to think about her, the more he thought about her.

  He sought her out frequently, joining her on her walks or giving her a tour of the village or going to her meetings with the architect. He had even, much to his inner horror, found himself playing charades with her and her stepsister one evening, along with Michael and Rachel. He knew that if any of his usual companions had seen him, they would have laughed ‘til they cried at the sight of him engaging in such prosaic and banal pursuits. But, somehow, as long as Miranda was there, none of the times seemed dull or prosaic. She always had an interesting thought or a humorous quip to brighten things up—and there was the physical pleasure of looking at her and remembering how she had felt in his arms. He could remember, too, the taste of her mouth, the smooth texture of her skin, the sweet rose-tinged smell of her—it was these thoughts that plagued him at night, impelling him to leave his bed and seek whatever surcease he could find in books or bottles of liquor.

  The turmoil of feelings coursing through him was exacerbated by the faint but persistent sense of guilt that had been gnawing at him since he had told Leona to leave the wedding reception. He had had to do it, of course; he could not have allowed her to ruin Miranda’s wedding day. The thing that bothered him was that he had wanted to send her away. He had been angry with her, which was not uncommon; there had been many times when she had irritated him beyond belief, and he had even raged at her. But always before in his anger there had been a thread of lust winding through it, a desire for Leona that thrummed in him. Indeed, the anger had usually been brought about by a desire that she had frustrated in some way, or by the jealousy he felt when he saw her with her husband or witnessed her flirting with another man. Whatever emotion he felt around her, passion was always part of it.

  But the other night, he had not wanted her. Even when she had acted seductively toward him, he had been left cold. His anger had been hard and cold, and he had felt not desire for Leona but only a need to protect Miranda from the insult Leona represented. For the first time he could remember, he had put another woman before Leona, and even though Miranda was his wife, he felt guilty about his decision. It did not mean that he did not love Leona, of course. He had loved her for years; he could not imagine not loving her.

  What he felt for Miranda was a momentary obsession, one that would go away if he slept with her. He had felt such things before for other women, and that had always been the case. He saw a woman; she intrigued him; he pursued and won her. And then it was over. It had never changed how he felt for Leona or even altered the desire that always lay in him for her.

  The difference, the odd thing about his obsession with Miranda, was not only that it was deeper and more intense than what he usually felt, but also that it seemed to somehow mask his feelings for Leona. He knew Leona expected him to visit her at Vesey Park, and he had had ample time to do so. No one would question him about where he went of an afternoon, least of all Miranda, who seemed aggravatingly unconcerned about what he did. Yet he did not go. He thought about it from time to time, but his overwhelming feeling when he did so was one of reluctance.

  That fact bothered him—and it bothered him, too, that even though he still desired Miranda, he had held off from pursuing her because she had said she did not want him to. He was not the sort to force himself upon a woman, but he had certainly never stopped trying to seduce a female just because she seemed reluctant. But there had been something in Miranda’s eyes the other night when she had looked up at him and said that when she cared, she cared deeply. He had glimpsed in her then the possibility of love and betrayal, and he had known that if he seduced her into loving him, he could hurt her deeply. And since then, even though the passion still burned in him, he had made it a point not to try to arouse the same passion in her.

  He had not considered that idea with any other woman that he could remember. But when he thought of winning Miranda over and taking his pleasure in her, there was always the thought immediately after of w
hat would happen when he tired of her and returned to Leona, as he knew he would. So he wound up, he thought, like a fool, wanting her and not having her, yet unable to completely give her up, either. There were times when he wondered if marriage had made his brain soft; he certainly was not acting like himself these days.

  He told himself that the primary reason for this silly obsession with Miranda was boredom. There was almost nothing to do here at Darkwater except sit around and think. It was no wonder his thoughts turned so often to the lust Miranda incited in him, and the more he thought about her, the more serious the lust became. When he tried to take his mind off it by doing something, the something he wound up doing usually involved her, which did little to appease the desire coursing through him.

  About a week after the wedding, his mother invited the vicar, his wife and the local doctor over for supper. In London his mother would have found such company as a doctor and a vicar poor pickings indeed, but in the country she had to make do. Devin was in a foul mood to begin with, and watching Miranda spend most of the evening in rapt conversation with Dr. Browning did little to make him happier.

  Dr. Browning was the son of the doctor who had worked in the village when Devin was young. The old Dr. Browning had given his practice over to his son a few years ago and now spent most of his time tending his rose garden. The present Dr. Browning was about thirty years old and handsome in a sober way. He dressed without much regard to style; Devin knew his own valet would have blanched at the way the doctor’s cravat was tied. He was a large man, and Devin assumed that some women found his blond-haired, blue-eyed, strong-jawed looks attractive. Certainly Miranda seemed to find nothing about him to displease her.

  Dr. Browning was seated beside her at the dinner table, and they had begun to converse there. By the time dinner was over, they were so engrossed in their conversation that they continued it in the drawing room, where everyone retired after the meal.

  Devin wondered what they could possibly be talking about that could interest Miranda so. It occurred to him that perhaps this doctor was exactly the sort of man Miranda would find attractive, a man who had dedicated his life to something, who was intelligent and well-read, who did something useful with his life. Dr. Browning obviously thought things, knew things, that she found fascinating. And his looks were above average. Nor would the fact that he was only a doctor, whereas she was now a countess, deter Miranda if she liked him. Like so many Americans, she really did not seem to understand class distinctions.

  The doctor, in fact, might be exactly the sort of man Miranda would choose for one of those affairs that she seemed so set on having. Devin wondered if she was even now thinking the same thing. It seemed to him very wrong that a doctor should be either that young or that handsome. Doctors should, by the very nature of things, be old men—well, at least middle-aged.

  He glared balefully at them through much of the evening, then rose abruptly and left the room.

  Miranda saw Devin leave the room, and she wondered why he had departed so suddenly without offering even a goodbye. She was growing weary of talking to Dr. Browning—or, rather, listening, as he was a long-winded sort—and she had hoped that Devin might liven things up by suggesting a card game or something else a little more exciting than Dr. Browning’s description of his village practice. She had made the mistake of making polite conversation with him at dinner, asking about his career, and he had latched on to the topic, telling her all about growing up admiring his father, then his schooling, and now the many diseases and conditions he encountered in the village.

  It was a great relief when the vicar’s wife said that they must excuse themselves, as the vicar had a sermon to work on, and the doctor, fortunately, realized that he too, had been there long enough. Michael, who was leaving the next morning, decided that he should retire early, and nearly everyone else agreed that they should do the same—bored, Miranda assumed, into sleepiness.

  She went up to her room and let her maid help her change into her nightgown. She started to lie down, but she knew that she could not possibly go to sleep this early. So she put on her dressing gown and slippers and, picking up an oil lamp, made her way downstairs to the library. As she walked toward the library, she noticed that the door to Devin’s study stood open, light slanting out onto the hallway carpet. Curious, she turned toward it instead of the library.

  Devin was seated at his desk, a bottle of whiskey and a glass in front of him. He had discarded his coat and cravat, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, the sleeves rolled up. He was idly tossing dice, first with one hand, then with the other. He took a healthy gulp from his glass while Miranda watched. Then he transferred the dice to the other hand and rolled.

  “Damn,” he muttered softly, glaring at his left hand. “You are a dead loss. A hundred and fifty yellow-boys behind already.”

  “Talking to yourself?” Miranda asked lightly, stepping into the room.

  Devin glanced up, startled. “Miranda! What are you doing here?”

  The sight of her standing there pierced him with a fresh, fierce lust. She wore a dressing gown, with the neck of her nightgown peeking above the lapels, white and softly feminine. Her hair was brushed out and lay tumbling down across her shoulders, long and silky, inviting his touch. He wanted her with a passion as hot as any he could remember.

  “I just came down to the library to get a book,” Miranda replied. “I saw your light was on, so I thought I would see what you were doing.”

  “Tossing one hand against the other. The left hand has abysmal luck.” The way his eyes ran down her made Miranda suddenly aware of the fact that she wore only a dressing gown over her nightrail, a flimsy thing that the modiste in London had made for her honeymoon. “You are up late.”

  “Not so late. Everyone retired early, after the vicar and his wife left. The doctor, too, of course.”

  “I am sure you were reluctant to see the doctor go,” Devin said sarcastically, downing the last of his drink and immediately reaching out to pour another one.

  Miranda watched him pour. His hand was a trifle unsteady.

  “Have you been sitting here drinking all this time?” she asked.

  Devin shrugged. “More or less.”

  “Why? Why did you leave the party?”

  “The party? Is that what you would call it? Seemed about as lively as an interment to me. Of course, I was not privy to the good doctor’s fascinating conversation.”

  Miranda stared at him in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The doctor. I didn’t have the pleasure of talking to him all evening as you did.”

  “It was scarcely a pleasure,” Miranda began, ready to vent her true feelings, but Devin’s next words stopped her.

  “It certainly seemed as if it was a pleasure.” He looked at her, a fierce bright anger burning clearly in his eyes. “You were hanging on every word he said.”

  Miranda’s brows vaulted upward, but she said nothing to contradict him. Devin sounded jealous, and she found the idea not at all displeasing.

  “He was telling me about his cases,” she said, carefully telling the truth.

  “Was that it? I thought perhaps you were making an assignation.”

  “What? Now, really, Dev, that is going too far.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I have gone nearly far enough,” Devin said in a silky voice that was somehow frightening. He rose slowly and leaned forward across his desk, bracing himself with his fists. “Tell me, is he to be your first fling? I must say, I would think the local doctor a trifle too close to home. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it,” Miranda returned truthfully.

  “Is he what you like, Miranda?” he went on in the same quiet, deadly voice. He pushed his chair back and came out from behind his desk. “A sober, industrious citizen? Someone who can fascinate you with tales of his good deeds?”

  “He does spend his days in more fruitful pursuits than drinking and casting dice,” Miranda retorted with s
ome asperity. His closeness made her a little breathless, but she wasn’t about to let him know that.

  Devin chuckled without humor, “Ah, my dear wife. So you have chosen him for your first foray outside the marriage. Well, good luck with him. I’ll lay you odds that he is as dull a stick in bed as he is out of it.”

  “Indeed? Well, I suppose I shall find out, won’t I?”

  His hand lashed out and grasped her arm, digging in painfully. “No, you won’t, my lady!”

  “I beg your pardon? Are you telling me who I can and cannot see?”

  “I am telling you that you will not bed down with that lump of a fellow right in front of me.” His eyes flashed, bright green in their fury. “I will not be made a mockery of, madam. You may think you call the tune because of your fat purse, but I can tell you, you will not do this.”

  Miranda could not help but thrill to the hot emotion in his eyes, even though she might bridle at his commanding tone. She had no intention, of course, of doing anything with Dr. Browning except fleeing to escape his conversation the next time she saw him, but she did not intend to let Devin know that.

  “You are ordering me?”

  “I am ordering you,” Devin replied, reaching out and placing his hand across her throat. Her flesh was soft and silken beneath his palm, and the intensity of his lust shook him. “I will not let him touch you. Do you understand?”

  Miranda’s breath was ragged, her thoughts scattered. All her awareness was centered in that span of flesh where his hand lay, burning her with his intensity. “I understand that you are breaking our agreement.”

  “To hell with our agreement! Did you actually think I would allow you to sleep with other men? Did you think I was that low? That weak?”

  “What am I supposed to do, then?” Miranda asked calmly.

  “This,” he answered, as his hand stole beneath the neck of her gown, and his mouth came down on hers.