by Candace Camp
He ached. His mind could fix on nothing except images of Miranda naked and writhing in his bed. His fingers itched to slide over her bare skin. He gazed out the window into the dark night, trapped in his own private pleasurable hell, the voices of the others swirling around him unintelligibly.
After they got home, he went straight to his study, where he downed two quick brandies. That seemed to help very little, so he made his way upstairs, passing Miranda’s maid on her way down the stairs. That meant Miranda was undressed and in her nightgown, her hair taken down from its pins and falling free down her back.
Devin thought about the night she had come into his bedroom when he had had the nightmare; her hair had been unbound, tumbling down around her shoulders and onto her breasts and back, luxurious and thick. Just the memory made his loins tighten. He wondered if the maid had brushed out her hair, too, or if Miranda was even now sitting before her dressing table in her nightgown, brushing her hair out in long silken strands, burnished in the soft glow of the candlelight. He swallowed a low groan at the thought. It was too much to bear.
He went into his room, though his hand itched to knock at Miranda’s door. He shrugged out of his coat, handing it over to his valet, then sent the man on his way, saying he would do the rest himself. He did not think he could stand another moment of anyone else’s company. Ripping off his cravat in a way he knew would make his valet shudder, he tossed it over the back of a chair. He took off his cuff links and rolled up his sleeves, then unbuttoned his shirt, hoping to alleviate the stifling heat. It was not enough.
Devin walked to the window and opened the casement a little, letting the cooler night air waft in. It drifted over his face and chest, cooling his skin, although it could not ease the fire that burned within. He was not, he thought, up to being tried by fire. He was a hedonist, for God’s sake, not a man of the cloth! He did not know how much more of this he could live with.
He stood for a long time, staring out into the night, then finally turned with a sigh and went to his empty bed.
Miranda awoke, heavy-eyed, and rang for her maid. Last night, she thought, had been the last straw. She wasn’t sure how much more of this sort of marriage she could take. She had hoped to tease and goad and tempt Devin into wanting her so much that he would be eager to be a real husband to her. But somehow she had managed to get caught in her own trap.
Passion had been growing in her since their wedding day, throwing all her careful plans into a mess. Every day she wanted Devin more and more, yet he remained apart from her, not even trying to kiss her. She had even reached the sorry point where she had sometimes brushed up against him “accidentally” in the hope that it would stir him to action. But he had stayed maddeningly stoic.
Last night had been the worst…dancing with him all evening, riding home on his lap, feeling his hard muscle and bone against her side, his desire pulsing beneath her. She had been shaken to the core. As her maid had undressed her, all she had been able to think about was Devin’s hand on her, his mouth pressing into hers. She had brushed out her hair, all the while listening for Devin’s footsteps in the hall, hoping and praying that he would open the door between their rooms and come inside. She had not locked the connecting door in a long, long time.
But he had not entered her room. He never did, and it was driving her to distraction. She was beginning to think that she would have to be the one to give in. She thought about going to him and telling him that she no longer demanded his fidelity, that she was willing to share him with Leona and anyone else, as long as he would make love to her. Everything in her recoiled at the thought, of course. She was not willing to share him. However, if she was never to know the sweetness of making love with him otherwise, she was afraid that she might have to accept the arrangement, no matter how she felt about it.
This morning when she went into the breakfast room there was no one else there. She had slept later than usual after the difficult time she had had going to sleep last night. Most of the others had probably already breakfasted. She ate a quick, solitary breakfast, then poured herself a cup of coffee and strolled with it out to the terrace. She drank it, looking down at the gardens before her.
The landscaper had already made a good deal of progress in the backyard, trimming hedges and eradicating the weeds, hacking down and digging up bushes and plants that had grown wild. It was not a pretty sight yet, for it was too spare, and too often the bushes had been cut back to mere sticks. But the walks were being repaired and relaid according to the original plans, and soon they would start replanting wherever they could. Some of the plants and flowers would have to wait, of course, for fall or even the following spring to be planted.
With many of the larger hedges uprooted or trimmed, one could see much farther now, almost all the way down to the still-wild orchards of fruit trees. Eventually they would be pulled under control as well, of course, but restoring all the grounds to their original state was a task that would take years to accomplish.
As she stood there, a flash of movement at the bottom of the yard caught her eye. A woman had stepped out of the tangle of trees that was the orchard, and Miranda realized, surprised, that it was her stepmother. It was unlike Elizabeth to take strolls around the grounds, particularly one to the edge of the garden. Even stranger, a man came out of the trees behind her. Miranda stared, her first shocked thought that Elizabeth was having a clandestine rendezvous with a lover.
She quickly realized, however, that these were not lovers talking, but a person of higher rank talking to one of lower rank. The man nodded as Elizabeth told him something, looking down more often than directly at her. He was dressed in simple, serviceable clothes, the clothes of a working man. Miranda relaxed, scolding herself for even considering such a thought about her stepmother. Elizabeth was deeply in love with Joseph, as he was with her. Miranda was sure that the reason the idea had sprung into her head was simply because her brain was so occupied these days with thoughts of sex.
As Miranda watched, Elizabeth nodded to the man and began to walk back toward the terrace. The man stood for a moment longer, looking after Elizabeth, and Miranda saw his face clearly. It was an ordinary face, somehow familiar, but she could not place it. Then he turned and was gone, ducking back into the trees and disappearing from sight.
She sat down on the railing and finished her coffee. About the time she set the cup down, Elizabeth was close enough that she saw Miranda sitting there. She stopped and waved, then continued up the new gravel path to the terrace steps.
“Hello, my dear,” she said, coming up and kissing Miranda on the cheek. “What are you doing out here?”
“Drinking a last cup of coffee and looking at all the changes in the garden.”
“Yes, it is quite different,” Elizabeth agreed, turning to look at it, too. “Rather barren now, I’m afraid.”
“But it will look much better before too long. Mr. Kitchens assures me of that.”
“I do hope so.”
“Who was that man?”
“What?” Elizabeth turned to her. “What man?”
“The one you were talking to down by the orchards. He looked familiar.”
“Oh. That is because he is one of the undergardeners. I am afraid I don’t know his name. I was asking him about the fruit trees. I was not sure what kind they are. I was hoping there were cherries there, and I wondered when they would be ripe. I do so miss Hannah’s cherry pie, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.” Miranda smiled. “And what did he say?”
“Excuse me?”
“Are there cherries and when will they be ripe?” Miranda explained. She was beginning to worry about her stepmother.
Elizabeth had been acting odd ever since they had come to Darkwater. Elizabeth stayed in her room, pleading headaches and stomachaches and various other forms of ill health far more often than she had in the past. She had always been somewhat invalidish, but never this much. She was fond of eating and rarely missed a meal, but in the past few weeks
she had eaten her supper on a tray in her room as often as at the dinner table. Miranda had more than once found her sitting in her room or somewhere else in a brown study, staring at the floor or off into space with a frown upon her face. This whole thing with the undergardener was odd, too. It was not like her to tramp through the garden and seek out one of the gardeners to ask about the cherries. True, she did love cherry pie, but she was not fond of exercise. It would have been simpler, and would have entailed far less walking, if she had sent one of the footmen to ask or had simply sent a note to Cook requesting a cherry pie.
“Oh,” Elizabeth said. “Yes, there are cherries, and they are already ripe.”
“Good. I shall tell Cook to make a cherry pie one night this week.”
Elizabeth smiled. “You are a dear.” Impulsively, she stepped forward and hugged Miranda tightly. “Have I ever told you how much I love you? You are like a daughter to me.”
Miranda squeezed her tightly. “Yes, you have told me often, and I appreciate it. I love you dearly, too. However, you are far too young to have a daughter my age. I think you are more an older sister.”
Elizabeth smiled. “All right. I shall be a very fond older sister.”
They linked arms and strolled back inside. “I am going to the library. Would you like to join me?” Miranda asked.
The look of horror on Elizabeth’s face was enough to make Miranda giggle. “Oh, no, I cannot. I, ah…”
“Never mind, you do not have to conjure up an excuse. I know you are not fond of reading. It is quite all right. I will see you at lunch.”
“Miranda…” Elizabeth looked at her, her brow drawn into a frown. She seemed to be struggling to say something, but then she smiled and patted Miranda’s arm. “Never mind. You go ahead.”
She turned and walked away.
Miranda looked after her, puzzled, then shrugged and started toward the library.
Strong was waiting for her there, looking vaguely uncomfortable, as he usually did around her. In general she let Hiram handle most of the dealings with him, because he seemed unable to cope with a woman discussing business. He was not as tongue-tied around Hiram, which was fortunate, as many of his entries needed to be filled in verbally, being somewhat sketchy at best.
“Talking to him,” Hiram said, “I think the man knows his job. It is just that he’s not terribly good with the written word.”
This fact seemed to Miranda to be something of a problem for the manager of a very large estate. She had asked Dev’s uncle once what qualifications Mr. Strong had for the job, and he had looked at her blankly and said only, “His father was estate manager before him,” as if this were answer enough. Since Devin had been with them at the time and had said nothing, only nodded in agreement, she supposed that to the British aristocracy this was apparently an adequate reason for someone to have a job. She suspected that once she started trying to turn the estate around, she would have to replace the man, although given Rupert and Dev’s reaction, she would probably have to leave him as estate manager and invent a new title to give to someone to supervise Strong. In all fairness to Strong, she thought, perhaps the man sensed this opinion on her part and that accounted for his discomfort around her.
“Hello, Mr. Strong,” she said, putting on as winning and reassuring a smile as she could. “I am afraid that Mr. Baldwin has a few affairs of my father’s to attend to today, so I thought you might help me with a few questions.”
“Yes, Lady Ravenscar.”
“Good. Now, I was looking at a topographical map of the area the other day.” She picked up a rolled map and spread it on the desk top, anchoring it at all four corners with books. “Now, this area of the estate.”
“Yes. Apworth Mountain and the land around it.” He nodded.
“What does the area look like?”
He looked nonplussed. “Well, rocks, miss—I mean, my lady. It is hilly and rocky. Not very good for anything that I know of.”
“I understand it is part of the Roaches, which are in turn the tail end of the Pennines.”
“That’s right.”
“What has this area been used for?”
“Used for? Nothing, my lady. I mean, people go to look at it. It’s sort of grand, in a way, but it’s not good for anything that I know of.”
“You know, one often finds mineral deposits in this sort of terrain.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Coal, iron ore, even precious minerals. Has anyone ever tried to mine there?”
“No, my lady, not that I know of.” He looked at her doubtfully.
“It’s something I want to research. It would be nice to be able to add to our revenues from the tenant farmers.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Miranda sighed inwardly at the man’s passivity. “All right, let’s look at the books. I have been looking at the overview Hiram prepared for me, and I am definitely beginning to see a pattern. Take this Bigby land…”
The next two hours passed slowly. The maid came in toward the end of that time, bringing the cup of hot chocolate that was usually Miranda’s treat after a few hours of working. She took a sip and decided that, delightful as it was, it could not possibly be reward enough for talking to Mr. Strong.
Devin came in at that moment, providing a welcome break. He looked tired, with shadows under his eyes, and she wondered if he had spent much of the night before as sleeplessly as she had. He was going to the abbey ruins today to paint, he told her, and would be gone much of the day, returning home after tea. Miranda nodded, thinking that she would love to go with him, but he did not ask her.
She wondered if the growing sexual frustration between the two of them was going to destroy the rapport they had been building the past few weeks. She remembered her thoughts of earlier that morning: that she should not demand fidelity of him before she would sleep with him. Even a half marriage like that would surely be better than his growing to hate being around her.
He left, and she returned to the books, taking a sip of the hot chocolate.
There was a tentative knock on the library door, and a moment later Elizabeth sidled in. She looked from Miranda to Mr. Strong as her hands clenched and un-clenched. Miranda stood up, concern rising in her.
“Elizabeth? Are you not well?” She walked over to the older woman quickly and took her arm. “Here, sit down. Mr. Strong, would you be so good as to pour my stepmother a glass of water?”
Mr. Strong jumped up to go to the sideboard, where a pitcher and glasses stood. He poured out a glass of water and hurried over to Mrs. Upshaw with it, his forehead knitted in concern.
“Are you feeling all right, ma’am?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Such a bother over nothing. Really. Oh, is this hot chocolate? Perhaps a little sip of that.”
“Yes, of course.” Miranda slid the cup over to her stepmother, and Elizabeth drank from it.
She set the cup back in its saucer and gave Miranda a forced smile. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just thought we could talk a little. I can come back another time.”
“No. Of course we can talk now.” This was precisely the sort of odd behavior that Elizabeth had taken to exhibiting. She and Elizabeth had been together less than an hour or so earlier, and Elizabeth had indicated then that she was not interested in talking. Now here she was looking as if she was about to fall apart if she did not talk to Miranda.
Miranda turned to Strong. “Why don’t you go back to work, Mr. Strong? I need to talk to my stepmother for a while.”
“That is so sweet of you, dear,” Elizabeth told her as Mr. Strong bowed and swept the books up under his arm, leaving the room. “But you did not need to. I could have come back another time.”
“It’s all right,” Miranda assured her. “You have saved poor Mr. Strong another hour of pain, that’s all. Think of yourself as his guardian angel.”
“Poor man. He always looks so…distressed.”
“I know. He thinks I am an ogre. I am
finding that people in England have a grave mistrust of change.”
“Yes, no doubt,” Elizabeth agreed somewhat distractedly. She glanced around the room, looking up at the balcony, then quickly away.
“Now,” Miranda said, “what brought you to see me? I know you don’t enjoy the library.”
“Well, I can’t help thinking, every time I come in here, of you falling.” Elizabeth waved her hand toward the balcony, where a sturdy new railing had been installed. “It is so dreadful.”
“No harm done.”
“Perhaps, but still…to think of what could have happened! It makes my blood run cold.” She shivered as she took another sip from the cup.
“I know. But you mustn’t worry about it. Nothing like that will happen again, I assure you. That sort of thing happens once in a lifetime.”
“I supposed. It’s just…I don’t much like it here, Miranda. Joseph is so happy with his renovations, but, well, don’t you find it a trifle boring? No parties or balls or opera or theater.”
“Yes. It is a bit rural,” Miranda agreed. “I am sorry if you are bored. Papa and I are busy working on the renovations. I didn’t really think how little you would have to do.”
“It’s all right. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve been in my room, thinking. Miranda…” She set down the cup and leaned closer to Miranda, putting her hand on Miranda’s arm, looking intently into her eyes. “Dearest, are you happy?”
“What? Yes, of course.” Miranda smiled at her and patted the hand Elizabeth had laid on her arm. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. I worry. You looked so…tired and melancholy this morning when I was talking to you.”
“I did?” Miranda said, surprised. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”
Elizabeth nodded earnestly. “It worried me. I went up to finish that crewel work I began the other day, but I found I could not concentrate on it. I kept thinking of your face. Is—is he making you unhappy?”
