by Candace Camp
She breathed his name, and he swallowed it with a consuming kiss. As he kissed her, his hand glided slowly down her body. His fingers moved over her abdomen and down her thigh, then back up, stroking and teasing, coming ever closer to the heated center of her passion, until finally, when Miranda thought she could bear it no longer, his hand slipped between her legs, finding the hot, moist center of her. A groan escaped Miranda, and she shuddered, stunned by the pleasure, greater than any she had ever experienced, yet, contradictorily, not enough. His fingers soothed her ache even as they increased it, both taming and emboldening her, giving and withholding, until she thought she would go mad with the wild hot delight he created in her.
His fingers separated the slick folds of her femininity, exploring and caressing, slipping inside her, then retreating. She moved her hips against him, urging him on to completion, but he continued his erotic caresses with maddening slowness. Something was building inside Miranda, wild and furious, a knot that tightened and grew with each caress, until she was almost sobbing, and then it exploded within her like wildfire. She gasped and arched her hips upward, her muscles tightening as pleasure swept through her in waves, until finally she collapsed, panting and filled with the most luxurious contentment she had ever felt.
“Devin…” His name was a sigh on her lips, and she looked up at him dreamily.
Desire speared him at her reaction, and he could wait no longer. He moved between her legs and slid into her. Miranda drew in her breath at the new sensation. She had thought she could feel no more pleasure after the storm that had just swept through her, but she found now that she was capable of even more. He filled her, bringing a completion and fulfillment that she had never known existed. They were joined, truly one, and for the first time she understood the unity of love. He belonged to her and she to him.
She wrapped her legs and arms around Devin, holding him tightly to her as he began to move inside her. Her breath shuddered out as he stroked in and out, building again that knot of desire within her. She could scarcely believe that it was happening again, only even more wonderfully this time, for he was part of her as she felt the waves of pleasure erupt in her again, and as she rode the crest of her passion, he joined her, shuddering and muffling his cry of passion in the crook of her neck.
They clung to each other, lost to the rest of the world, boneless and content.
Devin awakened slowly. He felt, for the first time that he could remember, utterly and completely at peace. He turned his head and looked at the woman who lay beside him. Miranda was still asleep, her dark lashes shadowing her cheeks, her face innocent and vulnerable in sleep, her vibrant hair a tangle upon the pillow. She was beautiful, he thought, and wondered how he could ever have thought she was anything less. Last night had been a first for him, as well as for Miranda. He had never felt such hunger and need, such pleasure, such satisfaction and joy. Even all of Leona’s seductive wiles had never made him explode with not only release but also happiness.
He reached over and touched her cheek with his finger, slowly drawing it down to her jaw. Miranda’s eyes fluttered open, and she gazed at him sleepily, a smile curving her lips.
“Good morning,” she murmured.
“Good morning.” He leaned over and kissed her softly on the lips. “How are you?”
“Fine.” Miranda’s smile widened. “More than fine, really. I am wonderful.”
“That you are,” he agreed and kissed her again, more lingeringly this time.
Hunger stirred in him again, not with the razor-edge sharpness he had known the past few weeks, but deep and urgent. He enjoyed the feeling, knowing that it would be satisfied now. This morning, the fiercest urges satisfied, he could spend his time, could explore and learn her feminine secrets, teach her the wealth of delight that lay within her.
He could feel her smile beneath his lips as she curved her arms around his neck and gave herself up to the pleasure. They moved at a leisurely pace this morning, giving and receiving, enjoying every nuance of their passion. And when they reached their peak of desire, the explosion that rocked them was both familiar and new, as powerful as what they had experienced the night before.
It was, Miranda thought afterward, quite a lovely way to start off the day.
They lay together talking desultorily for some time after that. They talked about little of consequence, but it was sweet to lie in such a way, going over the intertwined bits and pieces of their lives. They talked about his painting of the abbey ruins and the shortcomings of Strong, the estate manager. Miranda pointed out that there were many things she still needed to see, such as the part of the estate that lay in the Roaches and some of the estate farms, not to mention parts of the ruined west wing and the house cellars.
“The cellars?” Devin repeated with a chuckle. “Why would you want to see those?”
“I want to see everything,” Miranda replied simply. “Every part of the house.”
“They are huge. They stretch under most of the central portion of Darkwater. And they’re old. I’m not entirely sure they are safe.”
“Are there dungeons?”
He laughed again. “There’s your father’s daughter speaking. As far as I know, they were used only for storing things—huge amounts of things. There are some small locked rooms, however….”
“Really?” Miranda turned on her side to look at him, intrigued.
“Yes, really. More storage rooms, where they locked munitions and valuables, I’m afraid.”
Miranda grimaced. “You have no sense of romance.”
“And here I thought I was terribly romantic.” He smiled lazily, trailing his finger down her neck and onto her chest.
A little quiver darted through Miranda. “Well, in some respects you are….”
He kissed her, effectively ending the conversation.
It was some time later when they made their way down to breakfast. Everyone else in the family had already eaten and gone on their way, so the two of them were alone. It was not until they were almost through with the meal that Miranda guiltily remembered that her stepmother was ill and she had not even checked on her this morning.
As soon as Devin left for the abbey ruins, she trotted up the stairs to Elizabeth’s room. The maid was dutifully sitting with her stepmother, just as Miranda had left her the night before. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was awake at last, sitting up in bed with a number of pillows propped behind her. She looked far better than she had the day before, though her skin was still pasty, her lips dried and cracked, and her eyes had large dark circles under them that were at odds with the long hours of sleep she had gotten the day before.
“How are you, Elizabeth?” Miranda asked, coming forward and nodding at the maid that she could leave.
“Miranda. My love. I am improved, I think.” Elizabeth shook her head. “Still a little fuzzy, though. It is the oddest thing. I don’t think I have ever felt quite this way before. I kept waking up last night and falling back asleep. I couldn’t keep my eyes open for any length of time. My stomach hurts…and my head.” She sighed.
“Well, thank heaven it seems to be over and you are on the mend,” Miranda said encouragingly.
Elizabeth reached out and patted Miranda’s hand. “Nan was just telling me how you sat with me all yesterday. Didn’t even go down to eat. You are such a sweet girl.”
“I was concerned about you,” Miranda replied honestly. “You slept so much.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Yes. I did. It’s odd.”
Miranda stayed for a few minutes longer, talking, but she could see that she was wearing Elizabeth out, so she left her to go back to sleep once again and Miranda went down to the library to work.
She found it hard going keeping her mind on the books and Mr. Strong’s less than lucid explanations of the estate’s workings. So that afternoon she went to the stables and had a horse saddled for her, and she rode out to the abbey ruins. She and Devin had ridden to the abbey before; it was one of her favorite places on th
e estate. But today it had an additional appeal.
Devin was there, painting, but he readily stopped when he saw Miranda. She had brought a small picnic lunch that Cook had made up for them, and they ate it, sitting in the shadow of one of the still-standing walls.
The abbey was an eerie place, stark and ruined, half-crumbled walls and flagstone floors overgrown with grasses and weeds. Many of the stones in the building’s walls had been taken down and carted over to Darkwater to build the Aincourt mansion. Two walls of the central cathedral—one with a beautifully designed window, empty of glass—stood intact, large and imposing, with the customary medieval arches, but the other two walls had been reduced to rubble. Parts of the abbey were identifiable only by a line of stones half-buried in the ground, marking the shapes of rooms. In other places there were staircases leading upward to nowhere or empty gaping holes in the ground where the floors had fallen through into the cellars below.
Yet it had a unique beauty, too, Miranda thought, at once harsh and peaceful, defeated but at the same time unconquerable. After all this time and all that had been done to it, the abbey was still here, long after the men who had set out to destroy it were gone. When she looked at Devin’s painting of the abbey, she saw that he had managed to convey the timelessness of the place, its haunting grandeur. She slipped her hand into his and squeezed it, smiling up at him.
At that moment, she did not think there was a happier woman on earth.
The days that followed did nothing to alter her opinion. Miranda spent much of her time with Devin. She was neglecting her work, she knew, but she didn’t care. Her father was quite capable of dealing with all aspects of renovating the house, and between him and Hiram, they were also able to deal with any business concerns that came up. As for Devin’s estate, well, that could wait for a few more days; it had been waiting for years. She told herself that she would get back to it soon, but dealing with the neglect of years was too melancholy a task when one felt as Miranda did, as if she was bubbling over with joy every minute of the day.
Everyone noticed the change in Devin and Miranda. Her father smiled smugly, as though to say he had been right all along. One evening at supper he remarked jovially, “I’m surprised you two haven’t decided to take a honeymoon trip. Go to Vienna or some place like that.”
“That’s the thing,” Uncle Rupert agreed, with a nod of his head. “Be alone for a while. Good thing, I should think. No nasty drafts, either.”
Devin smiled. “I suggested it to Miranda. But she would rather stay here and poke about a musty old house.”
“That’s not true. I said I would love to go, but first I have to get the estate back on track. Papa can take care of seeing that the ‘musty old house’ is being renovated. But I still need to have a meeting with the tenant farmers and visit some of the larger farms.”
Devin cast a fond glance at her. “So I think our honeymoon will be a trip to the Roaches, in all likelihood. Miranda has a desire to see our land there.”
“You mean Apworth Mountain?” Lady Ravenscar asked in astonishment. “Whyever would you want to see that, Miranda?”
“It is beautiful in its own way, Mama,” Rachel pointed out.
“But there is no place to stay,” Rupert said, siding with his sister.
“That’s not true, Uncle,” Devin said. “I have gone there several times. Bert Jones is always happy to let me stay with him and his family. He would be doubly so if I brought a pretty wife with me. From there, it’s an easy ride to Apworth.”
“Bert Jones?” Lady Ravenscar’s eyebrows rose even higher. “You are going to put your wife up in a thatched-roof cottage?”
“I am sure I have stayed in worse, Lady Ravenscar,” Miranda told her cheerfully. “Of course, we could always put up a tent. Devin says he has one.”
Lady Ravenscar looked as if she might faint. “My dear…camping…”
“It would be a wonderful place to paint,” Devin went on, waxing enthusiastic about the idea.
“Really, Devin, you cannot go dragging your new bride all through the roughest country just so you can paint a landscape.”
“But I want to see it,” Miranda assured her. “I am interested in all areas of the estate.”
Uncle Rupert shrugged. “Personally, I think I would choose Vienna for a honeymoon, but to each his own.”
“We shall go to Vienna, too,” Miranda assured them. “And Italy.” The thought of a slow tour through Florence, Rome and Venice with Devin held a great deal of appeal for her. She looked over at him, and her heart swelled with emotion. “But we have a whole lifetime for that.”
Devin left early the next morning for Darkwater Tarn. He had finished his series of sketches of the abbey ruins a day or two before, and he had decided to move on to the inky lake that gave the house its name. Miranda arose late and went downstairs to the library. She needed to finish up some correspondence with the manager of her real estate in New York, and then, she thought, she would get Mr. Strong to show her around some of the tenant farms. She had been doing a great deal of reading on improved methods of farming, and she wanted to see more of the land to get a better idea of what she would have to do.
But when she reached the library, she found a note sitting on the table, waiting for her, that drove all thoughts of Strong and the tenant farms out of her head. Her name was scrawled boldly across the back of the note. Miranda smiled. She had seen Devin’s signature only a few times, but she immediately recognized the dark spiky letters as his distinctive hand. She broke the seal and read the brief note inside:
Beloved,
Meet me at the cellar door in back of the house at 1:00. I have something to show you.
It was signed only with a large R. Below the message there was a crude map showing the location of the cellar door. Miranda read the note over twice, intrigued. She could not imagine what Devin wanted to show her or why he had chosen such a peculiar place. She had not even noticed that there was a cellar door located in that place. Besides, he was not supposed to be here today. He had said he was going to Darkwater Tarn. She wondered if he had changed his mind or if the tarn had been merely a cover for whatever surprise he had dreamed up. A smile curved her lips as she contemplated the afternoon. Whatever Dev had planned, she was sure that it would be far more fun than riding about the estate with Strong.
She sent the man a message that she would meet him the next day instead, then sat down to work on her correspondence, wanting to get it done before her appointment with Devin. It was difficult, for her mind kept wandering to the rendezvous with her husband.
She considered what she should wear. Should she change into an old dress more suitable to a visit to the no-doubt dirty cellars? Or should she assume that the cellars were merely a ruse and that he had some other ultimate destination in mind and that she should keep on what she wore, which was one of Devin’s favorites of her dresses?
She finally came down on the side of vanity and did not go upstairs to change into an old dress. Instead, at one o’clock she slipped out the back door, walking as the map had illustrated in a westward direction. Almost halfway along the back wall of the house she saw the small inset door of the cellar, just where the map had shown it. It seemed odd that she had never seen it before. Then she noticed that the ivy around the door had been newly cut, and she realized that it must have overgrown the door before now, and Devin had had it cut aside especially for this afternoon.
With a smile on her lips, she reached for the door handle and pushed it open. She blinked, staring into the Stygian darkness inside, her eyes, accustomed to the summer light outside, unable to make out anything in the cellar.
“Dev?” she called tentatively, taking a step inside, still holding open the door with her outstretched arm. She peered into the gloom. “Are you here? I cannot see a thing.”
At that moment a hand lashed out and gripped her arm, jerking her forward into the darkness. She stumbled, crying out a protest at his roughness, and in the next instant a hand pu
shed her hard in the center of her back and she tumbled forward into black, empty space.
18
Devin did not return from Darkwater Tarn until the light began to fail him. He had had a long and satisfying day, and as he rode home he thought with pleasant anticipation of showing Miranda the preliminary sketches he had made of the place. When he reached the house and handed over his horse to a groom, he headed straight for the library. It was empty save for Hiram, who was working at a sheaf of papers.
“Do you know where Miranda is?” he asked Hiram, who looked at him blankly. “Miranda,” he repeated after a moment, wondering what was wrong with the man. “Do you know where she is?”
“But, I—Well, I thought she was with you.”
“With me? No, I have been out at the tarn all day. Why did you think she was with me?”
“I—Well, I assumed it was you. She finished a letter to her banker in New York, then she handed it to me and said she had an appointment. Something about the way she smiled, I, uh, I thought she meant it was with you.”
“No.” Devin looked at him. “It must have been with her father or the architect.”
The other man shrugged, but there was a doubtful expression on his face. “I suppose so, my lord. She didn’t really say. It must have been my mistake.”
Devin turned away and went upstairs. He checked her bedroom first, but she was not there. Something about the odd look on Hiram’s face had set off an alarm inside him. The man had been certain that Miranda had been talking about him. Why? Because she had looked the way she looked when she talked about him. That was what Hiram had meant. What other man would she look that way about? Obviously not her father…or anyone else that Devin could think of in this house.
His mind leapt unbidden to the young doctor in the village, and for an instant jealousy surged through him. Then reason reasserted itself. He was as certain of Miranda as he was of himself—probably more so. If she had decided to take a lover, she would have told him so outright. He told himself that Hiram must have been mistaken, but he could not quell the fear that was burgeoning in his chest. He had grown complacent over the last few weeks because nothing untoward had happened. And in any case, he had never thought that the danger threatened anyone but himself….
