Innocent Fire Read online

  Then one day, almost a week later, when Miranda was wandering in the gardens, she heard his voice. She was seized by a terror unlike anything she had ever known before. Papa had found them!

  Her mother came to her many hours later, her face deathly white and her eyes red and swollen from weeping. “Petite, we must talk.”

  “Maman, I’m so afraid!” Miranda rushed into her mother’s arms.

  “You know? Chérie, Papa has come. But listen to me. He will let you stay here. I have told him—” Angeline stopped. She could not tell her daughter that she had bargained with her husband, that she had promised her body to him willingly so long as Miranda could remain at the convent. No, that would never do. “Papa will let you stay here. You will be raised the way I was raised, ma chérie. But I must go back to London with your papa. Do you understand?”

  “No!” Miranda cried. “No, Maman! Please, s’il vous plaît, I beg you, no, don’t go back with him, we can both stay here, please, please—”

  “Non, be still now. Your papa has decided. Be brave, ma petite. You will be happy here. And safe.”

  “I wish to say goodbye to my daughter.” A hoarse voice came from the doorway.

  Miranda gasped and clutched her mother’s skirts, burying her face.

  “Non, non, chérie, please, be nice, and say goodbye to your papa.” Angeline gently pushed her away.

  Miranda started to cry. The earl stood in front of her, and when she looked up, she gasped, hardly recognizing him. His face was covered with black whiskers and his eyes were red, with dark circles beneath them. He knelt in front of her. “Miranda,” he whispered, then broke off.

  Miranda cringed against the bed.

  “Oh dear God,” Edward cried. “You are afraid of me! I never meant to hit you! I am so sorry! Don’t you understand?”

  Miranda chewed on her lip, trembling.

  “Your mother wants you to stay here, Miranda,” he said with a sigh, standing. He spoke aloud, but to himself. “God forgive me, but she is right. If I ever struck you again—no, this is better.” He stared at her for a long moment, and Miranda was compelled to gaze into his dark eyes.

  “Please let Maman stay,” she whispered. “Please.” She tried bravely not to cry, but failed.

  “I can’t,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t live without her.” Edward reached out and touched a tendril of her hair. “It is not forever, daughter.” Then he turned abruptly and strode away.

  Part One

  The Bride

  Chapter 1

  Natchez, 1840

  Miranda was afraid.

  They had stayed in Natchez four days, waiting for her fiancé to show up to escort her the rest of the way to his ranch just east of San Antonio. He had not appeared. Miranda was very, very glad, because all she wanted to do was to go home, to France, not England, back to the safety and security of the convent. She prayed, selfishly she knew, that the man her father had betrothed her to had changed his mind.

  Miranda was as frightened of marrying this stranger, who had to be a barbarian—he was a Texan, was he not?—as she was of the country she was going to. It was a land she knew of only vaguely from her studies, but upon her father’s startling disclosure, she had made a point of learning all she could about it. Mon Dieu! Her father was banishing her to a wilderness of savage Indians, wild animals, and barbaric men! How could he do this to her!

  The shock had come so suddenly. One day Miranda was content—although maybe a bit restless—performing her duties at the convent, and the next she was being sent home, upon her father’s request, with no explanation. She had been reluctant to leave, dreading the thought of seeing her father again, although she had been excited at the prospect of seeing her mother. Angeline had come to visit her several times over the past decade. She had seemed quite different, with a glow on her face, her eyes bright and sparkling. Miranda didn’t understand it. She didn’t understand, either, her mother’s sadness when she’d asked Miranda if she wanted to return home and Miranda had replied that she preferred to remain at the convent.

  Angeline couldn’t have guessed that Miranda would have chosen anything to avoid going home—her childhood memories were vivid and insurmountable. Home was a place of terror. The convent was a haven of comfort, security, and affection. She was loved there, even if she was occasionally the despair of the mother superior, who thought her too curious in some ways for her own good.

  There had been nothing but shocks, one after the other. Her father in his study, looking exactly the way he had the last time she had seen him, ten years ago. He was huge and animallike, his face was covered with unkempt growth, and his eyes were red, very red, as if he had been weeping.

  “Papa,” Miranda said, curtsying formally. She held in check her fear of this monster—she would never forget what he was. “Is Maman here?”

  Her father rose unsteadily. “No. No. I am sorry.” His voice was hoarse, barely audible. “She’s left me, Miranda. Left…”

  Miranda started, thinking that her mother had run away again, finally, after all these years.

  “She’s dead,” Edward cried in anguish. “She died in childbirth—and God, I killed her! I killed her!” He reached out suddenly and drew her into his embrace. “Your mother is gone!”

  Miranda couldn’t believe it—no, not Maman! Not beautiful, gentle Maman! “No!” she screamed, twisting away. “No!”

  “I’m sorry! Miranda, God—”

  “You killed her!” she cried in uncharacteristic rage. She had never felt such rage; in fact, anger of any kind was a totally unfamiliar emotion to her. “I hate you! You killed her! Oh, Maman!” Without waiting for permission, Miranda fled from his study.

  Her father didn’t speak to her for a week. Miranda lived in a state of extreme fear. How could she have talked to her Papa like that? He would surely beat her, maybe even whip her—and it was no more than she deserved. She had been rapped on the knuckles a few times by the nuns, when she had been too wordly or too mischievous. And then there was that one time, when she was so young, when her father had struck her. But she had never been beaten before. He was a monster, a beast, like most men—Sister Agnes had told her horrible stories about what had happened to her. She had been raped!—not that Miranda knew what that was. She didn’t know anything about the facts of life, she did not know how babies were conceived, she did not know that men and women coupled. But she had heard her father’s agonized, guilt-ridden words: I killed her! Papa had killed Maman! She hated him, feared him, and grieved for her beautiful mother all at once.

  Edward called her into his study a week later. He had shaved and dressed neatly, and his eyes were no longer red. His face was lean and hard, and his virility, his magnetism, frightened her. His presence was overpowering. She couldn’t help trembling.

  “I have chosen a man for you to marry,” he said bluntly.

  Miranda gasped.

  “I want grandchildren. A grandson. Your mother would want that, too. You are too beautiful and too rare to rot away in that damn convent.” His dark eyes held hers and she could not look away, although she was stunned by his sacrilegious manner. “If you are at all like her, you will not regret my doing this.”

  Miranda couldn’t speak. Her entire world had been crumbling piece by piece, and now lay in ruins around her feet.

  “I met him a few years ago. He lives in Texas. He has a ranch, and thousands of acres of land. He is a gentle man, educated, and he will not hurt you. You only have to please him and he will worship you, believe me.”

  “Marriage! Texas! Papa, no, please…”

  “You will not change my mind. He is already in love with you. He saw your portrait, the one Angeline gave to me two years ago, and he fell in love. He asked me then for your hand, but you were too young. I told him I would think about it. Last year, I agreed. Your mother didn’t know—but I know she would have liked him.” His voice broke off. “This is for the best, Miranda.”

  Although her entire life she had tried�
��sometimes unsuccessfully—to learn obedience before anything else, she couldn’t accept this. But, God, what could she do? She was so afraid. This man was her papa, and if he wanted to marry her off to some strange barbarian, he could. Miranda closed her eyes and began to pray, even as she stood right there in front of her father. She knew that God had chosen this as her punishment for not being as docile and obedient as she should have been.

  “What are you doing?” her father asked.

  “Praying,” she told him honestly.

  Edward seemed to hesitate, but then he said, “There is one thing, Miranda.”

  What more could there possibly be? Miranda wondered, waiting.

  “Your eldest son must return upon his majority to take his title and his lands.”

  Miranda shut her eyes briefly. He was sending her to Texas to breed her to some barbarian for a grandson. She could not believe that this was happening. “Papa? Why this man?”

  The earl of Dragmore smiled grimly. “There are several reasons, Miranda. Your husband to be—John Barrington—is the grandson of Lord Barrington, the fifth earl of Darby. His lineage is impeccable. He is also a man—not some London fop. You are as delicate as your mother. I want to see you bear strong children, Miranda, not weak, fragile ones.” He turned away, his word final. “You will travel next week with my sister Elizabeth. Your fiancé will meet you in Natchez.”

  “Are you daydreaming again, dear?”

  Miranda was brought back to the present as her Aunt Elizabeth, a thin, tall, kindly widow, bustled into their room. It was the best lodging in Natchez, although crude compared to what Miranda was used to. Thankfully, their room was clean. Even the town of Natchez was crude, full of big, brawny men—all of whom carried guns—and colored people, so many colored people, all slaves. The very thought of slavery revolted her.

  “I suppose.”

  “A man has arrived to take us to your fiancé, child.”

  “What?” Miranda gasped. Why hadn’t her fiancé come? What kind of a man was he that he would promise to come and then not appear?

  “It seems that John Barrington has suffered a bad accident and could not come. The man who has come for us carried a note for you, and for me. Here, dear.” Elizabeth handed her an envelope.

  Miranda’s hands were trembling as she read it. It was brief, but expressive.

  My dearest Miranda,

  Please forgive me, but I have met with an untimely accident, and am temporarily bedridden. My very close friend, Derek Bragg, will escort you to my ranch. I entrust you to his care, knowing he will guard you with his life. You have nothing to fear, for he is a captain of the Texas Rangers. He was born in this country, and thus knows the land and its inhabitants well. I await with great anticipation your arrival.

  All my love, your betrothed,

  John Barrington.

  Miranda looked up. “When do we leave?” she asked.

  “First thing in the morning, dear,” her aunt said kindly. “At the crack of dawn, I’m afraid.”

  Chapter 2

  Derek Bragg wanted a woman.

  He surveyed the boisterous, trail-worn patrons of the saloon, and the barmaids. What had happened to that lovely quadroon, Sherisse? Had she been sold? It was going to be a godawful long trip to San Antonio, over two weeks with two women and a wagon—two women he could not touch. Christ! If John wasn’t his best friend and his blood brother, he would never have agreed to this insanity. What in hell had gotten into John? Marrying some English lady, one who had been raised in a convent, for crissakes! It was going to be a bitch of a trip, he felt it in every bone. John had obviously lost his mind, no matter how pretty he thought this woman was.

  Bragg sighed and downed the sweet bourbon. He had made the trip in just over six days, but he had been traveling alone, not pushing it either. Hell, he could do it just as fast on foot if he had to, like any Apache worth his salt. He could make seventy-five miles a day on foot, if pushed. Of course, he wasn’t Apache, he was white—in his mind. He had been called “breed” numerous times—because his mother was a squaw—and he had killed almost every man who had dared to label him half-breed.

  Bragg leaned against the bar, a tall, broad man rippling with muscle and clad from head to foot in buckskins. His frame came from his father, a mountain man, one of the original trailblazers through Texas, and so did his coloring. Golden was the only way to describe him. His hair was six different shades of gold, his skin was a golden bronze, and even his eyes were gold—glinting topaz. Only his brows and lashes and body hair were darker, not black, but brownish—a deep, dark shade of gold.

  Bragg saw Sherisse and smiled. She was coming downstairs, meaning that she had been with a customer, but her face lit up with a real smile when she saw him. She swayed over, hips swinging, and he threw his arm around her waist, pressing her close to him.

  “Sherisse,” Bragg murmured, “I was hoping you were still here.” He smiled at her, heated already, remembering very well her soft, voluptuous body, a body a man could get lost in for hours and hours.

  “Derek! When did you arrive? How long are you here for?” She regarded him with blue eyes, her long chestnut hair flowing around her peach-tinted face. She looked whiter than some whites, he had thought on more than one occasion.

  “Let’s talk later,” he said, his lips brushing hers. He ran his hands down her back, caught her buttocks, and pressed her against his ready manhood. She opened her mouth and accepted his tongue eagerly.

  “Do you want me for the whole night?” Sherisse asked coyly after the long, long kiss had ended.

  “I sure as hell do, but dammit, I’m hitting the trail tomorrow. Oh, what the hell!” he decided. “There won’t be any trouble till we hit the Sabine. All right.”

  An expression of pure pleasure crossed her face.

  “You like that, huh?” Bragg laughed huskily, pulling her against him again.

  “Very much,” she breathed. “I don’t have to pretend with you, you know.”

  He chuckled and let his hand slide up her waist, cupping a full breast. “We’ll talk later.” He proceeded to half pull her upstairs to a room, where he promptly stripped her, ripping off her skirt in his eagerness.

  He was up well before sunrise, and so was Pete Welsh, the man he had hired to drive the wagon that would carry the women and their luggage. They checked and packed up their supplies, and finally Bragg left Welsh hitching up the team. He nodded to the innkeeper’s wife, who was up and fixing breakfast for all the travelers, and he silently moved with a sinuous, coiled grace up the stairs. His wariness wasn’t purposeful; it was instinctive. Not a board creaked.

  He rapped three times very sharply on the ladies’ door. “Rise and shine, ladies,” he called loudly. “We’re moving out in thirty minutes. Grub’s downstairs.”

  He paused, about to leave, but he didn’t hear any sounds from within. He was just about to knock again, this time more forcefully, when he heard a soft voice say, “Who’s Grub?”

  Christ!

  Bragg turned swiftly and went back outside. He finished saddling his own horse, a high-strung palomino stallion. He found Welsh relaxing with a cup of coffee. “That’s about it,” Welsh said cheerfully. “’Cept fer the ladies’ bags.”

  “Let’s eat,” Bragg said.

  They had just finished when they heard the rustle of skirts, notifying Bragg that his charges had arrived. He stood abruptly, shoving his plate away when the serving girl bustled over.

  “You want some more, Derek?” She flashed him a big smile. “Or anything else?”

  He smiled back and patted her round rump. She was a cute, plump thing he had bedded in the past, and would certainly bed again in the future. “You know what I want,” he teased in a low voice. “Next time, Lettie.”

  She giggled and fled back into the kitchen. He straightened to find the aunt, Lady Holcombe, staring at him with disapproval. Behind her stood her niece, but all he could see was her dark green skirts—she was obviously short and sm
all.

  “Ma’am, morning,” Bragg drawled. “Why don’t you two have a bite, and fill up good. We won’t be stopping until nightfall. We’ll be loading up your bags.” He touched two fingers politely to his hat and swept past them with a snapped “Welsh.”

  The women had enough trunks to clothe an army. Bragg was disgusted. There were four large trunks, and six smaller ones. The wagon would be completely full, and the mules would have to work too hard.

  No, this was insanity, and it wouldn’t matter if she were the princess of England! He told Welsh to stay put, and strode back inside. He stopped in front of the two women, his face grim. “Ladies.”

  They both looked up. For a second, Bragg stared at the girl—because that’s what she was—and forgot everything he was about to say. She looked him in the eye for a second, just long enough for him to glimpse huge violet eyes set in a flawless, pale face, before her long, black lashes swept down and she pinkened again. His heart had begun a dull thudding.

  Sweet Lord, he thought inanely. She’s a beauty! No wonder…I had no idea….

  He was dying to see the rest of her, but she was seated, and all he saw were small shoulders and arms—she had to be tiny—and the top of her bent head. Coils and coils of sable black hair glistened in the lamplight.

  “Mr. Bragg?” her aunt said, and he tore his gaze away from the young woman, wondering again what her body looked like. He was very aware of his strong stirrings of desire.

  “Ma’am. Look, we’ve got close to five hundred miles to travel, and we’ve only got two mules. Half the luggage has to go. Once we get to Comanche country—hell, we won’t stand a chance loaded down like that.” He frowned.