Innocent Fire Page 3

  The young woman gasped and turned her lovely, pale face toward him. Her full, red lips were parted, and he saw her wide-eyed fear. “Indians?” she whispered.

  Bragg hated himself for scaring her with the truth. But before he could speak, her aunt patted her arm, saying “Don’t worry, dear, remember what your fiancé said about Captain Bragg. We’ll be safe.”

  Miranda’s gaze had gone to her aunt, but when he spoke, she looked back at him.

  “I’m sorry to frighten you, ma’am. We’re losing time. I need you to show me which half of your luggage you’ll leave behind to be sent for later.”

  “Now see here,” Lady Holcombe flared. “That’s insane! My brother spent a fortune on Miranda’s trousseau! I—”

  “Aunt Elizabeth,” Miranda said, trying to forget what he had said about the Comanches. “Please. Captain Bragg?” She stood, holding out her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced properly. I’m Lady Miranda.”

  Bragg stared at the extended hand. She was no longer looking at his face, but at his chest, as if meeting his eyes would be too intimate. He grinned. He took her hand, turned it over, and pressed a moist, warm kiss onto the tiny, soft palm. She gasped, drawing her hand away as if she’d been burned by a flame. The touch of her hand and her scent, jasmine, had excited him further. Damn me, he thought, this is going to be the longest two weeks of my life. “Your bags?” he drawled coolly to hide his discomfort.

  “You may choose,” Miranda said, her face flushing again.

  He noted irrelevantly that her waist could easily be spanned by his hands, and then some, and that she had some curves to her—a bit more than a faint swell of bosom and hip. Maybe without her clothes she isn’t all skin and bones, he thought, fascinated with that idea. “Very well.” He brushed his hat with a finger again and turned.

  “Miranda!” Lady Holcombe gasped. “Well I never! How can you let him choose which bags to take?” She was already on her feet and hurrying after Bragg, calling his name.

  Miranda sat very still, not hungry anymore. She was trembling. She was no longer thinking about the Indians, but about Bragg. That awful, crude man! Not only hadn’t he removed his hat, a shocking insult, but the way he had kissed her hand—dear God! She shuddered again. She hadn’t been able to see his face, just his mouth, a cruelly sensual mouth, which, when bared in a grin, seemed indecently suggestive, even predatory. She placed her hand on her bosom. Her heart was fluttering wildly. I should have slapped him, she thought. How could I have let him get away with that? How could John Barrington have sent such a crude lout to escort me?

  He was an animal—like her father. Miranda could feel it. She couldn’t explain why she felt that, but she did, and she knew it deep in her heart. He frightened her. His presence was overwhelming. It wasn’t just his size, although that was overwhelming, too. His buckskin shirt, beaded and painted around the neckline, strained across his broad shoulders and massive chest. She hadn’t missed the dangerous-looking gun strapped to his right thigh, bound there with rawhide. And tucked in another belt, that one tooled and boasting brass conchos, was a long, sheathed knife. Miranda shivered. The man looked deadly. And he was dirty! His buckskins were stained; to her alien eye, they were repulsively barbaric and crude. And—he smelled. When she had offered her hand, she had inhaled his scent, his male scent….

  Five hundred miles, she thought, dazed.

  “Ma’am?”

  She almost jumped at that insolent drawl. She hadn’t heard him approach. “Yes?” She refused to meet his shaded eyes. She focused instead on the intricate beading around the neck of his shirt.

  Bragg smiled. “We’re about ready.” He took her elbow, ignoring her gasp, and guided her outside. Dawn had broken, and faint rays of sunlight were filtering over the streets of Natchez.

  Miranda tried to control her fear. Or was it agitation? Why did this man frighten her so? Why was her father putting her through this? God, give me strength! she prayed silently.

  Her aunt was already sitting beside another brawny man, although he was nowhere near as tall or graceful as Bragg. He was also clad in buckskins, and he smiled at her. As they passed, Miranda realized that he was dirtier than Bragg, and her sensitive nose could detect his odor, something quite different from Bragg’s masculine scent, and rather offensive. She choked, wanting to bring her handkerchief to her nose, but unable to do so as Bragg rudely propelled her toward the wagon. Then Bragg did the unspeakable. He placed his two hands on her waist, completely enclosing it, lifting her up and settling her next to her aunt before she even knew it. This time the gasp died in her throat.

  Against her will, Miranda watched him spring effortlessly into the saddle of a big palomino stallion, her heart pounding so hard against her ribs that she could barely breathe. “Move out,” he said with a motion of his gloved hand.

  The wagon moved forward. Bragg’s mount pranced beside them for a few paces, Bragg sitting gracefully and easily, and then the stallion leaped forward and galloped away.

  Chapter 3

  They didn’t see Bragg again until noon, and Miranda was more than relieved. Welsh kept up a running dialogue with her aunt, for Miranda was too immersed in her thoughts to participate. What was her fiancé like? How would he treat her? What was her new home like? And how was she going to adjust to all this?

  Welsh, just as most other Americans they had met, seemed impressed that they were aristocracy. He asked many questions as he spouted trail lore and Texas adventures. Welsh had explained that Bragg would always be riding ahead of them, scouting for Indians and other hostiles. He assured them that Bragg was a Texas Ranger, one of the best, and that they had nothing to fear—he had traveled the Camino Real hundreds of times.

  Miranda stared at the passing countryside—lush, dark cypresses, dripping moss, fragrant flowers, a mystical kind of beauty—and soon became lost in God’s creation. Louisiana was a beautiful state.

  Bragg appeared out of nowhere, raising his hand, and Welsh slowed the wagon. “All right, ladies, ten minutes. Stretch your legs and take care of any business you have.” His golden eyes glinting beneath the wide-brimmed hat found Miranda and settled on her tense form. Her face was pinkening in what was fast becoming a familiar way. Had he embarrassed her again? Not that he’d meant to. Damn, but she was so sensitive. “This is our last stop before camp,” he added.

  Welsh was helping Lady Holcombe down and, unable to resist, Bragg leaped off his stallion and quickly approached Miranda. “Ma’am?” He smiled and held out his hand. Then he frowned when she stiffened involuntarily. “We don’t have all day,” he snapped, angry at her reaction to him.

  She extended her hand and he pulled her close enough to grasp her familiarly again. He could feel every muscle and fiber in her body go rigid at his touch. The Ice Princess, he thought with irritation. He swept her off the wagon seat and set her on the ground.

  But, he had to admit, he had forgotten just how stunning she was, even if she was a fragile thing, and as he let her down, he held her close enough that her small breasts touched his shirt for just a second. He quickly stepped back, thoroughly annoyed with himself. She’s John’s fiancée, he reminded himself sternly.

  Miranda stood indecisively in front of him, her face red, biting her lip and staring at the ground.

  She’s a mouse, Bragg thought. Poor little mouse! She’ll never make it in Texas, not ever! And just as he thought that, she looked up at him and said softly, “Captain, I do beg of you, please treat me with some respect. It is going to be a long journey.” Her eyes pleaded openly with him, and then she dropped her gaze and hurried after her aunt.

  He thought about her words and was angry with himself again. She’s a real lady, damn you, he thought, not some cheap hussy—what’s wrong with you? But his eyes, of their own volition, settled on her small hips, enjoying their natural, unaffected rhythm as she moved hurriedly away. I’m going to have to watch myself, he thought, suddenly confused. He had never been around a real lady before. T
he only women he encountered were cheap whores, squaws, and the wives and daughters of settlers. Except for the last, they were women for the taking.

  Bragg frowned. The rules he knew no longer applied. He was used to taking what he wanted when he felt like it, and women had been no exception. Anger rose in him. The situation was ridiculous, insane. He had work to do, and instead he was babysitting some spoiled, pampered virgin aristocrat. Just what the hell was he supposed to do? Bow down and kiss her regal hand every time she swept by? He rode on ahead.

  By the time they made camp that night, Miranda was exhausted. She sank stiffly to the ground, Bragg having helped her down again, and this time she was grateful for his assistance. There was nothing she wanted more, at that moment, than a hot bath and a bed. But here she was in the middle of the Louisiana wilderness—it seemed like wilderness to her!—on her way to an even more hostile and savage land. Oh, Papa! she thought miserably. Why, oh why, did you do this to me?

  The sun was still high, but slowly setting. Her aunt had disappeared—to relieve herself, Miranda thought—and she watched Welsh quickly make a fire. Where was Bragg? The next moment she saw him stride into camp with two rabbits, the hooded gaze beneath his hat going directly to her. Miranda looked away. Why was he always looking at her? He was so insolent! Did he never take off that hat? When she dared to peek at him again, he was squatting and skinning the rabbit quickly and efficiently. At the sight of the blood and the entrails he tossed into the fire, Miranda felt nausea rise up in her. She struggled to her feet with a gasp and ran into the forest, where she sank to her knees and fought the urge to vomit.

  Bragg scowled and looked at Welsh. “John is insane,” he said quietly, angrily. “That little chit will never make a Texas wife. Never.”

  “Poor thing,” Welsh agreed. “So small. How old do you think she is?”

  “She’s seventeen,” Bragg muttered. What kind of man would send his frail, sheltered daughter to a savage land like Texas, to marry a Texan? He shook his head. When Miranda appeared a bit later, he studied her quickly to see if she was all right. She needed protecting, he realized, washing his hands, and felt the urge rise up in him, hard and strong. It was not a familiar feeling. Frustrated, confused, Bragg skewered the rabbits and handed them to Welsh. Standing, he tossed his hat aside and ran his fingers through his hair. When he glanced at her again, he found her staring at him, seemingly mesmerized. He scowled and walked away.

  Miranda held a hand to her breast. Her heart was fluttering wildly. As sheltered and innocent as she was, she knew a handsome man when she saw one. Except, she thought in panic, he’s not handsome, he’s too savage to be handsome, even if his features are strong and clean, straight and even. Good Lord! Never had she seen a man with such coloring. He was gold, from his head to his toes—literally. His hair was gold, his skin was gold—a dark gold, to be sure, but gold. Even his eyes were the color of topaz, and his clothes were golden-tanned buckskins. She laughed a bit hysterically. Her face felt warm, and she knew that she was flushing uncontrollably, although why, she had no idea.

  And why had he looked at her so darkly? As if he despised her?

  Silence reigned in the camp throughout the meal of roasted hare, beans, and coffee. Miranda couldn’t eat the rabbit. Just looking at it made her ill—in fact, she wasn’t hungry at all, just tired, so utterly tired. She set down her nearly untouched plate, and before she knew it, a pair of muscular legs, clad in buckskins and moccasins, were planted in front of her face. Miranda looked up.

  Bragg squatted, his face worried. “Are you feeling all right, Miranda?” His voice was a low, husky drawl, and his topaz eyes searched hers.

  He was so close. Of course, he was being insulting, by using her name so familiarly. A small, unaccustomed spark of anger flared at his insolence. But she could feel his magnetic pull, smell his masculine scent, and she couldn’t look away from his gaze. She was trapped by his hypnotic stare, helpless, and she let out a long-held breath through parted, quivering lips.

  “Ma’am?” He broke the spell. “Are you feeling ill?”

  Miranda flushed and looked down, away, anywhere but at him. God, how could he kneel so close to her, it was so improper! She trembled. “No, I’m just not hungry,” she whispered. “I’m too tired to be hungry.” Her gaze was pointedly averted.

  Without looking, she knew when he had left, and a huge tide of relief swept over her. But then, before she could count to three, he was there again, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. His touch sent another shudder through her. Mistaking it for fear and repulsion, she shrank against the tree.

  Bragg studied her, scowling darkly, then he stood up. Was the little mouse afraid of him? The thought irritated him. “You’re too skinny already,” he said brusquely. “You have to eat. We travel all day, every day.” With the tip of his toe, he pushed her plate at her.

  She tensed, fought briefly for control, then gave in to her baser nature. She looked up with a smoldering glare. “You’re here to escort me to Texas, sir! But don’t tell me what to put in my body, thank you!” The minute the words were out, Miranda couldn’t believe that it was she who had spoken them. Why was she angry? But how dare he presume to order her to eat?

  Worse, he chuckled. “So the mouse has some spine,” he said, laughing as he walked away.

  The insult made her stiffen even more. Is that what he thought she was—a plain, drab, timid mouse? This man had done nothing but insult her from the moment they had met—treating her like a cheap tart, now calling her a mouse—it was too much!

  Chapter 4

  “Excuse me, Captain Bragg. When can I bathe?”

  Bragg stared, startled, then he grinned, imagining her naked in the creek below. “Why, any time at all, ma’am. The creek’s that way.” He pointed through the trees. They had just made their camp for the night after traveling another long, hard day.

  Her violet eyes widened and she gasped. “In the creek?”

  He chuckled. “You didn’t expect me to lug along a nice brass tub for you now, did you, ma’am?” He started away, then abruptly turned back. “If you intend to bathe,” he said, no longer smiling, his features hard, “you must tell me first.”

  Miranda couldn’t believe what she’d heard, and she went to her aunt, who was sitting wearily, rubbing her spine. “Aunt Elizabeth! Captain Bragg just told me we’re to take our baths in the creek!”

  “We will do no such thing,” her aunt responded grimly. “You will do no such thing,” she added.

  “Of course not!” Miranda gasped. “Je voudrais…mon Dieu! I’m so dirty—I smell!”

  Her aunt patted her shoulder. “Ignore it, dear. From what I’ve gathered, in a few days we’ll be at Natchitoches, and there’s lodging there.”

  “A few days!” Miranda sighed. “I guess I’m just going to have to get used to this. Mais—oh! I wish I could dare bathe in the creek!”

  “Miranda!”

  Miranda bit her lip. She had never been unclean a day in her life. Cleanliness was next to godliness. She stood. “Well, I’m going to go down to the creek and wash my face and arms and anything else that I can. Will you come with me?”

  “I’ll be down shortly, dear. I need to rest my poor bones.”

  “Are you all right?” Miranda was worried. After only two days on the trail, her aunt was looking wan and pale.

  “Yes, go ahead. Wait! Is it safe?”

  “The captain told me I could use the creek. I assume so.” She shrugged in a very French way, then gathered a change of clothes. She paused at Welsh’s side as he stirred beans—not again!—and told him where she was going. He nodded.

  Miranda took her clothes, a sponge, a towel, and a bar of scented soap with her and tentatively made her way to the stream that lay just in sight of the camp. She stumbled on exposed roots and rocks. Suddenly feeling eyes upon her, she looked back to see Welsh watching her with undisguised male interest. He immediately turned away. Miranda flushed. She didn’t know exactly what his loo
k meant, but it disturbed her greatly. Dear God, there was no privacy at all on the trail! Once she reached the creek, she wandered up the bank a bit until she was just out of sight.

  It was so beautiful here, Miranda thought wistfully. Almost eerie in the twilight. The air was fragrant with honeysuckle and something else she couldn’t identify. She unbuttoned her dark green jacket and removed it for the first time that day. She glanced over her shoulder, but there was not a soul around. She wanted to remove her high-necked blouse so that she could scrub her arms and chest and throat, but that would be scandalous. She settled for unbuttoning the top six buttons instead and pushing the sleeves up to her elbows. She bathed her arms, the top of her chest, under her arms (without removing the shirt, of course!), and her throat and face. She felt so much better.

  Miranda hesitated. She cast another quick glance over her shoulder, but of course no one was watching. She pulled her heavy muslin skirt up to her knees, wincing at the thought of what would happen if her aunt appeared at that moment. She carefully rolled down her stockings and removed them, quickly bathing her feet, ankles, calves, and knees. Then she replaced her stockings, fastened the garters, slipped on her kid boots, and stood, turning.

  Bragg smiled. “Finished?”

  Miranda stood as still as a cornered hare, her heart going wild. “How long were you watching?” she managed stiffly, her face flaming.

  Bragg shifted the rifle in his hand and shrugged, but a wide grin lit up his face. “You have very pretty legs,” he said easily. “But—”

  Miranda took three strides over and slapped him as hard as she could across the face. “You go too far!” she cried. “You have done nothing but insult me and treat me like some cheap harlot since we’ve met! How dare you spy on me while I bathe?”

  He was staring, shocked, then he started to laugh. “Miranda! First off, it’s not safe for you to ever be alone—and, sweetheart, you couldn’t kill a fly with your strength!” He was still laughing. “And if you call that bathing, well…” His laughter trailed off.