Innocent Fire Page 4

  “You’re repulsive,” she whispered stiffly. “You’re barbaric, completely uncivilized.” She realized she was getting a reaction, for his face had grown hard and his laughter had stopped abruptly. “You disgust me—although I know it’s uncharitable for me to feel so. I should feel sorry for you, for how could you know how to treat a lady?”

  Bragg’s face had been growing darker by the second, and his eyes were glittering dangerously. Miranda felt fear then, and all her anger and indignation fled. She took a quick step to go past him—to flee—but his arm whipped out and he grabbed her, pulling her roughly against his side.

  “I’m the trail boss here,” he snarled. “And my word is law. I told you to inform me when you want to bathe. You never leave camp without supervision.” His grip tightened, and Miranda cried out. “Is that clear? Lady Miranda?” He pronounced her title mockingly.

  “You’re hurting me,” she whispered, trembling. She could feel his body against hers, as hard as a rock. He abruptly released her and she stumbled slightly. She wrapped her arms across her chest, hugging herself, and tears welled up in her eyes. He was so cruel! She bit back a sob and ran blindly to the camp.

  Bragg stared after her, frowning with agitation. Stupid twit! He had given a direct order, and she had disobeyed. Of course, the danger here was only from a stray wolf, but in a few days there would be Indians to worry about. He could not let anyone start to disobey him now.

  He followed her back to the camp, his jaw clenched. The image of her long, willowy legs came to his mind, making his groin ache. I’m lusting after my best friend’s fiancée, he thought angrily, directing his anger at her. She was a little twit of a woman—a child, really—all skin and bones. Why in hell did he have to be so stirred by her? Was she afraid of him? She looked at him so strangely, as if she were both fascinated and repulsed, as if he were a two-headed monster….

  With a foul curse, one that caused both ladies to gasp, Bragg squatted by the fire to give Welsh a hand.

  Chapter 5

  The next three days passed without incident, and soon they were approaching Natchitoches. Miranda had taken to dreaming about a bath, until it had become the most important thing in life to her. Both Bragg and Welsh obviously bathed in the creeks and rivers they camped by, and their smell, she had come to realize, was not so bad—a smell of horse and smoke and musk. She was getting used to the barbaric Texans! It was too much. Would her husband dress and act and smell like these big, strong men? Would he also be a six-foot giant? Miranda shuddered at the thought.

  Bragg had avoided her since she had accused him of treating her like a trollop, although his eyes still roved insolently over her body when he thought she was not aware of it. But the moment he turned his gaze on her, she could feel it, and a strange heat would spread across her body while her cheeks flushed uncomfortably. She would clench her fists and wonder why this rude, crude man was sent to humiliate her like this. Had she really been so disobedient at the convent? It was the only answer she could think of.

  What if her husband treated her so rudely? She could not think that—it was too upsetting.

  Miranda had grown used to the wagon and Welsh’s incessant, endless monologue. When he wasn’t chattering away, he was humming some ditty. Once Miranda asked him to teach her the words, so they could sing to pass the time. Welsh actually went red, and Bragg burst into laughter as he rode alongside the wagon.

  “The words for that tune are not for a lady’s ears,” he told her, laughing and clearly enjoying her embarrassment. “Especially not a convent-reared lady like yourself.” And he’d had the gall to wink lewdly at her. Miranda had then had a very ungodly thought—maybe lightning would smite him right then and there, on the spot. She prayed for forgiveness an instant later.

  Now, suddenly, the wagon stopped short, jerking all of them forward. “Damn!” Welsh exclaimed, already leaping off.

  “What happened?” Lady Holcombe asked with concern.

  Miranda felt her heart fluttering nervously. “Did something break?” she called down, worried, then her eyes searched the horizon. As usual, Bragg was riding ahead, and there was no sign of him.

  “Goddammit! Excuse me, ladies!” Welsh bit down hard on his lip, and Miranda knew that if she and her aunt hadn’t been there, he would have uttered a most foul string of epithets.

  “What happened, Mr. Welsh?” she asked again, fanning herself. It was hot and muggy and almost unbearable. But she was so close to her bath!

  “Got the wheel stuck in a deep rut,” Welsh said, shaking his head. “It’s my fault. I was thinking about whiskey and wo—I was thinking about reaching Natchitoches tonight,” he corrected hastily.

  “Aunt Elizabeth, I think we should get down,” Miranda said, rising and cautiously gathering her skirts. “So Mr. Welsh has a better chance of getting this wagon out of the rut.”

  “Here, hold on now, little lady,” Welsh said, hurrying over. He helped her down, then her aunt.

  “Where is Mr. Bragg?” Lady Holcombe asked. “Shouldn’t he help?”

  “I hope he never knows about this,” Welsh muttered, jumping up on the wagon with surprising agility. He slapped the reins. “Harrah! Harrah! Get up!”

  Miranda and her aunt stood back and watched with consternation as the mules strained to free the wagon. The wheel only dug deeper into the rut.

  “Oh, stop, Mr. Welsh! Stop!” Miranda cried. “You’re sinking deeper!”

  Welsh sighed and climbed down. “We’ll just have to—here comes Bragg!”

  Miranda heard the pounding hoofbeats and watched as he came cantering in, his face dark. “What’s going on?” he called, but already his eyes had found the offending wheel, and he cursed beneath his breath. He leaped down from the stallion.

  “It’s my fault,” Welsh said miserably.

  “You’re damn right it is,” Bragg snapped.

  Miranda’s eyes widened. “Mr. Welsh is only human,” she objected. “Everyone makes a mistake—”

  “You be quiet,” Bragg said, turning on her, his eyes dark with anger. He threw his hat on the ground. Miranda couldn’t believe how angry he was—all over a little accident.

  “You’re insufferable,” she breathed, not meaning to speak the words aloud.

  He whirled on her, fury etched on his face. “Insufferable, am I? Accidents mean death, lady, when you’re on the trail! Do you understand now?” He was shouting.

  Miranda stepped back, frightened by his barely leashed fury. “But—it’s just a—”

  “And what if we were in Comanche country?” He had lowered his voice, but his mouth was white. “What if this had caused a broken axle? Huh? What if we were stuck immobile for many hours fixing it—and a war party came upon us?” He turned away from her in disgust.

  “It won’t happen again,” Welsh said quietly.

  “You drive, I’ll push,” Bragg said in a calmer tone.

  Miranda understood now, but it didn’t make his temper any more bearable. And then, right before her very eyes, he shrugged off his shirt, tossing it carelessly aside.

  She gasped, her heart stopping in her throat, choking her. Her face began to burn, and she felt light-headed and dizzy. She was scandalized. The man was half naked in front of her! She reached out weakly and found the wagon wheel, leaning on it for support and fanning herself wildly. “Captain Bragg!” her aunt exclaimed, aghast. “How dare you disrobe in front of my niece!”

  Bragg had been oblivious to Miranda’s reaction, for he had begun studying the wheel the moment he had discarded his shirt. Now he straightened, his lips twisting in amusement as he glanced at Lady Holcombe, then Miranda. His smile died.

  She was very, very white, fanning herself rapidly, staring straight ahead at some object far in the distance. Her aunt was objecting loudly again to his bare torso and, dropping to her knees in front of Miranda, she began chafing her wrists.

  “Good God!” Bragg exclaimed. “Hasn’t she ever seen a man’s chest before? Is she going to faint?”
He was disbelieving.

  “Of course not,” Lady Holcombe snapped, her face red with fury.

  Miranda glanced at him for the briefest of instants, saw his broad, hairy chest, and went crimson. Her fan moved faster. Bragg started to laugh—it was too much. He walked over. “You’re in the way,” he said, not unkindly.

  Poor John! What was he going to do with this frigid little virgin? He touched her shoulder to move her aside, but she inhaled deeply and fled from the spot as if he were the devil come to claim her. He stifled his laughter and got behind the wagon, bracing himself. “All right, Welsh, get these mules moving,” he called, trying to forget about Miranda.

  But Miranda couldn’t forget about him. All she could see in her mind’s eye was his golden, gleaming, naked flesh, thick and corded with sinewy muscle. Her face flushed again. And he had all that dark hair—it was indecent! She swallowed drily and heard Bragg grunting, while her aunt patted her shoulder soothingly.

  Miranda didn’t know what had come over her. She peeked above her fan at him. She was standing almost directly behind him, and a new rush of hot color flooded her face. He was leaning over, his shoulders and arms braced against the back of the wagon as he drove his entire body against it. His back rippled with his efforts. His buttocks and thighs strained beneath soft, tightly molded buckskins that were so revealing, it was as if he were naked. This time, she couldn’t take her gaze away.

  “Miranda!” her aunt cried. “Stop staring at Captain Bragg!”

  Miranda flushed and quickly dropped her gaze. She was mortified that her aunt had caught her looking at him, and even more embarrassed that she had been reprimanded loudly enough for Bragg and Welsh to hear. But even as she stood staring at the ground, she heard Bragg groan again—a deep, animal sound that caused her body to ache warmly, sweetly, strangely. Again her gaze rose and rested upon his huge, fascinating form, and this time she saw that the wagon was moving forward.

  “Miranda! What is wrong with you! What has possessed you?” Her aunt was astounded and horrified.

  Uttering a little cry, Miranda dropped her fan and ran into the woods just as Bragg turned to look at her. An expression of amusement and comprehension came upon his face as he leaned back against the wagon, sweat pouring off his body.

  “Sir, I must tell you, I have never—”

  “You’ve already told me,” Bragg cut her off. He wasn’t in the mood for a lecture from some frigid, priggish, English widow. “We’ve lost time. Let’s get going.” He straightened.

  “Miranda?” Her aunt called toward the woods. “Miranda? We’re ready to go. Miranda?”

  Bragg picked up his shirt. They would make Natchitoches just by dark, if they left now. But that was only a small, insignificant thought right now. Jesus! Miranda had almost fainted at the sight of a man’s chest! She was so innocent….

  And John, his best friend and blood brother, was going to take that innocence and change her. That fact made him unreasonably angry.

  There was no sign of Miranda, and she hadn’t responded to her aunt’s calls. Bragg slipped on his shirt and began to worry. Now what! Had the foolish twit run into a tree and been knocked senseless? Or worse?

  “Why hasn’t she responded? Oh dear, if anything’s happened to her…”

  “Relax, Lady Holcombe,” Bragg said. “I’ll find her in a flash.” He strode into the forest in the direction Miranda had fled.

  He kept up a rapid pace as he followed her easily, deeper into the forest. Tracking was one of the things the Apache did best. She’d left a trail a mile wide, and if she had beribboned it, it couldn’t have been simpler. He found her curled up on the ground, hugging herself, beneath a huge fern.

  “Miranda!” Irritation washed over him now that he saw she was safe. “You’re holding us up.”

  She looked up, wiping her eyes, and he realized that she had been crying. A strange, unidentifiable feeling engulfed him—an unfamiliar softness. He squatted down next to her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes, and all he could see were her long, thick, black lashes on tear-stained cheeks.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked softly, not recognizing his own voice. He instinctively placed both hands on her shoulders. She pulled away from his grasp and leaped to her feet.

  “It’s nothing,” she said, brushing distractedly at her face, which was pinkening again.

  “No, something’s wrong,” he said, more sharply this time. Did his touch offend her so much? Or did he repulse her? He stiffened at that last thought.

  “I’m so ashamed,” she whispered, glancing up at him. Her eyes were moist and held his directly for a moment. Her color deepened and her gaze fell to his chest. Her mouth parted slightly.

  A feeling of triumph washed over him and he grinned. “Feeling desire for a man is nothing to be ashamed about,” he told her easily. How could he have thought that she found him repellent? She was a woman, after all, and now her eyes gave her away. Bragg was delighted. He felt like strutting before her—taking off his shirt again and holding her against his bare chest. Holding her and stroking her…

  Miranda gasped, her eyes widening. She stepped away from him. “Oh! Vous êtes impossible! Bête! Sauvage! Vous êtes fou. Stupide! Vous retrouvez…vous m’en pensez…ohhh!”

  Bragg grinned. He didn’t know what she was saying, but her French was adorable. When she spoke English, her accent seemed entirely British, and it was only when she slipped into French that he remembered she was half French. But there was no mistaking the import of her words. “Time’s awasting, princess,” he said, chuckling. He took her hand before she knew it. “C’mon.”

  He pulled her along with him, clearly feeling the taut fury of her body. She may not even know what she’s feeling, he thought, dazed with delight. She probably doesn’t even recognize her desire for me. He was smugly pleased with the day’s revelations. Suddenly he realized that her incipient attraction meant nothing in the larger scheme of things.

  He dropped her hand, frowning, and his stride lengthened. After all, Miranda was taboo, hands off—she was marrying John. Why did he hate that thought so much? It was none of his damn business! Or, if anything, he should be happy for his friend, who had often confessed his loneliness and his desire for a wife and family. Bragg was grim when they reached the wagon.

  Chapter 6

  The rest of the way to Natchitoches passed in a whirl-wind daze for Miranda. She was very upset. Her mind was spinning and racing and wouldn’t stop. Her aunt sat in frozen silence, very angry with her. Welsh was morose, and for once said not a word. Bragg, as if to show his complete displeasure with them all, rode right in front of the wagon. Miranda kept staring at his back. For some insane reason, all she could see when she looked at it was his naked, rippling flesh. Several times he suddenly looked over his shoulder, his gaze hot and hard, to catch hers. She would flush and quickly look away, but of course it was too late.

  What was wrong with her? She didn’t understand why her pulse was pounding in her ears, why she kept picturing his broad, hairy chest or his lean, powerful back. She finally decided that she had been greatly shocked today, and that her interest was natural curiosity. She had always been an avid student, eagerly drinking up new studies, new sights—and she had never seen a man’s bare torso before. What she had witnessed today was a new lesson. She now knew something of the difference between men and women. Men were not only bigger and stronger, but built very, very differently. Did all men look like Bragg?

  She didn’t think so. Some men were fat, others dainty and foppish. Bragg was all rocklike strength. She shuddered. Her thoughts were almost lewd. In fact, she had an insane urge to touch him, to touch his bare skin. Would it be soft and smooth? Or…

  Miranda stifled her thoughts, feeling heat rise again in her face. She realized that she was staring at his buckskin-clad back again, and her aunt whispered “Miranda!” very disapprovingly. At that instant—for the third or fourth time—in a lightning-quick movement, Bragg turned his horse sideways so that hi
s gaze met hers. For a brief, hypnotic moment, she couldn’t look away, she couldn’t even breathe. She was unable to swallow, her mouth completely dry. She licked her lips without even thinking about it.

  What does he think I’m thinking? Miranda felt miserable. She knew what he thought. The arrogant boor thought that she found him attractive. How had he reached that ridiculous conclusion? All men were awful, hurtful beasts, as she well knew, even her father. Men raped helpless women, like Sister Agnes. She didn’t know what rape was, but she knew that it hurt, very, very much, and was humiliating and violent. She had guessed that much when Sister Agnes had told her about it; she could see the raw pain in her eyes, even after so many years.

  Miranda shivered. No, she would never find any man attractive, she knew that. Men were different from women, crude and controlled by baser instincts, like wild animals. Bragg was no different. The way he looked at her made her pulse pound in fear. She didn’t know what the look meant, exactly, but she knew it was rude, insolent, and related to the unspeakable things men did to women. She shivered again, at the same moment involuntarily wondering how his skin felt.

  “Aunt Elizabeth?”

  “Yes?”

  Miranda knew that her aunt was furious, for she had not called her “dear.” “Maybe there’s a church in this town. I would like to go to church tonight. Or to Mass tomorrow morning.”

  “That is an excellent idea,” her aunt said. Although Elizabeth was Protestant, she was very religious. “Mr. Bragg?”

  “I heard,” Bragg said, riding up to them. Miranda wondered how he could have possibly heard their low whispers. His gaze found her face, and their eyes met just for a moment. “The answer is no.”

  Miranda gasped. “But I must go to confession,” she cried, angry and dismayed.

  He scowled. “You have nothing to confess, princess,” he said. “And there’s no mission in Natchitoches. You’ll have to save your confessions for San Antonio del Baxar.” He clucked to his horse and rode ahead.