Page 65 of So Wild A Heart

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.”