Chapter 8

"I never finished it."

Anthony had known that Miranda's curiosity wouldn't go unchecked for long. He remembered that much about her. That was why she'd been on the staircase the last time he'd seen her, hoping to catch a peek of the festivities during her parents' Christmas party when she should have been in bed. As she jumped guiltily and spun around with a gasp, he knew the same held true now.

The question that remained was—which letter had she decided to read?

However, any shame that she might have been feeling faded with the paper in her grasp. "Does this mean what I think it does?" she demanded.

He regarded her steadily. Even though he only had one good eye left to him, he could see the horror on her face clearly enough. "What do you think?" he asked softly. "I told you I was in a dark place for a long time."

"But this letter is dated before you went to war!" She tossed the unfinished letter on the desk. "I might have understood your sorrow, your reluctance to come home after the horror you witnessed, what you were subjected to, but not this. By your own hand, you weren't planning to come back to me. You don't get the right to choose if you want to live or not!" She was fighting a new wave of hot tears. "In the intervening years since you were gone, I buried both of my parents. Not only that, but I had to see the distraught faces of the women who received the news that their loved one wasn't coming home from battle. Each day I lived with the fear that my brother would be one of those men. You weren't the only one who suffered, but I wanted to mourn with you when you showed me those scars on your wrists. Now I feel like it was all a lie."

There was silence for a time, and then Anthony said, "You're right. But it still took me a long time to push aside my own agony and see it all around me. I still struggle with it, but I've found a new reason for living." You. Although he left that part unsaid.

Some of the tension receded from her shoulders. "I'm glad to hear it. Perhaps I won't feel so guilty about returning to London after the holidays."

She turned and continued her inspection of the cottage, which was why she didn't see the frown on Anthony's face. He didn't know why he thought she might have fallen in love with Cumbria as he had, but of course, she had lived in the city most of her life. Her publisher was there as well, so it made sense that she couldn't leave whenever she liked. Unlike him, she had responsibilities, while he was a ne'er-do-well. Or at least, that was how he saw himself these days. Perhaps he was the one who needed to make a change. It was time to stop running, stop hiding; time for him to dare to walk out into the light again, to feel the warmth of the sun upon his scarred face.

As he moved into the living space, he watched as she removed a new, blank paper from her bag, along with several paints. "Surely you don't mean to paint in here?"

She paused and glanced up. "Why not? It's entirely too cold to be outside today, and that window makes a lovely winter scene."

He glanced out the one she indicated, and with a bit of frost collecting on the pane, combined with the barren landscape beyond, it did portray a rather haunting imagery.

Once she had gathered her things and sat in a nearby chair, which afforded her a good view, she looked at him. "Should you like to read while I paint, as before?"

Since Anthony had hardly comprehended a word that he'd read, he asked, "I should like to watch you work, if it doesn't bother you for someone to peer over your shoulder."

She smiled. "Not at all. I am so used to my nieces and nephew doing it now that I hardly even notice."

"Do you need me to bring the lantern closer so you can see better?"

She shook her head. "I prefer the natural light. I've found it is easier to shade that way."

Anthony pulled up another chair and placed it a short distance behind her and waited. With a glance in his direction, she turned her attention back to the blank paper. After a moment's hesitation, she started to draw an outline of the overall portrait.

While he imagined he might be distracted by the sight of her, it wasn't long before Anthony was captured by her talent. His heart fell, because he realized how much of her life he'd truly missed, time that they could have been together as soon as she had turned of age and made her come out. He would have courted her properly, taking her for rides in the park and waltzing with her at a society function.

Instead, he'd tried to escape everything because he couldn't accept the future as a disfigured monster.

But the truth was, Miranda had always been his everything. She was all that had mattered. It was too bad it had taken him this long for his eyes to open to the truth. He should have known her kind nature wouldn't have balked at his appearance as others had done. She accepted him, flaws and all. He'd been a fool not to return to her as soon as he'd healed.

But she was here now, so perhaps there was such a thing as a Christmas miracle after all.

Miranda could feel Anthony's eyes upon her as surely as if he'd reached out and touched her. A shiver crawled up her spine, causing gooseflesh to break out on her arms. If the fire he'd started hadn't chased away her earlier chill, then she could have blamed her reaction on the weather. But the temperature outside wasn't the cause for this.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand. The longer they were here together, the more word had a chance of spreading. Although Braithwaite wasn't the sort of place like London, where gossip ran rampant, there was still a lady's reputation to consider. It could falter anywhere at any time. She didn't need any sort of scandal to follow her after she returned to London. If so, she would risk her publisher's ire and, even though she wrote anonymously, they likely wouldn't accept anything further if they thought she had a tarnished reputation. It was best that she make her outline as quickly as possible and return to the hotel.

After a time, in the silence around them, other than the occasional log popping in the grate, Miranda was soon finished with the image she wished to portray in her head.

When she set down her brush, she looked at the work in progress with a critical eye. She was never truly pleased with the final project, feeling as though she could have done something different, but this one suited the verse that was starting to evolve in her mind.

Mama in her kerchief, and I in my cap, had just settled down for a long winter's nap…

"It's breathtaking." She looked over at Anthony, whose gaze was fixed on the object in her hands. "You truly have a vision when it comes to bringing something to life. It's almost as if I can reach out and open the window. And I certainly didn't think my cottage was quite so appealing before now. It was just some place to lay down my head after a day on the water."

She grinned broadly. "Now you can picture it even more fondly. Perhaps I'll send you the original once the next book is published."

"I would like that very much." He paused. "But even more so if you brought it back in person."

Miranda's breath caught. She knew this was when things could get dangerous. He spoke of things that she might yearn to do but knew there was no way of doing. He surely had to know that. "I'm afraid that's impossible." She gathered her things and then got to her feet. "We should be getting back before it's too late."

He regarded her with something that looked oddly like longing, but then he dropped his gaze and said, "Of course." He walked over and kicked some ash over the smoldering logs, ensuring that the fire was out before he grabbed the lantern and led them out of the cottage.

As they stepped outside, a few, white flurries drifted down from overhead. As Anthony put her things in the carriage, Miranda noticed a boy in short pants and a woolen coat and hat running up and down the lane with his tongue stuck straight out. She smiled, because she could remember trying to catch snowflakes the same way when she was young.

Feeling the sudden urge to mimic his actions, she stuck out her tongue and waited patiently for a single drop of moisture to touch the tip.

"What are you doing?"

She shifted her gaze to Anthony and drawled in return, "Don't tell me you never did the same when you were a child."

He crossed his arms, his brow lifting. With his damaged eye, he looked rather rakish in that moment. "Did what?"

She laughed. "Caught snowflakes on your tongue." She proceeded to demonstrate.

"I never did anything so ridiculous," he lifted his gaze heavenward.

She narrowed her gaze. "While I don't fully believe you, there's no time like the presence to start."

She waved a hand and with a heavy sigh, he reluctantly extended his tongue.

Anthony had never felt so utterly foolish in his life.

Or so utterly fascinated by Miranda.

He knew she had always been a free spirit, but he was starting to wonder if that girl was still in there somewhere. Now he knew that she was, and it warmed his heart to know that she hadn't been completely broken by the losses and disappointments she'd had in her life.

Suddenly, he didn't feel nearly as idiotic as he had a moment ago. If doing this caused that broad smile on her face, then he was more than willing to oblige.

Seeing that he was willing to play along, she went so far as to throw her arms out wide and spin in a circle with uninhibited joy. The laugh that came from her made him stop and stare, spellbound by her magnetism. She exhibited a youth that he thought had perished in battle, but he was finding it bubbling back up inside of him, the devil-may-care rogue that he'd once been.

He started to laugh, and together, as the snow started to fall in earnest, they stood there amid the swirling flakes and had the time of their lives.

Until Miranda twisted her ankle.

She fell forward, and Anthony didn't think, but rushed toward her and caught her before she could fully hit the ground, although they ended up on their knees. Her eyes were sparkling with life and exuberance, and Anthony quickly sobered. There was little to separate them. It would be so easy to lean forward and take her in his arms…

With a surge of apparent mischief, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his.

He was lost.

Anthony didn't heed the snow, the cold, or even their surroundings. Time itself seemed to stand still as he held Miranda in his arms. Never before had he felt so complete, so… whole. After Trafalgar, he wasn't sure he would be able to overcome the torment that had become his constant companion, but with this woman at his side, nothing else mattered.

As Miranda's eyes fluttered open moments later, he looked deeply into her enchanting, green eyes and whispered, "Marry me."

Although she was still attempting to recover her equilibrium after their embrace, she had the wherewithal to pull away from him. She was shaking her head as she got to her feet. "Don't say things that you don't mean."

He rose and started toward her, but she held out a hand. He stopped.

She turned back to him, tears glistening in those enchanting eyes now. It cut him to the quick. "You have no idea how long I yearned for you to return and say those words to me. For years, I waited, I prayed, I hoped, I dreamed, for that day." She put a fist over her heart. "But when all those days turned into weeks, and then months, and eventually years, I started to realize that I didn't need anyone in my life, that the only one I could truly depend on was myself. After coming to this conclusion, I wrote my first book, and found something that I could do to earn a respectable living, while remaining a spinster. I've learned one thing in all that time. I was a fool to have ever wasted so much time on a fantasy." She straightened. "I'm not sure what you expected when you decided to join Jacob and our family this Christmas, but if it was merely to try and win my hand, I'm afraid you have wasted an endeavor. I'm content as I am and I won't allow my harmony to be disturbed when you don't truly know what it is you want."

When she was finished, Anthony didn't quite know what to say. He certainly wasn't going to admit that he had reconciled with Jacob all those weeks ago in the hope that he might have a chance in winning Miranda's hand. Of course, he should have known it wouldn't be so simple as to say those two little words and she would come tumbling back into his arms. He had wounded her deeply. Those emotional scars tended to heal much more slowly than outward ones.

As far as claiming that he didn't know what he wanted, perhaps there was some truth to that as well. When he'd seen Miranda again and she hadn't shied away from his disfigurement, a brief bit of light had been spun in his soul. She had reminded him of what he'd been like in the days before he'd enlisted in the Royal Navy. But if she accepted his proposal, who was to say that they would be able to embark on a happily ever after? Nightmares still plagued his sleeping hours, and more than once he'd woken in the middle of the night with a scream on his lips and a blade clutched in his grasp without knowing how it had gotten there.

The harsh truth was that he might always be damaged. It wasn't right of him to ask her to accept someone so broken.

"You're right," he said softly, although he didn't choose to elaborate on that score. With his brow creased in a frown, he said, "We should be getting back."