Chapter 12

S HE WAS brOUGHT SUPPER IN HER ROOM. “SASHA’S ORDERS ,” said old Marya disapprovingly. “He and that wicked little scamp, Vanya, are lording it in the dining room. When the boy heard you ate with Sasha he had a tantrum, and so you are banished until further notice.”

Miranda laughed. “I would sooner eat alone than listen to another recitation of Alexei Vladimirnovich’s virtues. Besides, this is my night of rest, Marya. I shall go to sleep immediately after I’ve eaten. Would you think me lazy if I asked to sleep late tomorrow? Sasha won’t care.”

“Why not, dearie? Lucas can exhaust the strongest girl, I am told.” She patted Miranda’s cheek fondly. “What a good girl you are,” she said. “Once I had a pretty little girl child like you, but she died …” The old woman’s voice trailed off sadly for a moment then, catching herself, she smiled. “Sweet dreams to you, Miranda Tomasova. Good night.”

Alone, Miranda ate slowly of the delicious capon breast Marya had brought. Would there be some left in the kitchen, some she could take with her? Maybe a ham. Salted meat lasted longer at sea. Bread? Yes. Fruit. A knife. Lord, yes! She couldn’t go without a knife. Perhaps there would be a fishing line in the boat. She realized that the trip would take her close to a month providing she encountered no severe difficulties. Why hadn’t she looked for a fishing line?

Her supper finished, she lay on her bed. She dared not attempt leaving yet. It was far too early, and she could hear the servants moving about, while from the dining room came the sound of high-pitched laughter. The tiny mantel clock chimed seven, and she dozed, waking a little after eleven. Now all was quiet but for the insistent patter of rain on the red roof tiles.

She rose. Shedding her caftan, she put on Sasha’s breeches. They were a good fit. A linen towel served to bind her breasts, and then came the shirt. She retained her little black slippers, for no one would see her feet in the boat, and if she had to run she couldn’t be bothered with shoes that didn’t fit. She had decided not to cut her beautiful pale-gold hair. Instead, she plaited it into a thick braid, which she tucked beneath Sasha’s cap. She was ready.

Snatching a pillowcase from her bed, she carefully crept from her room and hurried to the kitchen. The goatskin water bags hung full, and she quickly went about the task of stuffing food into the pillowcase. The knife! Don’t forget the knife! She chose one from the rack near old Marya’s claw-footed chopping block. Then, taking a thick cloak from one of the hooks near the back door, she quietly let herself outside into the night.

She moved slowly, the water bags weighing her down and the darkness confusing her somewhat. She stopped and recalled the way as she had traveled it in daylight. Feeling more confident, she hurried purposefully forward. Soon she could hear the sound of the sea, and it was all she could do not to run to it.

The rain was coming in torrents now and she could hardly see. The wind had not come about quite as she had anticipated. It blew in off the sea in fierce gusts, and she again began to have doubts about leaving in this wild weather. She reached the boat and, dropping the pillowcase of food into it, began to unload her waterbags.

“Miranda, where are you going?” Lucas asked gently.

She nearly fainted. She couldn’t see him, but he was obviously nearby. Stealthily she began to shove at the boat, and it slipped easily down toward the wildly pounding surf. She felt the tide catch at the boat, and she quickly scrambled into it.

“ Miranda! ”

Frantically she sought for the sail to raise it, but it was gone! Desperately she sought for the oars, but there were none. She knew that there had been oars. Where were they? Sobbing, she tried paddling with her hands, but the winds blew the boat back to shore, and then he was looming over her, dragging it back onto the beach.

“No!” she shrieked at him. “No! No! No!” In violent desperation she flung herself into the sea. Better death than this! Jared! Jared! her mind cried out to him. Oh my love, help me! Help me!

He saw her dark shape poised for a brief moment before she leaped into the water, and letting the boat go he dove in after her, catching at the sodden, heavy cloak to pull her back to safety. He dragged her onto the beach. She was coughing, sobbing, and screaming at him in a language he couldn’t understand. He tore the cape from her, and attempted to get a firmer grasp on her, but she fought him like one demented, clawing, hitting, biting. For several minutes she battled him wildly, and he was astounded by her strength. But then he felt her weaken until finally she collapsed against him, weeping piteously.

Lucas carried her up the beach and toward the nearest shelter, the breeding hut. He used his foot to open the door, and set her down on the bed. She was sobbing bitterly. He closed the door and then gathered wood from a small bin where he had put it earlier. He started a fire, stripped off his own wet clothes, and pulling her to her feet, stripped her soaking garments off of her. He then carefully spread them on the floor near the fire to dry. She had lost her cap and her hair was sopping wet. He unplaited the braid, and loosened her hair. It tumbled damply down her back.

Miranda stood shivering and naked, in shock, unable to stop crying. He put his arms around her and held her close to him. Finally, as her sobs subsided, he began to speak softly. “There is never any going back in life, Miranda. We can only go forward. I love you. I have loved you from the moment I first saw you those few nights ago. I will not allow you to destroy yourself hungering for a life that is no longer yours. You are my woman now. The prince gave you to me, and I will never let you go!”

“ No! ” she whispered hoarsely.

“Yes!” he answered firmly, and then he was raising her head up to face him. A warm, demanding mouth descended on hers. He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, savoring her, tasting the salt taste of her lips. He kissed her shut and quivering eyelids, her nose, her high cheekbones, her cleft chin, and then kissed her soft lips again. His tongue sought hers, but she pulled her head free.

“You promised you would not force m-me!” she sobbed.

“I am not forcing you,” he said.

“Then release me!”

“No,” he said, continuing to hold her close.

“H-how did you know?”

“I watched you this morning as you looked over the boats. Then I waited for you tonight. You are very brave, Miranda, and clever and resourceful and foolish.”

“Why did you stop me?” Her voice was anguished.

“You would have died out there, Miranda. I could not let you die.”

“If you really cared for me,” she whispered low, “you would have let me go.”

“No,” he replied. “I am not that unselfish, Miranda. A gentleman might have been that self-sacrificing, but I am a simple peasant, and could not be.” He paused, then said, “Any man who would be that noble does not deserve you. Peasants learn not to be wasteful of anything, and that includes people.” He gently trailed a finger from her shoulder down her bare arm, and she shivered.

“Don’t,” she said sharply.

His laughter was soft and insinuating. “Why not?” he persisted, and she tried to pull away from him, suddenly aware that their naked bodies were touching from breast to thigh. His free hand pushed her long gold hair aside, and he gently squeezed first her right buttock and then her left. He felt the nipples of her breasts hard and thrusting against his chest, and although she was trying very hard to hide it, her breathing was suddenly short and ragged.

“Please … please … stop,” she whispered. “You promised not to force me! You promised.”

He pulled her down on the bed. “I am not forcing you, Miranda. Have you never experienced desire, little bird?”

“With Jared! But I love Jared!”

“Never with the other young men who courted you? I find that hard to believe.”

“No one else ever courted me,” she said, and suddenly he understood what he had not understood before. Though she had been married and had had a child, she had been very, very sheltered. No man but her husband had ever touched her. She didn’t understand that a body could experience desire for another even without love. If he told her that, she would fight him even harder, for she was not the kind of woman to accept plain lust. It would be better for her to believe that she was falling in love with him. The quicker she accepted her fate, the easier it would be for her.

Lucas had not lied when he told Miranda that he loved her. He fully believed he did. That first glimpse of her, sleeping so innocently in the silvery moonlight, had caught at his heart. She was like none of his other women the two plump and stolid German girls, the half-dozen women who had been born here at the farm, or the intense Frenchwoman, Mignon, who was several years his senior. The prince had given him Mignon because she was intelligent, and the prince believed she might breed intelligent children.

Intelligent women, said Alexei Vladimirnovich, if placed strategically, could be of immense value to Mother Russia. Lucas had been both amused and amazed by this confidence. Prince Cherkessky had deigned to speak to him only once before. At that time his master had congratulated him on the quality of the children he sired, and his rate of productivity. He had thanked the prince civilly. Then Alexei Vladimirnovich had promised him a silver-blond mate to match his own coloring. The promise had taken five years to fulfill.

He put an arm around her, drawing her near. His hand found her breasts, and he touched them gently. She trembled as he bent his head and his tongue flickered over first one nipple then the other. His mouth sucked hungrily at her right breast, and she whimpered, frightened.

Her body was growing feverish, and she was confused by the feelings assailing her. The feelings were wrong! They had to be wrong, and yet she was beginning to want him! He wasn’t Jared! Yet his lips on her body were tenderly insistent, sweet and somehow … somehow … oh God, she didn’t understand herself, but she didn’t want him to stop. To her shame, she didn’t want him to stop!

“Little bird,” he murmured, his warm breath assaulting her ear, “your breasts are like small summer melons, tender and sweet.” Again his fingers gently caressed the round, tight globes, and he buried his face between them, inhaling her scent.

His hands moved all over her body and his head moved down to her navel. She knew as he kissed it that it would just be a second longer before his eager, seeking mouth would taste of her. She cried out in despair at the very moment, her hands reaching out to catch at his thick hair, to draw him away, but she could not move him. His skilled tongue seemed to know the exact spot that would rouse her to a frenzied passion, when she thought she could bear no more, his big hungry body covered her burning one. He caught at her reluctant little hand, and drew it down to touch his aching manhood.

“I will give you such pleasure, little bird,” his deep warm voice soothed. “I will give you such pleasure,” and then his hand was gently spreading her thighs, and he was slowly, tenderly entering her.

Miranda turned her head to one side, and the tears trickled down her face. He had said he would not force her, and he had not. She had not really given herself, but neither had she successfully prevented him from taking her, for the truth was that she did not want to stop him. He rode her forcefully, driving her up passion’s peaks, yet always holding her back from sweet fulfillment. Miranda began to lose the little control she had held on to, clawing at his back with desperate fingers. She lay breathless, helpless beneath this great man who was loving her so expertly, and his triumphant laughter rumbled about the small room.

“Ah, little bird, little bird, you are a fit mate for me! What beautiful, wonderful daughters we shall make together!”

Then he thrust hard and deep within her, over and over and over until she climaxed with a wild, angry cry, and his potent seed overflowed her womb. His lips carved a fiery trail down her throat, and he murmured love words in French and another language she didn’t understand. As she floated back to earth she realized with a shock that she had not yet seen his face! Once he had tasted of her body he was insatiable. In all he took her five times that night, and she was barely aware of the last time because she was so exhausted.

She awoke once more in her own room. Not only had he returned her safely, but he had taken the time to dress her love-bruised body in a soft gauze gown. She lay on her back silently watching the dawn unfold. There were no more tears left. She had nothing left. Her body had betrayed her in a way she hadn’t believed possible.

Once Jared had told her she had many things to learn about love, and he had promised to teach her. He hadn’t taught her all, though. There hadn’t been time. He had deserted her for his mission. And now he believed her dead. But she was not dead. She was instead another man’s possession, and last night that man had taught her that passion and love were not necessarily intertwined. It had been a bittersweet lesson, a lesson she would never forget.

Though Lucas had prevented her escape last night, she would not give up. Her life as Jared Dunham’s wife seemed over. He would not want her now, for what respectable man would want her now. But there was her son, little Tom, and there was Wyndsong. The worst was behind her now, and she no longer felt quite so frightened or desperate. She felt a strange calm.

Later, in the kitchen, she asked old Marya where the men lived. She intended satisfying her curiosity. She could not go on making love with a faceless stranger. The old woman cackled delightedly, saying, “So, you are anxious to be with your lover, Mirushka. Well, that is no crime, dearie, and here it is not forbidden, but encouraged. I will tell you where the men’s quarters are, and if you would not mind you can run an errand there for me. My two sisters care for the men, and I promised them some of my plum preserves. I was going to send Marfa with it, but you may go if you like.”

“I will go,” Miranda replied, and a few minutes later she was on her way. She understood now how Lucas had seen her yesterday by the boats. The men’s quarters were located on a hilltop near the beachfront. As she walked along she realized that she felt almost happy. It was a perfect September day, warm and bright with only the hint of a breeze to blow against her Persian blue caftan and disarrange her long loose hair.

There were six stone crocks in the basket she carried, and she hummed a little snatch of tune as she moved briskly along. She chuckled to herself. It was “Yankee Doodle”! Lucas was going to be very surprised to see her. She wondered again what he looked like. Was he handsome? Were his features fine, or those of a large peasant? Would it make any difference to the way she felt. What did she feel? She simply hadn’t sorted all that out yet. Somehow she believed that she had to feel something for a man who made love to her, but then she realized that her experience didn’t offer answers. She was still learning, and she seemed to understand so little.

There ahead were the men’s quarters, a one-story whitewashed wooden building. Outside were several attractive young men kicking a ball around. Her cheeks grew pink when she saw that they wore only loincloths. They reminded her of a painting of a group of young athletes in ancient Greece that hung in Amanda’s London town house. Every one of them was a light-eyed blond!

When they saw her they began dancing around her, making kissing noises with their lips and suggestive gestures. One managed a quick kiss to her cheek. Swinging around, Miranda slapped his face hard, to the delighted guffaws of the others. She was glad that she could not understand what they were saying, for she would have been twice as embarrassed as she already was. Eyes straight ahead, she walked determinedly toward the building while they continued to tease her.

“Christos, what a beauty!”

“Who is she!”

“With that coloring? She has to be Lucas’s new woman.”

“The lucky bastard! God, I’m getting hard just looking at her! How come he always gets the best piece to fuck?”

“Probably because he does his job better than any of the rest of us. Lucky devil!”

“Do you think he’d share her?”

“Would you?”

“Hell, no!”

Miranda went inside the building. She was sure that none of the men outside was Lucas. Entering the kitchen, she immediately bumped into a huge man. She gazed up at him, her heart hammering, wondering whether the man with the golden beard was Paulus, Lucas’s brother.

He tipped her face up, looked boldly down at her, and fingered her silken hair. “As always,” he said roughly, “my little brother has had incredible good fortune.”

She couldn’t understand what he said, but she didn’t particularly like the look in his eye. Quickly his hands moved over her body, lingering a moment on her breasts. Angrily she pulled away and walked across the room to where two older women sat shelling peas. She addressed the two women in her excellent French. “I have brought the plum preserves from Marya.”

“Thank you, child. Will you sit and take a glass of tea with us?”

“No, thank you,” she answered, feeling foolish and out of place.

“Please thank our sister.”

“I shall.” Miranda practically ran from the kitchen and out of the building. The young men did not bother her now, and she quickly made her way across the grassy yard, fleeing down to the beach.

The light breeze brushed against her hot cheeks. How silly she had been to go there. She wasn’t really interested in what he looked like. It didn’t matter at all, and it was probably better she not know. She would endure his attentions as long as she had to before she could make good her escape.

“ Miranda! ” He was suddenly behind her.

She began to run, but he caught her easily, and pulled her back tightly against him. “No,” she said.

He laughed softly. “If you want to see what I look like you have but to turn around, little bird.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“My brother came and woke me. He admires you tremendously, but then he always wants what I have.” He nuzzled at her neck, gently biting it. “I can’t get enough of you, little bird. You are in my blood now.”

She pulled free, took a hesitant step away from him, and then turned quickly around. Her breath caught in her throat and her sea-green eyes widened in amazement. Before her stood the most incredibly beautiful human being she had ever seen in her life. His oval face was classic, with high, sculpted cheekbones, a high, broad forehead, and a firm, square chin with a deep cleft in it that matched hers. His nose was long, narrow, and straight. His blazing turquoise-blue eyes were set well apart and heavily fringed with dark, thick lashes. His mouth was generous without the disadvantage of thick lips. His blond hair was short and waved, and his big body was perfectly proportioned. Miranda could not help but think how wonderful he would look in elegant London fashions. Women would beg for this man’s attentions. He was magnificent, standing here almost naked, the sun lighting his bronzed chest and thighs and muscled arms.

“You are beautiful,” she said, finally finding her voice.

His deep laughter rumbled. “Then you are not disappointed in me, little bird?”

“No,” she said slowly. “I am amazed that anyone could be so … so perfect in both face and form. However, I am afraid I shall disappoint you when I tell you it would not have mattered to me if you had been as ugly as you are fair.”

“Why not?” he demanded, puzzled.

“Because in the dark hut, when I was frightened, you were kind to me, and patient. You cared more for how I felt than for your own wants.”

“Any man ” he began, but she cut him short.

“No! Another man would have raped me. Your brother would have taken me instantly to satisfy his own lust. You are special, Lucas.” Then without another word she turned and ran back up the beach toward the villa. He did not follow her. He stood on the beach watching her hurry up the hill.

He had best be careful not to fall in love with her. But then, he was already in love with her, Lucas thought ruefully. His trick had always been to make his women feel loved, for a loved woman was a happier creature. But now …

He hoped he could help her adjust to her life. For the first time in years he wondered what it would be like to live as an ordinary man. How wonderful to have a house of his own, where Miranda would live by his side and bear his children, children they would raise together. Then Lucas laughed at himself. He remembered the glorious days of his freedom, days of bitter poverty, with never enough to eat. In the winter rainy season they had always been cold, for there was never enough fuel. As Prince Cherkessky’s slave he had a warm home and all his wants taken care of. It was better this way. He did not choose to share Miranda with anyone, even their child. He wondered how Miranda’s husband had felt about sharing her with their son.

At that moment, Jared Dunham was feeling nothing. Drunk and unconscious, he was returned to Swynford Hall by his three anxious servants and Captain Ephraim Snow. At the sound of the carriage in the drive, Amanda, Lady Swynford, had hurried outside to greet her sister and Jared. Instead, she found herself facing a nightmare. Her gentle world had been invaded by horror. She watched as Jared was removed from the coach and wrinkled her nose in distaste as Martin and Mitchum carried him past her, for he smelled simply dreadful! Whiskey! He stank to high heaven of whisky!

Sobbing, Perky stumbled down from the vehicle, her pretty face red and swollen with weeping. She took one look at Amanda, and began wailing. “Oh, milady! Oh! Oh! Oh!”

“Where is Miranda?” demanded Amanda, her heart hammering. “Where is my sister, Perkins?”

Perky wailed, “She’d gone, milady! She’s gone!”

Amanda fainted. When she was revived by means of aromatic spirits and a burnt feather waved beneath her nose, both Adrian and Jonathan were by her side. Gently they told her Captain Snow’s tale, and she listened, unaware that tears were pouring down her little face. When they had finished and a heavy silence filled the air, Amanda wept in her husband’s arms but found no comfort. Finally, after several moments, she said, “She is not dead. My sister is not dead!”

“Sweetheart,” begged Adrian, “I know how painful this is for you, but you must not delude yourself. You must not!”

“Oh Adrian, you don’t understand! If Miranda were really dead I would know it. I would know! Twins are different from just sisters, Adrian. If Miranda were really dead I would feel it, and I just don’t!”

“She is in shock,” said Jonathan.

“I most certain am not in shock!”

“Eventually she will come to accept it,” continued Jonathan

“I am not in shock!” repeated Amanda, but they paid no attention to her. Instead they fed her tea laced with laudanum so she would sleep.

A day later, Amanda awoke with a pounding headache and a firmer conviction that her twin was not dead. She tried to explain it again to Adrian, but he only looked distressed and called for his mama to come up from the dower house to reason with his wife whom, he was sure, teetered on the brink of insanity.

“I am not mad,” Amanda said to Agatha Swynford.

“I know that, my gel,” came the reply.

“Then why will Adrian not listen to me?”

The dowager chuckled. “Amanda, you know as well as I do that as dear a man as Adrian is, he lacks imagination. For my son, the world must be either black or white, fish or fowl. He cannot accept anything in between. For him, the evidence of Miranda’s death is unassailable, therefore she is dead.”

“ No! ”

“Why do you feel so strong she is not?” asked the dowager.

“I told Adrian that twins are different, but I cannot make him understand it. Miranda and I look different, our personalties are certainly different, yet there is something between us, some awareness we have always shared. I have no name for it, but Miranda and I have always known when the other was in trouble. We have even been able to speak to each other without words. If she were gone from this earth I should know because I would feel it. But I don’t.”

“Is it possible, my gel,” said the woman quietly, “that you do not sense the loss of this feeling between Miranda and yourself because you do not wish to sense it? Death is a closed door, impossible to reopen. I understand how close you two were.”

“Miranda is not dead,” said Amanda firmly.

“Then where the hell is she?” demanded Jonathan angrily six weeks later when Amanda persisted in her belief. “My brother has been drunk for over a month now, and if there is to be any chance of his recovering then he must face the truth. Miranda is dead! I won’t allow you to give Jared false hopes!”

“Captain Snow never saw a body!” gentle Amanda shouted back at Jonathan. “The Russian official only said that the body was that of a blond woman. Miranda isn’t a true blond, and when her hair is wet it is more silver than pale-gilt gold.”

“What of the ring? The dress?”

“Someone could have dressed another woman in Miranda’s things. How do we even know there was a body?”

“My God, Amanda, are you mad? You make it sound like a plot! Miranda was the unfortunate victim of a robbery.”

“A robbery committed by someone arriving in a coach bearing the British Ambassador’s crest. Doesn’t that seem strange to you, Jon. Even Captain Snow has his doubts.”

“All right, I cannot explain the carriage, but whatever the truth, one thing is certain. Miranda Dunham is dead!”

“No!” Amanda had never felt so frustrated or so angry in her entire life. Why did they not understand? “No, Jon, my sister is not dead. Whatever you tell me, she is not dead!” She turned her back on him so he might not see the tears filling her blue eyes. She jumped, startled, as surprisingly strong hands grasped at her shoulders and spun her around.

“Miranda is dead, kitten,” said Jared Dunham. He was unshaven, gaunt, and hollow-eyed. But he was sober. “I have spent over a month trying to hide from that truth, Amanda. I am sure I have half-emptied Adrian’s fine cellars. But eventually there is no escaping it. My wife is dead. My beautiful wildcat is gone, and part of the blame for it must rest with me.”

“Jared ” Jonathan and Amanda spoke simultaneously.

“No,” he answered them, a sad little smile briefly crossing his face. “That is another truth I have faced. I did not value my wife enough. If I had I would have told Mr. Adams and Lord Palmerston no. Instead I selfishly mounted my noble charger and self-righteously galloped off to help right the world’s wrongs. My first duty was to Miranda. I failed in that duty, but I will not fail the magnificent legacy she has left me our son. I am taking him up to my house in London where we will wait out the war. I don’t believe I could face Wyndsong quite yet.”

Amanda was deeply troubled by this. “Please,” she said, “please leave little Tom with us here at Swynford, Jared. At least for a little while. The air in town is so bad for a child. I know Miranda would agree. Go to London if you must, and mourn my sister in private, but leave little Tom with us.”

“I will mourn Miranda for the rest of my life,” declared Jared grimly, but no more was said about taking the young Dunham heir to London.

Jonathan Dunham and Anne Bowen, now publicly acquainted for almost two months, announced that they had eloped. Amanda thought perhaps they ought to plan a ball to celebrate the joyful news, but Adrian wouldn’t hear of it. They were all in mourning for Miranda. According to the story they circulated to explain her disappearance, Miranda had been swept overboard from her yacht in a sudden squall. Local society chattered enthusiastically. The Dunhams and the Swynfords had provided them with enough gossip to gnaw on during this dull time between seasons.

How fortunate Mistress Bowen was to have snared the Yankee. He was handsome and rich to boot and her with two children but then it was said that he had three! Then there was the deliciously macabre coincidence of both the Dunham brothers’ first wives dying in boating accidents. Best of all was the fact that that elegant devil Lord Dunham would soon be back on the marriage market. He would not, he had announced, mourn a full year for his beautiful wife. At the end of three months he would re-enter society.

Although the season did not officially begin until after the new year, Jared Dunham went up to London in early December. He had no desire to be at Swynford on St. Nicholas Day. They would have been married for two years, and on that sad evening he sat alone in his study before a big crackling fire sipping smuggled French brandy. In his hand he held a small miniature of Miranda painted by Thomas Lawrence, England’s most prominent portrait painter.

The famous artist had actually done a marvelous painting of Miranda and Amanda when they returned to England for Mandy’s wedding. Jared had commissioned the portrait for his mother-in-law, and she had carried it with her when she had returned to America. Dorothea had been ecstatic over her gift. It showed Amanda in a blossom-pink gown seated on a Chippendale side chair and Miranda in a deep blue gown standing behind her twin. She was smiling down at her sister whose head was half in profile and tilted just slightly up, gazing back at Miranda.

Lawrence had caught the girls perfectly. Amanda was sweet in her blue-eyed, blond beauty, with just a hint of steel at the corners of that little rosebud mouth. Miranda was an unconquered spirit with a proud and defiant look in her sea-green eyes. Jared had arranged with the artist to paint the sisters’ heads in miniature also. He then had each of the two pictures framed in oval silver frames decorated with raised silver grapes and vine leaves. He had presented Amanda’s miniature to Adrian on their wedding day. He had kept Miranda’s, taking it with him to St. Petersburg. Dear heaven, how many times had he held the miniature in his hand last winter? How many times had he stared down at her face as he was staring now? Her sweetly haunting, heart-shaped face with its lush mouth, that determined chin with its little cleft, her sea-green eyes? Miranda! Miranda! They had wed two years ago, and in those twenty-four months he had lived with her only seven months. God! He must have been mad!

Two years ago this day he had married her. Two years ago tonight she had faced him, frightened but defiant, across their bed. He remembered how she had clutched the coverlet to her sweet breasts, and then he had taken her in his arms and kissed her and soon the world exploded into passion. Now she was dead, and it was his fault, his fault for having left her for so long.

Her love for him had obviously been greater than his, which amazed him. She had borne with him even to having his child alone, and when she could finally bear no more she had come after him. In the first shock of her death he had damned her to hell and back for not staying in England, but what had he expected? She was his wildcat, purring at him one moment, hissing and clawing at him the next. Suddenly overwhelmed by fury and grief, Jared threw his brandy snifter into the fireplace, where it shattered into a thousand shards and the liquid flamed blue for a moment. Jared’s face was wet with tears. “Oh, wildcat,” he spoke into the silent room. “Why were you taken away?” For the only time in his life, Jared Dunham sounded like a lost little boy.

If Jared Dunham’s reputation in his bachelor days had been low key it was no longer so in the days of his widowerhood. Without Miranda, he became, as Amanda had once said, destructive to himself. His bout with alcohol following Miranda’s death taught him that drink did not help one forget, and gave him a bad headache besides. He had to find something to relieve his terrible anguish.

His stable increased to overflowing as he began to frequent the horse auctions at Tattersall’s. He bought whatever caught his fancy, easing his conscience by telling himself that he would bring the excellent new stock with him to Wyndsong, to introduce new blood into the island breed. Some of his horses were racers, and he soon found a trainer and two jockeys. He took to racing his high-perch phaeton on the Brighton road with the other young men, but the amusement faded when he discovered that no other horses could beat his.

Gambling was boring for the same reason. Jared Dunham never seemed to lose, whether it was cards, or a boxer at Gentleman Jackson’s gym, or something as simple as which raindrop would reach the bottom of the windowpane first. The irony amused him. He was lucky in everything except love.

Jared did not, however, forsake the ladies. On the contrary, his appetite was unquenchable. Among the beauties who accepted a gentleman’s protection it was quickly acknowledged that Jared Dunham was a magnificent lover, a generous lover, but a short-term lover. No one woman could seem to keep him for more than a few weeks.

Married women of his class gazed at him with open interest. Ambitious mamas made certain that he was aware of their fresh and nubile daughters. Miranda Dunham was dead, and that handsome Lord Dunham needed a wife to set him straight. Why not their Charlotte? Or Emily? Or Drusilla?

Most of the maidens thrust at him were terrified of the tall, dark-browed, forbidding Lord Dunham. He seemed always to be glowering, and most were not quite sure he was not laughing at them, his narrow lips twisted into a sarcastic smile. This was hardly the sort of treatment they were used to!

One of the season’s incomparables, however, did not quail from Jared Dunham. Lady Belinda de Winter was the Duchess of Northampton’s godchild. Petite, with a pink and white complexion, dark ringlets, and deep blue eyes, Belinda gave the impression of purity, innocence, and goodness. Nothing could have been further from the truth. The daughter of an impoverished baronet, Belinda de Winter would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. She wanted Jared Dunham.

Belinda had come to London for her season courtesy of her godmama, who had been her late mother’s best friend. Aunt Sophia’s husband, the Duke of Northampton, had three daughters of his own to launch, so he had not been enthusiastic about sponsoring a fourth girl. Though one of the richest men in England, he was not a man to waste money on someone else’s child. Knowledgeable beyond her years, Belinda had sensed his reluctance. But she desperately needed a London season.

Her own home, the Priory, was near the Northampton holding, Rose Hill Court, and Belinda was a frequent visitor. Biding her time, Belinda waited until one afternoon when she knew that Rose Hill Court would be empty of all but the duke and the servants. Catching her uncle in his library, she had cooly seduced him. Then she left him before he had a chance to recover. She had made damned sure he didn’t get the chance to be alone with her again before they went to London.

The duke had been shocked by her behavior, shocked and fascinated. He had never known a woman as aggressive as that slip of a girl with her angel’s face. He ached to have her again, but she avoided him and laughed at him from behind her little hands, her blue eyes dancing wickedly. He had finally succeeded in cornering her at a musicale, and heard himself sounding like a green boy.

“I want to see you again,” he had said.

“If you take me to London you can see me every day,” she had replied.

“You know what I mean, Belinda!”

“And you know what I mean, uncle dear.”

“If I take you to London you will be nice to me?”

“Yes,” she said, and brushed past him.

Belinda de Winter had gotten her season in London, and a magnificent wardrobe as well. But the Duke of Northampton never seemed to be able to find his godchild alone again. She was far too busy leading the exciting life of a London debutante. He continued to watch her, though. Eventually his time would come.

Jared Dunham, the American lordling whose beautiful wife had been swept overboard from their yacht in rough seas, was the subject of endless gossip that season. Belinda watched as other women sought to attract his attention. She listened silently to the talk that surrounded the incredibly attractive man, and she vowed to become his second wife. He was perfect wealthy, handsome, and he would take her away from England, away from her damned father and brother!

Their behavior and reputations were an albatross around her pretty neck. Although men desired her, and she had had several proposals since bursting upon the London social scene, none of the gentlemen wanted Baron Chauncey de Winter and his son, Maurice, as relations. Belinda couldn’t blame them.

The weather that winter was very bad all over Europe, and Miranda had been confined to the house for several days because of rain. Sasha had quickly tired of Vanya’s jealousy and beaten the boy one day in October. After that, Vanya no longer complained if Sasha chose to play chess or talk with Miranda. And Miranda, feeling sorry for the child, was teaching him French. He was surprisingly good at it, and she suspected that Vanya was one of Lucas’s offspring. She never asked, however. It was better not to know.

She was setting up the chessboard one evening when Sasha entered the room, wineglass in hand. “I’ve just been talking with Dimitri Gregorivich. You won’t have to go to the breeding hut any longer, Mirushka.”

Miranda looked up, surprised. “Why not?” she asked.

He gaped at her. “Why not? Come now, Mirushka, don’t be coy with me. You know you are with child.”

“ What? ” She looked stunned. “No!” she said. “I can’t be!”

“Mirushka, since we have arrived here you have not had one show of blood, Marya tells me. When was your last cycle with the moon? I know. It was those first days on the road when you were unconscious. You began your flow the day after we left St. Petersburg. I made and changed the pads for you. And before that? Do you remember?”

She was white-faced. The last moon cycle she could remember had happened in England a week before she had left. He was right, she had had no flow in months, but she had simply put it down to shock. But she hadn’t had any other symptoms! At least she didn’t think she’d had any symptoms. Oh God! To return to Jared a soiled dove was bad enough, but to return with another man’s child would be unforgivable.

Sasha’s hand covered hers. “Are you all right, Mirushka?” His voice was kind, genuinely concerned.

“I’m all right,” she said slowly. “Well, Sasha this means you will be able to return to St. Petersburg in the summer. You must be happy.”

“Yes!” he answered excitedly. Then seeing her sad look, he said, “This doesn’t mean you can’t see Lucas, Mirushka. You can, but there can be no more love between you until six weeks after the child is born.”

“There is no love between us now, Sasha. There never has been.”

“Oh, you know what I meant, Mirushka. I meant lovemaking.”

“Making love, Sasha, is not love. It is copulation, and animals do it that way. Without caring.”

He looked at her strangely. She was a curious woman, and he didn’t understand her, but then who could really understand a woman? “Let us play chess,” he said, and they sat down facing each other over the table.

Miranda played badly that evening. Her mind was elsewhere. She could not escape the farm now. She would be forced to remain here until the child was born. Of course, as soon as she was able she would get away before he impregnated her again. She would leave the child behind. It would be taken from her at birth, anyway. How could she have any feeling for it? It was an alien being, forced upon her, and she meant for Jared never to know of her shame. No, she could not love this baby now growing within her. Why should she?

Lucas. Poor Lucas. She had been a great disappointment to him, for after that first night she had never again reached that peak of passion. Although it frustrated him, angered him, and confused him, she had not been disturbed by it. She had been distressed instead at actually enjoying relations with a man other than her husband. Her body had betrayed her, but her prayers had been answered and now she felt nothing. She had willed it so, and if she had to endure his touch, at least she would not allow her body any pleasure while her spirit was being so heinously violated.

Lucas had been kind to her, though, and for his sake she had pretended, but after a week or so he had stopped in the middle of his rutting, and said, “Why do you pretend?”

“To make you happy,” she answered him. “You are good to me, and I would have you happy.”

He immediately withdrew from her. “My God, Miranda, why do I not give you pleasure any longer?”

“It is not you,” she said.

“I know that!” came the proud, quick reply.

“I warned you in the beginning, Lucas. I am Jared Dunham’s wife. The prince cannot change that. All Prince Cherkessky has done is remove me from my world and place me here, but my world is still there in my heart and mind. The first night you took me my body did indeed respond to yours. I will not deny it. I do not know why it happened, but I prayed it would not happen again and it has not. I am sorry if I have hurt you, for I would not do so deliberately. You are my friend.”

He was silent for a few moments, and then he said quietly, “You are still hoping to go back, little bird, but that will not happen. In time you will come to accept that fact, but meanwhile I want you to know that you have not lost my love. I am a patient man, and I adore you, little bird. But please do not pretend. I will continue to make love to you, and eventually I will melt the ice in which you have encased your heart.”

“Check, and mate!” came Sasha’s triumphant cry. “Mirushka! Mirushka! Whatever is the matter with you? I have taken your queen with a pawn!”

“I am sorry, Sasha. I am simply not in the mood tonight, I am tired.”

“Well, I hope that you’re not going to turn into a dull companion just because you are breeding,” he pouted.

“You must bear with me, Sasha,” she mocked. “After all, I have only done what Alexei Vladimirnovich wanted me to do.”

“Indeed,” he brightened. “I shall write him tomorrow with the good news.”

“Be sure to include my felicitations,” she said sarcastically. She rose. “I am going to my chaste bed. Good night, Sasha.”

In the morning she put on a woolen cloak and walked to the men’s quarters to find Lucas.

“Miranda, my love!” he called to her from across the kitchen.

“I am with child,” she said.

“I am glad.”

She almost screamed at him. She turned to go, but he caught her and drew her back. “I must return to the villa,” she said.

“Stay with me,” he answered. “Let us talk. Sonya, some tea, my darling, and some of that good apple cake of yours.”

“There is nothing to talk about, Lucas. I am with child, as everyone has planned. In mid-June I will give birth to a beautiful silver-blond slave, who in five to ten years can be sold in Istanbul for a small fortune. Perhaps she will even become a sultan’s favorite. What a credit she will be to the Cherkessky slave-breeding farm! It is just what I have always wished for a child of mine!”

“Little bird, don’t!” He put his arms around her and held her close.

To her chagrin she burst into tears, and he soothed her until her sobbing stopped. “Damnation,” she hiccoughed in English, and he laughed. She was teaching him English, and he had understood her. “Why are you laughing?” she demanded.

“You are adorable,” he chuckled, “and I love you.”

She sighed with exasperation. He would never understand.

But over the next few months she had to admit that he was most attentive and loving. She had carried little Tom alone, without her husband’s love and support, but it had not mattered for she had wanted Jared’s child. She did not want the baby now moving so actively within her, yet this child’s father was with her every chance he had, and strangely, she found his presence helped. As she grew bigger and bigger, and the painful reality of her situation bore down on her, she needed his honest kindness. She believed she would have gone mad without it. She was having another man’s child while, far away, her husband believed himself a widower!

Spring arrived in late March, and with it a letter for Sasha from Prince Cherkessky. Miranda was seated in the sunny salon with him, and she was startled by his moan.

“Sasha, what is it?”

“Oh, God!” he cried, and his voice rose to a keening wail of anguish. “He has left me, Mirushka! I am alone! Alone! Ohh!” And he fell to his knees, sobbing bitterly.

Miranda rose and, crossing the room, bent awkwardly to retrieve the prince’s letter from Sasha’s grasp. Quickly she read the elegant French script.

Alexei Vladimirnovich had been married on the eve of the Russian Christmas to Princess Romanova, and she had instantly proved fertile. The new Princess Cherkessky was expecting the heir to the family fortunes in very early autumn. Alexei Vladimirnovich believed it better that Sasha remain at the farm in the position of manager. His presence in St. Petersburg could easily upset the princess, and in her delicate condition that was unthinkable. After she had put two or three children in the nursery and Cherkessky’s line was assured, then Sasha might return to his master in St. Petersburg. In the meantime he was to remain in the Crimea. It would be only four or five years at the most.

The prince expressed pleasure at the impending arrival of Miranda Tomasova’s child, and reminded Sasha to be sure and inform him immediately when his beautiful slave woman whelped her first baby for him. She was to be returned to the breeding hut within three months rather than the usual six, and put to stud with Lucas again. With luck they could have another child by her the same time next year.

Miranda shuddered. The prince was certainly an unfeeling brute. The man obviously cared for nothing except money.

The letter closed with the prince wishing Sasha well, and reminding him that if he disobeyed his master’s orders, whatever had once been between them would be forgotten in the prince’s anger and the punishment would be the most painful and severe that could be devised.

Miranda put the letter down and looked at Sasha. The man was now huddled in a heap on the floor, weeping piteously. She narrowed her gaze dispassionately. Perhaps in losing the one person he loved, Sasha would now understand her feelings.

Then a marvelous thought began to take form. If she could use the prince’s cruelty to turn Sasha against him, then maybe, just maybe, she could convince Sasha to retaliate against Alexei Cherkessky! What greater revenge could Sasha take than to free the long-sought breeder?

She smiled to herself. She would convince him to take her and Vanya to Istanbul on the prince’s yacht. He would also take the money the farm would receive in late June, when the farm would host buyers from all over the world at its annual sale. Her smile widened. What a sweet revenge! The prince would be robbed of the fattest part of his yearly revenues as well as her, his prize mare! First, however, she must win Sasha to her side. She bent over and put motherly arms around him.

“Sasha, Sasha, do not grieve,” she soothed. “Please, dear friend, come and sit on the settee with me. Please, I cannot lift you.”

Her gentle, sympathetic tone penetrated, and he stumbled to his feet and crossed the room with her, falling on the settee. “Oh, Mirushka, how could he do this to me? I knew he must marry for the family’s sake. I would have behaved properly. I have always behaved well. I never embarrassed him. I am, after all, also a Cherkessky by blood.”

“Dear Sasha, what can I say to you?” she murmured. “Now you have been torn from the one person you love in this world. Believe me, I understand. Oh, I understand!”

He raised his tear-streaked face and gazed sorrowfully at her. “And now I understand you, Mirushka. I do, and I beg your forgiveness!”

She cradled him in her arms as if he were a child.

“Poor Sasha, poor Sasha,” she crooned sadly. But there was a triumphant smile on her face.

During the next month she subtly played with him, and upon him, as on a fine instrument. She went along with his moods, loved him, was properly indignant for him. Gradually he began to lean on her and to trust her. Soon she felt safe enough to suggest revenge. Given a few well-chosen words, he would come up with the right solution all by himself.

She had to be careful. If Lucas discovered what she was planning, he would try to stop her again. He was extremely attentive to her these days, taking her for long walks on the beach, holding her little hands in his big paw as any loving young husband might do. Once he had said, “I am going to ask Dimitri Gregorivich if I may suckle upon your breasts before they give you the herb that stops your milk. I shall be your only child, Miranda, and finally you will love me as I love you.” No, Lucas must not suspect that she had found an escape plan.

The boy Vanya was another concern. His round, childish face contrasted with his sharp little dark blue eyes. He watched her with Sasha for several weeks, finally daring to accost her one afternoon when she was alone.

“Why are you being so kind to Sasha?” he demanded boldly.

She eyed him with amusement, for she had every right to slap him and order him away. She asked him, “Do you love Sasha?”

“Of course! He is the only person who has ever really loved me. I am not just one of the slave children to him. I am special.”

“Would you like to remain with Sasha always?”

“Oh yes, Mirushka!”

“Then trust me as Sasha does. Ask me no more questions. Keep your agile little mind on other things, and speak to no one about your curiosity. If you do these things I can promise you a long and lovely life with Sasha.”

“What if I speak with Lucas?” the boy demanded slyly.

“Then none of your dreams will come true, Vanya. Though you do not understand it now, believe me when I say that I am the key to your happiness. Betray me, and you will be sold off this very year.”

“Can you really do all that, Mirushka?” His childish voice held a note of fear.

“Yes, Vanushka, I can,” she answered him in a voice so confident that he believed her.

“I will be loyal to you,” he promised fervently.

She smiled sweetly at him. “I know you will,” she said, and patting his plump, rosy cheek with one hand, she popped a chocolate into his mouth with the other. “Run along, and play now, Vanushka. I want to take a nap.”

May came, and the pastures were filled with lambs and kids and colts and calves, all gamboling in the bright green grass. The children frolicked in the warm sea, and Miranda was within six weeks of giving birth to the child as she called the unwanted growth within her. She had no feelings for it. She longed only to be rid of it. The quicker she gave birth, the quicker she could leave this place.

She had eased back on poor Sasha. Letting him come up with her escape plan too soon would give him too much time to think about it seriously. Too much thought could change his mind because, deep down, his love and loyalty to Prince Cherkessky were still there.

She smiled to herself, watching the children playing in the sea.

“Freedom!” she whispered to herself. She was Miranda Dunham of Wyndsong Island, and she was born to freedom. She would not stop fighting for freedom until death stilled her heartbeat.