Miranda. Susan Wiggs
watched her for a moment, the wind mussing his glossy black hair. “I taught you to dance the waltz,” he said, speaking reluctantly, as if the words were pulled from him against his will.
She cocked her head. “The waltz. It’s a dance, then?”
“Aye. All the rage in London this Season. The tsar and his sister, the grand duchess of Oldenburg, have made it the sport of choice.” He winked, then gripped her lightly by the waist, with one hand around hers. “The rhythm is like a heartbeat. One, two, three, one, two, three... Do you feel it?” He began to hum a soft melody in her ear.
“You have a beautiful voice,” she said.
He kept humming and drew her along the forecastle deck, neatly avoiding coils of rope, lashed-down barrels and the envious stares of the sailors. She followed his lead, letting his graceful maneuvering make up for her inexperience. Round and round they spun, the rich melody lilting in her ear until the rhythm finally penetrated her very bones. They moved as one, and she reveled in the way they seemed to fit together, in the light scrape of their feet on the wooden deck and the hiss of the ocean speeding past the hull.
“There is,” she murmured, “something magical about dancing. Why is that?”
His hand moved in a circle on her back. “Well,” he said, stretching out his Scottish burr, “dancing involves two people, holding each other, moving in a rhythm both understand, their goal to stay together, for no reason other than sheer physical pleasure.” He smiled wickedly, and a shiver shot down her spine. “There is only one other circumstance in which all that is true.”
She snatched her hand out of his. Hot color surged to her cheeks. “Ian!”
He leaned against a tall spool of rope and watched her, clearly amused. “Aye, love?”
“Have we...did we...”
He threw back his head and laughed. “My dear, if you had forgotten that, I’d say there’s not much hope for us.” Seeing her unamused expression, he took both her hands in his. “Believe me, Miranda. To my eternal frustration, and through no choice of my own, we have never made love.”
“We were waiting, then.”
“Aye.”
“For marriage.”
He hesitated. “Aye.”
“Mary Wollstonecraft didn’t believe in marriage on principle.”
“She may have a point.”
Miranda found herself laughing again, feeling giddy.
“You’re an incredibly desirable creature, Miss Stonecypher,” Ian said.
She wondered if he had any idea how entrancing he was. “Tell me more,” she said. “I feel that if I could remember even one moment, if I could just look back and know, then everything would come right.”
“I dinna think it’s that easy.”
“Indulge me,” she said. “Please.”
“The Orangery in Hyde Park,” he said.
“Should that be significant to me?”
“Oh, aye.” He paused. “Your first kiss.”
She felt her color deepen. “Surely a significant event if there ever was one.”
“And you dinna remember it.”
“No.” She stared at his mouth. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He took her hand and led her toward the bow of the ship, where they stood in the cool evening shadows. Sails luffed in the wind, and the cry of a cormorant droned mournfully across the swells. “Actually, it’s rather an advantage.”
She began to tingle inside. “An advantage?”
“Oh, aye. You can have your first kiss...all over again.”
With a discreet movement he took off his gloves, dropping them on the deck at their feet.
She felt faint, yet dizzily aware all at once. Nervously she licked her lips. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to do.”
“What you’re doing now is just fine. For the moment.”
“What am I doing?” she asked.
“Standing there. Looking bonnier than heather in bloom.”
He took a step closer. His hands drifted down the length of her arms, heating her skin. The pads of his thumbs found her racing pulse.
“Was it like this...before?” she asked.
“Nay, love. This is better.” His hands traveled up and over her shoulders. His fingers threaded their way into her hair, sifting through the curls.
“Now what?” she whispered.
Though he did not smile, amusement glinted in his eyes. “Just keep your head tilted up. Aye, like that.” He bent low, his face looming close, his breath, with the tang of his evening brandy, caressing her. He touched his lips tenderly to her eyes, first one and then the other, so that they were closed. Then he kissed her mouth, softly, tentatively.
“I can stop at any time,” he whispered, “if this makes you uncomfortable.”
She smiled dreamily. “Uncomfortable is not quite the word for what I feel.”
He kissed her again, tugging gently on her lower lip until her mouth opened and she surged toward him, hungry, wanting. The taste and smell of him filled her—sea and leather and maleness, seasoned with the brandy they had drunk after supper. The sensation of kissing him caused passion to leap up inside her until she was straining almost painfully for him.
His hands slipped from her hair and traveled down, tracing the inward curve of her waist and the outward flare of her hip. Then he touched her breasts, hands brushing, fingers skimming the tips. Warmth seared her in places he wasn’t touching, places that begged for his caress.
Then, as gradually and inevitably as the kiss began, it receded. He lifted his mouth from hers, and his hands dropped to her waist.
She kept her eyes closed, holding the moment, hovering in uncertainty and wonder and delight.
“Miranda?” he asked.
She forced her eyes open. She reached up and touched his cheek. His tanned skin was rough with evening stubble. “I feel completely starstruck, Ian. Bowled over like a ninepin. Was it like that for me before?”
“You never said.” His voice sounded gruff and uneven.
“I was trying to remember what it was like to love you,” she said. “But I feel as if I’m learning for the first time.” That something so simple as a human touch could shake the foundations of her heart was a staggering notion. “Ah, Ian.” She spoke his name on a sigh. “You are so good to be patient with me.”
He took her hand, removed it from his cheek and kissed the back of it. To her surprise, his own hand trembled. “You make it easy, Miranda.” She thought she detected a note of bitterness in his voice when he added, “Too bloody easy.”
* * *
Guilt was a new and decidedly unpleasant sensation for Ian MacVane. Yet as he lay awake in his narrow, damp quarters each night of the voyage, he knew guilt in all its sharp and bitter shades.
He was manipulating the feelings of a naive young woman. Whatever else Miranda’s crimes might be, she was innocent when it came to matters of the heart.
But not for long, if they stayed on their present course.
I was trying to remember what it was like to love you. Her words snapped back at him like a lash. She was driving him insane with her unwavering trust in him.
Trust. Miranda trusted Ian MacVane. She was by far the first