Miranda. Susan Wiggs
Exile at Elba was surely but a temporary state for such a man. Bonaparte would be back. Already he was coiled like a snake, poised to strike.
Impatience stirred within Ian. He had best make quick work of the marriage—a handfasting would do—and hasten back to London.
“We’ve always been of one mind, lass,” he said, forcing gentleness into his voice as he lied to her. “And my guess is, you’re of a mind for a good bath and a meal.”
“I am.”
Duffie and Robbie had gone on ahead with the baggage. Ian scanned the road that wound up and around the great rising hills. He had not stood on this spot since he was a lad. Yet he knew people would still remember him in the village.
A part of him still dwelt there.
He started toward the settlement, old and tumbled and comforting as a tattered blanket.
After walking along the dusty road for a quarter mile, Miranda stopped him. “Ian.”
“Aye, lass?”
“I don’t remember my own past, save what you’ve told me. But I know nothing of your past, either.”
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