Susan Wiggs - Miranda

“Och, ’tis Bonny Prince Charlie!” An elderly woman, her hair a dirty gray mop, scuttled over and dipped a curtsy to Ian. “I’d know ye anywhere, laddie,” she said in a thick Highland brogue. “Ah, the midnight hair, the eyes of blue. Been waiting for you to return since me granny’s time, we have.” She gave him a toothless smile and remained there, one knee on the floor, quivering slightly, clearly unable to move.

Ian flushed and glanced back at Beckworth, who stood just inside the door. The doctor stared straight ahead. Ian had no choice but to hold out his hand and help the old woman up.

“And a fine gentleman you are, sire, and always have been,” she declared. She turned to address the ladies. “Well, what are ye waiting for? ’Tis our own rightful prince come back to us, just like I told ye he would. And he’s a ghostie, he is. ’Tis why he stays so young and bonny.”

A few of the women, their faces blank, inclined their heads. Ian’s ears heated. He cleared his throat. “It is a high honor to meet you, but I am not Bonny Prince Charlie. Regrettably, he died some years ag—”

“Weesht!” The old woman held a finger to her lips. “We ken. You’re in disguise, eh?” She tugged at his waistcoat. “I thought there was a purpose to that MacLean tartan.”

He nodded in exasperation. “I am here to see Miranda.”

Some of the women began to hiss and whisper among themselves. Ian cleared his throat again. “You are...dismissed.”

The old woman backed away, bowing as she retreated to another part of the room. Most of the others—those who were not chained or bound—went with her. Miranda looked up anxiously.

There was one thing Ian had not remembered from the night of the fire. And that was how stunningly beautiful she was.

Even like this, in a plain shapeless gown, her hair and face unadorned, she was like the moon. Pale skin, sable hair, a study in light and dark. He felt something unexpected and ecstatic in the center of himself as he looked at her. She had a sort of heart-catching innocence that sat ill with his sense of who she was, what she was capable of.

“Hello, Dr. Beckworth,” she said in a soft, cultured voice. Then she looked at Ian, the huge brown eyes showing—not surprisingly—no recognition at all. “Good day to you, sir.” Then she frowned.

“Is something wrong?” Beckworth asked.

“No. For a moment I thought...” She waved her hand distractedly. “It was nothing.”

“My dear,” Beckworth said, his meddlesome manner irritating, at least to Ian. “Do you recognize this man?”

“Hello, Miranda,” Ian said softly. He lowered himself so their gazes were level and sent her his kindest smile. “It’s a high relief to find you at last.” Another of his well-honed skills was the intimate whisper. Women succumbed to it almost too easily, tumbling into his arms in fits of ecstasy. He waited for Miranda to melt.

Instead she cocked her head to one side and asked, “Do you play chess?”

He blinked. “Chess.”

She frowned in concentration at the chess board. “It seems that I do. Perhaps too well. Each time I play myself, it ends in stalemate.”

“This gentleman claims he knows you,” Beckworth said. “He says you were betrothed.”

She caught her breath. “To be married?” She stared at Ian with new, keen interest.

“That’s right, love,” Ian said, amazed that he felt guilty deceiving her. According to Fanny, this woman was a deadly traitor and the key to a hideous plot to assassinate the crowned princes of Europe. Yet suddenly he felt as if he had stepped on a kitten. “You canna remember?”

“No.” She bit her lip. It was a full lower lip, the very sort that begged for a kiss. This could prove to be dangerous indeed, Ian thought. In ways he had not yet considered.

“Darling.” He took both her hands in his and drew her to her feet. The top of her head just reached his chin. “Surely you remember me. I am your one true love, your Ian.”

At this the other women clustered round, jabbering and clucking like hens.

“Kiss her!” one of them urged.

“Yes, kiss her, kiss her!” The others took up the chant.

It was odd, Ian thought, looking at these hopeless, disheveled creatures. After all they’d been through, they still wanted to believe in a happy ending.

“Kiss her!” they continued to chant. A buxom woman with black hair and laughing eyes made a smooching sound with her mouth.

“Ian,” Miranda repeated. Her breathing quickened, and she made a sound of distress. “Dr. Beckworth, may we please have some privacy?”

Ian was more stunned than the doctor by her request. He felt a jolt in his chest. God. She was falling for the ruse. He ought to feel pleased by his own cleverness. Instead he sensed a faint edge of panic. He might very well find himself with a fiancée before this day was out.

“Miranda, I shouldn’t allow it,” Beckworth said. “It would not be prop—”

“The lady made a simple request,” Ian broke in.

“You may go to the empty cell across the hall.” The doctor held the door for them. “I shall be outside.” He aimed a meaningful stare at Miranda. “You need only call out and I’ll come.”

“She’ll call out, right enough,” said the black-haired woman. “But not for you, Beckie.”

Ian glared at the doctor as they left the room. Officious little toad. Does he think I would ravish her right here in this rank cell?

Rather than seeming absurd, the very idea made him hard. Perhaps he was crazy, too, lusting after a woman in Bedlam, of all places. His chest felt tight when he turned to Miranda. “Does the name Stonecypher mean anything to you?”

“Stonecypher.” She tasted it like an exotic fruit. “No. Should it?”

“That’s your name, my love. You are Miranda Stonecypher, and I am Ian MacVane.”

“My betrothed.”

“Your betrothed.”

She clasped her hands demurely in front of her. “Were we in love?”

The question took him by surprise. In love. He almost laughed aloud at the thought. Love was something that didn’t happen to Ian Dale MacVane. It simply wasn’t meant to be. Yet here she stood, all innocence, brimming with hope.

“Well?” she prompted. “Was it a love match?”

“Very much so.” How easy it was to gaze into her wide, trusting eyes and lie. “We were deeply in love.” He traced his fingers along her jawline. “I still am.”

“Oh, my.” Her slender throat moved sinuously as she swallowed hard. “And we were to be married?”

His thoughts came together swiftly. “Aye, we were going to Scotland so there would be no need to secure a special license.” Recklessly he plunged on. “And of course, you wanted to meet my people in the Highlands.”

“Why?”

“Because they’ve not met you, lass, and—”

“That’s not what I meant.” She pressed her palm to his chest. Her warmth burned into him. “Why were we going to be married?”

“I thought I explained that. We love each other. We—”

“But why marriage?” Her hand crept along his chest and slid upward to skim his collarbone. He wondered if she was at all aware that by touching him this way, she was breaking every rule of proper behavior. He wondered if she cared.

“Marriage is the institution of a corrupt society, designed to enslave women,” she stated.

Ian could barely think. Was she naive or simply bold, touching him like this? He had been caressed more intimately by more brazen women, to be sure, but there was a compelling quality to the way Miranda slid her long-fingered hands over him.

“Who told you that?” he asked. “Did you learn it by reading Mary Wollstonecraft?”

“I suppose so. Dr. Beckworth urged me to remember things. It is odd. I can recite whole passages by heart, yet I can’t even recall my name—” She backed away as a violent shudder racked her. “You can’t know how frustrating it is.”