The Fairy Tale Bride

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

She no longer knew what to think.

The stone of the garden bench was cool beneath her in the dawn’s pale light. But the quiet of the morning had not calmed her churning fears. He had almost made love to her. He had reached for her in the dark, entwined himself around her body and her heart, loved her as she wished to be loved.

She closed her eyes against the tears that came despite her battle to remain dry-eyed and rational. His touch had been so tender and fierce at the same time — she had shattered beneath him only to find a surprising peace. And then that peace had been torn away in an instant by his harsh withdrawal. How could he have made her feel as if she had truly joined with him into one soul and not felt it himself?

Was it fear? And if so, why was he afraid to make love to her if he was convinced he would die shortly, anyway? He was no coward, she knew it deep inside her with a certainty that was absolute. Could his pride be the barrier between them?

Katherine said that a man could be afraid of failing at lovemaking. But if he roused her to such fever with only the touch of his lips and hands, how could he ever fail her?

Could it be that he was afraid he would fail himself? Voices startled her out of her seat like a frightened hare. She could not be found here, not now. No doubt her eyes and nose were red and swollen from her tears. Questions would be unbearable, and gossip only a further insult to her own wounded pride.

As the intruders neared, she hid herself behind a box hedge and wished them away. It was only as she recognized the dowager and her American approaching that Miranda tore her thoughts away from her own misery to wonder what had brought these two out to the gardens at dawn.

Their voices were lowered, but it was clear the two were in the midst of a heated argument when the dowager ground out, “You are mad.”

“Listen to me. You don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand? I’ve lived with them, father and son for most of my life!” The dowager’s eyes glittered with anger as she stood rigid and brittle, facing down her American, right in front of the box hedge where Miranda hid. “Proud. Stubborn. Fools. As are you.”

“Not this time. I will not make the same mistake twice.”

Her voice was flat, brooking no argument. “You already have, by insisting on returning to America.”

“That is where our future is.” There was an urgency to his voice, as if he needed her to agree with him.

“My future is here, with my son and his bride.” She added in a whisper, “And Arthur, if Simon truly goes.”

He laughed, a short, harsh bark. “You never belonged here. I should have freed you then, but I was too much a coward.”

She shook her head. “You were not a coward.” Her voice sharpened. “Not then.”

He hissed with impatience. “Your husband is long dead, and Simon is a man now, capable of choosing his own path. I promise you if you come to America with me — ”

She turned away from him and Miranda could not see her face any longer, only the proud set of her shoulders. “I cannot throw my hands up at my responsibilities to run away with you. I am not made that way. You, of all people should know that.”

His voice was harsh with anger and grief. “Then why did you let me think you cared? Did you think I would stay and be your plaything?”

The dowager said nothing.