Chapter Two
Miranda shot out of her chair, once more in a fury as she stared at the big bear of a man who stood before her. Her mind strained to make sense of what he was saying. “No, I will not marry you. How can you insult me by asking me this?”
He arched an eyebrow, obviously surprised by her response.
To his credit, he seemed to be fuming but doing his best to suppress his anger. “Ye took my proposal for an insult?”
“You only asked me because you wish to silence me and protect your kinsmen,” she shot back, knowing it was foolish of her to goad this man.
But how was she to blame for this impossible situation when she was the victim here, the innocent lady abducted by his kinsmen, and now forced to endure the added humiliation of being offered up like a ritual sacrifice as his bride?
His bride.
“If I were your wife, you could forbid me from pressing charges. Do you dare deny this is your only reason?”
“Do ye seriously think me that low in character?”
“I do not know you at all, so what else am I to think? And you are the duke, obviously the one with all the power here. What is to stop you from banishing me to some remote isle after we are married and leaving me to languish there while you continue with your life as though I do not exist?”
Well, she had to admit that he did not appear to be that sort of fellow at all, judging by the look of horror on his face as she hurled those accusations.
“Ye think I would treat my wife so abominably?”
She sighed. “I do not know, and that is precisely the problem, is it not? I am painfully aware of what can happen when one goes into a marriage with hope and trust that is misplaced.”
“Are ye speaking from yer own experience, Lady Miranda?” he asked softly. “Upon my honor, any wife of mine would be treated with respect and never cast away.”
He sounded sincere, but what did it matter?
She was not about to marry a stranger, even if he was irritatingly handsome in a brutish sort of way.
He had bright-red hair sprinkled with silver at the temples, and it looked quite attractive on him.
He was a tall and brawny fellow, broad in the shoulders and powerfully built.
One could not overlook those fine muscles.
Despite being about forty years of age, he was surprisingly fit.
Ridiculously fit.
Warmth curled in her belly, but she ignored it.
No doubt his strength came from spending much of his day tossing logs. She had heard this was what Scotsmen did to amuse themselves, partake in these ridiculous games of strength, such as said tree tossing, or hurling stones, and probably gave themselves herniated organs in the process.
His eyes were dark and assessing, revealing a surprising intelligence.
His nose had been broken but still appeared firm and aquiline.
His mouth was a touch too broad, but it suited his face. In fact…
No, she refused to consider what his kiss might feel like.
She had already felt his warm skin against her cheek because he wore no shirt and her body had been shockingly up against his. When she’d breathed him in, she had caught his appealing scent of sandalwood and male heat. Surprisingly nice.
But none of it mattered.
She wanted to be returned to Edinburgh, hop in her carriage, and make haste back to London with Gwenys.
Too bad this oaf was going to be in London, too.
But she would be safe enough from any embarrassing encounters.
They were not likely to attend the same balls or musicales.
Even if they did, they could easily ignore each other amid the crush.
Nor would she ever have reason to run into him at some scientific lecture or charitable function, for he did not seem the academic sort.
Although he did seem to have a good vocabulary.
Could he be handsome as sin and also have a fine intellect?
She dared not consider it.
He would likely spend his leisure hours at a gentlemen’s boxing club or drinking at some pub, although he clearly did not look like a sot.
He folded his arms across his massive chest. “So ye think I am no’ good enough for ye, my fine lady?”
She sighed. “That isn’t what I said. Do you deny you have an ulterior motive for proposing to me? You would not have given me the time of day had we met under different circumstances.”
“Ye canno’ know this. In fact, now that we have met, I am keen to get to know ye better,” he said, casting her a smile she might have considered attractive had they met at some Society affair.
She turned away, and immediately felt a sharp twinge to her ribs. “Enough of this nonsense,” she said, still turned away to hide her wince. “Where is the tea? And cakes your Mairie supposedly baked?”
“She is no’ my Mairie, whatever yer comment is meant to imply. She’s the cook here and has been since I was a lad.”
“I see,” she remarked by way of apology. “I’d like to warm my insides and then lie down for a bit.”
She gingerly touched her ribs, which were quite sore from hours of jostling as she was hauled over Mongo’s lap on her stomach and forced to endure his saddle’s digging into her body for the entire ride to Lanark Castle.
“Truly, I am in no humor for your flattery, which is obviously calculated to put me off my guard, nor do I care for any of this ridiculous conversation.”
He frowned when she sank back in her chair, no longer able to hide the discomfort that had caught up to her now that she had calmed down.
“Miranda?” He unfolded his arms and knelt beside her once more.
“Och, Miranda,” he said gently, her name sliding off his tongue with a soft roll of the R that sounded lovely in his deep brogue.
“I didna think to ask if ye were hurt. In truth, ye seemed so strong and vital while hurling everything ye could get yer hands on at Mongo. Aye, the lad deserved it. Taking ye was bad enough, but it pains me to think ye were physically hurt, too.”
“No, I’m fine.”
He placed a hand on her ribs and pressed lightly.
She let out a cry. “Let go of me!”
“I merely touched yer rib cage. I wasn’t holding on to ye. Do ye think ye might have broken a rib or two?”
“No, I’m sure they are merely bruised,” she insisted, because if they were broken he would insist on confining her to bed until they healed.
She did not wish to stay here an hour longer than necessary. Indeed, not a minute longer.
“Miranda,” he said, his voice achingly gentle again, “let my housekeeper inspect those bruises. Tilda’s a healer, and I trust her to make certain ye aren’t hurt worse than ye are letting on. I’m so sorry, lass.”
He did look sincerely contrite, but she was not inclined to soften toward him. Why should she when he was the cause of her ills? It was his fault he had remained a bachelor when he obviously could have found himself a good wife, for he was incredibly handsome despite his apparent belief otherwise.
In truth, she was surprised how perfectly the rough bits of him fell together to form this appealing specimen of a man.
Also, he was a duke who seemed to be prosperous, if the furnishings she had destroyed were any indication.
And those muscles. Dear heaven. Those indicated he was also hardworking.
So, why remain a bachelor when he could have had his pick of Scottish maidens?
Many English ladies would have leaped at the chance to become his wife, too.
Even she might have felt an attraction if circumstances were different.
The elderly fellow he had referred to as Gordon rolled in a tea cart laden with a tempting array of foods to fill her stomach. Not only were there oatcakes and an entire apple pie, but he set out a platter of cold meats, cheeses, and bread before quietly leaving them to these refreshments.
Miranda noticed that the teapot and teacups were of surprisingly fine quality, the china as elegant as any tea service set out in a London drawing room.
This parlor also spoke of old money and discerning taste.
A magnificent oriental carpet covered much of the stone floor.
On the walls were portraits of prior dukes and over the hearth was an impressive array of weaponry, massive claymores and large axes that now served merely as decorative objects of war but must have been used in battle at one time or another by his ancestors.
Those claymores were heavy swords requiring enormous strength to lift and wield. Miranda could see this duke carrying one into the fray and using it with lethal precision against his enemies.
He had the strength to do it, too. In fact, he had the most exquisite musculature she had ever seen on a man, yet not overdone at all. Just perfect for his rugged frame.
Not that she made a habit of staring at undressed men. But he was giving her quite a show because he still had not donned a shirt. Nor was she inclined to remind him of this oversight.
Why should she not enjoy looking at him? He was an unusual mix of brawn and elegance.
She surveyed the rest of the large room with dismay, realizing she had shattered most of the porcelain vases the former Dukes of Solway must have collected over the years and perhaps over centuries.
Oh dear.
Had she destroyed priceless items?
Well, who told him to leave the valuable antiques out in the open where any fool could get their hands on them?
Still, what had she done? Would Solway demand retribution for the mess she had created?
At the time, those vases and other valuables had seemed convenient weapons to use against his kinsmen. They were just sitting there on decorative tables, begging to be hurled.