memories-of the trial. Of more.
Someone knocked at the door.
Ian almost ignored it, but his visitor rapped again. He forced himself up and limped to the door. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the knob, then he opened it. Only one person knows I’m here.
“Thank God, Ian!” Catherine Strake pushed passed him, then turned and embraced him. “I was there. I saw.”
Ian pushed the door closed, but could not escape her grasp. He knew she shouldn’t be there, and he knew he should set her back at arm’s length, but he felt hollow. He felt as if he would collapse, save for her holding on to him. So he slipped his arms around her.
“I wish you had not seen.”
“Why?” She took his face in her hands, her brown eyes brimming with tears. “You were magnificent, Ian. You were more a hero in there than you were killing dire wolves or at Rondeville. You stood up to that tyrant, Bumble. I have never seen a man so brave.”
Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed him full on the mouth. Her hands slipped into his hair, pulling him down to her, and he crushed her to him. He held on tightly, kissing her hotly, fiercely. She moaned into his mouth and ground her body against him. He felt himself begin to respond, and then they drew apart only enough for four hands to make quick work of buttons and bows, belts and garters. He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the room’s small bed, laying her down there on a quilted coverlet.
She drew him to her, shaking her head to loosen her hair. With nibbles and playful licks, quick caresses, and the long slide of her legs against his, she enflamed him. She rolled him onto his back and grasped him, sliding him into her. They moved together, their hips rising and falling, she a vision of loveliness, her breasts swaying with the fluid rhythm of his thrusts. Her eyes closed and back arched, her mouth falling open, her hands clawing at his shoulders. She cried out, sharply, her body shaking and then, with him still hard inside her, she lay forward on his chest and licked at his neck.
“Let me catch my breath, lover, and then…”
Ian thought, just for a moment, to push her away. I should not have done this to Owen. He even grasped her shoulders to do that, but she ducked her head and licked at one of his nipples, then kissed him. And as she brought her head up, he saw in her eyes the light he had once seen in his wife’s. In that instant, though he knew himself damned, he also knew himself to be loved. To trade one for the other seemed a wise bargain, and one from which he could not depart.
He smiled. “Yes, lover, catch your breath, and then I need you to show me how much you love me.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
29 June 1767 Temperance Temperance Bay, Mystria
Miranda squeezed Owen’s hand tightly as they reached the docks. She stopped moving forward. He looked down and saw fear flash over her face. Then the little girl’s eyes began to well up with tears.
Owen snatched her up in his arms. “What is it, Miranda?”
“Mama says that if you don’t want to go to Norisle, we shall go anyway.” The girl looked at him, her eyes wide. “Don’t you love me anymore, Papa?”
Owen’s throat immediately thickened. He felt as if his belly had been slashed open and his guts had spilled out. He hugged his daughter tightly. “Miranda, I love you. I have never stopped loving you. I will always love you.” He stroked her back as she sobbed, her tears wetting his neck. “Everything shall be fine, princess.”
He didn’t need to ask what had made her think he didn’t love her. Not but an hour earlier Catherine had stormed from their apartment, shouting, “I don’t think you’ve ever loved anyone but yourself, Owen Strake!” He wanted to go after her, but he couldn’t leave Miranda alone. He’d looked back and had seen his daughter huddled in the doorway to the bedroom, crouching down so she’d not be noticed.
“Mama said you would go to Norisle, Papa. You said you won’t.”
Owen found a bench and sat, then placed his daughter beside him. “Miranda, before I went away, I told your mother we would go to Norisle, all three of us. When I got back, the Prince asked me to stay, just a while longer.”
“Why?”
“Some of the things I saw while I was gone are scary.”
The little girl thought, then nodded, dark ringlets bouncing. “Like wolves and jeopards.”
“Exactly.” Owen settled his arm around her. “If your papa goes off to Norisle now, many little boys and girls like you and Richard and Rowena could be hurt.”
“Then why does Mama want you to go?”
“Do you remember how much you missed me when I was gone?”
Miranda spread her hands as far apart as possible. “More than a hug.”
Owen kissed the top of her head. “Your mother misses Norisle more than a hug.”
“Then Mama should go.”
“But then she would miss you.”
Miranda shook her head. “She told me I’m a big girl now. I am big enough to stay with the Princess while she takes care of Uncle Ian.”
Owen tipped her head up so he could see her face. “You know your mama loves you.”
“I know.” Miranda looked down. “I don’t want to go if you don’t go.”
“I don’t want to be apart from you, either, Miranda.” He gave her another kiss on the top of her head, and they sat there watching the ocean and the ships gently bobbing in the harbor. Owen found himself wishing that, indeed, his wife was onboard one, heading toward Norisle. He regretted it instantly, but her refusal to be sensible left him stuck. She made most vociferously plain her desire: that he should honor his pledge that they would go to Norisle as a family. Yet no matter how clearly he explained why he could not go, she came back to the point that he was a liar.
And I cannot argue with that. He had agreed with the Prince that he would keep a secret from her. Given her irrationality, the Prince was right in extracting that promise from him. And he might also have been right that forcing Owen to keep a secret would kill his marriage. It occurred to him that the last time he was truly happy in his marriage was when Catherine had come to Mystria, right before the Anvil Lake campaign. When we conceived our beautiful daughter.
“Miranda, do you like Mystria?”
“It’s home, Papa. I love you and Mama and Uncle Ian and Agnes and Richard and Rowena and even Peregrine even though we can’t get too close and he’s stinky.” She giggled as she counted on her fingers. “And the Prince and Princess and Becca but not Mugwump. He’s stinky, too.”
“You should like people even if they are stinky, Miranda.”
She looked up, her hazel eyes bright. “I love That Bastard Woods.”
“Miranda!”
“What?”
“We don’t call people bastards. Where did you hear that?”
Miranda poked out her lower lip, then shrugged. “Mama called him that when you went away.”
“Does she mention Kamiskwa?”
The girl nodded. “She calls him ‘the heathen.’”
Owen looked her in the face. “Nathaniel and Kamiskwa are very good friends of mine. They have saved my life many times. You will call them Mr. Woods and Prince Kamiskwa. Do you understand.”
“Mr. Woods and Prince Kasmirka.”
“Kamiskwa.”
The little girl screwed her face up with determination. “Kasmirkawa.”
“One more time, Miranda…”
“Captain Strake, if I might be so bold.”
Owen looked up. “Please, Miss Frost.”
