The Fairy Tale Bride

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Kent, 1837

Miranda slipped deeper into her hiding place as the duke appeared over a small rise with the setting sun at his shoulder. The hooves of his chestnut stallion flashed through the few remaining wildflowers. The last rays of the sun gleamed onto his fair head, giving him a halo that Miranda had always thought he well deserved – until yesterday.

Was she a fool to hope she could persuade him to help her brother? After all, army life changed men. It had made Valentine laugh less and shout more. It had destroyed the equality between them when even her father's pompous speeches about woman's inferiority and his harsh punishments for her childhood transgressions had not. 

What battle scars might the duke possess if he could quash her brother's elopement with heartless efficiency? A warning unease curled in the pit of her stomach, but Miranda forced it away with a memory of Valentine as she had left him — sitting forlorn and broken in the darkness of Anderlin's drape-drawn study.

She shifted to ease the stiffness of her knees and the prickling of the yew branches that concealed her, as she watched the duke dismount near the hunter's cottage, tether his horse, and disappear inside. She refused to surrender to the doubt that made her limbs heavy and gave her heart a wild beat as she left her shelter and headed for the cottage.

The roughly-hewn wooden door swung open easily at her touch, revealing the familiar room and its occupant. His back was turned away from her as he sat at the rackety old table that served the cottage for furnishing. As she entered, Miranda did the best she could to soften the forwardness of her own behavior. She smiled demurely, dropped a perfect curtsy and said, "Good evening, Your Grace." To her surprise, her throat went dry just as she began to speak. Her voice came out in a broken croak just as the door swung closed behind her on noiseless rope hinges. The room fell into darkness save for the single candle the duke had lit.

She realized her error when his shadowy figure rose abruptly and whipped around to face her. His voice rang out harshly, "What the devil?" Miranda had only the briefest glimpse of a worn leather pouch before it was hidden within his jacket. Aware of the precarious balance of the table, Miranda warned, "Do be careful. That table ... " The table rocked sideways, and the candle fell. They were plunged into darkness.

"Who the devil are you? What do you want?" His voice was no better than a snarl.

"I apologize for startling you." Miranda eased her way across the floor toward the spot she had last seen the candle. "Don't move, and I will soon have your candle lit."

His breath hissed inward, as though he were outraged by her suggestion, and he was silent for a moment before answering abruptly, "I assure you that I do not wish my candle lit."

Miranda halted in confusion for the barest second and then continued her search. "Here, I have it. The candle has come loose, I'm afraid. Let me just find — " Her foot touched the loose candle. "I do so hate the dark, don't you?"

She rose from the dusty floor, intending to light the candle now reset in the holder. Her skirts brushed against something unyielding and she could feel him, only inches from her. Startled, she froze, trying to gauge how far away he stood. Only a rustle in the darkness forewarned her before the candlestick was abruptly pulled from her hand.

"I have no quarrel with the dark, only with young women who consider me easy prey." She felt the heat that radiated from his body, so close they almost touched. Belatedly, she realized that his anger was greater than she had first thought.

Seeking to soothe him as she might an ill child when the child was in the throes of a temper, Miranda stroked his upper arm gently. "I am sorry, Your Grace. I truly did not mean to startle you."