She’d known Tristan all her life, but she was hardly in love with him. Theirs had been a business arrangement, a family arrangement, and emotion had played no part.
Still, she supposed she ought to feel something. But what?
With him out of the way, she’d be free to marry James. If, however, she couldn’t wrangle a proposal out of him, what then?
She would have lost her fiancé, an earl’s brother, and while her dowry could buy her another high-born husband, there were few men like dashing, handsome Captain Tristan Harcourt.
She’d bragged about her betrothal so many times, and now, if she had to go about London with everyone tittering over how she’d failed to land her grand catch, she’d die of mortification.
“Say something,” James urged.
“I...I...I am in a state of shock. I can’t think of a single remark that would be appropriate.”
“There’s more,” he murmured.
“More?”
“The details are all over town, and I want you to hear them from me.”
“What is it?”
“There was a woman with him.”
“On the ship?”
“Yes. They were placed in the longboat together.”
“Was she his...his...mistress?”
“The crew insists she was a stowaway discovered after they’d sailed.”
Miranda studied him, and his gaze never wavered. If he was prevaricating, he was hiding it well, but despite what he asserted, the woman’s allegedly innocent role had to be false.
A stowaway indeed!
While Miranda had never imagined that Tristan was a saint, she’d never been apprised that he had a mistress either. It was the sort of vicious rumor upon which Society thrived.
The notion that he’d vanished with his paramour was daunting. In the impending gossip, the little Jezebel would take on mythic qualities. How did one compete with a legend?
“And”—his shoulders slumped with resignation—“there’s still a bit more after that.”
“More than the possibility that my fiancé perished with his harlot and all of London knows it?”
They both sighed. “Yes.”
“What is it?”
“The pirate claimed to be...well...our half-brother.”
She scowled. “I don’t understand.”
“He is the son sired by Charles Sinclair on my mother. When they were in Paris, remember? She had a son.”
“I thought he died as a boy.”
“No one ever knew for sure, and Father wasn’t about to waste money or energy trying to find out.”
“Your half-brother...” she reflected. “Why would he do such a thing? Why would he murder Tristan?”
“Apparently, it was vengeance—on behalf of his mother. Or I guess I should say on behalf of my mother.”
“Unbelievable.”
She was quiet, plotting, her mind awhirl with options. What did she want? What should she do?
“I’m not certain what should happen next,” she said.
“We don’t have to figure it out today.”
“Will we have a funeral? Will we bury him?”
“Not yet. I’ve paid to mount a search. An acquaintance of mine is going to look for him.”
“Is there any hope he’ll be found?”
He shrugged. “I have to try.”
“So we won’t hear anything for months.”
Or perhaps years! She could drag it out forever!
“No.”
“May I...may I stay in London? I’d like to be close in case there’s any news.”
“Of course you can stay. For as long as you like.”
Outside, in the window behind James, she could see Miss Stewart approaching from the garden.
Fate had provided Miranda with a marvelous opportunity to seize the life for herself that she’d always craved, but Stewart could wreck everything.
James was so bewitched by Stewart that he would never fire her, and the blasted woman was too stupid to leave on her own. Miranda had to up the stakes, had to force Stewart out of their lives.
Stewart was about to enter the house through the same door Miranda had just used. Her path would take her directly past the parlor where Miranda was sequestered with James.
If Miranda was lucky, Stewart would glance into the room, and Miranda realized the precise scene that Stewart needed to witness.
Miranda buried her face in her hands, and she blinked and blinked until her eyes watered.
It was an old trick, one she’d perfected as a girl when her gullible parents had refused to let her have her way. By the time she stood, she’d worked up a good sheen of tears. She turned to James, swiping at her cheeks.
“Don’t cry,” he soothed. “It will be all right.”
“What will I do without him? What will become of me?”
She staggered over to him and snuggled herself to his broad chest.
“I’ve been shopping for my trousseau,” she said, “and it’s almost complete. Now there’s to be no wedding. It all seems so sad.”
“I know.”
“I feel so frivolous. I spent yesterday visiting friends and drinking tea, but poor Tristan was dead at the bottom of the ocean. I wish I could die, too!”
“Hush. Don’t talk like that.”
She pulled away and peered up at him. Their position was scandalously romantic. If they were observed, only one conclusion would be drawn. He was gazing at her so tenderly, and she froze, on pins and needles, positive he was about to kiss her.
She waited...and waited...
Behind her, a gasp sounded, and James frowned and stepped away.
Miranda peeked over her shoulder, delighted to see Miss Stewart in the doorway. She was so pale that Miranda wondered if she might swoon.
Aware that her expression was hidden from James, Miranda flashed a sly, triumphant grin.
Miss Stewart studied them carefully, not missing a single detail, then she whipped away and fled without a word.
A charged silence ensued, and Miranda said, “Well, I declare! She is so moody! What has gotten into her now?”
James clasped Miranda’s arms and eased her away.
“Would you excuse me?”
He hurried out.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Harriet sat on the deserted beach, her toes curled into the hot sand. Waves lapped in lazy surges. A warm breeze ruffled her hair. The sun was so bright, the sky so blue, that her eyes ached.
Off in the distance, she could see several other islands poking out of the water, and on the horizon, it seemed as if she was staring at the Spanish mainland, but she couldn’t be sure. The sight might have simply been an illusion. In any case, it was all too far away to be relevant to her current predicament.
“Harriet,” Tristan called from behind her, and she glanced around.
He was up above her on the dunes, lounging in the shade. He gestured for her to join him, but she didn’t move.
They had spent three harrowing days and nights out on the ocean, but the fourth morning had found them winging toward a tropical isle, neatly directed by the tide as if it had been their destination all along.
The surf had tossed their boat upside down, pitching them out so they’d nearly drowned. Tristan had been in no condition to fight the current, and Harriet had been pulled under by the weight of her sodden clothes, so they’d just managed to wade to shore.
As they’d lain on the sand, counting their blessings and saying their prayers, they’d watched in dismay as their boat was smashed to bits on an outcropping of rocks.
Since then, many days had passed, and Tristan had amazed her by remaining alive. His injuries had festered, but he claimed the salt water was healing, so he swam often, and the therapy actually seemed to be helping. His pallor had faded, his wounds closing, the redness of infection disappearing as if it had never been.
His energy and vigor were gradually returning, along with his cocky attitude. Whenever she heard him barking orders, she breathed a sigh of relief, knowing he was on the mend.
As for herself, she was still in a state of shock, too inundated to think clearly or make plans. She’d survived their ordeal, and for the moment, it was the sole aspect upon which she could focus.
Their island—which Tristan had dubbed Eden—was small, with a slight rise in the middle from which the ocean was visible all the way around. They were totally alone, much as Adam and Eve had been, and she felt vulnerable and exposed.
Her stockings and shoes had been lost in their frantic struggle to get on shore. Her gown was torn to shreds to use as bandages, so she was clad only in her chemise. When worn under a dress, the garment was very functional, but as a piece of clothing in and of itself, it provided no protection whatsoever.
The straps were narrow and the hem very short, hanging to just above her knees. Her arms were bare, her feet were bare, her shoulders and a good deal of bosom were bare. For a woman who had been covered from chin to toe her entire life, she might as well have been naked.
Tristan, too, was hardly dressed, sporting a pair of male drawers and naught else. No shirt. No stockings. No shoes. Back on his ship, he’d taken up the battle in only his trousers, but she’d ripped those away to check a gash on his leg.
The drawers hugged his narrow hips and fell to mid-thigh, and they were a light cream color, so whenever she happened to notice him out of the corner of her eye, she was always initially stunned to suppose that he was nude.
He called to her again, and finally, she rose and went to him. He limped and was easily fatigued, and she worried that he might overtax himself and have a relapse.