Free Unconquered by Bertrice Small

them.
    “ ’Nother few minutes and I’d have come looking for you with the dogs,” he said sharply.
    “What on earth for?” demanded Miranda. “I’ve been riding this island all my life.”
    “He hasn’t.”
    “He was with me.”
    “Yep,” the taciturn man replied. “That’s what I was worried about.”
    “You need have no fears for Miranda, Jed,” said Jared quietly. “She had done me the honor of agreeing to become my wife. Our wedding is to be celebrated December sixth. Cousin Thomas asked that his mourning period be no more than a month.”
    “Ahhh,” breathed the stableman with just a ghost of a smile on his weathered face. “That’s different, Master Jared.” He took the horses from them and turned away to the stables. “Good night to you both, then.”
    Jared chuckled. “He is more aware of the proprieties than you are, wildcat, even after your London season.”
    “I hated London!” she replied vehemently. “I could never really breathe. It was dirty, and noisy, and everyone was always in a hurry.”
    “That’s the curse of all big cities, Miranda, but don’t be too harsh on London. It can be a lovely place, and if this situation in Europe doesn’t develop into a war I will take you back there one day.”
    “We must go back next spring for Amanda’s wedding,” she reminded him.
    “Yes, there’s that. But you will be too busy spending your time and my money shopping.”
    She grinned mischievously up at him. “Fashions change, sir. I shall be forced to purchase an entire new wardrobe. It would hardly do for the mistress of Wyndsong Manor to be seen in last year’s clothes.”
    “Perish the thought,” he mocked, casting his gaze heavenward.
    They entered the house and were greeted by Dorothea, who asked, “When shall I tell Cook to serve dinner, Jared? It can be ready at any time.”
    “An hour, Miranda?”
    She nodded, flattered that he had asked, and sped up thestairs calling to Jemima, the maid she shared with Mandy, to prepare a bath. But on entering her bedroom, she found the steaming tub already waiting. “How do you always do that?” she demanded.
    “If I told you I’d have no secrets, now would I?” snapped the sharp-tongued Jemima, a tall, spare woman with iron-gray hair. “Phew, child, those clothes of yours stink to high heaven. You’ve been riding hard, Miss Miranda.” She looked slyly at the girl as she pulled off her boots. “Did he catch up with you?”
    Miranda kept her face carefully averted to hide her blushes. “No one, not even the new master of Wyndsong, can outride me, Mima. You should know that.” She slipped behind the painted screen, pulled off her riding clothes, and tossed them to the maid. “Take those downstairs to be washed. I’ll bathe myself, and ring when I need you.”
    Disappointed, Jemima left. She had been the twins’ nursemaid, and had simply stayed on as they grew older, serving them as personal maid. It was hard for her to adjust to their being grown. She wanted their confidences as she had had them when they were children. Of course, Amanda was more inclined to confide in Mima than Miranda had ever been. Miranda had always been a very private person.
    The bath stood waiting, and after testing it with her toe Miranda pinned her hair up, climbed in, and sank down into the perfumed water. The tub was cream-colored porcelain, decorated with tiny rosebuds. It had a high sloping back, and because it had been made especially for her in Paris, it was extra large and accommodated her long legs.
    For a few minutes she sat quietly, letting the warmth of the water penetrate her body, her mind a blank. The air was warm, and redolent of her personal scent, sweet stock, a slightly exotic yet innocent perfume that strangely suited her. It was distilled and made for her in London.
    As the tub began to cool she took up the stock-scented soap and quickly lathered and rinsed herself. Climbing out, she reached for the towel hanging on its rack