Free Miranda by Susan Wiggs

time. How magnificent he was, tall and lean and rugged, his black hair and sharp eyes creating a magnetism that ran deeper than his appearance. She felt drawn to him in a hundred little ways—the brush of his gloved hand on hers, the way one corner of his mouth lifted in wry amusement, or the warmth in her chest when he gazed at her.
    â€œIs this what love is, then?” she asked impulsively.
    He frowned, clearly startled. “What?”
    â€œThe way I feel when I look up at you. Is it love?”
    For a rare moment, his composure seemed to slip. He appeared raw and unguarded, unnerved and vulnerable. In the blink of an eye, his customary regard of lazy amusement returned. “This is not a conversation we’ve ever had before.”
    â€œIt’s important to me, Ian. It is.” She could not take her eyes off him. “I shall describe it, then, and you can tell me if it is love or not.” She kept one hand on the rail to steady herself. “You make me feel something quite jolting inside. I find myself wanting to touch you rather boldly, to hang on to you and discover your smell and your taste and— Why on earth are you laughing?”
    He made no attempt to stifle himself. “That isna love you describe, delicious as it sounds, Miranda. It’s lust.”
    Miffed, she poked her nose in the air. There was more to it than that. There had to be, for he was the only man she regarded in this way, and she had made it a point to study the sailors and officers of the Serendipity . She had been on the verge of baring her heart to him, and he was laughing at her.
    â€œNot that I am averse to lust,” he said quickly.
    In spite of herself, she felt mirth tugging at her. “But I truly want to know,” she said, sobering. “What did it feel like to love you? And will I ever feel that way again?”
    He turned away, but not before she detected a glimmer of torment in his craggy face. “Not if you know what’s good for you.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Still he did not look at her. “There are things about me—” He broke off. His hands clenched around the ship’s rail. “Ah, listen to me.” When he turned to her again, he was smiling. “I dinna want you to have any doubts, sweet.”
    â€œThen teach me,” she said, desperate to fill the emptiness inside her. “Show me how we used to love. I want to remember, Ian. Truly I do.”
    He said something gruff and Gaelic. “Lass, you don’t know what you’re asking.”
    She watched a gull dive for a fish in the distance, then studied the horizon, the gray edges of sea and sky, as if the answers were written there. After a while, she glanced back at him. “Help me, Ian. Help me remember.”
    â€œI don’t know how,” he said. “I canna simply give you your memories back, all wrapped up in a tidy parcel.”
    â€œThen tell me something, anything. A tidbit to spark my remembrance.”
    His blue eyes narrowed. “What sort of tidbit?”
    â€œConversations we’ve had. Experiences we’ve shared.” She could not explain how fearsome it was, this yawning black gulf inside her. It was like missing a leg or an eye. She was not whole, and she did not know how much longer she could go on. “Please,” she said. “I need to know.”
    He watched her for a moment, the wind mussing his glossy black hair. “I taught you to dance the waltz,” he said, speaking reluctantly, as if the words were pulled from him against his will.
    She cocked her head. “The waltz. It’s a dance, then?”
    â€œAye. All the rage in London this Season. The tsar and his sister, the grand duchess of Oldenburg, have made it the sport of choice.” He winked, then gripped her lightly by the waist, with one hand around hers. “The rhythm is like a heartbeat. One , two, three, one , two, three... Do you feel it?” He began to hum a