Miranda by Susan Wiggs Read Free Book Online Page A

sobered. “It is the oddest feeling, Mr. Mac... Ian. It’s happened a few times. I feel as if I’m on the brink of something—some discovery or revelation—and then everything disappears into a fog. Dr. Beckworth said my memory would return.” She raised bewildered brown eyes to him. “The question is, what made me forget this in the first place?”
    Ian’s heart gave a lurch. “It was the accident,” he said quietly. “’Twas a miracle you survived.”
    â€œBut what was I doing there?”
    His gut twisted. “I don’t know, love,” he said. “I’m only glad I was there to get you out in time.”
    â€œI wanted to die in there,” she whispered.
    He hoped he had heard her wrong. “No, Miranda—”
    â€œIt’s true. A calmness came over me, an acceptance. I wanted it, Ian, I did.”
    â€œYou were overcome by smoke.” The idea that she had craved death disturbed him deeply. In God’s name, Miranda , he wanted to say. What happened to you?
    But he couldn’t ask that. She expected him to know.
    She frowned and rubbed her temple, swaying a little.
    â€œAre you all right?” he asked.
    â€œA headache. They come and go.” She walked a few steps along the quay, then turned and walked back. Ian watched her, trying to analyze the effect she had on him.
    What was it about the lass? She was almost waiflike in the faded dress, yet the worn fabric failed to conceal the body of a temptress. And in her eyes he could see ancient, veiled secrets. A wealth of memories lived inside her. His task was to unlock them, even if he had to batter down the door.
    She rubbed her temples again, wincing at the pain and closing her eyes.
    â€œAre you certain you’re all right?” he asked again.
    She nodded, eyes still closed. “Can you take me to the house where I live?”
    He thought swiftly of the ramshackle rooms in Blackfriars, the overturned furniture, the dried blood. “You should rest.”
    She opened her eyes. A shroud of shadows crept over her face. Without moving, she distanced herself from him, receding to a place he could not imagine. For a moment it was as if she lived somewhere else, in a world of her own fancy. Or was it the past?
    â€œMiranda?” he prompted. The syllables of her name tasted sweet, spoken with his Scottish burr. He was a sick man indeed. He took a perverse pleasure in simply saying her name.
    She blinked, and the distant look passed. “I try, truly I do. I try to remember.” She clasped both her hands around his. Her fingers were chilly; he could feel it through his gloves. He rubbed his thumbs over them, to warm her. Or himself, he was not sure which. But in that moment he felt something—they both did; he could see it in her eyes. The startlement. The recognition. The deep inner twist of captivation that defied all logic.
    â€œYou must tell me, Ian,” she said. “You are my betrothed. Surely you know my home.” She hesitated. “My family. For the love of God, what was my way of life?”
    Falsehoods came to him swiftly. “Ours was a whirlwind courtship, so I confess there is much about you I do not know.”
    â€œThen tell me something you do know.”
    â€œYou lived,” he said, hating himself for lying but lying anyway, “to love and be loved by me.”
    She caught her breath, a dreamy softness suffusing her face. “Ah, Ian. That is what I want to remember most of all. Loving you, and you loving me.”
    He stroked her cheek, and when her eyes opened, he let a devilish smile curve his mouth. “Does this mean I must teach you all over again?”
    She laughed throatily. “Perhaps. Do I have family?”
    â€œAlas, no.” He didn’t look at her, didn’t want to see her reaction. “You’re a scholar, Miranda. A teacher. A...private tutor.”
    â€œThen I lived with a family. With