Miranda Read Online Free PDF Page A

Robbie?”
    â€œThe lad’s fast asleep in the coach, bless his wee heart,” Duffie said with fondness. His bristly, graying beard outlined the bow shape of his broad smile. “At the moment, you need me more.”
    They stood together in thoughtful silence, surveying the place that had been the home of Miranda Stonecypher.
    It was a modest suite of rooms with scuffed plank floors, threadbare upholstery and papers crammed on shelves or strewn about. Black smears of dried blood marred the walls and floors.
    Books were piled on every available surface. The topics ranged from works on moral philosophy to scientific tracts on physics and cosmography.
    Had Miranda read them, or had they been her father’s? The Englishwomen Ian knew did not trouble themselves to read anything more challenging than La Belle Assemblée . God forbid they should actually have to think .
    By far the most disquieting item in the room was a painting over the mantel. It was a reproduction of The Nightmare by Fuseli, Swiss painter and darling of the radicals. A sleeping woman, clad in a gauzy night rail, reclined on a draped bed. On her bosom perched a creature with a burning gaze and a wicked leer, and in the background loomed a horse with glassy eyes and flaring nostrils.
    â€œNow that,” Duffie said, “gives me the willies.”
    â€œBe certain Robbie doesna see it.” Ian turned away from the picture. The room was in a shambles, destroyed by the murderers and then rifled by officers from Bow Street who had been alerted by an anonymous citizen.
    Ian grinned humorlessly. Lady Frances hated the Runners. This was not the first time they had interfered in her work.
    He and McDuff picked through the rubble that was left. A half-written letter responding to a lender’s dun for money. Greek symbols sketching out some mathematical formula. A mundane list in a more feminine hand: foolscap, ink, silk thread...
    In a carpetbag he found a stocking to be mended, along with an unfinished needlework project depicting a spray of forget-me-nots around an old-fashioned tower house. The caption read, “One father is more than an hundred schoolmasters.” A faint floral scent clung to the bag. Ian dropped it and raked a hand through his hair.
    He knew nothing about this woman.
    Except that she read wonderful books and liked dangerous paintings and loved her father.
    And that when he’d held her, he had felt a reluctant stirring in his heart.
    â€œOch, I dinna believe my eyes,” Duffie exclaimed.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Ian asked in annoyance.
    â€œThe great MacVane of the Highlands actually felt something other than hatred and rage. Ah, dinna deny it. I saw it in your pretty face. You care about the lass, don’t you?” Duffie gave a sly wink.
    Ian clutched the back of a wooden chair and glared down at his gloved hands. The gloves spared him from seeing the stump of his finger, from remembering the past.
    â€œShe’s a puzzlement, Duffie. There was something...not right about her that night.”
    â€œPeople dinna generally appear their best following a massive explosion,” Duffie observed helpfully.
    â€œIt was more than just panic and confusion. It was—” Ian nearly strangled on his own words as a blinding flash of memory cleaved his thoughts. Just for a moment, he was in another place, another time...
    Burning buildings, thick smoke, people running to and fro. And his mother, unable to stand what they had done to her, had that same look in her eyes. That look of madness...
    â€œMadness, you say?” Duffie asked.
    â€œDid I say that?”
    â€œWell, if people were to perceive the poor lass to be mad, then...”
    Duffie and Ian looked at each other. At the same time, they snapped their fingers and spoke the same thought.
    â€œBedlam.”

Three

    Marriage is for life. If I were in your place,
I should tie my sheets to a window and be off.
    â€”Queen Maria