Page 31 of The Major's Mistake
Julian was too shocked to react. He watched in stunned silence as her willowy figure melded into the lengthening shadows. A covering of clouds had leached the colors from the setting sun, casting a pall of grey over the weathered granite and windswept pines.
For some reason, his spirits suddenly felt as leaden as his surroundings.
His mouth compressed in a tight line as he tried to make some sense out of it all. In some ways, Miranda’s accusations were not far from the truth. More times than he cared to admit, he had lain awake at night imagining a meeting between them, one where he would take great satisfaction in seeing her humbled and hurt. He had thought that somehow it would serve to assuage his own pain.
But in reality, he found that what he felt was neither triumph nor righteousness, only a strange, aching emptiness.
If what had just occurred was in any sense a moral victory for himself, it was a bitter one indeed. Why, it was only when she was in his arms and he had shared her pain, rather than reveled in it, that it had felt the least bit right inside.
Perhaps it was because a part of him cringed when he thought about the past. Seven long years of war had taught him that precious few people made no mistakes. Who had he, a green youth, been to judge so harshly?
His eyes pressed tightly closed as he considered all the foolish blunders he had made in his first years on the Peninsula. How easily he could have been broken in spirit had his commanding officer been a rigid martinet rather than a man of compassion as well discipline. He couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe he wasn’t quite as blameless in what had happened as he had been wont to think.
Julian buried his head in his hands as her last words echoed in his ears. A moment later, a violent oath rent the still air as his fist slammed into the cracked stone with such force that his knuckles were left bruised and bleeding. Jamming the damaged hand into his pocket, he stumbled to his feet and rushed towards he had left his horse.
He caught up with her not far from the boundary of her aunt’s lands.
“Miranda, a word if you will,” he called as he slid down from the saddle.
She had turned at the sound of an approaching rider, then quickened her steps on seeing who it was.
“Miranda!” Julian sought to match her stride. In the near darkness, his boot caught in a rut of the rough cart track and he fell heavily to the ground.
The sound caused her to glance around. With a small cry, she rushed back and knelt by his side. “Ju—sir, are you alright?” Herhand was already moving gently down over his thigh, seeking to ascertain whether there was any new damage to his knee.
He muttered an oath of frustration under his breath. “Yes, yes. Just stupid clumsiness—” There was a sharp intake of breath as Miranda’s fingers pressed a jagged lump to one side of his kneecap.
Her eyes widened in concern. “Why, there is still a good deal of shrapnel in your leg. Cannot a surgeon do anything to remove the fragments?”
“No bloody sawbones will ever get near me,” he said through gritted teeth. “It will be fine in just a minute.” With a slight grimace, he made to get up.
“Come then, let me help you over to where you may sit down, sir.”
As she spoke, she slipped her arm around his waist. The linen of his shirt had been tugged about in some disarray and her fingers brushed up against bare skin.
He managed to stagger over the low stone wall she had indicated, then slumped against the mossy surface. Her hand fell away from the hard planes of his stomach, only to begin massaging once again at the tender area around his injured knee.
He sat watching her in rigid silence until he had his emotions under tight rein. “I hardly meant to force your attention in such a pitiable manner,” he said in a low voice. “But now that you are here, perhaps you will do me the favor of listening to what I came to say.”
Miranda’s eyes came up hesitantly to meet his.
“I … I never thought you a …” He swallowed hard before being able to continue. “A … a whore. Never.”
She wrenched her gaze away. “No? Yet you cast me off as if I were nothing more than … a soiled shirt.”
“I was hurt, Miranda.” His voice was raw with pain. “I—I had thought we shared a special bond …” His words trailed off.
“It was you, sir, who began to spend every night out carousing with your friends.”
A tremor ran through Julian’s jaw. “I would much rather have been with you,” he admitted. “But the teasings—I did not wish to appear a man-milliner. I was counseled that it wasn’t at all the thing to dance attendance on one’s new bride, lest one be considered under the cat’s paw.”
“Ah, the advice of your estimable friends,” she said with a cutting edge to her voice. “No doubt they had only your best interest in mind, especially Lord—” She stopped abruptly, as if she couldn’t bring herself to say the name.
His head jerked around. “What do you mean by that?”
Miranda didn’t answer but merely shook her head sadly. “Perhaps you should have trusted your own feelings.”
He took a deep breath. “If you must know, I still couldn’t quite believe that you had accepted my suit over all the others that sought your hand. You were so beautiful and so self assured, while I was awkward and shy …”
