Miranda scowled at him but let him pass. There was no way the bookseller would best her this time. She'd come armed with a titled gentleman and a healthy dose of rage. The book was all but hers.
A bell jingled as Turner entered the shop. Miranda followed right behind him, practically stepping on his heels.
"May I assist you, sir?" the bookseller asked, all fawning politeness.
"Yes, I'm interested in…" His words trailed off as he looked around the store.
"That book," Miranda said firmly, pointing toward the display in the window.
"Yes, that's the one." Turner offered the bookseller a bland smile.
"You!" the bookseller spluttered, his face turning pink with ire. "Out! Get out of my shop!" He grabbed Miranda's arm and tried to drag her to the door.
"Stop! Stop, I say!" Miranda, not one to let herself be abused by a man she considered to be an idiot, grabbed her reticule and thwacked him on the head.
Turner groaned.
"Simmons!" the bookseller yelled out, summoning his assistant. "Fetch a constable. This young lady is deranged."
"I'm not deranged, you overgrown goat!"
Turner pondered his options. Really, there could be no good outcome.
"I'm a paying customer," Miranda continued hotly. "And I want to buy Le Morte d'Arthur!"
"I'll die before it reaches your hands, you ill-mannered trollop!"
Trollop? That was really too much for Miranda, a young lady whose sensibilities were usually more modest than one might have guessed from her current behavior. "You vile, vile man," she hissed. She raised her reticule again.
Trollop? Turner sighed. It was an insult he really couldn't overlook. Still, he couldn't let Miranda attack the poor man. He grabbed the reticule from her hand. She glared daggers at him for his interference. He narrowed his eyes and gave her a warning look.
He cleared his throat and turned to the bookseller. "Sir, I must insist that you apologize to the lady."
The bookseller crossed his arms defiantly.
Turner glanced at Miranda. Her arms were crossed in much the same manner. He looked back at the older man and said, a little more forcefully, "You will apologize to the lady."
"She is a menace," the bookseller said viciously.
"Why, you- " Miranda would have launched herself at him if Turner had not pulled her back with a quick grab to the back of her dress. The older man balled his fist and assumed a predatory stance that was quite at odds with his bookish appearance.
"You be quiet," Turner hissed at her, feeling the beginnings of fury uncurl in his chest.
The bookseller shot her a triumphant look.
"Oh, that was a mistake," Turner said. Good God, did the man have no common sense? Miranda jolted forward, which meant that Turner had to hold on to her dress even more firmly, which meant that the bookseller assumed even more of a smirk, which meant that the whole bloody farce was going to spiral into a full-blown hurricane if Turner did not settle the matter then and there.
He gave the bookseller his iciest, most aristocratic stare. "Apologize to the lady, or I will make you very sorry, indeed."
But the bookseller was clearly a raving idiot, because he did not accept the offer Turner had, in his estimation, so generously offered. Instead, he jutted his jaw belligerently and announced, "I have nothing for which to apologize. That woman came into my store…"
"Ah, hell," Turner muttered. There was no avoiding it now.
"…disturbed my customers, insulted me…"
Turner balled his hand into a fist and swung, clipping the bookseller neatly next to his nose.
"Oh my good Lord," Miranda breathed. "I think you broke his nose."
Turner shot her a scathing glance before looking down at the bookseller on the floor. "I don't think so. He isn't bleeding enough."
"Pity," Miranda muttered.
Turner grabbed her arm and hauled her up close to him. The bloodthirsty little wench was going to get herself killed. "Not another word until we get out of here."
Miranda's eyes widened, but she wisely shut her mouth and allowed him to pull her out of the store. As they passed by the window, however, she caught sight of Le Morte d'Arthur and burst out, "My book!"
That was it. Turner slammed to a halt. "I don't want to hear another word about your damned book, do you hear me?"
Her mouth fell open.
"Do you understand what just happened? I struck a man."
"But wouldn't you agree he needed striking?"
"Not half as much as you need throttling!"
She drew back, clearly affronted.
"Contrary to whatever it is that you think of me," he bit off, "I don't go about my days pondering when and where I might next be reduced to violence."
"But- "
"But nothing, Miranda. You insulted the man- "
"He insulted me!"
"I was handling the matter," he said between clenched teeth. "That's why you brought me here, to handle everything. Isn't that so?"
Miranda scowled and moved her chin in a sharp, reluctant nod.
"What the devil was the matter with you? What if that man had had less restraint? What if- "
"You thought he showed restraint?" she asked, dumb-founded.
"At least as much as you did!" He grabbed her shoulders and almost began to shake. "Good God, Miranda, you do realize that there are many men who would not blink an eye before striking a woman? Or worse," he added meaningfully.
He waited for her answer, but she was just staring at him, her eyes huge and unblinking. And he had the most unsettling feeling that she saw something that he did not.
Something in him.
And then she said, "I'm sorry, Turner."
"For what?" he asked less than graciously. "For making a scene in the middle of a quiet bookstore? For not keeping your mouth shut when you should have? For- "
"For upsetting you," she said quietly. "I'm sorry. It was not well done of me."
Her soft words cut cleanly through his anger, and he sighed. "Just don't do anything like that again, will you?"
"I promise."
"Good." He realized that he was still clutching her shoulders and loosened his grip. Then he realized that her shoulders felt quite nice. Surprised, he let go altogether.
She tilted her head to the side as a worried expression crossed her face. "At least I think I promise. I shall certainly try not to do anything to upset you like that."
Turner had a sudden vision of Miranda trying not to upset him. The vision upset him. "What has happened to you? We depend upon you to be levelheaded. Lord knows you've steered Olivia out of trouble more than once."
Her lips pressed together, and then she said, "Don't confuse levelheaded with meek, Turner. They're not the same thing at all. And I am certainly not meek."
She wasn't being defiant, he realized. She was simply stating fact- one that he suspected his family had overlooked for years. "Have no fear," he said wearily, "if ever I entertained the notion that you were meek, you have certainly disabused me of it this afternoon."
But God help him, she wasn't done. "If I see something that is so obviously wrong," she said earnestly, "I can hardly sit by and do nothing."
She was going to kill him. He was sure of it. "Just try to stay away from obvious mischief. Could you do that for me?"
"But I didn't think this was particularly mischievous. And I did- "
He held up his hand. "No more. Not another word on the topic. It'll take ten years off my life just talking about it." He took her arm and steered her toward home.
Dear God, what was wrong with him? His pulse was still racing, and she hadn't even been in any danger. Not really. He doubted the bookseller could have got a good punch in. And furthermore, why the devil was he so worried about Miranda? Of course he cared about her. She was like a little sister to him. But then he tried to imagine Olivia in her place. All he could feel was mild amusement.