Miracle (13 page)

The storm hit around midnight, as did the cold, driven by howling winds that whipped in drafts through the hallways of the castle like invisible spirits. Clayton slouched in a chair of carved, worm pitted oak with a worn, frayed tapestry upholstery that must have been one hundred years old if it was a day. Dust had risen in a cloud from its sagging seat when he had wearily dropped into it.

He wanted a drink—a stiff one. Preferably brandy. In his somewhat clandestine search of the premises, Benjamin had turned up nothing remotely resembling a distilled grog, which hadn't surprised Clayton, not after Miracle's ledge-top lecture earlier that afternoon. He ached from cold. Even the heavy woolen cloak he sat buried within did little to warm him. His jaws hurt from clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering. His toes were numb; his ears burned.

Before him, at a table piled high with neatly folded stacks of white linen shirts, Lady Miracle Cavendish slept with her head nestled upon a stack of partially sewn garments, her hair like shiny polished copper in the meager light of the oil lamp sitting on the table.

For the last two hours, Clayton had frozen in this place, watching her sleep, the needle and thread still pressed between her fingertips. What was she doing here, cloistered in the top of the old turret, away from what little comfort the lower chambers of the castle had to offer?

She seemed so small to him, even in this tiny chamber. Undoubtedly, she was a handsome young woman, with the kind of facial characteristics that would compliment her into her later years. Certainly, she was not like most of society's fashion-conscious
femmes fatales
whose youthful yet pretty plumpness would begin to sag by the end of their first year of marriage (once they had bagged a husband with a title), then slide completely into their swollen ankles with the birth of their first baby (by then hoping the husband with the title would vent his baser needs on his many mistresses, which he would happily do once he had successfully produced the necessary heirs).

Miracle would be different.

He imagined her slender and healthy, with wind-kissed cheeks and bright blue-green eyes, even after she'd birthed a half dozen astoundingly beautiful children—all of whom would look just like her.

That wouldn't happen, of course. How could he forget? The duke of Salterdon was interested in only one child—a boy. The fruit of his loins that would make Trey Hawthorne, the former duke of Salterdon's firstborn son, one of the wealthiest men in England.

The wind beat upon the turret shutters, and thunder rumbled. The storm's force rolled onto the mainland and boiled around the castle, lightning brightening the room intermittently as the fierce spears erupted across the sky. Miracle stirred and drowsily forced open her heavy-lidded eyes. For a long moment she continued to rest there, her head on the pillow of soft white linen, while she appeared to make sense of her soundings. Then she saw him. She sat upright, her eyes wide, her breasts rising and falling rapidly.

"What are you doing here?" came her breathless voice.

"Watching you, obviously."

"How did you find this room?"

"I couldn't sleep—"

"So you invade the privacy of your host's home and wander about at will. How like you. Tell me where you went and what you found there. Confess, sir! What did you discover?"

"Rooms. Mostly empty. No wailing ghosts or tombs. Why? Are you hiding something here, Lady Cavendish, that you don't care for the world to see?"

The turret shook, as did the floor. The lamp on the table cast shivering light on the bare stone walls.

Frowning, the agitation on Miracle's features turning into sudden, chilling concern as her mind registered the tumult at last, she jumped from her chair and flew to the window, flinging the shutters wide, softly crying aloud as the frigid wind and rain washed over her.

"Damn fool, what was I thinking?" she called into darkness.

In three long quick strides, Clayton reached the window and grabbed for the shutter. Miracle caught his arm with surprising strength and pushed him away. Leaning against the window ledge, her face and shoulders fast becoming drenched by the icy deluge, she stared hard through the blackness, repeating, "What was I thinking?"

More forcefully, Clayton stepped between her and the window, narrowed his eyes, and caught his breath as he took the full brunt of the driving wind and rain. He grabbed the shutters, struggled with them momentarily, and finally slammed them closed.

"For the love of Christ," he said through his teeth, and turned to face her. She stood with her arms pressed to her breasts, hands clenched so tightly her knuckles shone white. Her hair clung to her head and shoulders in long, sodden strands. Her dress was wet through. "What the devil do you think you're doing? You'll catch your death."

Quickly, he removed his cloak and attempted to fling it around her. As quickly, she moved away, back to the table near the light, her eyes frantically searching the room as thunder shook the cell again. "I should be there—at the lighthouse. How could I have done this, fallen asleep that way?"

She stared down at the stack of sewing as if it might reveal an answer to her question.

"Please," Clayton said softly, taking a cautious step toward her and extending the cloak in one hand. "You're trembling, lass."

"No!" she shouted, her eyes wide and her cheeks red with anger. "Don't you think I know what you're doing? You don't give a leap whether I'm trembling,
Your Grace.
You simply want something from me—the same as all the others just like you—the well-heeled high stockings who converge on this island in your fine contraptions and your silk purses bulging with coins. You look at us as if we're specimens under glass. Curiosities. You murmur among yourselves that it's a shame that the island folk live so primitively and ignorantly. Yet you come here to buy our goods: our sheep that are the finest in England, our cattle, our wheat, you purchase our lace for your wives and mistresses, buttons and gloves for a pittance of what they're worth, then boast to your peers back in London how you bartered with 'the plebeians' until you 'practically stole' the merchandise from beneath them. Now, for some reason, you've come here and want me, but please be informed,
Your Grace,
the price one would have to pay for my heart is so far beyond your scale to imagine, you could not even begin to comprehend."

"And what price would that be, my lady? I'm a very wealthy man, rest assured, so there is little that is beyond my ability to pay."

"Love," she said with a lift of her small chin and a flash of her eyes. "Nothing more, sir, and nothing less."

Thunder cracked again, more loudly this time, causing mortar to rain from the ceiling. Miracle ran from the room. Clayton struck out after her, his ability to catch up hampered by the fact that he was unfamiliar with the narrow, spiraling stone steps that were now blanketed mostly in darkness since the meager candles had sputtered out.

She was headed for the lighthouse. He didn't need a gypsy to tell him that. And instinct told him she would take the quickest course, the trail she had taken just that morning: that wretched, narrow, winding little strip of sand and rock that balanced so precariously five hundred feet above the sea. One slip of her foot on the muddy path, and—

He burst through the doorway she had used before him, stumbled momentarily through the dark and rain, gasping for air, dizzied by the play of lightning in the clouds— giant, jagged streaks of white, yellow, and blue that danced about the towering turrets and donjon walls as if displaying some perverse ballet.

He called her name, "Miracle!" again and again, forcing his feet to move, cursing under his breath, first his brother, then her, then himself, his damnable weakness.

Ahead of him, she struck down the path, a barely visible apparition that was there one second, gone the next. Clayton slid to a stop at the crest of the trail and strained to catch a glimpse of her through the darkness and rain. His gut clenched. His legs froze. His heart climbed up into his throat and he couldn't swallow.

"Miracle!" he shouted again, hearing his words drowned in the downpour.

Far, far below him, he could hear the water writhe and roar like some flailing monster, and as the sky brightened again, casting arrows of electricity at the turbid sea, he saw Miracle on the path, fallen, clutching at a clump of tussock grass, her face turned up toward his and her wide eyes glassy with fear.

Clenching his fists, he took one step, then another, his boots sinking in the mud while the howling wind drove against him, battering his shoulders, shoving him toward the black abyss.

Finally, he reached her, braced himself against the wall, and grabbed her, locked his slippery fingers around her muddy wrists and dragged her to her feet. Miracle fell against him, clutching him, small body shaking uncontrollably, then she stumbled away again, back down the path. He caught her, spun her around, and shook her, shouting through the rain, "Little idiot! What the blazes do you think you're doing?"

"I have to go! There could be ships out there depending on me!"

"Listen to me. The tide is in, Miracle. It's impossible to get to the lighthouse—"

"There's a boat—"

"
Dammit
, lass, listen to this wind. To the waves. You wouldn't last ten seconds in a boat in this weather.
Goddammit
, I won't let you!"

With that, he tore off his cloak and flung it around her, wrapped her in it like a cocoon and swept her up into his arms, dug his boots into the mire, and plowed his way back up the path and through the rain, led back to the castle by the tiny yellow light flickering in a solitary window of the keep.

Upon kicking open the door, he strode purposefully down the maze of corridors, Miracle gripped in his arms, her face buried in his shoulder, their clothes dripping rain on the floor. Benjamin appeared from the darkness.

"Basingstoke!" came his gasp of surprise.

"Hot water," Clayton snapped. "And lots of it. And toweling. And blankets. And for the love of God, ferret out some peat and stoke the fires before the lass catches her death."

"Have done, sir, in the drawing room, as well as in our chambers," the valet added with a tone of righteous accomplishment.

The drawing room was one of the few comfortable chambers in Cavisbrooke. Walnut paneling glowed rosily from the fire in the hearth and the scattering of oil lamps around the room. There were carpets and oilcloths on the floor. A half dozen rush-bottomed chairs with backs and rails bright with wax and rubbing were scattered through the room, and a pair of overstuffed chairs had been placed before the fire. A handsome clock in a mahogany case ticked off the remaining minutes until half past midnight, and paintings of Jesus and his brethren hung on the walls.

Standing before the cheery fire, Miracle in his arms and breathing evenly, Clayton stared into the flames and allowed the room's silence and warmth to envelop him. Hard to believe that outside these massive walls a war of weather was exploding around them. Hard to believe he had challenged those elements to snatch the girl back from death's door. Very hard to believe, considering . . .

Easily, he lowered himself into a chair and continued to hold her, until the trembling in her body subsided little by little.

"I had to go," she said against his shoulder.