Miracle (21 page)

"Answer me, Miracle. What are you afraid of,
Meri
Mine? That I might seduce you away from this cold, wet, and bleak place? That I might lure you away from your illusionary rainbows? What is this obsession for remaining here, waiting for some ghost from your past to come home? For burdening yourself with caring for some dilapidated old lighthouse and a cripple—"

"Johnny sacrificed his life for my mother and me. He's the only friend . . . the only family I have, sir. And as far as my mother is concerned—"

"She's gone, for God's sake. How can you expect that she'll return after ten years? Listen to me, love. All the staring out to sea and believing is not going to bring her back. You're wasting your life—"

Struggling free, Miracle stumbled back and stood with her hands at her sides, breathing hard. "She loves me. She tells me so in her letters. Would you like to see them? The words sing of the excitement, Salterdon, the beauty of the world beyond Cavisbrooke. They take me on a journey of wonderment; arouse me with tales of the strange and incomprehensible and awe-inspiring. There are cities of shining marble, of glistening cathedrals, warm and friendly people who welcome strangers and don't give a bloody leap if you're . . . different. When she's ready, she'll return. Then the lot of you naysayers can go to hell."

She ran from the room and fled down the dark corridors to the winding stairs of the turret. Breathing harshly, Miracle scaled the slick, crumbling stone steps to the circular room and stood for long minutes doing her best to control the upheaval of emotions roiling inside her.

How dare he presume to pass judgment on her life, her ideal, her dreams? How dare he make her question her own resolve?

Dropping to her knees beside the old leather trunk shoved against the wall, Miracle carefully opened it, cautiously reached for the tidy bound stack of yellowed letters, all postmarked from France, and clutched them fiercely to her breast.

"Silly girl, getting so emotional. What does he know about my life? My desires? My dreams? Any more than my father understood my mother."

There was another stack of letters; some much older, all postmarked from London, most addressed to her mother, the most recent ones addressed to her, though they weren't recent at all. They had stopped arriving after her father's death two years after her mother's disappearance. He'd been killed in a fall from a horse, cracked his head open on a rock, and bled to death before anyone found him. He'd left her a decent bequest—enough to get by on until she turned twenty-five years of age.

Try as she might, she could not recall his face, only his rigid demeanor, his cold blue eyes, and his unsmiling mouth. He'd been young, handsome, and brash. He'd promised her mother each time he called twice a year that he would, eventually, take her away from Cavisbrooke.

But he hadn't.

Miracle could never recall Lord Cavendish even addressing his daughter directly. The only thing she could remember was his gasp of astonishment when, after an extremely long period of absence, he'd returned to Cavisbrooke to discover Miracle had grown into a young lady. "Good God," he'd declared with a sneer on his lips, "she looks exactly like her mother."

Naive, innocent, ignorant little Miracle had burst into a smile, jumped up and down for joy, believing her beloved, aloof father had meant the comment as a compliment. After all, her mother had assured her over the years that her father loved her devotedly. He loved them both. He said so repeatedly in the many letters he wrote from London. He was simply a very busy man . . . and, like most men, he had trouble showing his affections in person.

Miracle had believed that lie as well . . . until she discovered his letters after her mother abandoned her, and Johnny, and Cavisbrooke. There had been no outpouring of love and devotion. Not even a solitary mention of Miracle's name. Only curt scribbles demanding that
Lorraina
cease her melodramatic temper tantrums . . . and,
yes . . .
he still wanted a divorce.

Miracle flung open the window shutters and turned her face into the wind. The cold brought tears to her eyes as she released a ragged sigh and forced the memories aside. She would focus on the present—as always. Live each day as if it were the beginning of forever, as her mother had taught her.

Oh, but sometimes it was so damn
hard . . .

She shivered and ran the heel of her hand across her forehead; a voice whispered softly in her ear,
You want to believe him. You want to trust him. You want to teach him how to fly.

"But I'm afraid. I'm so very afraid."

Miracle touched her fingers to her wrist, then her cheek, where Salterdon had caressed her ever so lightly, and she thought aloud, "His hands were not cold after all."

I want

someone to laugh with me,

someone to be grave with me,

someone to please me and help my

discrimination with his or her own

remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire

my acuteness and penetration.

ROBERT BURNS

Chapter Eight

"I am confident, sir, that you have made the wisest decision. There is much to be said for loyalty toward one's own flesh and blood. After all, where would we all be without that singular thread of adherence for our kin? However, the price one pays for chicanery, even when perpetrated out of loyalty, is
ofttimes
of too much consequence to be tolerable for a man with conscience. Oh, yes, sir. The sooner we can leave this dreadful old place the better. I shall have our bags ready within the hour."

Clayton stood outside his bedroom door, listened to and watched his manservant scurry about the chambers, grabbing up his personal belongings and flinging them into a pile on the bed; Clayton wondered what, exactly, truly impelled his valet to move so hurriedly: his trumpeted sense of honor or the fear of coming face to face with his "demon beast" again.

Leaving Benjamin to his chore, Clayton moved down the corridors, listened to the echo of his footfalls upon the stones, and visualized Basingstoke—his home—warm, welcoming, full of light and color. He would dash off a note to Blanche and invite her to join him. He would take her to bed and keep her there until all thoughts of

Cavisbrooke and Miracle Cavendish were sweated from his memory.

He would inform his brother the duke that if Trey wanted a wife, he could get her himself because he, Clayton, lord Basingstoke, normally an honorable rakehell, wanted no part of robbing this young woman of what little dignity she maintained.

He would simply explain to Lady Cavendish that he had made a mistake in coming here. He had discovered that she would not be happy as duchess of Salterdon (which wasn't a lie). She simply would not fit in with his lifestyle, his friends, his family. The pompous aristocracy would break her spirit, not to mention her heart. Clearly, she was not interested, in any case.

During one of Benjamin's explorations of the castle, the manservant had discovered a long corridor of rooms which, he presumed, belonged to Miracle and Mr. Hoyt. Clayton wound his way to the vast gallery and stood for a moment at the threshold of the passageway while the cold and damp settled within every seam of his clothing. Meager light shone from the scattering of sconces on the walls; tiny candles dipped by Miracle's hands formed yellow
halos
on crudely framed pictures hanging from iron hooks pounded into the stone. There were likenesses of horses flying, rearing, pawing; all with flaring nostrils and strangely dished heads, their muzzles small enough to fit in a child's hand.

"Your Grace," came Hoyt's voice from the darkness. The man materialized from the shadows of the corridor, his round face smiling, the cane in his hand making a
tap
tap
tap
on the floor. He seemed not at all surprised or discomposed to discover a guest
mousing
about his lady's private chambers.

Joining Clayton, Johnny gazed up at the charcoal sketch of a prancing horse. "Miracle's work," the man announced, unable to stem his rush of pleasure and pride as he looked at the lifelike portraits. His eyes shone as he focused on Clayton. "One of her many talents. Are they not extraordinary, Your Grace?"

"Yes," Clayton replied. "And somewhat disturbing."

"Mira
is very passionate about her loves. Where one person feels an inkling of fondness, Miracle experiences a universe of sensitivities. I'm not certain if that is a curse or a blessing. What do you think, Your Grace?"

Clayton said nothing, just studied the likeness of the powerful white steed and recalled the ghostly vision he had witnessed that morning near the sea.

"You've searched me out for a reason," John declared. "Perhaps you've reconsidered your reasons for returning to Cavisbrooke? Please, Your Grace, say nothing yet. Come and join me in my chambers. It's warmer there, and comfortable."

Johnny ambled down the corridor, leaning his weight slightly on his walking stick until pausing at the threshold of his apartment. "Please," he called out, then disappeared into the room.

Clayton did not join him immediately, but continued to stand where the old man had left him, his hands in his trouser pockets, his gaze fixed on the dark at the far end of the corridor.

He did his best to focus his thoughts again on Basingstoke and how wonderful it would feel to sleep in his massive, comfortable bed with its piles and piles of down counterpanes and satin-covered pillows. He even imagined, albeit briefly, Blanche sprawled out across the bed, her arms and legs thrown wide in invitation, her blacker-than-night hair tumbled over his white sheets.

But the image was far too elusive, like trying to clutch water in the palm of his hand. No matter how fiercely he struggled to hold it, it slid through his fingers and vanished, leaving him with the disturbing mental picture of Miracle on his bed, her lush sunset-colored hair like a fire spread over his sheets, her slender pale legs open, and—

"Coming, Your Grace?" Hoyt called.

"Depraved bastard," Clayton muttered to himself, of himself. No doubt about it, he should get out of this damnable domicile of inveiglement before he did something he would find impossible to live with.

Surprisingly, John's private apartment was truly comfortable, if not crowded, with its Gothic architecture and once fine furnishings of mahogany, walnut, and rosewood. There were threadbare Oriental carpets on the floor, and china figures cluttered about the occasional tables. Paintings in gilded frames, no doubt once belonging to the residence's previous owners, hung on the walls near the overburdened shelves of leather-bound books—enough, Clayton decided, to stock the smallest library at Basingstoke.

"Sit down," Johnny invited. "There. Before the fire. I fear you've frozen since you arrived at Cavisbrooke. You must understand:
Mira
can be too frugal for her own good
. . .
and mine, occasionally. I see you're admiring my collection of books. Extraordinary, wouldn't you say? Do you know that
Mira
has read them all? Yes! Every one of them. Most of them more than once. Her favorites are those in there, bound in green leather.
The Wonders of Science in Modern Life.
There is little of science that modern man has written upon paper that she has not read. She's fascinated in what we, as human beings, are becoming."