Miracle (25 page)

"And I love you," she replied softly. "Now sleep. By tomorrow this terrible affair will be nothing but an irritating inconvenience."

Gripping her hand, he pleaded, "Don't go back to the lighthouse tonight. Promise me. Those young hooligans—"

"Would never come to Saint Catherine's."

"It isn't safe, I tell you. Another storm and the dreadful place will topple into the sea."

"Nonsense. Saint Catherine's Lighthouse has withstood two hundred years of storms. It's steady as the Rock of Gibraltar."

"Mira
—"

"Oh, very well, sir. If it will make you rest easier, I promise not to return to the chapel tonight. Although I'm warning you, if a ship breaks up on the Race during my absence, I shall never forgive either one of us."

Johnny relaxed. After moments of silence, he drifted. Only then did Miracle press a soft kiss to forehead and tuck the blanket around his shoulders. "Why?" she asked quietly to herself. "Why must they continue to taunt us?"

"Because people are afraid of diversity," came Salterdon's voice behind her, and Miracle looked around, somewhat startled, to find him standing at John's chamber door. He had removed his cutaway and held a blue and white basin of steaming water. There was a cloth flung across one shoulder. In a rush, the memory of his body pressed against hers made her feel lightheaded.

Perhaps it was only the last horrible hour that made her experience this breathlessness and faintness. Could it be that the incident was God's punishment for her questionable behavior with Salterdon?

"They look upon difference as some kind of disease," he continued, an edge of bitterness in his tone. "As if the difference were contagious and threatening. Human beings are rather odd about that, perhaps arrogant in their beliefs that only their own sense of values and convictions are right and acceptable. If we were as moral and righteous as we profess to be, we wouldn't have annihilated our brothers since the beginning of time with war."

"I don't recall having invited you here," she said, forcing her old belligerence back into her voice. How very frustrating that she should struggle so hard to work up her combativeness in his company. She didn't want to like this man. She had responsibilities, after all. Had she not allowed him to occupy her time at the lighthouse, she would have gone sooner to discover why Johnny was late delivering her dinner. Perhaps this entire ugly incident could have been avoided.

"I don't recall having asked you to," he returned with a cryptic smile, then placed the basin on a table and proceeded to roll up his sleeves. For a moment, Miracle stared at his hands that were somewhat abraded. He had long, strong fingers and well-manicured nails. His forearms were muscular and tanned, with a sprinkling of soft black hair. Occasionally, during her outings on the downs, she had witnessed the local farmers bathing their upper bodies in a stock trough. Their forearms had been tanned as well, right up to the place where their shirt sleeves had begun; the remainder of their torsos had been white as fish bellies—an image that had repelled her.

Odd, however, that she would look at this man, who had probably never known a day's hard toil in his life, and fancifully imagine that his shoulders and chest would be as sun-browned as his hands and forearms. Odd that his hands had not been so brown on his first stay at Cavisbrooke. Perhaps they had been, and she hadn't noticed. No, she thought. She would definitely have noticed.

Salterdon pulled up a chair and dropped into it, then he dipped the cloth into the steaming water and wrung it out.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

"Relax," he told her, then catching her chin in his fingers, gently touched the warm cloth to the cut on her cheek. "I'm simply returning a favor,
Meri
Mine."

"Ouch! The water's hot—"

"Will help to kill infection—"

"Cobwebs would suffice. Careful! You have the finesse of a blacksmith."

"I've often heard that healers make the worst patients."

"I'm hardly a healer, Your Grace." She looked him in the eye for the first time. "Will it scar, do you think?"

A smile twitched his lips, then he appeared very solemn again. "I think not. Now hush and let me nurse you."

Setting her chin, uncertain if she liked the sense of control his resolute voice seemed to have over her, Miracle did her best to relax as Salterdon lightly bathed her forehead, her cheeks, her chin, then eased the soft, warm towel over her eyes, forcing her to briefly close them, then to her mouth, her lips, that were slightly parted. His touch was soft as a breath, and just as warm, causing her to
feel . . .
How, exactly, did she feel?

"Meri
Mine," he said softly. "Why are you crying?"

"Am I?" She swallowed and forced open her eyes, spilling tears down her cheeks. "No one except my mother has ever touched me with such kindness, Your
Grace . . .
and that was so very long ago." Swiping the discomfiting tears aside with the back of one hand, she tried to laugh. "It is I who should be washing
your
feet. You're our guest, after all, and twice you've come to my rescue. If I'm not careful, I might come to believe in fairy tales—of heroes rescuing fair maidens in distress."

"And what's wrong with believing in fairy tales?"

"Like hope, they can vanish like smoke when confronted by reality."

"Is that why you remain here, cloistered in this fortress? Because you're afraid of reality?"

"Reality is what happened tonight, Your Grace. It is prejudice and bigotry. It demands that we conform to the strictures of what is customary. I think I would rather die than fossilize in a society that dictates what I can or cannot do or say or think. What are rules, sir, but limitations we thrust upon ourselves or others?"

He said nothing, just bent his head and proceeded to wash her foot.

With her body relaxed against the back of her chair, her eyelids heavy, Miracle studied the top of his head, his glorious dark hair that, having been tousled by the wind, was a mass of unruly loose curls. There, too, was a light dusting of sand, a sliver of grass. Without thinking, she reached for it, her fingertips brushing the rich spray of chocolate brown strands that sprang to life at her touch.

His movement stopped. His face came slowly up. His eyes met hers.

"You're beautiful," she whispered. "Odd that I never noticed before. But then again, I didn't like you then. Do you mind if I touch you, Your Grace? I suppose in your world it's wrong. But in my world, I cannot help but worship that which I find comely." Allowing her lips to smile, she touched her fingers to his noble forehead, to the bruise she had tended only that morning. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to explore him: his brows—heavy, soft; his nose—strong and aristocratic. And his high cheeks, his jaw, lightly studded with a day's growth of beard. His lips, full, warm, slightly moist, slightly parted . . . How very bold she had become!

His tongue touched her fingertip, and she gasped, and her eyes flew open. As swiftly, he caught her wrist with his wet hand and turned his mouth into her palm, breathed upon her sensitive flesh, then kissed her, there upon the delicate skin between her thumb and forefinger, and she shivered.

"Oh, sir," she murmured. "I fear you forget yourself. Johnny—"

"Is asleep," he whispered against her hand, and touched her again with his tongue.

Gasping again, she withdrew her hand quickly
and
leaned toward him, so their faces were but inches apart, her gaze fixed on his eyes that looked smoky with desire. "You're quite shameless, you know."

"I know."

"I never gave you permission to kiss me, much less to do
that
with your tongue. Do you forget who you are, sir? And who I am?"

For a long moment, he said nothing, just poised there, rocked back on his heels, one elbow resting on one black- clad thigh while he regarded her face, his dark eyes appearing to register her every feature. Little by little, the intensity of his countenance turned into something else, a disconcertion shadowed by an odd, disturbing resignation, anger, and disgust. The turn was enough to make her sit back and grip the chair arms in confused anticipation.

"Apparently so," he finally replied in an acid tone that brought her as much consternation as had the wicked teasing of his tongue. In a blink, his composure had turned from flirtatious to animal. She felt as if she were staring into a wolf's eyes that were hungry and fierce and dangerous. In an instant they had gone from fire to ice.

The cloth sliding from his fingers and into the basin of tepid water, Salterdon slowly stood, his gaze never leaving hers as he clenched his fists at his sides. "Damn your eyes," he said in a husky voice. "Damn your innocence. Damn your lips and damn your ability to make me forget who I
am . . .
and who you are, or who you may become if I allow myself to remain here."

"Your Grace?"

"Stop calling me that,
dammit
. My name is Hawthorne, not duke, not duke What's-His-Name, not your dukeship, not Your
Grace . . . just. . .
Hawthorne. Say my name, Miracle.
Say
it."

"Hawthorne," she responded softly, bemused by his apparent anger and frustration, equally surprised by the ease with which his name floated from her tongue. "Hawthorne. '
Tis
a very nice name, Your Grace."

Silence.

Miracle felt warm color suffuse her cheeks as he continued to stand before her, regarding her with a look bordering on murder and laughter.

At last, he turned on his heel and moved toward the door, paused at the threshold, and gripped the doorjamb with one hand while the other massaged the tense nape of his neck. Finally, he said without turning, "Try to get some sleep, love. I'm certain Johnny will be fine in the morning." Then he was gone, leaving silence and an unnerving emptiness in his wake.

Benjamin sat in a chair before the dwindling fire, head fallen forward, snores emanating from his mouth. He wore his cloak. His flask of brandy tipped precariously on his lap. Clayton paced the room ten minutes before the manservant blinked his eyes and clumsily sat up. He stared at Clayton, his eyes shadowed by fatigue, his brow furrowed with worry. A moment passed before the circumstances set in.

"Good gosh," he declared, and grabbing his flask, stumbled to his feet. "I beg your pardon, my lord. I must have tottered off. Can't think of what could have caused me to act so carelessly."

"No?" Clayton plucked the flask from the valet's hand. "You're drunk, Ben. Intoxicated. Muddled. Cockeyed." Removing the cork stopper, he turned up the flask and drank deeply, until the brandy hit his stomach with a burning punch, then he hissed through his teeth. "Slopped. Blind. Stiff. Tight. Wet."

"By Jove," the servant muttered. "So I am. Can't think of when I last weltered in the grape to such an extreme. Let me think .. . must have been the time that little wench who worked for your grandmother up and married some quick-fingered Cockney with one eye and a peg leg. I quite fancied her until that."

"Really, Ben, you could do much better."

"Yes, sir. So you said at the time, sir." Rousing somewhat from his stupor, Benjamin frowned and withdrew his timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. "Must have been a bit more caught in the old cups than I realized. It's grown quite late. It'll be midnight before we reach Niton."

Clayton walked to the window and looked out, drank again, then wiped the brandy from his lips with his wrist.

"We
are
still leaving, sir? Aren't we?"