Miracle (14 page)

"Of course you did. I'm certain every seaman in King George's Navy depends on your light to show them the way home in a storm." He glanced down into her damp face and offered her a dry smile. The fire snapped, sending a spray of embers onto the hearth.

She frowned and pouted so adorably he almost smiled again. Almost . . .

"This is
your
fault, of course," she pointed out. "I'm normally not so rash and emotional. Had you not occupied my thoughts earlier I would have long since remembered to go to St. Catherine's, thereby avoiding the shortcut."

He looked thoughtful and toyed with a coil of her hair. "Encouraging, I think, that I've succeeded in bothering you so."

She regarded him intensely with her wide aqua eyes. Little by little her body relaxed, gently molding against his. Her lashes lowered.

"You saved my life," she whispered, nestling.

Clayton said nothing, just continued to hold her tightly—more tightly than he should, a voice in his head softly reprimanded. But she felt surprisingly good: soft, warm,
holdable
. Considering the coldness of the inclement night, a pliable, warm body felt damn nice.

Besides, he had a role to play, a seduction to accomplish. She had challenged him that afternoon on the hostile precipice, whether she realized it or not. He had never been a man to back away from a challenge.

Benjamin bustled in, his arms full of blankets. "I helped myself to the linen closet," he announced, then proceeded to fling the blankets over a chair. He quit the room hurriedly and returned as swiftly with a tray laden with a steaming pot of tea. "This should warm the young lady up, sir. I guarantee it."

Clayton glanced down into her watchful, gem-colored eyes and alabaster face. Her drying hair formed a wispy cloud of curls that enhanced the sculptured perfection of her features. Her lips were red, moist, soft.

He smiled. A real smile, not the typical sardonic curl of his lips.

Her brows drew together. "I've never seen you do that before," she said.

"Do what?"

"Smile."

"No?" He smiled again. "I suppose I don't do it very often."

"You really should. You're very severe, you know. Perhaps people would find you more likable if you smiled more."

"What makes you think people don't like me, Lady Cavendish?"

"Well . . . I was speaking generally, of course."

"Meaning yourself, possibly?"

She did not reply nor did she move, but she continued to watch him carefully from beneath her long black lashes in that way she had that reminded him of an enchanting angel: alluring, tempting, innocent.

"Sir," Benjamin spoke gently behind them. "The lady's tea is ready."

With little effort, Clayton stood and carried Miracle to the chair, tucked her within a blanket, then stepped back as Benjamin retrieved a wrap he had laid before the fire to warm, and snuggled it around her. He handed her the teacup, and she wrapped her fingers around it, briefly closing her eyes, relishing the warmth.

"See that she's taken care of properly," Clayton told his valet, hating the sound of his voice that was low and husky even to his own ears, then he turned for the door.

"Your Grace," Miracle called.

He paused, but did not look back.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Clayton sat before the pitiful excuse of a fire, drenched to the skin, chilled to the marrow, elbows on his knees and his head buried in his hands. He stared without seeing at the stone floor between his feet.

"This place is a veritable tomb," Benjamin announced as he poured a splash of hot, weak tea into a chipped china cup. Withdrawing a flask from his coat and removing the stopper, he poured a finger of brandy into it, then added a finger more. "I wager this'll warm the ice from your blood, my lord."

His head coming up, Clayton stared wearily at the steaming brew. "Where the blazes did you find that?"

"The brandy? Certainly not here, sir. I searched the cupboards half the day looking for a spot. Finally, deciding there wasn't a cask or keg to be found, I was forced to dip into my own . . . or your own. We brought it from Basingstoke, my lord."

"We?"

"I knew you enjoyed a nip every now and again. You know how you get occasionally, a bit on the morose side."

"I've never been morose in my life," he snapped.

"Ah! Very well, sir. Whatever you say." Benjamin slid the flask back into his coat and grabbed the heavy covering from the bed. He flung it around Clayton's shoulders.

Steam from the cup rose in an aromatic cloud into Clayton's face. "My front is roasting and my backside is freezing," he said through his teeth.

"Yes, sir." "Where I'm from, we have fireplaces on each end of the room so our butts stay as warm as our—"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me something, Benjamin."

"If I can, sir."

"What the hell am I doing here?"

"Let me see . . ." Carefully turning back the sheets on the bed, folding them precisely, then smoothing the pillow so not a solitary wrinkle marred its surface, the manservant contemplated the question. He straightened, standing very stiff and erect, and replied, "To the best of my knowledge sir, we have come to this most inhospitable place— that is, I vow, no matter what you choose to believe, swimming in departed spirits, not to mention cloven- footed demons—with the express purpose of luring the young woman, Lady Cavendish, into marriage with your brother. You, of course, are passing yourself off as His Grace, and—"

"Shut up," Clayton growled.

"Yes, sir."

"I take it from your tone that you don't approve."

"It is not my place to approve or disapprove, sir."

"
Dammit
, Ben, you've been like a father to me the last twenty years so don't start with this
servantile
poppycock now." Turning his head, Clayton glared up into his valet's eyes. "What do you think of the girl?"

"I think she is rather—"

"Do you like her?"

"Yes, I do."

"Do you think she'll be happy married to my brother?"

A look of concern turned down the corners of Benjamin's mouth.

"Don't bother to answer that. We both know there's not a woman alive who would tolerate his idiosyncrasies for long. Especially not her, and she clearly has no interest in him. Doesn't seem to have ever had."

"No? What sort would she tolerate?" Benjamin asked, pouring himself a cup of tea.

"A monk," he replied. "Better yet, a saint."

"Hardly terminology to adequately describe your brother . . . or yourself, for that matter."

Clayton relaxed back into his chair and stretched his long legs out toward the fire. In his mind, he saw her again, perched on that precarious ledge, feeding her meal to hungry birds, sunlight radiating from her face. "She desires a husband who can fly, Benjamin. How do you propose I manage that?"

Benjamin sipped his tea and looked ponderous. "I spent a good deal of time with Mr. Hoyt while you were out scaling cliffs and plundering birds' nests. It is my understanding that the Lady
Lorraina
was virtually abandoned here only days after her marriage to the now deceased Lord Cavendish. He returned to the castle only twice a year, and each time he promised his young wife that next time he would take her with him back to the mainland. He never did. From the time the lady came here until the night she kissed her daughter farewell and disappeared, she never left the island. For ten years, Lady Cavendish spent her days and nights in this formidable place and in the lighthouse, watching for her husband's return."

"Bastard," Clayton murmured into his tea.

"Indeed," Ben said, and put down his cup. "Yet you would submit the lass to the same fate. Ah, you look at me angrily, sir, but you cannot deny it. Your brother would marry her to appease your grandmother, then bury her away in some distant country house—"

"You forget yourself," Clayton snapped.

His voice growing softer, his shoulders relaxing, Benjamin said, "You could always leave here, sir. Return to London. Explain to your brother that the lass would have none of it. Better yet, tell him that she has already married. . . . Then again, that would be dishonest—"

"And I am not a dishonest man, am I, Benjamin?"

The servant drew back his shoulders and replied proudly, "No sir." A moment of silence, then, "Will that be all, my lord?"

Clayton drank down the hot tea, squeezing closed his eyes as the diluted brandy hit his stomach. "Yes," he replied hoarsely. As Benjamin turned for the door, he added, "And by the way, don't call me Basingstoke in front of the girl. Remember who I am and what I'm doing here . . . to win the lady's heart for my brother."

"Very well, sir." Benjamin walked to the door and paused. He watched Clayton intently for a moment before saying, "I suggest that you do the same, sir. Good night, sir."

"Good night," Clayton whispered, and sank back in his chair.

"What ideas have they been filling your head with, you young girls of to-day "

Berthe
replied: "But marriage is sacred, grandmamma."

The grandmother's heart, which had its birth in the great age of gallantry, gave a sudden leap. "It is love that is sacred," she said. "Listen, child, to an old woman . . . We marry only once, my child, because the world requires us to do so, but we may love twenty times in one lifetime because nature has so made us . . . If we did not perfume life with love, as much love as possible, darling, as we put sugar into medicines for children nobody would care to take it just as it is."

Berthe
opened her eyes widely in astonishment. She murmured: "Oh! grandmamma, we can only love once."

from A Grandmother's Advice

by GUY DE MAUPASSANT

Chapter Five