Miracle (18 page)

Continually, his mind went back to Miracle. As ridiculous as it was, he continued to plot ways to win her over . . . for his brother, of course. She wanted respect, understanding, and acceptance. And love.

Hell, what was he thinking?

After pacing his tiny room for an hour and feeling no less drunk, he returned to the Hound and Hare, ordered more ale, and listened to the occasionally raucous conversation in the tavern. They were farmers, mostly, with ruddy faces and burly physiques, all men who, after a long day's toil in the dirt, filled their bellies with their wives' meals of cabbage and lamb and spoon bread, and then sought out the company of their peers at the tavern. There were seamen scattered throughout the room as well whose lewd stares followed the amply endowed but less than comely wench delivering trenchers of bread and cheese to their tables.

The group gathered around him, though, were apparently from the mainland, and they appeared to be of comfortable means. Their splendidly cut coats spoke of their wealth. Their women, all of whom were clustered together like little hens in a corner, were bedecked in their trained, high-
waisted
, clinging muslin dresses that were all the rage now on the Continent, their hair arranged in curls and coils and ringlets hanging down their backs. The women tittered among themselves and occasionally peered toward their spouses as the gentlemen surrounded the muddled lad who appeared to be warming to the idea that he was the center of the moneyed fellows' attention.

"I'm
tellin
'
ya
," declared the young man. "They're crazy up there—them folk on the cliff. Loony as they come. Some folk say they seen the girl chanting to the moon. Some say she
ain't
nothin
' more than a spook."

The men chuckled and murmured among themselves. A stout, white-haired popinjay with a big nose and lantern jaw flipped the storyteller a coin and blustered, "Don't stop now,
boyo
, tell us more."

"Oh sure, I'll tell
y
a more," the boy declared and puffed out his scrawny chest. "Some folk say the Lady
Lorraina
killed herself."

Clayton stared down into his tankard, barely noticing he had long since emptied it, not even noticing as the
taverner
replaced it with a fresh one. He felt sick. He felt suspended. He wanted to drive his fist into the pompous ass's face, yet, for the last fifteen minutes, he had been as drawn by the idiotic tales as the moronic gentlemen who fed the lad's bravado with coins and brew.

"Lady
Lorraina
Cavendish was the most beautiful woman in England, some says. And the
randiest
," he added with a smirk that brought a burst of laughter from his audience. "She liked the men, she did. Used to wander down from that creepy old castle on the nights when she wasn't tower
watchin
'. Use to sit right over in that corner there—" The boy motioned to a table in a dark corner of the room, where a shadowed figure sat with its back to the crowd. Clayton could just make out the image from where he stood.

The lad continued. "She let seamen buy her drinks until the wee hours, then she'd conveniently plead helpless and ask her admirer to see her home, if
ya
get my
meanin
'. Lovely, she were, with hair as red as a sunset and down to her
arse
, certainly not the sort a man would consider
throwin
' over for another, no sir. Not like that young buck Cavendish did. Pleaded with him, she did, to take her away from here, but he wouldn't have it. So she killed herself. Flung herself off the ledge of the lighthouse and onto the rocks below,
leavin
' her wee daughter who grew up to be daft as her mother. She still lives there in the moldy
ol
' place. Folk swear the castle is haunted—that
Lorraina
haunts it. I've seen her
meself
."

"No!"

"You expect us to believe—"

"Believe what you want! But I'm
tellin
'
ya
, when the dawns are so misty you-can cut the air with a knife,
y'll
see her, at the foot of the Undercliff. She comes
ridin
' out of the gray soup on a unicorn."

"A unicorn!"

"Aye, a unicorn: a white monster of a beast that flies over the sand and water
breathin
' smoke and fire and with eyes like
burnin
' embers. And there's
Lorraina
, her red hair
flyin
out behind her like a silk flag from hell. Some says she rides them waves and rocks
lookin
' for her husband to return and—"

Clayton drew his gaze from the solitary figure in the corner. "Do you honestly believe that ridiculous cesspool of fabrications?" he asked, his deep, refined voice cutting through the palpable quiet, causing the storyteller to snap shut his mouth and look around while clumsily attempting to stand upright.

"Who the devil do you think you are?" the boy stuttered. "And what the devil do you know about it?"

"Enough to know you're full of—"

"You ask any one of us who live in Niton. We've all seen her, and once we saw her, I vow our lives
ain't
ever been the same.
Ain't
that right, Harry?"

The bartender, in the process of scrubbing the surface of the pitted bar, paused and nodded, not bothering to raise his eyes. "Aye, we've seen her," he grumbled. "Some of us closer than we should'
ve,
I reckon." Squinting one eye, he glowered at a lad near the back of the room, hidden behind a cloud of smoke. The youth, barely older than a boy, was a younger version of Harry. Ignoring his father, the boy went about his business of collecting empty tankards from the tables, then shuffled as quick as he could into the back of the building.

The storyteller, full of himself, not to mention too much ale, elbowed his way through the gathering of onlookers until standing toe to toe with Clayton, who continued to lean against the bar in an imperturbable manner, mentally thanking Benjamin for insisting that he wear his "ruffian" clothes, as the valet called them: doeskin breeches and a
peacoat
that had seen much wear and tear during Clayton's jaunts with Dutch. He wasn't certain how he would explain ruining a second set of clothes to his manservant, should the little
pissant
before him decide to further try his patience.

"Truth is," the boy began, and hitched up his pantaloons with an air of importance, "I happen to know the present Lady Cavendish, shall we say . . .intimately?"

The bystanders whooped and raised their ales and meads in toast, sloshing the brews onto their hands and sleeves as they pressed closer, hoping for a row, their drunken grins encouraging the growing tension.

"You're a liar," Clayton said, his gaze riveting the smaller lad, who continued to smirk while finding himself unable to force his eyes from Clayton's. Little by little, the noise died throughout the cramped room.

"A liar," the boy repeated, and laughed in a choked sound. "
Yer
callin
' me a liar?"

"Pete," someone whispered. Then a young man moved up beside his friend, clamped a hand on the braggart's shoulder, and slightly shook him. "Give it up, Pete. He's bigger' n you, and by the looks of him, a wee bit wiser and not near so caught in his cups. Come on, lad. We'll race down to
Godshill
and take a pint. I'll buy."

After taking a quick look around and finding his audience had begun to disperse, Pete sneered and backed away. "Right then. But let's make it to Week Down. I know a pretty little redhead there what knows how to make me good and hard."

The group shuffled out, leaving the tavern mostly empty. Clayton drank—first ale and then mead, then he slapped coins on the bar and moved toward the back of the room, to the figure who sat at the table, candle doused, smoke swirling around her shoulders.

He stared over Miracle's shoulder a long moment. Her trencher of food had barely been touched. Beside it sat an empty tankard. She seemed to sense his presence. Her shoulders looked very square and tense. Her fingers gripped the handle of her tankard fiercely. Her sudden voice, sounding sharp-edged and tight, startled him.

"It seems you've spoiled their fun, Your Grace. A shame. The boy's stories were just getting good, if not a trifle fanciful. I especially enjoyed the part about my mother, myself, and Jonathan being lunatics." She picked up her tankard, and finding it empty, slammed it back down on the table. "Of course, the idea that my mother was a whore is most intriguing. If they only knew how much she loved my father . . ."

Hesitantly, he reached his hand out and placed it on her small shoulder. She flinched.

"I thought you didn't approve of drinking," he said, finding the attempt to keep emotion from his voice an effort.

"None of us are perfect, sir. Least of all me. There are times when the occasion calls for a tipple. Joe!" she called, causing the scattering of tipsy patrons to peer at her quizzically, then bow their heads together and mumble. Joe Cobbett hurried from the rear of the tavern, a damp white cloth hung over his shoulder. There was a thin strip of moisture over his fuzzy upper lip as he paused some distance from the table and gaped at Miracle as if she were a ghost. "Another ale, please," she said, "and bring one for His Grace. It's the least I can do for the man who so conscientiously stood up for my reputation. Please, Your Grace. Join me."

She had yet to even look at him. As he eased into the chair across from her, she continued to stare down at her nibbled pieces of cheese and bread. Her hands rested on the table in tightly balled fists. Her normally rosy cheeks appeared pale. The almost nonexistent light in the room caused her face to look overly gaunt.

"I suppose this is where you inform me that you have had second thoughts about coming here—to Cavisbrooke, I mean. Perhaps you stayed a mite too caught in your cups on your previous visit, and forgot all the particulars concerning my family's reputation. Therefore, after much consideration—"

"Stop putting words in my mouth," he told her in a deep, stern voice.

"Do you deny you've not considered the possibility that you made a mistake in returning here?" At last, her dark lashes raised. She pierced him with eyes that were big and soulful, angry and anxious . . . and wanting.

He swallowed. "No," he replied softly. "I won't deny it."

She didn't so much as blink but continued to regard him fixedly, even as Joe plunked the full tankards onto the table, sloshing dark ale over his hand. He then hurried away.

"Then why do you remain?" she demanded. "You're fully aware that I don't want you here."

"Don't you?"

Her eyes flashed. She reached for her ale, tipped it up, and drank deeply, leaving a frothy residue across her upper lip. She swept it away with the back of one hand.

Clayton relaxed against the back of his chair. "Perhaps I would'
ve
believed you more had I not discovered you here. A woman who craves companionship enough to subject herself to the company of these morons, knowing she'll be the topic of conversation, is undoubtedly desperate to be around people. You may not care for me as a person,
m'lady
, but you can hardly deny that my company at Cavisbrooke has been welcome. You haven't, after all, insisted that I leave."

"And would you leave if I insisted?" she demanded hotly, her cheeks becoming kissed by intense feeling.

He took a moment to respond. "Yes. Of course. My time is too valuable to waste it on a woman who has no desire whatever for me. Will you sit there and tell me that you've no interest in me, Miss Cavendish?"

"Yes!" she returned frantically, and snatched up her ale. "But I don't for a moment believe I am anything more than a dalliance, perhaps an experimentation to test your virility on someone who proves to be a greater challenge than the 'weak, tittering, witless little ninnies' you and your companions crowed about conquering during your previous stay. Oh, yes, Your Grace, I heard it all, you and your malicious friends bragging about your conquests, comparing women as if they were horses on a track.
Yes,
I want you to leave before . . ."