Miracle (19 page)

Leaning forward, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, steadying her hand that had begun to shake violently. "Before what, Miracle?"

Trembling, shaking her head, and doing her best to extract her arm from his fingers, Miracle closed her eyes and tried to breathe. "Before I convince myself to believe you. Before I come to like you. To depend on you. I don't understand why you're trying so hard this time to make it so. I shan't end up like my mother, I tell you. Go away, Salterdon, I beg you. Just go away and leave me alone!"

With that, she jumped from her chair, spilling it back onto the floor and toppling her ale into Clayton's lap. For an instant, she looked mortified. Then, without another utterance, she fled the tavern.

Ale seeped into Clayton's trousers, crept down his thighs, then down, into the tops of his boots. Joe Cobbett came running, his white cloth waving like a war banner.

The young man stumbled clumsily before he dove to the task of mopping up the brew from Clayton's crotch.

Snatching the cloth from Joe's hand, Clayton snapped, "For God's sake, be careful before you emasculate me completely."

"Sorry, Your Grace. Only meant to help. I seen what you done for Lady Cavendish, and . . ." The young man's Adam's apple slid up and down his throat, then he lowered his voice. "She
ain't
crazy,
m'lord
. Far from it. In fact, she's 'bout the smartest lass I ever knew. She'd make any man a faithful and useful wife. Aye, she would. Just be patient. She'll trust
ya
eventually. Once she trusts, there
ain't
nothin
' she wouldn't do for
ya
. She'll be
yer
best friend, sir, I swear it."

"Quite the expert where she's concerned, aren't you, Mr. Cobbett?" Clayton proceeded to blot the wetness from his lap. "Tell me something, Mr. Cobbett. Were you in love with Miss Cavendish?"

Joe glanced back at his father, who eyed them like a rabid bulldog.

"Did she love you?" Clayton demanded. "Answer me,
dammit
, and quit shaking like a mouse."

Joe's face suddenly flushed, and his eyes became flustered and furious. "It's 'cause of you that I
ain't
with her now. You and your
waggin
' tongue,
tellin
' me father that you seen me with her. I
coulda
been married to Miracle instead of the silly bitch I live with now.
I'da
taken her away from here so these lot a
talesayers
couldn't talk about her no more. But you ruined it all—"

"Joe!" barked the boy's father. "
Wot
the blazes is
goin
' on back there?"

"
Nothin
',
da
," Joe shouted back, then giving Clayton one last go-to-hell glance, he spun on his heel and shuffled away.

Clayton stared after him. "Bastard you may be," he muttered to his absent brother, "but at least you had the common decency to save her from the likes of him."

The room spun as he forced himself to stand, to move toward the door, to descend the two narrow steps outside the tavern. The night was cold and clear and bright with starlight. He could see his breath as he exhaled and gazed up at the sky, wishing he had thought to bring his overcoat.

Where was Miracle?

On her way back to Cavisbrooke, of course.

He had humiliated her. He shouldn't have acknowledged her presence there, in the back of the room. Then she could have silently slipped away like a wisp of air, and no one but Joe Cobbett would have been the wiser.

Why the blazes should he care about what or how she felt? She had invited him to get the hell out of her life . . . before she got hurt. Before, like her mother, she wasted her youth—indeed, her life—loving some son of a bitch who looked upon their union as little more than a grueling necessity.

He was trying to convince her that it wouldn't happen. Damnation. When had he become such a bloody liar?

With flowing tail and flying mane,

Wide nostrils, never stretched by pain,

Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein,

And feet that iron never shod,

And flanks
unscar'd
by spur or rod

A thousand horses—the wild—the free—

Like waves that follow o'er the sea,

Came thickly thundering on.

LORD BYRON

from "
Marzeppa
"

Chapter Seven

Clayton opened his eyes to blackness, cold, and wet. His face hurt. His back ached. Where the hell was he? And what the hell had happened?

He couldn't think. There were a thousand angry bees buzzing inside his head—or so it felt. He thought he might vomit, if he didn't die first.

Flashes of faces streaked through his mind's eye, as briefly as lightning and grieving him as painfully. Vaguely familiar faces belonging to vaguely familiar voices.

"Don't no man call me a liar."

Closing his eyes, Clayton rolled to his stomach and groaned. The ground began to undulate beneath him, like water . . .rolling . . . rolling . . . each slow swell lifting him then dropping him while the voice of the water seemed to growl up from the deep, dark belly of the ocean and threaten to drag him under.

Where was he?

Not Africa. Not the ship—the sinking ship, with its jib and staysails ablaze and the masts a towering torch against the pitch-black sky. The voices clattering about in his head were not those of a doomed ship's crew, nor

the sounds of his parents' cries as they screamed out his name.

"Clayton, darling! Jump, Clayton. Jump!"

So many bodies, thrashing and splashing, screaming and burning, drowning, praying, dying. Sinking to the bottom of the fathomless water with its squadron of shimmery jellyfish and scavenging sharks.

He wasn't ten years old again.

Focus on something pleasant.

Blue-green eyes that twinkled in mirth. A soft red mouth that was forever ready with a smile. A saucy disposition. A naive seductiveness that would tempt a saint, much less a lord who was simply attempting to help his brother achieve his contemptible and questionable objectives. Oh, no. He wasn't about to become overly fond of her. He was here on a mission, and besides, she would soon be his sister by marriage.

She was crazy. Had to be. Who in God's name would continue to wait for the return of a loved one for ten years?

Had the damned pigs actually responded to their names?

He could carry responsibility only so far. So what if his brother had saved his life—kept him from sliding back down into that frothing green sea a third time?

Why in hell had he shelled out a small fortune for shirts he could have purchased for a fraction of the price from his tailor in London?

Why had he bullied a tavern full of ruffians in an attempt to so valiantly defend the girl's reputation?

"Don I hit '
im
again, Pete!"

"
Ya
don't kill 'is kind. Just take 'is damn purse and let's get out of here. "

"I'm
gonna
teach '
im
a lesson, by crackers. I'll show '
em
'is kind don't come 'ere and—"

"Hush! Someone's
corniti
'. "

"I told
ya
we shouldn't '
ave
come here. It's too
bleedin
' close to that creepy
ol
' castle.
Ya
know
wot
they say about— "

"
Shh
!
Wot's
that?"

"There! It's
comin
' this way. Gore, but I don't believe me
bleedin
' eyes. We're dead. Pete. We're dead!"

Clayton pushed himself to his knees, forced open his eyes. The blackness had turned to gray as dawn worked its way through the thick mist and fog. Gritting his teeth, he gradually stood, slowly straightened, briefly closed his eyes again until the world ceased spinning.

Surely he had imagined it all, too much grog and mead. His damn conscience had nagged at him incessantly as he paid the hostel keeper for a room he'd barely used. It nagged and nagged about his idiotic temper. He'd allowed it to get the best of him again, never giving a thought to how the whole damn affair would have upset her. Best to have simply slid away from the pub without acknowledging her. Then they both could have pretended that the disgusting fracas had never happened, that he had never even been there, as mesmerized by their stupidity as the others.

All the rest that followed: Had he imagined it? The figures appearing out of nowhere, racing at him from the downs, the starlight making their animated faces look ghoulish, the cries of alarm, the sounds of running feet diminished by the thundering, rolling explosions of . . . What?

Through the darkness there had come a being with no face—only eyes, his body draped in flowing robes, a streak of fire flashing in his black hand as he raced up out of the night on a . . . What? The specter had babbled in tongues.

Christ. He was getting as bad as Benjamin.

There were no cloven-
hooved
dragons breathing smoke and belching fire, no faceless entities with lightning streaking from their fingertips, only a lot of wet-behind- the-ear delinquents who were by now counting out the few remaining coins they'd lifted from his pockets.

Clayton looked around, unable to see anything but a wall of fog. Somewhere beyond that wall, the ocean thundered. The sound seemed to surround him, to drown him, like water.

He swallowed. When the devil had this fog moved in? How long had he lain there, unconscious and bleeding?

The water could be anywhere, in front of him, in back. One wrong move and he could step off the Undercliff and plunge to his death on the rocks or waves below. It would serve him right, he supposed.

God, his head hurt. If he survived to return to Cavisbrooke, he would have Benjamin pack their belongings; he would bid his peculiar hosts adieu, he would return to London and inform his brother that his dukeship could carry on his dirty deeds without his brother's help.