Miracle (24 page)

Eye to eye, lips but a breath apart, they poised there, breathing in unison, the beating of their hearts an echo of the other's, as the wind and sea roared around and below them. He was going to kiss her, God help him. He knew it, and yet he couldn't stop it, any more than he could stop his heart from pounding in his chest. He was going to kiss his brother's future wife and he would then be forced to live with that thought every time he looked Trey in the eye.

"No," came her voice through the roar of the wind, yet she didn't struggle, but clung to him, her hands twisted into his heavy damp cloak, anchoring her every curve against his as her skirt whipped and billowed like a leaf in a windstorm. "I don't want you to kiss me," she cried. "I won't let you!"

"No?" he heard himself yell back, even as he lowered his head, even as he watched her lips part and her eyes grow drowsy and her body limp. His lips brushed hers—oh, Christ they were soft and warm, heating him while the wind and the salty sea spray stung his face with cold. For an eternal instant he could not move, but poised there, lips barely touching hers while the feel and smell of her embedded in his memory so he knew he would never forget.

Burying his hands in her soft hair, he clutched her and pulled her hard to his face, opened his mouth and covered hers, filled her up with his tongue—like he had kissed a hundred women before her—experienced women who knew what to expect from a man like him. She floundered, struggled, and kissed him back, in her own inexperienced way: no tongue, a bit dry, a bit clumsily, uncomfortably, bashfully. He didn't want to stop.

"P-please," she finally stammered and gasped for breath.

He raised his head, just barely.

Limply, she lay in his arms, head fallen back, arms flung almost lifelessly out from her sides; her eyes closed. The wind danced with her hair, spraying it like a flaming Chinese fan around her head. He thought she had fainted; then she murmured words that were virtually lost in the gale:

"I—I did not give you permission to kiss me, sir. Therefore y-you should release me promptly before—"

"Before what?" he replied, allowing his gaze to follow the pale curve of her throat to the soft white hollow at the base of her neck. A pulse fluttered there, rapidly as a fairy's wing.

"Before I-I-I demand that you do it again."

With that, she sprang to life, became, once again, all arms and legs that kicked and flittered, her face flushed, eyes wide, mouth slightly swollen and abraded by the kiss.

At last, Clayton allowed Miracle to drop gently to the rock, and he withdrew his hands, fell back against the face of the Undercliff, and wished like hell that his brother had let him drown.

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,

But came the waves and washed it away:

Again I wrote it with a second hand,

But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.

EDMUND SPENSER

Chapter Nine

He had
kissed
her!

She had
allowed
it! She had even
enjoyed
it! For an instant, she had experienced a new form of flying. Her blood sang. Her body vibrated like a stroked harp string.

This odd, confusing,
fascinating
man had kissed her, making her forget for the moment that if she didn't hurry, there would be no hope of returning to the lighthouse—not with the waves and tides as turbulent as they were tonight.
As turbulent as her insides.

Oh, Lord, he had kissed her. What would Ceridwen's bible say about this? Was the moon right? The stars aligned? Was he, after all, her destiny?

Who was he, anyway?
What
was he? A hero one moment, almost childlike the next. A farmer one day, a true aristocrat later, with all the airs and arrogance that went along with it. It was in his walk, his stance, the elegant, well-cut clothes he wore, not to mention the way he had of looking down his nose at anything he found objectionable. Aristocrats, especially dukes, were notorious for that, regarding their less- than-distinguished world with a tendentious eye.

It wasn't a trait that she found appealing in the least . . . normally.
This
duke, however, had a way of making it seem just a little alluring, a bit exciting. More than once—even before the kiss—he had made her heart skip a beat (she could hardly deny it any longer)—like now, as he walked at her side, offering her his arm in a gentlemanly manner each

time they were forced to leap a creek bed or a cluster of brushwood on their journey back to Cavisbrooke.

Miracle had decided that his unfathomable eyes—gray as channel fog—were more than a little disturbing. They were full of secrets, cynicism, and guilt. It was the way he had of avoiding her eyes when she attempted to look into his soul, for the eyes
were
windows to the soul, and repeatedly the duke of Salterdon shuttered those windows against her, not only on his first stay at Cavisbrooke, but during this visit as well. She wanted to trust him, but dare she? After her mother left, she had trusted only one person in her life, and that had been Johnny. He had taught her the value of honesty, of truth, of forbearance, and forgiveness.

Perhaps it was time to forgive His Grace.

Miracle ran down the path ahead of Salterdon, her knowledge of the track enabling her to skip effortlessly over jutting roots and outcropping stones even though darkness had descended. She felt safer here, with yards of distance to separate them.

What if he tried to kiss her again? Would she allow it? Would she play coy and bashful? Why hadn't he spoken to her since she had allowed him such a shocking liberty? What went on in a man's mind after such an intimate occurrence? Why had he looked so pained, so angered, so frustrated when he had at last released her? Why had he appeared as if he wanted to hurl himself off the Undercliff?

Had she disappointed him?

It wasn't as if she
knew
what to do. Joe Cobbett had only kissed her once, and it had certainly been nothing like Salterdon's. Joe's kiss had been little more than a dry brief peck that left her wondering what all the fuss was about between men and women. But Salterdon's . . .

Ceridwen's bible had said nothing about open mouths and tongues, of burning eyes and pounding hearts that robbed her of breath and all physical strength. This was certainly something new. She felt confused, a little out of focus and out of control, and that wasn't good. She suspected that a man like Salterdon would shy from such a weakness.

Blazes! She had even begun to care what he thought!

Topping a rise and breathing rapidly, she stopped suddenly and focused on the distant view. At the bottom of the hill she could just make out Johnny's cart and donkey. The terrified animal was braying loudly as a half dozen boys on shire horses thundered in a circle around her friend, all whooping and shouting as he flailed at them with his cane.

"Away
with
you," came his voice. "Hooligans! Ruffians! Be gone and leave me in peace!"

Striking off at a run, taking no notice of the stones slashing the bottoms of her feet or His Grace's linen stock flapping from her instep like a tattered flag, she flew toward the ambushers. "Stop it!" she cried. "Leave him alone!"

Plowing into the midst of the fray, she fell to her knees and grabbed Johnny where he huddled on the ground near the cart.

"Witch!" a lad hooted.

"Lunatic!" another crowed.

"Why don't the two of
ya
leave this isle to normal folk?" still another boy shouted.

"Go away!" Miracle yelled. "Why can you not leave us in peace?"

Someone flung a stone. Miracle cried out as it glanced off her cheek. Another followed. Wrapping herself around Johnny, she hugged him close and whispered in his ear, "It's all right. I won't let them hurt you."

"Come 'ere,
luvie
. If
y
a want to wrap
yer
arms around a man,
ya
might as well make it count."

A hand twisted into her hair and flung her aside. She hit the ground hard, skidded, felt the skin abraded from her arms and hands as Johnny howled out his distress.

"Son of a bitch," came the sound of Salterdon's fierce and threatening voice through the melee. Through her haze of shock, she watched Salterdon swing with Johnny's cane at her attacker, cracking it against the villain's head, sending him sprawling with a groan. Then he spun on his heel as a mounted rider bore down upon him; he swung again, driving the chiseled horse head into the boy's rib once, twice, while the massive, terrified horse the boy rode shied and whinnied and took off into the dark at a dead run.

Then there was quiet but for the sound of her own breathing and the thudding of the horses' hooves as the attackers fled into the night.

"Mira, Mira,"
cried Johnny.

"Meri
Mine," Salterdon said softly, and fell to one knee beside her, his gentle hands brushing the hair back from her face. She did her best to focus, to swallow the lump of emotion in her throat as his fingers tenderly caressed her face, her hands, and arms, cautiously checking to see if the ruffians had broken more than her spirit.

At last, she managed to gather her wits enough to sit up. Seeing Johnny, collapsed and leaning back against the cart, his face white, Miracle tried her best to stand, only to sway into Salterdon's arms. "Help him," she pleaded up into his concerned eyes. "Because I fear I might faint."

With that, she found herself swept up in Salterdon's aims and carefully deposited into the cart. Miracle took several deep breaths, closed her eyes, and kept them closed until Salterdon appeared again, and with teeth clenched and body straining, hoisted Johnny into the cart. Miracle opened her arms, and as her one and only friend sank down against her, she cradled his head on her shoulder, and whispered, "There, there, Johnny. I swear I won't let them hurt you again."

Miracle sat at Johnny's side until he slept. She held his hand. She soothed him with words. She read to him from a book of poems until his eyelids grew heavy, his breathing less laborious, and slight color returned to his cheeks. Still, he struggled with Morpheus, gripped her hand fiercely, and whispered, "Sweet
Mira,
forget an old man and see to yourself."

"I'm fine, Johnny. I promise."

"Your face is bleeding. Your dress is torn. Merciful God, strike me dead for bringing this fate upon you. I should have insisted that your mother send you away from this place. We were both too bloody selfish. You brought us such joy. We loved you so
much . . ."