Miracle (27 page)

Miracle, astride a high-cantering bay stallion of unquestionable spirit and beauty, circled Jonathan Hoyt, who stood near a campfire, issuing orders like a seasoned soldier.

"You must ride with your legs and seat,
Mira.
Listen to me. You are to become one with the horse. Your movements must be fluid and you must force the stubborn beast up under you. Yes! That's my girl. Feel the animal's power surge up through you. You must be in control. You are the master,
Mira.
Never for a moment allow him to think he is or he may well kill you."

"
Hasan
would never kill me!" she shot back, and dug her bare heels into the stallion's lathered sides, demanding more speed and collection.

"You must demand his respect,
Mira!"

"I have his respect!" she cried back, and with that, she spun the snorting horse toward a barricade of tumbled stone, and then drove him forward at a fierce speed.

"Mira!"
John shouted. "I beg you—"

With a graceful leap, the horse and rider left the ground and flew over the wall, disappearing into the dark.

Flinging his cane to the ground, John cursed and shook his fist, hobbled toward the wall, and falling against it, stared off into the night. "Blasted gel," Clayton heard him mutter. "She'll kill herself yet on these unpredictable beasts. Ismail!" he shouted.

From a brightly colored tent erected beyond the dancing firelight, Benjamin's specter appeared draped in the recognizable
abbah
of a desert Bedouin, dark face partially covered. "Find the lady and bring her back," John barked. "And she damn well better be in one piece or I'm
havin
'
yer
skinny
arse
for me dinner,
ya
bleedin
' barbarian. No doubt
you've
been
encouragin
' this unhealthy behav
ior . . ."

The slightly built man deftly scrambled over the wall, despite the encumbrance of his trailing robes, and vanished into the night.

From his place in the shadows, Clayton watched John wearily drop onto a pile of stones and run his hands through his thinning hair. Only then did Clayton allow himself to study his surroundings: the Bedouin tent and its colored
filjans
,
mijdims
, and
amuds
, a well-worn carpet positioned near the fire on which pots of coffee were steeping. There was even a
hadhira
built around the front of the tent to keep out the cold wind.

There were a score of acres enclosed within the perimeters of this apparently secretive oasis—an oasis that was obviously erected for the comfort of the Arabian horse- keeper, and his collection of, by Clayton's estimation, at least a dozen horses that were scattered over the walled-in grounds, all grazing peacefully in lush, ankle-deep grass— until the sudden, trumpeted call of alarm erupted from someplace in the dark. Within a blink, the animals moved as one, heads flying up, nostrils wide and ears erect, as they swung their heads in Clayton's direction and pranced nervously, as if waiting to be told what to do next.

Then came the familiar, eerie blowing and roaring, the thunder vibrating the ground, shivering up Clayton's spine and riveting his eyes on the ghostly form materializing from the dark.

The dragon. The unicorn.

No illusion this time, no specter brought on by too much grog—no bad dream—no dream at all.

It came, scattering the other horses to the far corners of the encampment, its forelegs prancing chest high, white hooves flashing in the firelight, silver white tail arched up over his haunches and flying out behind him like a banner. Massive but graceful neck arched. Challenging black eyes flashing. Fiery red nostrils stretched and open and blowing steam into the cold night air.

John's cautious voice called from the distance, "Your Grace, please don't attempt to flee—"

"I'm not accustomed to running from horses," he responded calmly, although the stallion continued coming, now baring its teeth, its entire muscular body appearing to grow with each reverberating footfall.

"He'll challenge you," John called, then he stumbled to the tumbled barricade and shouted into the night, "Ismail! Ismail! Where the devil have
ya
disappeared to?"

Clayton planted his feet.

The stallion planted his, sliding to a stop no more than ten feet from Clayton, close enough that when the animal blew again, the hot moisture of his breath felt like steam on Clayton's face. The animal reared, then pawed the ground, sending turf flying into the air like little missiles.

"Napitov!" came Miracle's cry, and suddenly she appeared, sliding from her bay horse while her odd companion scrambled to collect the reins and hurry the lathered animal away. Features set, her red hair a wild spray around her face and shoulders, she marched, with whip in hand, toward Clayton and his agitated challenger. "Napitov!" she stated again more firmly. "Away! Napitov, no!"

The horse roared and tossed its head, causing its flowing, steel-gray mane to fly furiously. As Miracle neared, the horse spun, danced, kicked, then pranced in place between Miracle and Clayton, blocking her way, shielding her from Clayton with his body.

"Away," she ordered again, not the least intimidated by the animal's odd, aggressive behavior. Then she offered her hand, and as she lightly touched the horse's muzzle, the transformation was immediate. The uncontrollable dragon-beast lowered its noble head and nickered softly, almost seductively, like a man crooning amorous words to his beloved. The animal lipped her fingers, her jaw, her ear, nuzzled her hair and made soft, low sounds in its throat.

"Away," Miracle murmured more gently, and slid her hand down the horse's strong neck, her hand small against the flexing, bulging muscles working beneath her palm. Only then did the stallion move away, and Miracle turned her attention to Clayton. In a blink, the almost drowsy look of pleasure that had marked her features while stroking the horse became, once again, a look of fiery anger.

"I should have allowed him to kill you," she said, moving toward him, the whip gripped in her fist as if she might strike him. "How dare you invade the secrecy of this place? You've no business here, Salterdon. You've no business at Cavisbrooke. On the island, for that matter. Why the bloody hell don't you go back to where you belong?"

Clayton slid his hands into his pockets, never taking his eyes from hers. "What the devil are you doing here?" he asked.

"I told you—"

"That it's none of my business." He glanced around. "As a young man I traveled a great deal with my parents. Our last journey together took us to the Far East, to the cities and deserts of Arabia; my father had business there. I've seen Bedouins who live similarly, and the horses—"

"Get out," she snapped.

"Are Arabians, of course. I should have realized it when I saw the two of you riding on the beach at dawn, but I hardly expected to see the horses here. What, may I ask, are they doing here? Specifically, what are you doing with them, I mean, aside from hiding them from the rest of the world? And who is your friend there? I mean aside from being a specter babbling in tongues and frightening my manservant out of his wits? Come, come,
Meri
Mine. A young lady shouldn't harbor such secrets from her suitor."

"You are not my suitor, and I don't owe you any explanations."

Having retrieved his walking stick, Johnny limped up behind Miracle and scowled. "Calm down,
Mira.
If you won't discuss the situation rationally, then I will—"

"You won't!" she cried furiously. "I haven't worked feverishly to keep these horses a secret the last years to have this—this arrogant, high-stocking buffoon dash home and announce to the entire world that
I'm
caching away royal horses."

"It was bound to come out eventually," John argued. "You cannot keep them hidden away here forever.
I'm
surprised that you've managed it this long, considering your appetite for riding over this island like a
bleedin
' bat out of hell. I'm
tellin
'
ya
, Salterdon, the gel will be the death of me yet the way she rides these damn devils. That's how I damaged me leg,
ya
know, by
climbin
' onto that beast there—Napitov. Bah! Me
thinkin
' I could tame and train him. I've been a groom and trainer all me life, sir, but I
ain't
ever dealt with animals like this. They're too damn smart for their own good. Too damn human, if
ya
ask me—"

"They simply will not allow you to break their spirit," Miracle snapped back. "And they are far from dangerous if you will simply take the time to understand them. They are more loyal than most people I know." She glared at Clayton.

He smiled back, bringing hotter color to her cheeks, if that were possible.

Snapping the crop against her leg, Miracle stepped around Clayton and moved to the door, struggled to shove it back, then disappeared into the castle's dark corridor.

"You've done it now, Your Grace," John said. "You've just breached the sanctuary of her most prized possessions. She'll be forced to deal with you now, not just patronize you. A wise man would know how to use the situation to his best advantage."

"Blackmail," Clayton stated, still staring after Miracle.

"Precisely."

Somewhere in the distance, perhaps by his campfire or from within his tent, Ismail sat on his carpet and played his flute and burned his incense while Miracle tossed and turned in her bed. The sheer curtains draped from the tester gave the
firelit
room a hazy glow—almost cheery, certainly comforting. This was her world, as unusual as it might appear to outsiders, with Oriental tapestries depicting horses in flight across sandy stretches of desert, Bedouin warriors upon their backs. Across the stone floor was scattered mounds of fragrant hay. A cat lay curled before the fire, purring loudly enough that Miracle could hear, and near the window her noble, gallant horse dozed with his head lowered and eyes partially closed. This, too, was customary, even for kings, to bring their most prized horse into their private chamber where it would be protected and pampered even before his own children. The prized one was never for sale, at any cost. Wars had been waged and battles won and lost over a solitary horse.

It seemed that the whole world rested, while Miracle was, at last, forced to leave her bed and pace.

The storm moved in at just after midnight. Tumbling clouds obliterated the moon and stars. Miracle listened to the wind and rain slash against her bedroom window and watched the lightning flash over the distant black rocks of the Undercliff. Normally, she would have been there, in the lighthouse, stoking the fire and straining to make out any speck of light on the turbulent watery horizon. But thanks to his dukeship and his ability to rattle her judgment with a look, a touch, a kiss, she wasn't there. And thanks to his dukeship, her secret was out, her horses discovered, her crime revealed.

So where was the panic? Why were her knees weak from the memory of his kiss that afternoon on the bluff, and not from the fact that she should be frantic with worry over the prospect that there would be no beacon to help a ship in distress? Why did she not quake from the possibility that she might well spend the rest of her life in prison, now that her Arabian herd had been discovered?

A nudge from behind. Miracle smiled and turned.

Napitov
nickered and lowered his velvety muzzle into her hand then he swung toward the door, ears pricked. He pranced toward the door, hooves clashing against the floor as he exited the chamber. Miracle listened. The music stopped.

Napitov snorted his alarm.

Miracle hurried to the corridor and stopped, her heart suddenly climbing her throat. Her houseguest stood in the distance, his obvious intrusion into her private chambers thwarted by the stallion's alertness. Once again, Napitov stood between her and Salterdon, his stance challenging.