Miracle (29 page)

Withdrawing a crumpled paper from his pocket, he stared down at it a confused moment, then, with an inward curse, wadded it up and flung it as hard as he could into the fire.

"Do you love me?" she asked gently, and placed a hand on his arm. He moved away, leaving her standing before the fire, alone, gripping her pillow that reflected the fire in red and gold prisms. "If not, then why would you choose to marry me?"

"Because you're . . . .extraordinary. And rare. And the most beautiful woman I've ever known," he responded, his back still to her as he stood at the window and watched rain spill down the panes in runnels. "Your innocence enthralls me. Your
naïveté
astounds me. I . . . like your freckles.
I . . .
like your bare feet covered with sand. I admire your dedication and your loyalty. I think you're a little bit insane . . . and that excites me. Your unpredictability fires my enthusiasm. I awake in the middle of the night and count the hours until I can see you again because each time we come together, I feel born again, like the world is fresh and clean and you're going to introduce me to yet another new experience.
I . . .
want to save you from this lunacy."

Opening his arms to indicate his surroundings, he turned to face her again. Arms still extended, his hands in fists, he added through his teeth, "And then I realize that the lunacy isn't here, but out there, where I come from, and I think that you could somehow rectify it. Make my world a little less . . . empty."

"You do love me," she told him, and smiled.

He shook his head. "No.
I . . .
need you."

"Is that not a part of love? Perhaps the most important part?"

"I know what the hell love is. I've been in love at least a dozen times!"

"Obviously they didn't fulfill your needs or they would be at your side now. Wouldn't they?"

He lowered his arms. "I should never have come here," he said aloud to himself. Then he stepped around her, and without so much as a backward glance, he quit the room.

Clayton slammed the bedroom door as hard as he could, which wasn't easy. The five-hundred-year-old medieval portal had obviously been hewn from one solid slab of oak and weighed as much as an entire goddamned tree. He kicked it once, then again for good measure. Hitting it with his fist was out of the question, though he wanted to, oh how he wanted to. He wanted to hurt something, preferably not himself.

Didn't Miracle Cavendish know a young lady such as herself should never allow a man into her private chamber? Didn't she realize that a young lady in her nightdress never received a male caller? Didn't she realize that when she stood before the fire dressed in her nightdress that the light from the fire would silhouette her body in a way that could make a bloody monk get hard? Hard enough to hurt

. . .
hard enough to obliterate a grown man's (who should know better) willpower . . .

Hadn't she been taught that a young woman should never allow her base desires to run rampant? For God's sake, she wasn't supposed to outwardly acknowledge her feelings. She wasn't supposed to seduce him! What happened to playing coy and hard to get? What happened to modesty? To the coquettish fluttering of lashes and the becoming blushes of discomposure—even if it was all a lot of balderdash.

Damn. How would he explain to his brother that he had , tumbled in the sheets with Trey's intended? How would he ever look at the future duchess of Salterdon without the image of her straddling his hips and offering up her nipples to his greedy mouth? How would he ever sleep again without the mental vision of her making her kind of passionate, unfettered, unashamed love to another man—his own brother—haunting him?

What the blazes made her think he'd fallen in love with her?

"Damn!" He kicked the door again . . .and again . . . and again.

First love is only a little foolishness and a lot of

curiosity: no really self-respecting woman

would take advantage of it.

GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

Chapter Eleven

"His name is Ismail," Miracle explained, "and he is from the
Anazeh
tribe of the Nejd. As a young man, he guarded, cared for, and trained his chieftain's horses for battle. Many years ago, his tribe was raided by another, and his chief's best mares were taken. It's custom that the animals' guardian must be given over as well in order that the horses remain happy, healthy, and one with Allah. Ismail was forced to leave his tribe and family and wander as a slave with his captors. Many times he was forced to accompany the horses into new sands, taken by new tribes until finally he and the horses became the possession of the empress of Russia. In a rare but noble show of friendship, she decided to present our king with the royal gift of some of her finest horses, but, as you say, the ship disappeared before it ever reached England—or so everyone thought. It broke up on those rocks—there—at the very end of the Race, during a particularly fearsome storm. The vessel sank like a stone. All but one man was killed, drowned by the awful currents or crushed against the rocks." She remained silent for a while as she watched auks skim over the sea, dip and dive, then soar toward the gray sky. "John and I buried them in the chapel. It seemed only fitting, don't you agree?"

She got no response, but continued nevertheless. "I discovered Ismail clinging to the ship's mast that can still be seen jutting out of the sea upon occasion, when the tides are very low. The horses were scattered up and down the strand, wet and freezing, but due to their extreme loyalty to their handler, they would not leave. I daresay they would have remained there and starved, had I not rowed my boat out to Ismail and saved him. Because I saved him and. the horses and therefore set him free of his enforced imprisonment, he feels that I was sent to him by Allah, who obviously wishes me to own the animals—and him, of course. I've no desire to own Ismail; I can't seem to make him understand, however. So you see, I didn't steal the horses. Actually—"

"Allah plunked them into your lap, as a gift,"
Salterdon
said. "And who are we to argue with Allah?"

Miracle laughed, causing several auks flying in a group to scatter and flap away. Swinging her legs, her brown skirt billowed nearly to her knees as the wind swept up the Undercliff to where she and her tense and quiet companion perched on a tussock-littered precipice far over the ocean. A half-eaten apple lay in her lap, along with a crust of bread she had brought for the birds.

Leaning against Salterdon's shoulder, she regarded his immobile profile before saying, "You may kiss me if you like."

"Here?" He raised one eyebrow and glanced down.

"Here." She pointed to her lips. "I've thought of nothing else all morning. Are kisses generally so wet and warm? Is the tongue always involved? I think that's the part I like most. And here I thought tongues were good only for benefiting mastication and speaking."

"For God's sake," he muttered and turned his face into the chilly wind. The damp air made his hair curl and wave in a boyish manner around his temples and over his forehead. He had turned the collar of his cutaway up around his nape.

She blew in his ear. He grunted in annoyance and scrambled to his feet, sending stone and dirt drifting off the ledge to the white-capped waves far below.

"I suppose a lady wouldn't do that, either," she called after him, doing her best to muffle her laughter.

"No, she wouldn't," he declared and continued walking.

With a sigh, Miracle followed, running to catch up. Looping her arm through his, she offered up her apple. " '
Tis
very sweet, Your Grace, and delicious."

"Thank you, Eve, but no thank you. Just because Adam fell for that trick, don't think that I will, too."

"Only a bite, then I'll leave you alone to brood, if that's your desire."

"I don't brood. You're beginning to sound like Benjamin."

"You do brood. You're brooding now, though I can't imagine why. A bite, Your Grace? '
Tis
said that the apple is magic. Its nectar will bring you health, happiness, and riches beyond your wildest dreams."

"Oh very well, if that will make you happy." He stopped walking and reached for the apple.

She snatched it away and danced backward, her cloud of hair rising in the gusty wind. Then, very slowly, she lifted the apple to her own mouth and took a bite, held the crisp red and white fraction between her teeth, and tossed the core away.

"For heaven's sake," Salterdon muttered as Miracle advanced, her eyes twinkling. "Stop this, Miracle. What's got into you? You're acting like some kind
of . . . of . . .
Quit looking at me that way. You have juice dripping from your chin. Now it's running down your neck—" He grabbed a linen square from his pocket, then did nothing but stand, hands at his sides, the white, embroidered kerchief flapping in the wind, his hair spilling over his eyes, his jaw tensing, flexing, his sensual mouth flattening into a line of emotional strain the nearer she came.

Standing so closely her body brushed his, Miracle eased up on her toes and offered him the apple, still held with her teeth. His body felt rigid as stone. He didn't so much as breathe.

Finally, he said in a deep, dry, and husky voice, "You smell like apple. And rosewater. Your hair is like a soft fire that I want to bury my face in.
Dammit
,
Meri
Mine, don't tease me this way or—"

"Or what, Your Grace?"

"I'm trying my best to be a gentleman."

"I like you better when you're not. The apple, sir."

"Meri—"

"Why do you call me that?
Meri
Mine?"

He watched her eyes a long minute as little by little his shoulders relaxed. His countenance softened. Taking her face in his hands and holding her gently, he said, "Because you make me merry. You make me happy. You make me laugh." Bending his head, he took the sliver of fruit into his mouth, allowed his lips to linger an eternal moment before kissing her. As before, the blood surged, the heart quickened. The familiar lethargy that stole through her the day before made her grow weak at the knees, dizzy in her mind. No, she hadn't imagined it—no fantasy of her deepest dreams. She knew it now for what it was.

He kissed her harder, his body rigid, his fingers digging into her arm as he pulled her roughly up against him. She could feel his passion building, as it had the night before, and the idea that she could trigger his desire so easily made her bold. She leaned into him, kissed him as fiercely, and allowed a low, pleasurable moan to escape her throat. She clung to him when he pushed her away and stared down at her eyes that were as turbulent as the building clouds on the horizon.