Miracle (30 page)

"You're playing with me," he growled. "Not wise,
Meri
Mine. Teasing can become dangerous if you don't know what you're doing."

"Teach me," she replied, her lids slumberous, her body lethargic with a weakness she was only beginning to understand.

"I'd like to. God, how I'd like to," he said under his breath. "But I didn't come here to seduce you. I came here to take you back with me, Miracle. To see that you become the future duchess of Salterdon. There will be plenty of time for all this once you're married. Listen to me!" He shook her. "Agree to marry . . . me . . . and I'll spend the rest of my life making love to you."

Feeling slightly unbalanced by his terseness, Miracle smiled unsteadily into his intense, unreadable eyes and placed her hand upon his cheek. "My, but you
are
an honorable man, sir. And here I thought men of such nobility cared little for a woman's virtue." Wiggling free, dancing backward, her cheeks warm with desire and her heart throbbing with the new and unexpected emotions he stirred inside her, she took a moment to catch her breath. "You constantly surprise me, Your Grace; you who crowed about your countless conquests on your previous stay—"

"Forget my previous stay,
dammit
. I'm not the same man . . ." He turned away and took a moment to collect himself. "Will you marry the duke or not?" he finally demanded in so angry and frustrated a tone that Miracle sobered.

"Perhaps, if I thought the duke truly loved me," she replied as hotly. "Perhaps, if I understood why he would choose me of all the women who must desire him, love him—no doubt some of the most beautiful women in England, whose wealth must exceed mine to extremes. Why me, Salterdon? Tell me, damn you. Make me believe, and mayhap I would consider the marriage . . . now that I've come to care for you."

For a long while, he stood with his back to her, his dark hair ruffled by the rising and falling wind, his silhouette tall against the backdrop of sky and sea. At last, growing weary of his silence and frustrated by his odd manner, Miracle turned on her heel and stormed away.

It had been a long while since Miracle had last visited Alum Bay. The ride up the rugged coast was a long one, but Napitov's smooth and trusty gait always made the jaunt pleasant.

She reached the bay's shore by way of a deep and ragged ravine. Before her, the sea rolled into the cliffs with great impetuosity, sending a spray of misty fog
climbing far
up the looming faces of chalk of so pure a white they were almost blinding in the late afternoon sunlight.

For a long while, Miracle sat astride Napitov and watched the local village folk lower themselves down the cliff face by ropes, baskets strapped to their waists, as they cautiously collected the eggs and feathers from the nests of various sea birds, which flocked in amazing numbers on the ledges and crevices of the cliffs. Then she and her patient, obliging stallion continued their journey down the narrowing, rocky path, through a break in the cliff wall that was all but obscured by the abundant growth of
samphire
and ferns cascading over the opening like a verdant waterfall.

"Easy," she consoled her suddenly nervous horse. Napitov pranced in place, snorted, and shook his head, for a moment refusing to proceed into the dim, misty lair. Once Miracle had felt the same, the one and only time her mother had brought her here to meet Ceridwen. As a child, she had thought the place frighteningly magical. The tints of the spiraling cliffs were so bright and varied that they had not the appearance of anything natural. Deep purplish red, dusky blue, bright
ocherous
yellow, gray, and black succeeded one another as sharply defined as the stripes in silk. Occasionally, the braver children who lived near Alum Bay would venture into the chasm to collect the various colored sands, which they arranged fancifully in phials or made into little ornamental articles and sold to visitors. But the children didn't come often; their parents wouldn't allow it . . . not as long as Ceridwen lived yonder in the ancient stone hut.

To reach the hut, one was forced to wade a broad expanse of shallow, transparent water. His head down, Napitov grudgingly carried Miracle through the pool while strange and exotic fish of every color darted around his hooves. Finally reaching the blue shoal, she slid from the stallion's back and soothed him with words, rewarded him with a carrot she took from her pocket, then approached

Ceridwen's den, parting the lush vegetation that curtained the entrance.

As always, the door stood open. Miracle waited on the threshold, allowing her vision to become accustomed to the dark interior while the odd scents of spices and perfumes wafted around her.

"Come in,
m'lady
Cavendish," came the scratchy voice from inside. "I've been expecting you."

Miracle smiled, as always, amazed. There had been times when, as a younger girl, Miracle had approached the hut as quietly and secretly as a cat, thinking to trick her old friend. It had never worked. Having been born blind one hundred five years ago, Ceridwen's hearing was still as sharp as a nail—or perhaps her acute senses had nothing at all to do with her hearing, but, as the suspicious villagers vowed, to her magical abilities.

Stooped at the shoulders, her hair a gray silken mat that spilled to the floor at the foot of her rocking chair, Ceridwen stared with white,
pupilless
eyes out a window. Miracle sat on a milk stool at her side. They remained silent a long while, the only sound the occasional creaking of the chair as it rocked back and forth.

"It's been three months and seven days since you last came to see me," Ceridwen finally said. "Then you were despondent over a man—an intruder, you called him. You wished to know how you could expel him from your home. You didn't care for him much, as I recall. I told you then that he had two faces, that he would eventually reveal the good side of himself—"

"The duke wishes to marry me," Miracle announced.

Ceridwen nodded and continued rocking.

Leaving the stool, Miracle paced, occasionally stopping to study the curious collection of drying herbs and flowers, the conglomeration of stones, and the trove of feathers, animal bones, and pulverized bird shells, all of which were stored in tiny reed baskets Ceridwen had woven herself.

"Damned aggravating, vacillating man. One moment he's attempting to seduce me, the next he's as stony as the bloody Undercliff," she said. "He denies that he loves me. He says that he simply needs me, yet he wishes to marry me. He kisses me passionately one day, the next scolds me for kissing him. He is as inconstant as the weather."

Returning to Ceridwen's side, taking the old woman's fragile hand, Miracle went to her knees and searched her companion's face. "Is this what love is? Does it crash upon you, then withdraw like the tides? For if it is, I don't think I like it much and cannot understand why all of humankind would pine so to experience the emotion. If this is truly love, Ceridwen, then love is an enemy to us all."

Again, Ceridwen said nothing, just stared out the window with her white eyes and rocked in her chair.

" '
Tis
times like this that I miss my mother most. Perhaps she could explain how she could love a man who obviously didn't love us."

"Would you settle for the life your mother lived?" Ceridwen asked.

"No."

"Then I trust you'll make the proper choice. You'll marry the one who truly loves you,
m'lady
."

"Does he love me?" Miracle asked, stunned by the urgency in her own voice.

" '
Tis
not my way to say, child. You must discover your destiny on your own—"

"But I must know, Ceridwen. I would rather live the remainder of my life alone than waste it loving a man who cares nothing for me . . . like my mother did." When Ceridwen still refused to respond, Miracle stood. She wasn't surprised that her friend had refused to answer. The times her mother had come here to plead a recourse for her predicament, Ceridwen merely forced
Lorraina
to face her own demons and find a solution. Ceridwen had treated Miracle no differently, even when she had pleaded for Ceridwen to help her find her mother.

At last, Miracle moved to the door, but stopped as the old woman said, "Be cautious,
m'lady
, and trust your instincts. They have rarely let you down before."

" '
Tis
my instincts that fail me, madam. There is a part of me that still dwells on the man he was, while the other grows more and more fond of the man he has become."

"Trust your instincts," she repeated, then commenced rocking again.

Miracle ran down the corridor to Salterdon's room, her
slippered
feet barely making a sound on the cold cobblestone floor. She skipped occasionally, not unlike an excited child, swallowed back the giggle tickling her throat, and cast a disapproving glance at the miserable candles sputtering at the shadows. Tomorrow she would spend the day dipping candles, but tonight she would celebrate.

Benjamin started as she flew into the chamber. Gripping a stack of clothing against his chest, he stared at her with
houndlike
eyes and pursed lips.

"Where is His Grace?" she asked, and danced toward the passageway into Benjamin's quarters.

"Imbibing a spot with Mr. Hoyt, I believe," he replied, then snapped closed his mouth in consternation.

Miracle laughed. "Relax, Benjamin. I'm well aware that John has an occasional tipple. I also know exactly where he hides his stashes." Regarding the neatly folded laundry in his arms, Miracle advanced, ran her fingers over the pristine white shirts. "Where did you get these?" she asked, counting a dozen or so shirts before the valet proceeded to stack them tidily into the wardrobe.

"Purchased them in Niton, miss, though I cannot imagine why. He must have a hundred blouses at home, all just as new as these.
Basingsto
—
er
—ah—His Grace doesn't usually have much use for a lot of finery, not with his penchant for labor."

"Indeed," Miracle said thoughtfully as Benjamin closed the wardrobe door with a bang. An impish smile crossed her lips. "You may tell His Grace that such a costly sacrifice for my benefit wasn't necessary. Never mind, I shall tell him myself, I think."

Twirling on her toes, she hurried from the room and down one corridor after another, finally arriving at John's apartments. Jonathan sat in a chair before the fire, his bad leg propped upon a pillowed stool. Salterdon poised by the hearth, a cordial in one hand, the other tucked into his coat pocket. She recognized the shirt he was wearing was one of her own, and the thought occurred to her that another time she would have been angry; she would have informed him that she didn't need or want his charity—if indeed that had been his idea in purchasing the garments.

But she could think of nothing but the image he made, so dapper and elegantly dressed, but with the distinct air of a wild animal confident of his prowess. Those gray eyes, dark and warm as the ignited coals near his feet, left her momentarily speechless, forgetting why she had searched him and John out in the first place.

"My, don't the two of you make a distinguished pair," she finally greeted him, skipping to John's side and planting a kiss on his cheek. Then she offered His Grace a quick curtsy, causing him to flash his heart stopping, mocking grin and raise one eyebrow. He and Hoyt exchanged amused glances.

"
M'lady
is in fine fettle this evening," John declared.

"I have wonderful news," she announced. "I couldn't wait to share it with the both of you." She produced the letter from her skirt pocket and waved it in the air. "A letter from my mother!"

"Ah," John replied, then removed the spectacles from his nose and carefully folded in the stems.

"It seems she's spent the last eight months in Rome. She describes the villages and cathedrals in glorious detail—and the people—she lived for a month with a countess in her chateau overlooking the Tiber River. Imagine spending your days basking in the sun on a veranda overlooking the river, then dancing until dawn in the arms of some handsome count."

She pirouetted, causing her skirt to twirl around her ankles, then laughed breathlessly. "She sounds deliriously happy, though occasionally her thoughts seem a bit confused. And her handwriting grows somewhat unsteady. But none of that matters, does it? What's important is that she wrote. After nearly a year, she finally wrote!"