Miracle (64 page)

With the sharp bite of rain on his face and shoulders, Clayton stared numbly at the holocaust. There, once, was the door on which he and Benjamin had pounded upon that gloomy midnight. Yonder lay the fallen stones of the round tower in which Miracle sewed her garments for pennies.

When?
he wondered wearily.
How?

"They came," said the scratchy voice behind him, and he turned, blinked the rain from his eyes, and focused on the bent and gnarled form of an old woman, her coarse gray hair trailing the muddy ground at her feet as she shuffled toward him, resting her weight on a stick. "Soon after John left. The young imbeciles. Wrought havoc with all they put their greedy hands on. Made no matter to them that it was once a home. It frightened them, you see. It was . . . different."

Stopping feet from him, she raised up her head, revealing the white, sightless orbs of her eyes. "Basingstoke," she said. "You've come for milady."

"Is she here?"

"Nay. She's there." She raised up the crooked stick and pointed down the Undercliff. "At the lighthouse."

He grabbed for
Majarre's
reins.

The crone slammed her stick across his arm. "She'll know how much you care once this is over. Let not fear be your enemy, my lord. Her life depends on it. Now quickly! Make haste. The storm builds even as we speak."

The storm was the least of his worries.

Napitov loyally remained near the ledge where Miracle had left him, rear turned into the wind, his head down as rain pummeled his withers and back. Upon hearing Clayton and
Majarre
ride up, the stallion lifted his head, ears forward, nose tipped toward the sky, and blew a greeting, but he didn't move, and wouldn't until his mistress returned to him.

The tide was in, surrounding the chapel and lighthouse, writhing waves climbing up the tower and swirling around the mostly submerged crucifix. As if the ocean floor had heaved, great green curls rose up and careened forward, propelled by the wind, and slammed so fiercely against the Undercliff walls that the ground trembled under Clayton's feet.

Helplessly, shielding the rain from his face, bracing his body against the howling winds, he watched the erratic firelight in the house, saw it gyrate and dance, grow brighter, then dimmer, then waver from side to side.

No. It was the tower that moved—swayed. The tower was crumbling beneath the onslaught of the gale.

A movement? There! Upon the widow's perch, that horrid little landing hanging so perilously to the side of the tower. Miracle!

He
shouted her name. Useless. He couldn't hear his own voice. What the blazes was she doing out there?

Clinging to the balustrade, her dress torn by the wind, her hair swept straight back, she stumbled to one end of the perch, then the other, as if, out of desperation to escape the tower, she was actually considering jumping into the turbulent sea.

"No!" he shouted, and began the descent down the slippery stone grooves of steps, his hands frantically grasping the jagged wall to steady himself, skinning his knuckles, abrading his fingers.

A spear of lightning erupted from the sky, streaked once toward the ocean, danced over the waves, exploded upon a shelf of rock not far from him. A fireball flashed; Clayton covered his head and huddled against the stones as the heat electrified the air so brightly he felt momentarily blinded. Another—a blue-white jagged sword that smashed against the roof of the lighthouse with a crack so sharp the sound trembled the stone ledge on which he crouched.

Timbers flew. Windows shattered. The fire within, fed by the sudden influx of wind, leapt like some hungry,
untethered
beast to engulf the lighthouse. To Clayton's horror, the widow's perch disintegrated and plummeted to the sea.

Where was Miracle?

Had she tumbled into the water?

Had she fled into the lighthouse before the lightning struck? If so, she was caught in that internal inferno.

He skidded down several slick steps. Below him, the ocean churned and swirled and crashed.

Impossible to swim out there.

Oh God, he hadn't submerged his body completely underwater since . . .

"Clayton, darling, give me your hand! Jump, darling, jump! "

Gasping air through the rain, Clayton focused on the

shadowy form resting on the lower ledge. The boat. Miracle had once mentioned a boat. Could it be?

"Yes!" He yelled it and fell upon the overturned wooden craft barely large enough to seat two people. How light it was, constructed of little more than splinters. An oar lay underneath. Waves this fierce could so easily bash the less than substantial dingy against the walls and smash it to pieces, and him as well.

He dragged the boat behind him, to the edge of the hissing water. Waves rose up and crashed against his legs, wrapped around his ankles and gripped, pulled hard; they seemed to scream, "This time you won't escape me. This time we'll drag you down into the watery grave with your mother and father. You escaped us once, but not again."

With a heave, he flung the dinghy into the water, and threw himself into it. It rolled threateningly from side to side; water crashed over him, spun the craft around and hurled it toward the wall, but just as it seemed he would be catapulted onto the rocks, the boat was snapped up by the back wall of a wave and driven out toward the open sea, and the lighthouse.

Using the oar as best he could, he battled the tidal currents and storm-driven waves, the muscles of his arms screaming with exertion, his mouth and nose gasping for air amid the salty spray and rain. Again and again he came close to the jutting crucifix; again and again he was dragged away, as if the ocean were teasing and taunting him.

At last! He flung the loop of the boat rope over the stone cross. The line snapped taut as a wave swelled up beneath the boat and sent the craft hurling against the wall of the lighthouse, causing Clayton to spill hard into the bottom of the dinghy.

Above him, the sky boiled with clouds and smoke. Fire leapt up through the rain, hissing, cracking. Stones crumbled and fell to the sea, missiles that, should a solitary one hit his insubstantial vessel, would smash it to pieces. So
little
time . . .
he
had to reach Miracle . . . if she was still alive . . .

The realization struck him then. There was no way in. The only entrance to the lighthouse was by way of the chapel and it was a dozen feet underwater.

He couldn't do it. An impossibility. It would mean diving. Fighting the currents. Submerging, holding his breath. The water would surge up his nose and down his throat and fill up his lungs . . .

He gasped for breath.

"Do you believe in miracles?" his Miracle had once asked him, there, at the entrance of this very chapel.

He removed his boots and flung them away. He tore off his shirt and watched as it floated like a ghost in the air momentarily, then fell to the water, swirled round and round, then sank from sight.

"Clayton, darling, jump. Jump!"

He dove into the frigid water. It swallowed him. Sucked him down. And down. His lungs were going to burst. Down. He kicked his way down until there was no sound, only movement, power around him drawing, thrusting.

His lungs were going to burst. Don't panic.

Salt burned his eyes as he searched the dense, murky depths, following the wall of the chapel, down, deeper.

At last! The entry! He kicked hard, dragged himself through the opening, into darkness, into stillness—a watery tomb of four stone walls and a ceiling. He followed the wall with his hands—bursting, his lungs were bursting—his head would explode any moment—the burning in his brain was excruciating.

His hands passed over the Virgin's face. Her eyes stared out at him. Her lips were smiling.

Not far now. Here! Through the passageway, now up— where the hell was the surface? Up— He clawed his way up the slimy stones of the spiraling stairwell—up—he had to breathe or—

Bursting out of the water, he gasped for air, thrashed, scrambled up the steps before collapsing. He retched sea- water. It ran from his nose and mouth and seemed to weep from his eyes.

Then the heat from above hit him like a furnace. Rousing his strength, he dragged himself upward, through the ceiling of condensing smoke, until he emerged at the top of the stairwell where fire roared, engulfing most of the ancient wood. Frantically, he searched the burning interior, and there, huddled against the farthest wall—-

"
Meri
!" he shouted, and stumbled to her.

Her head came up, and she stared at him blankly, but as he fell to his knees and reached for her, anger replaced her stupor.

"No!" she screamed at him, and batted at his hands. "I would rather die—"

"Listen to me," he pleaded.

"I've listened for weeks and heard only lies. All lies!"

"I love you,
Meri
."

"You love your family's precious name—"

"I love you,
Meri
."

"It was all for your brother—all of it—all the promises, the endearments—you must have thought me a fool—I believed you. I worshipped you. I would have done anything to make you happy. But you meant none of it."

Gripping her shoulders in his hands, he shook her. "A mistake. My mistake. I fell in love with you immediately, and I was too goddamn weak to deny a worthless obligation I owed Trey. Listen to me. What could I do? If I confessed, even from the beginning, would this very thing not have happened? If you'll forgive me,
Meri
Mine, I'll spend the rest of our lives making it up to you."

She shook her head, turning her scratched,
sooted
face away.

He released her. In a resolute voice, he said, "Very well, then we'll both die."

Slowly, her wide, tear-filled eyes came back to his. Her chin quivered.
"What are you saying?"

"That I'm not leaving here without you. That my life wouldn't be worth living without you. If you've chosen to die here, then so shall I."

She regarded his wet hair, his damp, shirtless body and saturated breeches. "How did you get here?" she asked him softly.

"I swam."

"But the tide, and storm—"

"It wasn't easy."

A timber groaned above them. Burning embers rained over their shoulders. With a muttered curse, Clayton grabbed Miracle and dragged her to her feet. This time, there was little hesitance. Sweeping her up in his arms, he fled across the burning floor and down the smoke-filled stairwell to the water.

He slid Miracle to her feet, stared down into the murky green water while the heat grew more intense and the air impossible to breathe. The panic and fear were there still, knocking at his subconscious.

Then Miracle's fingers entwined with his. She said very softly, "Do you believe in miracles, my lord?"

"I believe in you," he replied.

They waded into the water, and with one last breath, dove under.