Miracle (9 page)

"Is he still there?" came her barely comprehensible voice from within.

Hoyt stared out at him, his spectacles becoming speckled by rain. "Aye," he replied. "
Standin
' there stiff as a corpse. And he
ain't
too happy, by the looks of '
im
. Not that I can blame '
im
. The weather
ain't
fit for a goose, much less a duke. Shall I invite him in,
m'lady
?"

"Oh, very well. If we must. But I warn you, Johnny, I shan't have a thing to do with him . . ."

Hoyt swung the door open and took an unsteady step backward, resting his weight on the crooked staff of a gnarled cane. Clayton glared at him through the downpour, his hands in fists at his sides, his clothes sodden through, then his gaze slid beyond the old man to the girl standing back from the door, hidden mostly in shadow, her arms clamped stubbornly across her breasts.

Finally, forcing a tight smile, Clayton stepped over the threshold into the bleak, dimly lit and cavernous foyer of gray stone and mortar that rose to Goliath heights above his head. He had hoped for light, of which there was little. He had prayed for warmth, of which there was none. He could almost see his breath as he exhaled with relief.

No sooner had Hoyt closed the door behind Benjamin, who, with a grunt of effort, dropped their saturated bags onto the floor, when the lady said, "I don't operate an establishment for the lost and wayward—not for you— again. This time, your dukeship, you will pay for your food and board, unlike last time when you and your misbegotten companions feasted upon our generosity not unlike a lot of leeches." Smugly, she added, "You may see yourself to your quarters. I believe you know the way."

Calmly, Clayton looked at Benjamin. Benjamin looked back, rain beading on his pink nose as his hound's eyes reflected his exact thoughts.

They didn't know the way to their quarters.

Finally, raising an eyebrow, Clayton said, "When I pay for my food and board, I expect service. That service includes the handling of my baggage."

She gasped and momentarily fumed. Then, with a huff of exasperation, she grabbed up the wet cases, struggled a moment until Hoyt lent a hand, and the two of them staggered off into the dark, laden with luggage. Clayton, with Ben at his side, followed a few paces behind.

"I shan't marry him, I tell you," the lass muttered to her companion, but just loudly enough that Clayton could hear. "Not for all his titles or wealth. I don't like him, Johnny."

"Give him a chance, lass. He seems much nicer this go 'round. Besides, I've never known you to turn away a being in need, even if he does look drowned as a piece of kelp."

The girl shifted the burdensome bag from one hand to the other and sighed. "If mama were here—"

"She wouldn't have hesitated to take the beggar in," Hoyt said, cutting her off. "You're just like her, you know. Beautiful, spirited, and stubborn. But there was never a truly mean bone in her lovely body. She had a way of
makin
' the poorest and most desperate traveler feel welcome. Aye, back then this old place didn't seem quite so dark and cold. Least not when she was present. In that way you are not like your mother—at least not tonight. I fear,
m'lady
, that you've grown too willful and hermetic for your own good. I cannot blame your mother, but myself. I was wrong to occupy your idle hours discussing Socrates and Plato, and encouraging this growing obsession for—"

"Hush!" she said, and cast a cautious glance over her shoulder. Clayton rewarded her with a complacent smile that conveyed his enjoyment watching her struggle with his baggage. In truth, he was more than fascinated by the conversation, and by the way her curtain of hair swayed like a willow branch from side to side each time she moved—as did her shapely backside. Perhaps in a moment, when his conscience dictated that he must, he would offer to help.

"I should have convinced your mother to send you away to a proper school," Hoyt announced with a touch of exasperation.

"Where I might have learned to pluck the strings of a harp or tickle the keys of a harpsichord. I think not, sir. My life is here, at Cavisbrooke, where I'm free to be myself . . . and to cherish those things I love most."

At last, after trudging forever, it seemed, through dark tunnel after drafty hall of bleak stone, upon watching their hosts labor up narrow twisting stairwells, dragging the baggage behind them, they finally arrived at a suite of vast, cold, and mostly unfurnished chambers. Their hostess flung Clayton's valise onto the floor, and breathing hard, she faced him and declared, "I won't bring you tea, nor will I serve you breakfast in bed. Should you desire hot water for your bloody scented baths, you may fetch it and heat it yourself. I will not supply you with a cart and ass so you might jaunt into Niton for a binge at the pub so you and your infantile inebriates can later storm through my home like a lot of mush-brained sots with the mentality of lads in knickers. You will not refer to me again as a 'comely little wench' or a 'sassy piece of stuff,' nor will you call me 'Red.' I am Lady Cavendish to you, sir, and I will reiterate that I have no desire to invite your attentions in the matter of matrimony or anything else. I don't like you, duke. Nor do I like your friends or your way of living. I don't care how many estates you own, nor do I care that you dine regularly with King George. You and your friends are arrogant boors, and if I could relive any action in my life, it would be the day I found you and your cockeyed companions washed up on shore like a lot of kelp-drenched pickled herrings. This time I would leave you there for crab bait. On second thought, the damn crabs wouldn't have you, either."

With that, Lady Cavendish gracefully stepped around Clayton and exited the room, leaving Hoyt to lean upon his staff and peer with a bemused expression at Benjamin, whose jaw had dropped at his first glance of their barren apartment, and then at Clayton. "I reckon I
ain't
ever seen her take such a dislike to a person," he announced with a tone of perplexity. Then, with a shake of his head and a tap of his cane on the floor, the man followed his mistress into the dark.

A tight smile still on his lips, Clayton stared at the empty threshold.

"Sir," Ben said behind him, "what would you like to do now?"

"Truly?" The smile slid from Clayton's lips. "Murder my brother."

Upon slamming the heavy door behind her, Miracle, breathing hard to catch her breath, leaned against it, slid her hand in her pocket, and closed her fingers around the bag of acorns she had earlier used in her ridiculous attempt to toy with moon gods.

Certainly, the fact that the odious duke had shown up at the precise moment she had asked Cupid to reveal the face of her future husband had only been coincidence.

She loathed the pontifical blue blood! Besides, she didn't believe in Ceridwen's charms. They were nothing more than jottings in an ancient black book whose pages were turning to dust—soon to be forgotten tales conjured up by "daft old biddies who couldn't nab a husband with quicksand," as Johnny termed the
wisewomen
.

She lit a candle and moved to a trunk against the wall, carefully withdrew Ceridwen's bible, and stared at it fiercely. Outside, the wind whistled around the crumbling turret—one of the first strongholds Walter
de
Godyton
had built when constructing the castle.

An owl hooted.

Miracle jumped, spilling the candle and book to the floor. High above her, on a rafter near the ceiling, the round-faced bird peered down at her, its wide eyes unblinking in its white-feathered face.

It hooted again.

Grabbing up the book, Miracle carefully fingered through the dusty, thin pages until finding The Owl Love Spell.

To hear the owl call in the time of the
Morrigan
, when there is no moon, is a disturbing sign; for it presages a tide of events haunted by troubles and sorrow, and struggle must be entered upon to ensure that all things should work together for good.

Sinking onto the floor, gripping the book in her hands, Miracle sighed. "I knew it. That infuriating buffoon of a duke is going to be trouble."

I ne'er was struck before that hour

With love so sudden and so sweet,

Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower

And stole my heart away complete.

JOHN CLARE

Chapter Three

Clayton had slept little. For hours after the foul- tempered, pugnacious ogress and her companion Hoyt—a surprisingly likable but peculiar man—had shown them to their quarters, he had paced the frigid confines of the drafty chamber, nagged by thoughts of ending this questionable escapade before it began. One could carry brotherly duties only so far, after all. Especially since Trey had lied about the circumstances of his relationship with the dislikable chit. Obviously, this was simply another one of the duke's
waggeries
intended to reward his companions in debauchery with a bit of humor. No doubt at this very minute they were nursing their hangovers and chuckling over this despicable farce.

Then again, it was a well-known fact that his brother was hurting financially, and the duchess, over the last months, had been vocal about her displeasure over Trey refusing to marry and produce heirs.

Clayton had a good mind to go through with the idiotic scheme. Might teach Trey a lesson. Might teach his iron- willed, meddlesome grandmother a thing or two, as well. Trey would wind up with a wife he didn't want, and the duchess would suddenly find herself having to explain to her peers that her grandson, the duke, had married a lunatic pauper.

What Trey really needed was a swift kick of reality. He should have to earn his keep by the sweat of his brow, the way Clayton had been forced to do when first striking out on his own. Clayton had asked for and received nothing from the dowager duchess. He had simply thrown himself into the restoration of the abandoned Basingstoke Hall in Salisbury, had plowed the fields himself until his hands bled and, eventually, harvested some of the finest crops in the area. He'd taken that money, invested, gambled, and made his own fortune. He still had the scars on his hands to prove it.

He did owe Trey. He could hardly deny it. Obviously, Trey must be treading deep water for him to call in his marker now.

Still, there had to be some other way. After all, Trey had obviously lied about his relationship with the young woman. Before Clayton had left England for France, where his mistress resided, his brother had informed him that he and Lady Cavendish had parted on friendly terms. She had supposedly mentioned that she would look forward to seeing him again, even hinted that she would be sensitive to his courting her. Dupe that he was, Clayton had fallen for it. Surely, he must be slipping. It had been a very, very long time since anyone had managed to bluff him successfully.

Clayton frowned and moved to the open door of the adjoining room. Within the dim interior, Benjamin lay sleeping on a rickety cot, a thin blanket pulled up to his chin. He snored softly in the quiet.

Hard to believe that a mere four nights ago Clayton had been sleeping in his mistress's arms. Warm. Dry. Satiated and a little drunk. He'd convinced her that he was venturing to the Isle of Wight on business for his brother. Hardly a lie.

Still, there had been a time in the not too distant past when he might have reconsidered leaving the Countess Blanche
Delarue
-Madras unoccupied for so long. Of all his lovers, she had come closest to tempting him to marriage. She didn't need his money, after all. She had plenty of her own. At seventeen, her parents had married her off to a shriveled-up, bantam cock of a count with short legs, a limp, a gorilla chest, and a face like a fox cub, who was thirty years her senior. Soon after the birth of their only child, the count had dropped dead in the arms of one of his many mistresses. His family had rewarded Blanche amply for her endurance and set her off on her own, their well wishes singing in her ears.