Move Heaven and Earth (14 page)

“Relax. Give yourself up to it.”

The wind blew across her skin, the sun caressed her
with its brightest morning rays, and she concentrated on getting higher, relaxing, giving herself up to it—whatever
it
was.

Then it caught her in a spasm, lifted her, proved Rand’s skill while pushing her to new limits. She hung onto him as if he could keep her on the ground when in fact he pushed her ever upward.

She loved it. She reveled in it. She wanted more and more, seeking it with greed and appetite, and he used his skill to give her all she demanded, and more.

Then it faded. Slowly, the pulsation eased, and she again became aware of the sun, the sea, the air….

Taking a breath—surely her first breath since Rand had kissed her breasts—she tried to remember her customary demeanor. For some reason, she longed to look normal, as if she found ecstasy every day.

Rand wanted none of that. He reached for her, murmuring, “Come here.” Catching her arms, he brought her back down to him, pressing her head onto his chest. She could hear his heart thundering, although she couldn’t comprehend why. He hadn’t experienced what she had. Yet he smirked and she wanted to ask him, as soon as she got her voice back, why he acted so satisfied.

But the screech of a raucous bird interrupted her before she could speak, and Rand said, “Damn!” He roughly tumbled her off of him on the far side, and when she tried to crane her neck to see around him he said, “Get down!”

Down? She was down, ripped from the cushion of pleasure and tossed into a sea of humiliation. “Rand?”

“Get dressed,” he ordered tersely, looking away from her.

She struggled against tears even as she struggled to pull her chemise over her shoulders and her skirt over
her legs. Hearing the raucous screech again, she stopped and listened. That bird had words mixed with its fury. It sounded like outrage.

Then she realized how Rand scooted, trying to shield her. Someone had caught them. Someone…no, faces loomed over them. Garth, duke of Clairmont. Jasper. And the Reverend Donald.

“
In the fields?” Garth stood
on the hearth in the sitting room and waved his walking cane as if he were conducting an orchestra. “You mated in the fields? Rand, have you gone mad?”

Rand winced at Garth’s apt accusation. He
had
gone mad. Mad for Sylvan. What had started out as a suicide dash into the ocean became instead an exquisite experiment in love. The vicar’s silent stalking fury, Garth’s loud exasperation, Jasper’s embarrassed assistance, scarcely existed when compared to his own disgruntled disappointment. Leaning close to Sylvan, he muttered, “One more hour. What I could have done with one more hour.”

“An hour?” He’d wrapped her in his white shirt to cover her, and she hadn’t been willing to give it up, even when they brought him a new shirt and tried to clothe her in a more feminine garb. Now she gave up trying to roll the cuffs, and stared at him incredulously. “An hour?”

He considered. “Maybe more. I’ve always like to linger over
it
, but
it
might take more time now.”

“Sh!” She lowered her head beneath the vicar’s glower. “They’ll hear you.”

Garth couldn’t have determined their words, but his glare made it clear he didn’t appreciate Rand’s sly amusement. He raised his voice and pointed at Jasper, who lingered in the hallway. “Jasper was frantic with worry when he arrived home and you weren’t in your bed. He roused me yet
again
—”

“That’s why Garth’s so grumpy.” Rand jockeyed his slightly battered wheelchair closer to the stool where Sylvan sat. She looked as woebegone as a waif, and he wanted—needed—to shield her from the concentrated disapproval of his family. “He needs his sleep.”

“—and we went careening across the countryside searching for you.”

Lady Emmie and Aunt Adela had been pacing the terrace when they came into view. Clover Donald had been lurking in the shadows. The Reverend Donald had quickly apprised the women of the situation. His mother had been shocked and indignant. His aunt had been shocked and righteous. Clover Donald had whimpered. And poor Sylvan had been at the center of their disapproval.

Garth said, “If I hadn’t remembered that James said you liked to visit Beechwood Hollow, we’d be out searching still!”

“At least you wouldn’t have interrupted us.”

Rand hadn’t spoken loudly, but Garth must have read his lips, for he exploded in a frenzy. “You’re not taking this seriously. We found you and Miss Sylvan—”

“In flagrante delicto?” James strolled into the room in his dressing gown.

Seeing Sylvan flinch, Rand began, “We weren’t exactly—”

“A man can’t sleep in this house without missing the most entertaining predicaments,” James said.

“Shut up, James.” Garth’s voice gained volume. “Rand, she’s covered with bruises.”

“I fell off a cliff,” Sylvan said.

Garth didn’t listen, didn’t care, or just didn’t have faith in her rationalization. “How could you force yourself on a woman like that?”

Sylvan whispered, “He didn’t exactly—”

“Of course he didn’t.” Aunt Adela clutched a handful of cloth over her bosom as she paced from the fireplace to the door. “This is all your fault, Garth, and I hope in the future you will listen to me when I clarify the proprieties. Miss Sylvan enticed the poor boy.
This
is the reward we get for embracing a viper.”

Rand snapped, “She’s not—”

“She’s not a viper.” Sitting on the sofa, Lady Emmie wrung her lace handkerchief. “She’s a misguided girl and Rand has taken advantage of her.”

“Then why does
he
have bruises?” Aunt Adela demanded.

Sylvan and Rand exchanged embarrassed glances, and Sylvan had no explanation to offer this time. Bruises covered them both, the result of Sylvan’s flying tackle at Rand’s wheelchair.

“If she only knew,” Rand said sotto voce.

“And how could he take advantage of her?” Aunt Adela continued triumphantly. “He’s in a wheelchair.”

“He’s in a wheelchair, not dead,” his loving, yet honest mother answered. “Rand has charmed more worldly women than Miss Sylvan.”

Aunt Adela turned to her son, elegant even in a
chintz dressing gown and Turkish slippers. “James, defend your cousin.”

James said petulantly, “Can’t do it. Women fall all over themselves for a smile, silly twits.”

Aunt Adela’s voice swelled with indignation. “Miss Sylvan was Hibbert’s mistress!”

Aunt Adela was hurting Sylvan with her slander, James with his amusement, Lady Emmie with her disappointment, and the Reverend Donald appeared about to preach. It was clearly time for Rand to step in. “Don’t be a gudgeon, Aunt Adela. Sylvan’s as pure as the new-fallen snow.” That stopped the conversation, he was pleased to note. Every head turned in his direction. Every eye fixed itself on him, then wandered to a red-faced Sylvan.

“How do you know that?” Aunt Adela asked, then held up her hand. “Never mind. Don’t tell me.”

Sylvan bristled with fury. “I am not a cow whose previous breeding record is of public record. I would appreciate, Rand, if you would refrain from—” She stopped, abruptly stifled by the fascination with which the family hung on her every word.

“I never thought of you as a cow,” Rand said gently, and she pulled his shirt up just enough to cover her face.

“But if you know that, she can’t still be so pure,” James pointed out.

“Don’t be an ass, James. They didn’t finish the act,” Garth said. Then he half smiled. “Although you could have, eh, Rand?”

Rand realized Sylvan was nodding behind her cotton shield. Brave girl. She was willing to blemish further her good standing for his, and he stroked the place between her shoulder blades comfortingly. “Everyone’s interested in my private life.”

“It’s not private”—Garth lost his smile and his voice rose again—“if you conduct it in a field.”

“So the rumors about Hibbert were true,” Lady Emmie said thoughtfully, and the gentlemen turned to her in shock.

“Mother!” Garth said. “When did you hear the rumors?”

She smiled enigmatically. “Men aren’t the only ones who gossip.”

For the first time since they’d entered the sitting room, Aunt Adela subsided onto the settee and leaned close to Lady Emmie. “Hibbert must have been using Miss Sylvan as a disguise.” She glared at her own son. “What typically thoughtless male behavior.”

“That’s fustian!” James said.

Lowering the shirt, Sylvan showed her reddened face. “Hibbert wasn’t thoughtless. He wanted to marry me and I wouldn’t do it.”

“But my dear, why not?” Lady Emmie asked. “You’d have been the wife of a peer, and Hibbert was wholly wealthy. Think of the advantages.”

“I didn’t want to be a wife,” she said with finality.

“I don’t see that you have a choice,” Garth answered.

Lady Emmie’s hands fluttered to her throat. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“Nonsense, Garth,” Lady Adela said vigorously. “The Malkin family has no need to mend a reputation ruined long ago.”

Garth answered, “Her reputation might be marred, but we know that she’s untouched. We know she’s a woman of impeccable character, and she fits well into our family.”

“Her reputation is a blot!” Lady Adela exclaimed.

“She’s a maiden,” Garth answered. “A fitting wife for the heir of Clairmont.”

Apparently, Aunt Adela could scarcely comprehend Garth’s determination. “She must be dismissed.”

“What do you suggest I do?” Garth’s voice rose again. “Send her home with a note pinned to her bodice?
Dear Mr. Miles, let me assure you that your daughter whom I promised would come to no harm has been intimately examined by my brother and has proved to be untouched
?”

Sylvan pulled the shirt up again.

“Don’t be crude, dear,” Lady Emmie murmured.

“He’s going to have to marry her,” Garth said.

“Untouched.” Lady Adela viewed Sylvan with a new vision. “It’s true one wonders about these modern girls who make their bows before the prince in their white dresses after visiting the gardens and whatnot with their suitors.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” James snorted.

“Wait,” Rand objected. “Let’s be fair to Sylvan. She doesn’t want to be a nurse to a cripple for the rest of her life.”

Peeking over the top of the shirt, Sylvan glared fiercely. “Stop calling yourself that.”

“She doesn’t seem repulsed by your condition. Quite the opposite.” Garth stroked his long forehead from eyebrows to hairline. “Nothing restores a lost reputation like marriage to the heir to a dukedom, especially a dukedom whose wealth is increasing with the production of a successful cotton mill.” He challenged James and Aunt Adela with his glance, but before they could object, he added, “And she’ll fulfill her father’s ambition.”

The shirt covered her head again, and she mumbled, “There’s an argument sure to convince me.”

Garth squatted down in front of her. “You’ll never have to live in your father’s house again.”

Total silence answered him. He’d struck a telling blow.

“I
am
going to have to marry her, aren’t I?” Rand hadn’t really considered it before. Sylvan would be wedding a madman…but he wasn’t a madman. She’d just gone to great lengths to prove her faith in him. Such faith in him. Faith that spilled from her and engulfed him.

He examined his hands, front and back, and laughed softly. For the first time in months, he was free of the shadow of Bedlam. He no longer had to imagine how he stood on his own two feet and beat screaming women while they begged for mercy. He no longer had to seek his death for the well-being of womankind.

His heart raced, and he rubbed his chest and laughed a little louder. Then he glanced up. He didn’t believe in his own madness anymore, but from the expressions on their faces, his family wasn’t too sure.

Looking at the quivering lump of shirt and skirt that was Sylvan, Rand returned her faith with a love that more than equaled it. Nothing could halt their marriage now.

There would be a disadvantage to Sylvan. In the sunlight, at least, he was still a cripple without dominion over his limbs. But the day would come when he’d start walking, and then he’d be in command of their lives. He’d wrap her in the finest garments, take her to the finest plays, and travel with her. He’d force those contemptuous society matrons to accept her into their homes, and never would she worry about anything, ever again.

What had started out as the day he would die now looked like the day he would wed. Slowly, he said the words aloud. “It would be an honor to marry Sylvan.”

She popped out of hiding, the beaten expression in
her eyes gone beneath the onslaught of fury. “Hibbert was kind and generous and the best friend I ever had. He never threw a chair out the window, so why would I marry you if I wouldn’t marry Hibbert?”

Rand grinned with insolent delight. “Because I can give you the one thing Hibbert couldn’t.”

“I don’t want—”

“Careful.” He held up one finger, and she stared at it in uneasy fascination. “Liars go to hell.”

“So do fornicators,” the clergyman intoned, his blond hair glinting like a halo. “I have done my best to keep my counsel and let this family come to the correct decision, and I think it has. But you, Miss Sylvan, must be made to realize how grievous a sin you have committed. You have enticed a man to sample your goods and found pleasure in his arms.”

Clover Donald giggled, a high-pitched shriek of embarrassment.

Her husband continued, “Is there any greater sin?”

For a moment, Rand forgot he couldn’t stand. He wanted to beat that sanctimonious bastard with his fists, and he tried to shove himself out of his chair. Sylvan grabbed him and pulled him back, and Garth leaped into the fray. “You’ll issue a license then, Reverend, and we’ll dismiss the calling of the banns.”

The vicar sniffed. “Although banns are the proper method, I will issue the license and perform the ceremony.”

“In the morning, then?” Garth insisted.

“Wait!” Lady Emmie said. “We have no marriage contract.”

She wasn’t alone in her consternation, but Garth overruled them all. “Miss Sylvan will trust us to care for her, and I’ll draft a contract. I only wish we could marry them this evening.”

“Damn stupid law, requiring weddings be in the morning,” Rand complained. “We could be wed this afternoon.”

“No.” Sylvan shook her head. “No.”

“She’s tired.” Rand had her now, and he wasn’t going to let her get away. “She’ll be better by tomorrow.”

“I won’t.”

Her lip quivered, and Rand’s heart clutched in sympathy. His bold, valiant nurse could face his wrath and derail his suicide, but the thought of marriage sent her into a quivering wreck. “Come, Sylvan.” He took her hand and tugged her to her feet. “Come and talk to me.”

The relatives kept quiet until they left the room, then conversation exploded behind them.

In the hallway, Jasper had remained by the door, Betty stood guard to ward off any curious servants, and their knowing expressions made explanations unnecessary.

Betty curtsied, then took Sylvan’s hand and kissed it fervently. “Congratulations, my lady.”

“I’m not going to marry him,” Sylvan insisted.

Betty humored her. “Of course you’re not, miss, but I’ll still serve you to my dying day.”

She tried to take Rand’s hand, too, but he waved her away. “Save your applause for the consummation, Betty. That will be the true test.”

“I have faith in you, Lord Rand. If there’s anything I can do…”

He grinned at her. “I think that’s something Sylvan and I will have to handle ourselves.”

“No marriage,” Sylvan mumbled.

Betty ignored her and bobbed Rand a curtsy. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

“Miss Sylvan needs to be put to bed,” he said. “Sleep might soften her abhorrence for the wedded state.”

“I can’t sleep that long,” Sylvan said ominously.

Rand, too, ignored her. “Will you see to her personally?”

“That I will.” Betty took in Sylvan’s bedraggled state and asked, “How long has it been now since you’ve slept, miss?”

Rubbing her head, Sylvan admitted, “I don’t know.”

“Bernadette will sit with you after we have you in bed.”