Miracle (12 page)

He'd told her once, soon after she'd fished him out of the waves. He and his companions, who'd made no bones about the fact that they hadn't cared for the attention the duke had paid her.

Not that he had paid her a great deal of attention, other than to point out her shortcomings. Her hair was too curly and too long. She should learn how to properly fashion it or she would be looked down upon by the gentry of London.

She'd informed him that she had no intention of moving to London or any place in its proximity.

He had gone on to complain that the food was too sparse, her home was too cold, and the castle's furnishings were uncomfortable and appallingly primitive. He said that her clothes were hardly fit for a bone grubber.

That
had made her cry—to herself, of course. She had just finished sewing the dress the evening before. Her fingertips had still been sore from the grueling effort of manipulating the dull needle.

"Miracle!" came
his
deep voice from somewhere behind her.

Speak of the devil . . . Blazes!
she thought, and picked up her stride, headed for the shortcut that slashed minutes off her trek to the lighthouse. She didn't like taking it; the steep, narrow path was dangerous; she only used it in a pinch, when a sudden storm or fog would blanket the dangerous Race and jeopardize any ship that might have ventured too close in the weather. By the looks of the sky, however, and the dark clouds building along the horizon, they shouldn't expect rain until nightfall. Until then, she had hoped to enjoy her dinner as far away from Duke What's-His-Name as she could get.

"Miracle!" the duke repeated.

"I don't recall giving you permission to use my given name," she told him as he moved up behind her. "Or perhaps manners don't apply to dukes when they address their inferiors."

He strolled up beside her, his long legs in high boots easily keeping pace. He had shucked his suit coat. His blousy shirt and silk ascot looked very white against his sun-kissed face.

Tall, she thought, and noted the top of her head barely reached his shoulder.

Odd that she hadn't noticed on his previous stay. Then again, she hadn't noticed much of anything other than his arrogance and bent for tomfoolery.

"It wasn't nice what you did to Benjamin," he said.

"You are not nice," she retorted, and shifted her basket to the hand between them, forcing him to switch sides.

He said nothing.

Miracle glanced at his hands and the thought struck her that they didn't seem nearly so white as they had been before—as if they had never known a moment's honest labor.

Coming to the top of the path at last. Miracle hesitated briefly before plunging ahead, carefully picking her way down the steep, rutted track, making certain to keep well away from the wicked ledge that dropped straight down to the ocean, hundreds of feet below. A moment passed before she realized that the duke had not joined her.

Miracle stopped. She looked back. Shielding her eyes against the sun, she regarded Salterdon where he stood, somewhat frozen, upon the precipice. The wind, always gusting briskly up the sides of the Undercliff, fluttered his shirt and hair, giving him a wild look.

"You don't look like a duke," she mused aloud.

"No?" he replied, raising his voice to be heard over the groan of the wind. "What do I look like, Lady Cavendish?"

"A farmer."

"Ah," she thought he said, and imagined that he smiled—just a flash of white teeth, then it was gone. Was he laughing at her? No doubt he found her observation silly, if not outright foolish. And perhaps it was, she thought. What would a duke know about farming? Especially
this
duke.

She turned back down the path, sending a dozen small stones scattering over the cliff and plunging to the sea below. She walked on, more slowly, listening for the sound of his step, and once realizing that he had not joined her, paused and glanced back again.

"Are you coming?" she called up where he remained, hands clenched at his sides, his features set in a most curious fashion.

"Should I take that as an invitation?" he called back.

"You may take that as simple impatience," she returned. "My meal is growing cold."

A moment passed, then another. The duke stared down at her with his intense gray eyes and his jaw working. Growing weary of his apparent inability to make a decision, Miracle turned on her heel, and with fresh determination began her descent down the steep, winding slope, stones and tussocks of grass providing a foothold. Her heart jumped and raced when the sounds of skipping pebbles touched her ear—he had joined her after all—but as she set her chin at an obstinate angle and glanced over her shoulder, prepared to reward him with an
I might have known you would chose to tag along
expression, the odd look in his eyes stopped her; he wasn't looking at her, but at the roaring, crashing sea far below. His face appeared shockingly pale.

She paused in her step and skidded on pebbles, the disturbance frightening a covey of gulls nesting near the ledge. They exploded into the air around her and him, wings flapping and snapping as the birds shrieked in alarm. Like a flash, the duke grabbed her arm in a fierce, protective grip that unsettled her more than the prospect of tumbling off the grievous ledge. Far from feeling cold, his fingers burned through her sleeve like coals.

"How very gallant," she declared, and yanked her arm away. "Is that how you intend to win me over, your duke- ship? Become my hero? My lionhearted knight in shining armor intent on slaying dragons?"

"My apologies," he snapped in a tight voice, and released her, his gaze yet directed down toward the distant waves. "I only thought—"

"To save me from those monstrous birds?" She laughed lightly and smugly. "By the look on your face, duke, I should be rescuing you."

At last, his gaze came back to hers. It was hard and penetrating, causing the smile to slide from her lips. She bumped her basket against her leg, once, twice while she chewed her lower lip and pondered the unnerving sensation fluttering in the vicinity of her heart. She had never been one to make light of anyone's shortcoming or fears, yet, with the arrival of this unwelcome caller and his companion, she apparently had been intent on doing just that. It was his fault, of course. For some unexplained reason, his presence bothered her—unlike his previous stay at Cavisbrooke when she had laughed away his idiotic behavior like one would an amusing if not annoying stray
pup
—

More gently, she said, "I'm in no need of gallantry. I'm very capable of taking care of myself. I have for twenty years. Besides, you're really not the sort I would choose to marry even if I were to take this outrageous interest in me seriously."

"No?" he replied in an annoyed tone. "What, pray tell, is wrong with me,
m'lady
? Am I not handsome enough?"

Her eyebrows went up, then she frowned and toed a stone with her foot. Once again, she started down the path, treading more carefully and more slowly as he stubbornly pursued her.

"Well?" he demanded.

"I find no fault in the way you look," she finally replied, more to herself than to him.

"Then perhaps you think I'm not moneyed enough."

"I have no doubts of your wealth, Your Grace. Anyone can tell by looking at your clothes that you are hardly a spendthrift. Your manners are impeccable, when you use them. Your way of speaking is dignified and refined, obvious evidence of your education. I'm certain your lineage runs with the bluest of blood. Your closets are no doubt rattling with the bones of royal kinsmen."

Reaching an outcropping ledge of rock no larger than a table, Miracle shielded her eyes from the sun and gazed out over the span of white-tipped water and pale blue sky before dropping to her knees and throwing back the napkin covering her bread-bowl of soup. "In short," she said, casting a curious glance back at the duke, who remained on the path with his back pressed against the wall of the Undercliff, "'
Tis
not looks, nor wealth, nor lineage that will ultimately win my heart, but humbleness, kindness, consideration . . . those are traits I most admire, Your Grace. Would you choose to join me in my meal, sir? Or don't you care for plowman's fare?"

He did not move, nor did he respond, just continued to stand there, back braced against the wall, the wind whipping his dark hair and white shirt while his gray-as-stone eyes regarded her without blinking.

Miracle tore away a bit of bread, contemplating it a moment, then lifted it high and held it in her fingertips. In a matter of seconds a threesome of gulls swept down from the sky. One snatched the treasure, and to a chorus of belligerent squawking from his companions, soared off into the heavens. "You and I, Your Grace, are incompatible. This is how I enjoy spending my idle hours, ascending the clouds with my friends there. The man I marry must know how to fly.

"I have little patience for the sort of amusement found in drink," she said, and offered more bread to the crying, greedy gulls. "Such frivolity is normally followed by guilt or regret. How can one truly enjoy this false, bottled happiness, knowing 'tis only momentary and will, eventually, offer little more than misery the morrow after?"

"For God's sake," he finally replied, leaning harder against the stone wall as a sudden brief rush of wind whipped around his shoulders and threatened to unbalance him. "You desire a bloody saint, madam. Must he also be chaste?"

"Preferably." She nodded and turned her face into the wind.

"Then I beg your pardon,
m'lady
. It is you who should be draped in nun's clothes and locked away in a convent. Obviously you expect a bloody miracle."

"I shall expect my husband to be faithful, sir, and cherish me above all others." Her voice grew tight with emotion, and raising her chin and setting her shoulders, she added with fresh determination, "He'll be proud of me, of course, and unafraid to present me to the world, unashamed of my ability to stand alone and without peer in my way of behavior and thinking. He would lay down his life for my right to be free of the strictures with which society would burden us." Facing Salterdon again, her frustration growing as the salty bite of tears stung her eyes, she declared, "Yes, Your Grace, perhaps I do expect a 'bloody miracle.' But such miracles are possible if we simply believe, and have the patience to endure the wait. Are you a patient man, Salterdon?"

"No."

"I thought not. Your kind expects results instantly, with the snap of your fingers." She flung a bit of bread into the air and watched a bird streak in to catch it. "I'm certain you haven't the foggiest idea of what hunger really is, or emotional deprivation. Your world overflows with self- indulgence. Your larders are full. When you wish companionship, your power and titles will furnish you with any woman you desire."

"Obviously not
any
woman," he pointed out.

She raised one eyebrow. "Your Grace, I don't for a moment believe your reasons for returning to Cavisbrooke are to win me over to matrimony. And even if I did wish to believe it—which I don't—there is much that you would have to accomplish to win me over."

"Like walk on water and fly." A gull fluttered down and landed on his shoulder, cocked it's streaked head, and peered at him, eye to eye. "I'm sorry to say," he spoke to the bird, "that I can do neither."