Miracle (60 page)

Having escaped the house, she ran quickly down one meandering walkway after another, was forced to stop and catch her breath, then continued on, like a mouse in a maze, winding through hedgerows, rose gardens, fleeing over footbridges, slowing past the awe-inspiring marble carving of rearing horses, then hurrying toward the stables.

By the time she reached the stables, she was gasping for breath and asking herself if, possibly, she had truly lost her senses.

Easing through the shadows, she moved beyond the stables, paused on the footpath, and gazed through the thicket of trees and bramble to the window twinkling pale light into the darkness.

"Very well, Basingstoke," she said aloud. "Tonight we shall meet at last. After all, I should know my husband's brother, should I indeed decide to marry the arrogant, ill- tempered duke of Salterdon, who is apparently appallingly governed by his grandmother's every wish."

She would know this man who garnered such loyalty from his tenants yet was apparently too reclusive to bother with houseguests. She would know how he came about owning the very shirts his brother had purchased on the isle, and why he had given them to the help.

Reaching the cottage, she stared at the door. Setting her shoulders, taking a deep breath, she banged on it.

Silence.

Miracle frowned and knocked again.

Nothing.

She eased open the door, squinting at the intrusion of light on her eyes. The neat, comfortably furnished room was empty.

"Blast it," she muttered, then casting a guarded glance over her shoulder, eased into the apartment, and closed the door behind her.

What had she expected to find? There was nothing unusual here: stacks of books, well-worn furnishings, and a partially finished glass of liquor placed beside an open book.

Miracle moved to the table and picked up the glass. She smelled it. Tasted it. Brandy. She would be certain to inform Earl
Fanshawe
, if she ever saw
him
again, that Basingstoke had not turned to port.

She left the small house, stood in the dark among the trees and vines, and laughed to herself. Dear heavens. She must be becoming horribly bored. Whenever had she been driven to sneak about the world at night, clandestinely entering houses, searching out reasons for peoples' eccentricities. God only knew, she had enough of them herself. That made her laugh even more.

She had become one of them. Those curious, small- minded people who looked on anything out of the ordinary as strange and something to be dissected in order to discover what, exactly, it was that made a person odd—as if it might be contagious.

She heard a sound in the trees.

Her heart skipping, Miracle stared into the dark, reason giving her a swift kick on her bottom. How would she explain to her host that she had been meddling around his house?

Swiftly, she took to the path, gripping her skirts, not bothering to weave her way back to the hall by way of the paved or gravel walks. As she rounded the east wing of the house, she stopped short. A couple loitered there—a man and woman—servants, who suddenly flung themselves upon one another and began to kiss passionately.

Her face flaming, Miracle spun on her toes and dashed in another direction, her eyes searching frantically for another way into the manse. At last finding a door, she tried it, gasped in relief to find it unlocked, then leaped through the threshold and slammed it closed behind her.

She stared into the dark like one peering into the mouth of an unexplored cave. Where the blazes was she?

Inching forward, she felt her way through the dark and hit a chair, bruising her knee. She stubbed her toe against the foot of a settee and bumped into a table, causing something glass to clatter. She envisioned the dawn light revealing a path of shattered china and crystal all the way to her bedroom. How would she explain that to Ellie? To John? To her host? And her
fiancé?
She imagined the duchess of Salterdon looming up over her in an Oriental gown, breathing smoke like a royal dragon.

A door—an exit, which meant a hallway. At last. She took a deep breath.

Where now? Which staircase? Which corridor? One wrong turn and she could very well wind up in the coal room.

There was a sound behind her. She froze, heart thumping, lungs bursting. Someone was near. She could feel it. His presence stole over her like warm air.

"Lady Cavendish," came the soft, gruff voice through the darkness.

"Yes?" she replied, doing her best to sound as normal as possible, considering the abnormal circumstances.

"Are you lost?"

She nodded her head.

"I thought so." Hands closed gently onto her shoulders, turned her partially to one side, eased her forward. She obliged, reluctant at first, feeling vulnerable.

"Did you enjoy your midnight stroll?" came his voice again, still little more than a breathy whisper.

"Yes, thank you," she replied, more curious over the warm tenderness of his hands on her shoulders than the fact that he apparently was aware of her sojourn through the moonlight.

"Are you enjoying your stay at Basingstoke?" he asked, a touch of tempered curiosity sounding in the words.

"Very much."

"Good." The word smiled. "If there's anything we can do to make your visit here more pleasant—"

"There is."

"Oh?"

"I would meet Basingstoke."

The hands turned her again. Instead of carpeting beneath her feet, there was cold marble.

"And what would you say to Basingstoke?"

"That he's incredibly rude, of course, for not presenting himself."

"He's a very busy man."

"There's no excuse for being impolite."

"You're absolutely right. Careful. Turn left here, step down two—watch the pedestal—we haven't far to go now. A few more steps. There. Straight before you is the corridor to the west wing. I'm certain you can find your way from here."

Miracle breathed a sigh of relief and, as the hands left her shoulders, she turned around. The shadow of a man had moved off. "Thank you," she called, her heart racing for some odd reason.

"You're most welcome, my lady," came the distant reply.

The next night, at precisely midnight, Miracle stood beside the towering marble statue of rearing horses, shivering slightly in the cold, which had roused that afternoon with a brief rain. There were no stars, no moon. The night seemed as dark and cloistering as the hall had the midnight before.

"Where the blazes are you?" she said aloud. "I know you're out there. I sense you've been watching me. I should have realized last evening who you were. Basingstoke. I didn't realize until later, lying in bed. Had you been a mere servant you would have lit a candle. You would have seen me to my room. Why won't you reveal yourself?"

Nothing.

She sighed. How preposterous this must seem. No doubt she was simply allowing her imagination to get the better of her. Why would the lord of this immense and awe- inspiring manor choose not to reveal himself?

"Hardly an evening for a rendezvous," came the voice from the dark.

Miracle spun around, searched the shadowed grounds.

"Do you always meet strangers at midnight, Lady Cavendish?"

Heart racing, Miracle called, "I do if it's the only way to acquaint myself with recalcitrant hosts, sir."

"Do you ever sleep, Lady Cavendish?"

"Do you, my lord?"

Laughter?

Frantically, she searched each of the brick pathways leading to the statue. There! A shadow—a form— She took a step toward it.

"No," came the firm command.

"But why?"

"I'm simply not . . . ready."

"Ready for what, sir?"

"To end this."

"To end what, sir?"

"Your being here, in my home. I've enjoyed watching you fill up the emptiness, Lady Cavendish."

"Emptiness?" She laughed brightly and took a tentative step forward, hands clasped at the small of her back, weight balancing lightly on the balls of her feet. "Basingstoke Hall is hardly empty, sir. In truth, I never saw such glorious and abundant furnishings."

"Then you like my home?"

"Like it? Oh, sir, like is an understatement. What woman wouldn't care to live in such palatial surroundings?"

"Women who enjoy frolicking in cobwebs and haunted old castles," came the amused response.

"Oh." Miracle pursed her lips and took another step forward. "I suppose His Grace has informed you about Cavisbrooke."

"Yes."

"Then I'm obviously at a disadvantage. You know much more of me than I of you."

"You know me. You've seen how I live."

"I know you're a romantic, sir. You refuse to live in the hall until you've found the woman you wish to marry. I know you're very kind. Your tenants are happy and tell me that you put their welfare above your own. You love horses. I can tell by the stables. They're the finest stables I've ever seen. Clean. Airy. Warm. The animals glow with good health."

Silence.

"Basingstoke!" she called, feeling strangely frantic with the idea that he had left her.

"Yes."

Miracle relaxed. "Since you know so much about me, I suppose you know that I might possibly be returning to Cavisbrooke. I've reconsidered marrying His Grace."

"Why?"

"I fear I no longer love him."

"Why?"

Leaning back against the cold, smooth marble of the horse, Miracle hugged herself. "I can't explain it, really," she replied in a soft, contemplative voice. " '
Tis
said that Cupid's eyes are blind. Mayhap I listened to my heart and not my mind. Mayhap I wanted to love him, and saw only

that which I craved to see. I fear reality revealed him for what he was."

"Which is?"

"My eyes see him as a pompous aristocrat who cares more for title and peers and his grandmother's fortune than he does for me. I see him as selfish,
self-centered, often cruel. My heart, however, sees him as he was on the isle, where I fell in love with him. There he was kind and gentle and giving. Tell me, my lord. Which man is he? Truly?"

"You're asking me?" The query sounded gruff and angry . . . and anguished. "My God.
She asks me.
What will you do if I confess that he
is
selfish and self-centered and often cruel? Run as fast as you can back to Cavisbrooke to live out your life in some falling-down old haunt? My God, what a waste. If I allay your fears and assure you that he's kind and gentle and giving, that you'll never know a moment's unhappiness as his wife, you'll marry him. Either way, I've . . ."