Miracle (62 page)

"Tell me about your day," she prompted—anything to make the moment last—anything so she would not be forced to return to her room and dwell on the upcoming week.

"I rode to the farthest section of my property to judge how barren the soil has become. The crops growing there are sickly, not nearly so lush as last year and the years before."

"Mayhap your soil is depleted, sir." Her face warmed with chagrin. "My apologies. I'm certain you don't care to hear advice from a woman."

"If you've something to impart, then do so."

"Well . . ." Miracle gazed out over the dark landscape, her heart quickening with enthusiasm and the fact that he would invite her opinion. "During the last days, I've ridden Napitov over this vast estate. And all that I've seen has astounded and impressed me. However . . ." She cleared her throat. "I feel there are monies to be saved in ways of cultivation and the raising of your stock."

"Go on."

"Gather your sheep, sir. Tether them in a singular field where they stand on crops of vetch, mown grass, clover, and tares. Feed them turnips, sir. Then, before planting, take those soiled straws and cuttings and till them into the earth, which will enrich it and cause your hay crop to double and be ready to thrash by midsummer. When the corn is cut, instead of allowing the stubble to remain, feed it to your pigs. The combed straw left over by the threshers, use it for the thatched roofs of the tenants' cottages, and the timber that you cut from the forests to construct your buildings .. . erect a temporary shed around it so that every piece can be work for the exact purpose for which it's suited, leaving nary a splinter on the ground and precious little
warpage
." In a stern voice, she added, "The object of successful farming should not be to seize maximum profit from sales against costs in the minimum time, but to secure over the years the highest possible increase from the soil, plant, and beast. The goal is the productive fertility of the land rather than the immediate salability of a particular
crop . . .
at least that is the way of thinking on the isle, and everyone knows that the isle produces seven times more crops than its inhabitants can consume."

Soft laughter. A gentle squeeze on her arms. A light kiss on the top of her head, making Miracle glow with pleasure and satisfaction.
"Ah, Meri,"
he said, "you do astound me."

The moment froze. Miracle stopped breathing. Her heartbeat rang like bells in her ears.

He had called her
Meri.

She blinked, and when the world stopped spinning, she realized that he was gone again. Slowly, she turned and searched the darkness, her body shaking from the inside out.

He had called her
Meri.
The memory of it would not let her alone.

Like one drugged, she slept late into the day, dreaming of those moments in the garden, with his warm hands on her, filling her with a sense of security and divine pleasure.

He had called her
Meri.

And desire. Oh, yes, that stirring in her stomach had been desire: pure, arousing desire. Desire for a stranger?

Upon rising and dressing, she left her room to discover servants dashing like maddened ants to the east wing, the duchess's residence when she visited Basingstoke. The maids and servitors trooped through the hallways with trunks of clothes, furniture, and flower arrangements. Having never ventured into the east wing, Miracle wandered down the carpeted corridors, unsurprised to discover that the rooms reflected the duchess's taste for the Orient. There were black-lacquered screens with embedded mother-of-pearl mountains, flowers, and petite Oriental women with coal-black hair and beautiful slanted eyes. There were chairs with arms resembling dragons. Low lacquered tables surrounded by plush pillows. Red silk rugs and throws filigreed with gold cords, and jade
Buddahs
occupied every available corner.

Coming to the duchess's bedchamber, Miracle found it decorated much like the dowager's townhouse in London. Only here, there were glass cases displaying her most prized possessions: the
sceptre
of the King of Candy, a dagger once belonging to
Ghengis
Khan, and the palanquin of
Tippoo
Sahib.

She wandered on, into less frequented rooms that were no doubt being opened simply to air out and dust. That is when her eye spied the shawl-draped portrait propped upon an easel. Miracle glanced around. She was alone, for the moment. Just a peek beneath the blue silk shawl . . .

She slowly raised the silken veil and stared down into warm, kind, and twinkling gray eyes. Ah, that sensual mouth, curved up slightly on the ends, hinting of humor; that casual pose, sitting so elegantly relaxed in a chair, long legs, clad in leather breeches, crossed at the knees, the loose, white linen shirt draping softly across his broad shoulders; those bronze hands falling relaxed on the chair arms; dark curling hair looking as if it had been kissed by a breeze.

Her farmer. Her gypsy. The man she had fallen in love with at Cavisbrooke. The man who had won her heart completely, who had filled her with joy and laughter and hope. All those emotions came rushing back to her, filled her mind and heart and body with clashing clarity.

"Lady Cavendish?"

She jumped and turned.

A servant, with her hands full of flowers, smiled at Miracle. Saying nothing, Miracle stood with her hands clenched at her sides, like a child caught pilfering sweetmeats from her mother's pantry.

"Is something wrong?" the girl asked.

"Wrong? No. I was only wondering why His Grace's portrait is here."

"It's a birthday gift for the duchess." Placing the flowers in a vase near the window, the servant arranged, then rearranged them before glancing back to Miracle. "And that's not His Grace," she added.

The words vibrated in the close air.

"Of course it is. I should know my own
fiancé,"
Miracle pointed out sharply. There was a stirring going on inside her, winding like a taut spring in her belly.

The servant only laughed. "No, milady. That's his lordship. Basingstoke. Amazing, isn't it? They're identical, you know. Even their parents had trouble telling them apart. And the duchess . . ." The servant shoved open glass doors, allowing a gust of fresh wind to tumble into the room, stirring the drapes, washing aside the mustiness with the smell of roses. "I understand they gave the duchess a perplexing time, switching identities back and forth. She was never very certain whom she was chastising or rewarding. Though it's my understanding she did more rewarding for Basingstoke than she did for His Grace . . .oh, begging your pardon, milady. Not that His Grace wasn't worthy of reward . . ."

Miracle said nothing, and the servant left the room. Miracle turned back to the portrait, and looked into Basingstoke's eyes.

The next two days were a whirlwind of activities. She was fitted again for her wedding gown and trousseau. There were long discussions between the hairdressers on how to arrange her hair to best accentuate her veil. She was shown list upon list of foods and wine, and the first wagons bearing gifts arrived, as did a portion of the five hundred guests the duchess had invited to the wedding.

Five hundred: at least a hundred of them were Her Grace's closest friends, who were, of course, invited to reside at Basingstoke as her guests. Those evenings were spent with Ellie and John at her side, as graciously as possible entertaining the lot of aristocrats, making idle chitchat about weather, fashion, and menus. It was well into the morning before Miracle was allowed, at last, to fall into her bed, only to spend the next hours tossing and turning and reliving those midnight moments in the garden, and the very instant she tossed back that silken veil to reveal Basingstoke's portrait.

On the next night, she pled a headache. At midnight, she waited by the statue, hoping against hope that he would come, afraid he wouldn't.

He did.

As he had the time of their second meeting, he remained at a distance, a shadow slightly darker than the night surrounding them.

"My lord," she said, forcing her voice steady. "I've missed our talks."

"You've been busy," he replied.

"Your guests are curious of your whereabouts."

"They are not my guests, but yours."

"Your grandmother's," she stressed.

"Yes. I suppose so."

"I understand she and Salterdon will be arriving tomorrow."

"Grandmother enjoys making her entrances."

Miracle moved through the dark toward the voice, heart thumping erratically. "My lord, I have a request of you. Consider it a wedding gift."

"Anything."

"Make love to me."

There came a sudden intake of breath, perhaps a gasp of disbelief and surprise.

"Here," she said forcibly, and began to remove the simple gown she had worn for the purpose. "Now. Upon this very grass. Amid these very flowers. Make love to me, Basingstoke, I beg you."

"You're insane." He growled it.

The garment slid from her shoulders and pooled around her ankles. With a tug of the heavy pearl combs, her hair tumbled over her body like a waterfall. "If I am to become Salterdon's wife and forced to endure a lifetime of his cold hands and eyes, I will have the memory of you, at least, to warm my heart and body."

"Don't do this to me," he pleaded in a voice so desperate Miracle felt shaken and shamed. But she had to know. It was the only way to know if her instincts were right, or whether the thoughts clamoring about her head were simply idiotic fantasies she had constructed in an effort to deny the reality that in four days she would be marrying a man she didn't love—had never loved.

"Please," she said in a trembling voice.

The shadow moved, then vanished with little more than a rustle of hedge branches.

Miracle closed her eyes, disappointment a stone in her breast.

Suddenly, he moved up behind her, his calloused hands on her shoulders, sweeping down her arms, sliding beneath her bare breasts and gently cupping them. He pressed warm kisses on the back of her neck. His tongue traced a moist path to the back of her ear.

Her body melted. It swayed against him. She clenched her teeth to stifle the groan of instantaneous pleasure that streaked through her and centered between her legs. She moaned then, as the pleasure there washed through her, mounting and mounting until it became a hot, throbbing pressure. As his hand slid to that apex, her hips writhed. Her breasts grew heavy and her body quivered with heat.

She spun suddenly to face him, caught only a glimpse of the planes of his face and his white teeth clenched, lips pulled back slightly as if in pain, before he twisted his hands in her hair and pressed her face against his chest. With her fingers, she groped at the straining buttons on his breeches, releasing his stiff organ into her hands. It pulsed and prodded her belly, searching. Then he lifted her up, his hands beneath her smooth little buttocks, and impaled her on the distended shaft.

Hands clutching his shoulders, she wrapped her legs around his hips.

He dropped to the ground, first to his knees, then onto the blanket of her hair and wet grass. Her breasts pressed to his chest, she strained her hips against him, her sex filled with him, throbbing with the frenzied rhythm of his driving, pumping body. His thrusts were brutal, powerful, as if he were overcome by his own long denied passions.