Miracle (63 page)

Too swiftly, the surcease came. Rising up, clawing at his back, she cried out her relief, her legs thrashing, then becoming paralyzed by the glorious release. With one final thrust and animal groan, he filled her with his hot fluid, bursting, flooding, bathing, then fell onto her with a moan like death.

Too weak and depleted to even open her eyes, Miracle lay beneath him, his heavy body a welcome weight. She drifted on a tide of pure pleasure. Satisfied. Complete. Secure and happy, at last, in his arms.

"My darling Basingstoke," she murmured, and reached for him, only to discover that as she dozed, he had left her again. She lay alone, on the crushed bed of dew-kissed grass.

Standing before the portrait, hugging herself against the cold that had settled into her bones, Miracle stared down into the eyes of the man who had made love to her so passionately a few hours before.

Why?
was all she could think.
Why ? How could it be?

There was a sound at the door. Miracle looked up.

In a halo of candlelight, the duchess of Salterdon, as well as the duke, moved into the room.

"Your Grace," she stated flatly, and attempted a curtsy. "When did you arrive?"

"Hours ago. After you had taken to bed with a headache."

Miracle's gaze shifted to Salterdon's face: those stony eyes, the set of his mouth. His was the stranger's face: aloof, slightly discomfited by their meeting.

The duchess moved up beside her and regarded the portrait with raised eyebrows. "He could have dressed," she muttered.

"But that wouldn't have been Basingstoke, would it, Your Grace?" Miracle said. "Basingstoke is a farmer, after all. A simple farmer, who cares not a fraction for fashion or society's proprieties. He much prefers the sun on his face and wind in his hair."

Raising the candle between them, her white hair falling softly over her shawl-covered shoulders, the duchess said, "We must talk, my dear, and now is as good a time as any."

Her countenance fell, and she was silent a while.

He regarded the red berries between them over and over again, to such an extent that holly seemed in

his after life to be a
cypher
signifying a proposal of marriage. Bathsheba decisively turned to him.

"No; 'tis no use," she said. "I don't want to marry you."

from Far From the Madding Crowd

by THOMAS HARDY

Chapter Twenty-five

The message arrived just as Clayton was leaving the cottage, intent on getting the hell away from Basingstoke as fast as he could. He'd dallied too long as it was. Last night's escapade should never have happened. It was his damnable weakness where she was concerned. He had knowingly, and without reserve, made love to the woman his brother intended to marry in a matter of days. What was more, she had invited him to.

What the blazes had come over her? That she would turn to another man, a virtual stranger, knowingly, blatantly, cheat on her
fiancé
with his brother.

According to Benjamin, the duchess and his brother had arrived the previous midnight. Rumor among the servants was they had taken Miracle aside and kept her in a closed, locked room with them until just before dawn. Then Ben had handed him the note: "I will see you and your brother in my chambers at ten this morning. Not a minute before, not a minute after. You will present yourself accordingly, of course. Yours, the D."

At precisely eleven fifteen, Clayton dressed in his usual breeches and linen shirt, marched across the lawn, ignoring the groupings of curious guests meandering about the gardens, taking tea in the gazebos, playing croquet on the close-cropped grass. He entered the duchess's drawing room through the open French doors, paused, scanned the confines with a quick glance, and stopped short as Trey left his chair and moved gracefully toward him.

"Close the door," the duke said firmly.

"Where is grandmother?"

"Detained. Now close the door."

Impatiently, Clayton did as he was told.

Trey, as always dressed splendidly, moved to the liquor cabinet. "I fear I'm going to need a drink for this. And so are you."

"A bit early, isn't it, Your Grace?"

"Never too early for a quaff of fortitude, my good brother."

Having poured two drinks, one of port, the other of brandy, Trey offered a glass to Clayton and ordered, "Sit down."

Reluctantly, Clayton sat. He held the drink lightly between his fingers and watched his brother's face. No doubt about it, something was wrong. The normal cavalier, devil- may-care look on Trey's features was absent, the hard angles grim, if not outright nervous.

"About Miracle," Trey began.

"I don't intend to discuss Miracle. I fulfilled my obligation to you. I succeeded in winning her over for you. Now take your bloody settlement and—"

"I never intended to marry her, Clay."

Clayton frowned.

Trey took a drink, waited until it hit his belly and spread like a fire. In a huskier voice, he said, "It was grandmother's idea. She was determined to see one of us married. When it became obvious it wasn't going to be me, she turned to you. Months ago, after returning home from the isle, I mentioned to the duchess about the girl. Miracle. In passing, I said I thought she would be just the sort of lass for you: earthy, challenging, rather . . . common . . . in an acceptable sort of way."

He took another drink. "Soon after, she came up with this scheme. I was to convince you that the girl was for me. You would go there with the intention of winning the girl, of causing her to fall in love with you, at which time you would also fall in love with her." A thin smile on his mouth, the duke of Salterdon shrugged and laughed dryly as Clayton stared, unblinking, up at him, his fingers gripping the glass more tightly by the mounting seconds.

"Well," Trey ventured, "you most obviously fell in love with her. The trouble was, it seems your loyalty to me ran a little deeper than grandmother and I had anticipated. Instead of storming back to London and announcing that you had no intention of subjecting the lass to the likes of me for the remainder of her life, you practically wrapped her in a ribbon and plunked her at my feet. Not only that, but you made certain the entire country was made aware of her, and me, and our upcoming nuptials. I don't mind admitting, grandmother and I found ourselves in a bit of a crack. So . . . grandmother sent her here, certain the situation would be resolved once you met face to face and the truth was revealed. But,
dammit
, Clay, you continue to play the martyr—"

"No," Clayton said in a soft, low, and threatening voice as he slowly stood. "I continue to be your brother. Your brother,
dammit
. Who's been sick to my gut in love with the woman I thought you had chosen as a wife. Who cared enough about you to sacrifice my sanity . . ."

Slamming the drink onto the table, Clayton stalked toward Trey, who backed away. "Let's be reasonable," Trey said.

"Name your seconds, you lying bloodsucker, who would sell his own mother for a few hundred guineas."

"One hundred thousand pounds is hardly a few guineas. And I didn't sell our mother. Never would. I have
some
scruples, you know. Besides, I don't see what you're so upset about. Thanks to me, you met the woman of your dreams. You fell in love with her, and she with you. What does it matter that I receive a small fortune for my efforts? Christ, it's the least I deserve for having my good name and reputation diced to bits the last weeks. Imagine my marrying a lighthouse keeper. Good gosh."

"Where is she?" Clayton demanded through his teeth.

"I wouldn't know."

With a guttural curse, Clayton spun on his heel and stormed out the door, into the sunlight, ignoring the occasional greetings from the curious guests as he strode toward the barns.

She always took her riding lessons just before noon. He knew, because he would take a break from his own chores to return to the stables and watch her from a distance.

He wasn't certain what he would say or how he would say it. But at last, he was free to prostrate himself before her, if he must, and beg her forgiveness. If she hated him, he would understand. If she slapped his face and announced she was returning to the isle, he would regretfully allow her to go.

The hell he would.

Entering the stables, he searched up and down. The aisles were empty.
"Meri!"
he shouted.
"Meri
Mine! Miracle? Answer me, damn you!"

He spun around as John walked to the door. Mopping his sweating brow, his eyes bothered, the old man said, "I've looked everywhere for her, Clay. When I come out this
mornin
' at just after dawn, Napitov was gone from his stall. I figured she had gone off on another one of her
mornin
' rides. When she didn't return by breakfast, I had Ismail and a few others ride out. No one's seen her."

Ellie showed up then, breathing hard. "I checked her room. Her valise is missing. Clayton, darling, I fear she's gone."

He rode
Majarre
to the island. The dapple gray mare, though small, carried Clayton's weight with little effort. And while his own blooded horse would long since have given out from the distance, the Arabian carried forth with hardly a break in her stride.

Hot wind from the south collided with cooler winds from the north. The humid air smelled of rain and an impending storm. Dark, boiling clouds rose like a bruise- colored monolith on the horizon, and churned the waves into high, frothy caps beneath the delicate ferry. Clayton had been forced to pay the ferryman five quid to make the journey in the inclement weather. He sat on a box on the deck, bent at the waist, his face buried in his hands, praying the entire five, horrifying, watery miles from Portsmouth to
Ryde
. Once reaching
Ryde
, there would be another grueling twelve miles to travel before reaching
Rocken
End. He hoped to hell
Majarre
had enough stamina to make the journey.

He drove the horse with whip and spur to Cavisbrooke.

The old castle perched on the precarious Undercliff like a giant gray stone swirling with fog and clouds. Seabirds and rooks circled its crumbling parapets. Wind pummeled its empty windows and sprayed the first spears of rain upon the shell of its burned walls.

Gone.
All but the grim, ash-blackened stones. There were no ceilings, no turrets, no battlements, no chimneys. All lay in a great heap within the walls.