Miracle (8 page)

Surely even the misguided and ill-reputed duke of Salterdon would not deceive his brother about the circumstances of his impending—albeit questionable—marriage to the daughter of Lord Cavendish.

The summit of Saint Catherine's Down rose eight hundred feet above the sea. With lungs burning, fingers freezing, and numbed feet aching from the treacherous trek up the crude steps hewn into the stone wall of the cliff, Clayton, having removed the bags from his manservant's possession, flung them to the ground and sank against a rock wall, while Benjamin clamored over the precipice and staggered up beside him. Silent, breathing hard, they peered through the descending darkness, down at the lighthouse which, during the hour-long ascension to the summit had become surrounded by roiling, driving waves that virtually climbed the sides of the building. Most of the chapel had disappeared. All that remained above water was the eroded stone crucifix, which rose up from the roof, waves licking at the feet of the dying savior.

Dizzy and nauseous, Clayton fell back against the wall again.

"Don't look," the valet gasped. Then clutching his cloak closed at the neck, Ben peered harder at the scene below and huffed. "Sacrilege, I say. Who in their right mind would submit their souls to such a fiendish place?"

"My thoughts exactly," Clayton said through his teeth. Turning from the precipice, he walked to the footpath, blotted the sweat from his face with his coat sleeve, and cursed his brother under his breath.

It had taken hours to convince a farmer to cart Clayton and his manservant to Cavisbrooke Castle. When they eventually reached the intimidating abode just after midnight, Benjamin took one glance at the ancient structure tottering on an outcropping of rock some five hundred feet above the thundering ocean, turned on his heel, and proclaimed the fog-entombed relic to be swarming with the souls of dead warriors who no doubt skulked about the halls at night brandishing bloody swords.

The fact that the farmer had taken such great pleasure in educating them both on the "lunatics" who resided in the "creepy old place" hadn't helped.

"Them folk at Cavisbrooke is as crazy as they come!" the farmer had proclaimed with such earnestness that Benjamin had groaned. "Since the day that crazy young Lord Cavendish showed up and ensconced his strange wife and her groom in that rat-infested old place, rumors started flyin'. Yes, sir, the Lady Lorraina Cavendish lived up there alone, except for that equally crazy groom, for years, with her husband callin' no more than a handful of times. I reckon all that loneliness was enough to drive anyone batty. She used to ensconce herself in that lighthouse, stare out to sea, and wait for him to return. Then she just up and disappeared one night. Vanished like a flame in the wind. Some say she's dead, that she haunts that damn lighthouse, still waitin' for him to come take her away. There sure ain't no denyin' there's somethin' strange out there. We've all seen it: the unicorn and angel flyin' through the dawn mist. Don't none of us go there no more, no siree. Not to the Undercliff. We leave the Rock to the dead who thrive there."

Clayton and Benjamin stood shoulder to shoulder on the rickety drawbridge, shivering from the cold mist, the farmer's ridiculous tirade about ghosts and unicorns nagging at their subconscious as they stared up and up the climbing turrets and walls that disappeared into the night and watched the last stars in the black sky disappear behind a cloak of fog.

"Well," Clayton eventually said to his manservant, "I think it's about time that you summon our host. We can hardly sleep here all night, can we?"

"Speak for yourself," Benjamin replied, still staring up the formidable wall.

Clayton cleared his throat and recalled again the wild, red-haired wraith who had shrieked at him from the lighthouse. Obviously it was a damn good thing Benjamin hadn't witnessed her, or they might never have made it this far.

"Benjamin—" he began.

"I won't do
it . . .
sir. You cannot make me. There are probably demons residing behind that door. The sort with snouts and long teeth and—"

"Benjamin—"

"Horns sprouting behind pointy ears and—"

"Don't force me to pull rank on you. I will, you know."

"You wouldn't, sir."

"Yes. I will. I'll dismiss you if you don't do something quickly. I'm freezing . . . and besides, God knows what sort of beast is living in the squalid water beneath this bridge—"

"I see your point," the valet snapped. Righting his shoulders, he shuffled hesitantly to the door, searched the barrier a long moment, then grabbed at a rope and gave it a yank.

Somewhere, the deep, hollow sound of a bell rang out.

Turning on his heels, Benjamin blinked his droopy eyes and muttered, "Positively macabre, Basingstoke. Once again I must protest this lurid and deceitful deed that, if you will allow me to pontificate without seeming redundant, will return like a backlash—"

"Benjamin."

"Yes, sir."

"Shut up."

Pursing his lips, the valet raised both eyebrows before adding in a voice like a scolded child who intended to get in the last word, "No one answers. They are probably out dancing around spewing cauldrons."

In that very moment came a scraping, squeaking grind of wood and metal as the massive door began to open. Benjamin leapt to Clayton's side, shied behind him, and uttered, "Not to fear, my lord. I'll protect you. Just give me a moment to work up my courage—"

"Not to mention your loyalty," Clayton said in a matter- of-fact tone that brought a "
Hmph
" from his manservant just before Benjamin, having spied a smudge of mud on Clayton's coat, frantically attempted to brush it away—no doubt an effort to focus on something other than what might or might not lurk behind Cavisbrooke's door.

At last, the door creaked open, if only slightly. An older man's round, mustached, ashen face with spectacled eyes that were as circular as moons peered at Clayton quizzically.

"Oh," came the greeting. "It's you again."

For an instant, Clayton frantically searched his memory, recalling his brother's obviously abbreviated history of his time spent at Cavisbrooke. "Hoyt,
ol
' man," he finally replied tentatively. "It's good to see you again."

The old man blinked ponderously, then peered at Clayton curiously, narrowing his eyes so they were little more than slits beneath his heavy gray brows, then he jumped as if he'd been goosed, and demanded in a less than authoritative voice, "What brings you back to Cavisbrooke . . . Your Grace?"

"I've returned to see Lady Cavendish, of course."

"Took you long enough," the old man grumbled, but opened the door no further.

"I say," Ben whispered near Clayton's ear. "Do you think he intends to let us in?"

In that moment, another voice sounded secretively from somewhere behind the gray-haired sentry. "Is it him? Of course it is. Who would be crass enough to show up at someone's door at midnight and expect to be invited in? Tell him to go away, Johnny. We don't want him here."

Hoyt pursed his lips, drawing his silver mustache into a bristly thatch resembling hedgehog spines. Finally, he said, "Lady Cavendish says to tell you that she ain't at home. Come back tomorrow."

"No!" came another excited whisper. "He's not to come back at all. Tell him, Johnny. I wish to never set eyes on his arrogant, rude, disrespectful face again."

"Lady Cavendish ain't up to visitors," Hoyt supplied, then muttered over his shoulder, "Shall I have '
em
return to Niton, lass? It's the only place they'll find board,
ya
know. Course it'll take '
em
the better part of the
mornin
' to get there . . . and they could become lost on the roads, might even walk right off the Undercliff in this bloody fog—"

"I cannot conceive of why you feel I should simply allow Duke What's-His-Name back into my home, knowing how I feel about him and his boorish friends."

"Aye, but you've never turned a beggar from
yer
door before. Imagine how
yer
conscience would bother
ya
knowing that the pitiable creatures were stranded somewhere on the down.
Ya
know what they say, lass. The aristocracy ain't got the brain to wipe their own—"

"Beggar!" Benjamin huffed.

"
Ooo
!" came the feminine exclamation and what sounded like the stomp of a small foot on the floor. "I grow damnably weary coping with your unfailing sense of decency, Johnny."

Suddenly the massive door was flung open, revealing the plump, spectacled servant with wiry gray hair and disheveled clothes, and behind him stood the wraith who had greeted Clayton from the lighthouse that afternoon. Adorned in the same worn and somewhat tattered dress she had been wearing earlier, her hair a mass of tumbled curls that looked flaming and alive in the meager lamplight, she planted her hands on her hips and fixed Clayton with wide, aggravated eyes.

"How dare you," she stated, and tapped her sandy,
slippered
foot on the floor. "I have known arrogance in my life but none quite so outrageous as yours, Salterdon. As memory serves me, I called out good riddance as you and your less-than-delightful companions quit my home weeks ago. I may have even threatened you if you ever considered returning to Cavisbrooke—I don't rightly recall—but if I didn't, I should have. Now you show up on my threshold looking like a bedraggled pup—"

"Pup!" Benjamin gasped. "My lord, I shouldn't stand for—"

"Let the lady finish," Clayton interrupted, offering the lass a thin, dry smile that made her eyebrows draw together—whether in a frown or simply contemplation, he could not tell. She stood there, speechless, for a moment, suddenly uncertain, obviously formulating her next tirade, no doubt an engraved invitation to jump headfirst off the Undercliff.

Perhaps that wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Righting his shoulders, his eyes never leaving hers, which were shadowed by darkness as was her face, Clayton moved toward her, watched her chin raise and her jaw set while a sudden gust of cold, wet wind fingered through her long hair and billowed the limp skirt of her dress. Most women would have shivered, tittered about the cold, pleaded for a wrap; then again, most women of her particular class wouldn't have stood up to a duke and virtually told him to go to hell.

He reached for her hand.

She grabbed it back.

He reached again, patiently, still bestowing on her his
I'll win you over yet
smile that had melted the hearts of many stony maidens who had thought to play coy in his company. This time he caught her small hand in his cold fingers and raised it to his lips. His eyes still holding hers, which were now round as pennies, he said in as sensual a voice as his freezing body would allow, "My apologies for my previous behavior. Obviously, I was an ass, and recognizing the error of my ways, I've returned to Cavisbrooke to make amends. Surely,
a . . .
genteel lady such as yourself will forgive my arrogance and allow me the opportunity to make up for my previous regrettable behavior."

He kissed her hand lightly; breathed warm breath on her pale skin. For an instant, she seemed mesmerized, but still she was as cautious as a bird.

He thought,
By now her knees are trembling—just slightly—enough to make her question her ability to withstand my charm.
She would reconsider her opinion of him. She would wonder if perhaps she had judged him too severely. After all, he was a duke, a very good-looking duke, at that. She should be grateful that such a catch would show her the least amount of attention.

"Your Grace," she said in a breathy voice, and gently removed her hand, took a step backward into the castle, and finished, "the way back to Niton is treacherous, even in the best of weather. You should be careful not to walk off the Undercliff in this fog."

Then she slammed the door in his face.

It began to rain. Not the typical drizzle, but a downpour, as if God, intent on taking the termagant's side in this most indelicate matter, decided to exact his special form of punishment. Water poured in a sheet from the clouds, spattered off Clayton's shoulders, and ran in rivulets down his face. Within seconds, his cloak was sodden and pools had formed around his feet.

"My lord," came Ben's drowned voice through the torrent, "shall I fetch you a cab?"

"Very funny," he snapped back, and continued to stare at the door, his teeth clenched and starting to chatter.

"Might I suggest that you discontinue your attempts at failed charisma and simply kick in the door, as any self- respecting duke would do when met with such blatant coarseness from an inferior."

Storm the stronghold. Right. He stared at the ancient barricade through the rain and darkness and cursed through his teeth.

Then the door opened again. Just slightly.