Move Heaven and Earth, Page 3

  “Try to pick me up again, and you’ll see my left.”

  Jasper spoke reproachfully through swelling lips. “Now, Lord Rand, I’m just doing me duty.”

  Rand could scarcely see through the red mist before his eyes. “Your duty is to obey me.”

  Sylvan pulled on her gloves. “You’re acting like a slavering dog.”

  “And you’re acting like a bitch.”

  The wind sang with its elemental voice, the dogs licked themselves, but everything else fell silent.

  At the door, Garth groaned. “Oh, Rand.”

  Rand loved his brother. He really did. He knew that Garth had only his best interests at heart, but Garth didn’t—couldn’t—comprehend the despair and mortification that trapped Rand.

  No one understood, but Rand hated to humiliate Garth with such a breach of manners. In truth, he had humiliated himself. Yet he wouldn’t admit it. Not and see that woman simper. “Well, she is,” Rand snapped.

  “I’ve been called worse.” Apparently unperturbed, that woman donned her pelisse. “And by better men.”

  Did nothing rattle her?

  Jasper reached out and touched the footrest of the wheelchair, and when Rand did no more than glare, he nodded to the footmen. Silent, they carried Rand off the terrace, across the driveway, and onto the path that wound to the sea.

  “Just go that direction, miss.” Stiff with disapproval, Jasper pointed toward the patch of blue that shone beyond the trees. “’Tis a fairly good path, so ye’ll have little trouble, but don’t drop too far down toward the beach or ye’ll have a time hoisting Lord Rand back up.”

  She moved to her place at the back of the wheelchair. “Thank you, Jasper.”

  “You’ve charmed my brother, have you?” Rand asked sharply. “You’ll not charm me.”

  “I doubt the effort would be worth the results.” She shoved the chair forward with one violent push, then, despite her diminutive stature, kept it rolling along the track.

  Through the generations, the dukes of Clairmont and their families had ridden along this path, their horses wearing a rut through the smooth lawn and around bright, blooming peonies. The wheels of the chair bounced along, straddling the groove, and Rand bounced with it, experiencing the discomfort with grim triumph.

  Some nurse this woman was, treating her patient with such cavalier disinterest. She was probably nothing more than one of those hussies who drank their patients’ whiskey, administered medicine when they remembered, and whored with the patients who had money.

  Too bad she couldn’t whore with him. He’d give a lot to get that smug little face on a pillow. He’d show her who was in command.

  At least…he’d have shown her at one time.

  They reached the top of the gentle cliff that led to the beach. He’d been climbing down it since he was a toddler. The first part of the path was nothing more than a dip, really, coming to a broad flat place where he had sat many a time. But after that the path descended rapidly, twitching to the left, then the right, in sharp curves that made the descent possible for those with the legs to walk.

  He’d once loved this spot. Now he clutched the wheels and glanced fearfully around. The cliffs closed the beach off in both directions, baiting the trap for fools who ignored the tide. Boulders pocked the sand, beckoning him as a bloody sacrifice. The ocean licked eagerly at the beach, sucking up the land.

  “How beautiful.”

  Her words were nothing but an exhalation, but he heard them. He gazed again, squinting against the glare of the sun. He’d seen it that way once.

  She stepped up beside him. “I can see forever.”

  He looked at her, and realized he could see forever, too. The wind made that possible as it blew the fine blue cotton of her dress against her body, molding every curve. She looked as if some man-elf, far gone with drink, had put her together as his ideal. She was petite, short enough that her head would fit under Rand’s chin—if he could stand.

  But she wasn’t skinny. Nice curves. She was pretty, too. Not beautiful, but striking. Even in repose, her face told him that she liked to laugh, for the fine lines around her wide mouth and wide eyes slanted up. But her hair—was that blond or white that slipped among the brown strands?

  “How old are you?” he demanded.

  “I’m twenty-seven years old.” She answered his question coolly, and asked right back, “How old are you?”

  Then he remembered he wasn’t supposed to ask a woman her age. It had been so long since he was made to be polite to anyone, so long since he cared what anyone thought of him, that he had forgotten even that rudimentary rule. But he refused to apologize for such a minor infraction.

  He’d done so much worse these last few months, and to people he loved.

  “I’m thirty-six years old, going on one hundred.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  The birds catapulted on the wind. She studied them, and he studied her. So white did mark her hair. Her skin glowed like that odd-shaped pearl his mother wore on special occasions, and her big green eyes sparkled as if she’d laughed her whole life, but at some time, for some reason, tears had etched betraying lines into the delicate skin.

  “Let’s go there.” She pointed to the flat place down on the first rise.

  “No.”

  “We could lean against the rock and it’ll protect us from the wind.”

  “You’d never get me back up.”

  She let her gaze linger on him. “With those muscles, you could get yourself back up.”

  Suddenly, he realized the wind revealed more than her shape. It revealed his, too. What he had brazenly flaunted in the house seemed flagrant exhibitionism now. What was he doing on the cliffs in a robe?

  He wrapped the flaps over his chest and tugged the tie at his waist. Then the chair moved, headed down the path under her guidance.

  “Don’t!”

  He reached for the wheels, but she returned quickly, “Don’t! I’ll lose control.”

  Lose control. Oh, God, that nightmare phrase. He froze as she guided him down the gentle dip, and they came to a stop on the flat stone. She backed him up so he rested in a hollow. Removing her pelisse, she folded it and placed it on the ground, then sat at his feet.

  She didn’t say a word. He couldn’t say a word. He was in danger here, he knew it. It was too open, too wild. This exposure whipped his skin raw, dried up his lungs, and chilled his soul.

  Yet Sylvan’s wide mouth, which looked as if it should be in a constant motion of smiling and speaking, remained serene. Her hands rested in her lap, palms up. The incongruous lines in her face smoothed, and she watched the Atlantic as if her salvation existed in its depths.

  She’d placed herself to block his chair.

  She was saving him from himself.

  At one time, he had come here when life became too frenetic, when he needed to make peace with the wildness of his soul. Now the predictability of the breaking waves began to work on him. The seabirds’ calls, the salt tang on his tongue…The tight knot in his stomach loosened. For the first time in months, he didn’t think, he didn’t feel, he simply was.

  And what made it better was that his companion seemed likewise affected.

  Yet when she looked at him, he realized she felt compassion for him.

  He was sick of pity. “What the hell’s your name?” he demanded.

  “Sylvan.”

  “Sylvan what?”

  “Sylvan Miles.”

  That sounded vaguely familiar, and he glared. “Do I know you?”

  Light and shadow danced across her face as if it were the land beneath a cloud-specked sky. The very lack of expression in her voice told him much. “We danced once.”

  Remembrance hit him in the gut.

  She had been in Brussels before Waterloo, like so many other English ladies. They’d made a mockery of the greatest battle in modern Europe with their parties and soirees, and Sylvan had been in the middle, flirting with every man, captivating them all, lau
ghing and gossiping, dressing in the most stylish costumes, riding a fine steed, and…dancing.

  Ah, yes, how well he remembered.

  “By God.” Rand struck the arm of his chair with his fist. “You were with Hibbert, the earl of Mayfield. You’re Hibbert’s mistress.”

  Her serenity shattered, she jumped to her feet. “Don’t you call me that.”

  “Why not? It’s true.”

  “No, it’s—” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. Quietly, she said, “No, it is not.”

  By Jove, he had her now. She was sensitive about her past, as well she should be. “You’re the same as every other female nurse,” he said with relish. “Loose with your morals. But you weren’t a nurse when you were with Hibbert.” Tapping the arm of his chair, he used his ugliest, most insinuating tone. “He wasn’t married, and until you, he’d never kept a woman.”

  She lowered her head like a bull about to charge. “Hibbert was my dearest friend, and I’ll listen to no slander about him.”

  “Why would I slander Hibbert? I liked him, and he died a hero on the battlefield of Waterloo.”

  “Which is more than you did.” She made her own tone derogatory when she said, “Your brother has never married, either. He’s a duke, he needs an heir, and he must be nigh on to forty years old.”

  Oh, ho. That explained everything. She was a fortune hunter, like every other woman who pretended interest in Clairmont Court. He reared back in his chair. “Did you come here to catch a duke? Because I warn you—”

  “No, I warn you.” She took a breath. “Don’t say another word.”

  “I won’t let you make my brother’s life a misery. I’ll tell Garth the truth—that you’re a whore of the first water.”

  Wheeling around, she started up the path, and he watched with savage satisfaction. He’d chased her off, the little tart, and—“Hey, wait!”

  She turned back, a tight smile on her lips.

  “You can’t leave me here.”

  “Oh, can’t I?”

  “Dammit!” He maneuvered his chair in a half-circle. “I can’t get back by myself.”

  “Can’t you?”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “You should have thought of that before you insulted me.” She twitched the material of her skirt. “I’ll see you at the house.”

  Raw fury and fear bludgeoned him. “I’ll see you in hell.”

  “I already know that territory.” She nodded congenially. “If we must meet in hell, I’ll run circles around you there, too.”

  He stared as she walked away. Walked away! His only consolation was the clear outline of her buttocks, molded by the wind, as she strode toward the house, and even that was no solace—or shouldn’t have been. Without wanting to, he appreciated that trim outline.

  And why not? If he did what must be done, it would be his last memory.

  Turning himself again, he gazed at the sea.

  After all, what better place to put an end to the one and only madman the Malkin family had ever produced?

  2

  Rand’s gaze burned through Sylvan’s gown as he used the assistance of the wind to see what should be hidden. She knew it was so, although she refused to look back. Instead, she whipped up her anger at his incredible rudeness. Rand had to learn, and immediately, that he couldn’t treat her so offensively. No relationship could exist between them until respect prevailed, and she had seized the first opportunity to teach it to him. This wasn’t cruelty, it was instruction.

  But what if he really couldn’t get up the slope?

  She pressed her hands to her mouth.

  What if he were so far gone he refused the challenge? What if he slipped backward and plunged…

  She slowed and almost turned back, but she could still feel his animosity lapping at her. He was angry and hostile but surely not suicidal. No, she was doing the right thing. She strode into the sparse growth of trees on the manor house lawn.

  She knew when Rand lost sight of her. The heat of his regard disappeared, and in its place the wind chilled her. She’d left her pelisse behind, and she hesitated. That would be a good excuse to return and check on him.

  That would ruin all her progress thus far.

  “Sylvan!”

  She looked up with a frown and found Rand loping toward her.

  Rand? No, Garth. She placed a hand on her suddenly thumping heart. She hadn’t realized how much the brothers resembled each other.

  Yet they didn’t. Their height appeared to be much the same, but Garth sported a slight paunch which Rand, even with his forced inactivity, had avoided. Their features were almost identical, but Garth’s brown eyes watched those around him placidly.

  It had been that quality that convinced Sylvan to come to Clairmont Court. She’d never met a man who’d set her at ease so immediately, or who so intuitively saw her dilemma at home.

  “Sylvan, I’ve been watching for you. Where’s Rand? It’s all uphill from the cliff. Weren’t you able to push him back? I’ll just go after him.”

  He chatted, this man who had impressed her with his quiet stolidity, and she realized his anxiety for his brother. Quickly, she moved to intercept him.

  “I left him on the cliff.”

  “You what?” His slow smile faded. “You left him…on purpose?”

  “He was rude and surly.” She tucked his hand into the crook of her arm and tried to drag him forward. “He’s got to learn he can’t insult me.”

  Hanging back, he glanced down the path as if expecting to see Rand. “He’s always rude and surly since his injury. I did warn you—”

  “No, you didn’t.” Looking him in the eye, she said, “You said he was a broken man, totally overcome by his injury.”

  His smile curved his lips just enough to be smug, and he pointed out, “I didn’t exactly say that. You jumped to that conclusion, and I didn’t correct you.”

  Remembering the interview between the two of them, she grudgingly conceded he was right. He had insinuated much and said little, leaving her imagination to do the rest. These were intelligent men, these Clairmonts, and she would do well to remember it in her dealings with them. “Very well. I jumped to conclusions, and you did likewise. You want your brother to overcome his bitterness, I think, and I will do what I can to return him to you as a normal, functioning human being. When you came to my home and convinced me to help Lord Rand, you gave me free hand, remember? You promised—”

  “I know what I promised, but I didn’t expect you would leave him exposed to the elements overnight.”

  “Neither did I, but desperate circumstances require desperate measures.”

  They stared at each other, neither willing to give way.

  “I won’t let you kill him,” Garth insisted.

  “But it would be such a tidy reprieve.” Garth gasped, and she pressed him. “You wouldn’t have to bear the tantrums and the rudeness and the disappointment of seeing your brother reduced to a cripple.”

  “How dare you? I want my brother regardless of his condition!”

  His outrage revealed very clearly why he had resorted to deception to get her to Clairmont Court. He would have done anything to bring her, for he would do anything for his brother. She reminded him, “He’ll be more agreeable when he’s housebroken.”

  “But I’m not going to have him put down, regardless of our success!”

  “Good,” she said mildly.

  His eyes narrowed as he realized how she had tricked him, and he rubbed his face with stained hands. “You’re a clever miss.”

  “I’ll need free rein to train Lord Rand, when he’s been resourceful enough to train all of you.” Garth chortled, not at all offended, and she asked, “How long until sunset?”

  “Probably three hours.”

  “If he’s not in sight in two hours, we’ll send someone to get him.”

  “You mean you think he can get himself back up to the manor without help?”

  “What do you think?”
>
  “I think he…well, I think…” Garth paused. “I always said Rand could do anything he set his mind to. I guess it’s a question of whether he’ll set his mind to staying there, or coming home.”

  “I don’t know your brother well, but my guess is he’ll stay on the cliffs until he’s chilled, then come back on his own schedule.” She smiled. “Just to show me he can.”

  Garth scratched the back of his head. “You might be good for Rand.”

  She dipped in a curtsy. “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “You might be good for all of us.”

  She didn’t appreciate that comment as she should. It recalled Rand’s accusation on the cliff—that she’d come to win a duke. She stepped forward with determination. “He looks very strong.”

  “He is. He hates this helplessness, and he insists on doing everything possible for himself.”

  “Then you think he can make it back?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And you don’t think—” she hesitated, hating to put the thought into his mind, but she needed more reassurance than her own instincts, “he would consider throwing himself off the cliff?”

  Garth laughed out loud. “Rand? Never. Rand thrives on a challenge, always has. As I told you when I met you before—and coaxed you here—I’m surprised he’s still so disturbed about his condition. It doesn’t seem consistent with his character, somehow, but I suppose none of us knows how long the process of recovery should take. Do we?”

  She could see the manor clearly now. Someone had placed boards over the shattered windows in Rand’s room, but even with that bizarre addition the structure no longer looked like an architect’s experiment. It looked only like a place to rest. “I certainly don’t.”

  A couple came out onto the terrace. Sylvan recognized the dark clothes of the vicar she’d seen inside, and she presumed the woman to be his wife. He held her firmly as she stumbled down the stairs, and Sylvan wondered if she drank.

  Garth insisted, “You know more than anyone, so Dr. Moreland says.”

  When the couple gained the flat ground, the vicar shook his wife, then marched her down the drive with the firmness of a perturbed father. Sylvan didn’t envy the wife—she’d dealt with her own perturbed father. “Dr. Moreland was a sneak to tell you that.”