Move Heaven and Earth

  That prissy little woman sat on the terrace, eating cakes and sipping tea and examining him as if he were an oddity.

  Carefully, Sylvan blotted her lips with her napkin and stood. “You’ve taken a remarkable amount of air. I’m sure it exhilarated you. We’ll do it again tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Rand’s voice hit a high note he’d never reached before. “To—”

  But his rage proved no match for his exhaustion. He was just too damned tired to throw another tantrum.

  He removed her pelisse from his lap and viciously threw it in her face. Her teacup toppled when the sleeve hit it, and he had the pleasure of watching her scramble out of her chair to avoid the stream of dark liquid. Then he pushed his chair toward the door of the manor. Toward sanctuary. He rolled over the threshold, into the entry, and looked around.

  Where was his mother? His brother? James, even Aunt Adela? Where were the people who cared about him, protected him?

  Hearing voices, he wheeled his way to the study—and saw them.

  His wonderful family, always so concerned about him, were playing cards. Chips were strewn across the table. Aunt Adela sat on the edge of her chair, and Lady Emmie held her cards with haphazard care. Garth struggled to loosen his already rumpled cravat, and James rearranged his hand as if that would change the spots.

  To judge by their disheveled appearance, they had been playing the whole time he was gone.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Rand boomed.

  Everyone jumped as if his arrival startled them.

  “By Jove, Rand, why don’t you take over for this numskull?” James asked. “He’s as slow at cards as he is at marriage.”

  Garth reached over and cuffed his cousin. “At least I understand trump.”

  With a restrained smile, Aunt Adela said, “Such unsportsmanlike conduct just because the ladies are winning.”

  “La! A pleasure to win,” Lady Emmie said, then everyone bent to the cards once more, concentrating on everything but Rand.

  Resentment boiled inside him. While he was struggling up the cliff, they’d been playing cards. They’d probably had a celebration at their first chance to get rid of him, cheered when that woman returned without him, and laid odds on his ability to return.

  They pitched some cards on the table, then his mother chirped, “How was your walk, dear?”

  His fury exploded. “Walk? Walk? I didn’t walk. Your legs have to work for you to walk.” He pointed at the useless limbs that used to carry him wherever he wanted to go. “I can’t walk.”

  “I think your mother knows that,” said Sylvan’s voice behind him. “You don’t need to bludgeon her with the sorry facts of your life.”

  Rand wheeled around, ready to attack, when Garth said, “It’s just a manner of speech, Rand. Mother meant—”

  “I know what Mother meant.”

  “Then don’t speak so rudely to the dowager duchess,” Aunt Adela said. “It’s not appropriate to her station, or yours.”

  “Really, Adela, I don’t mind.” Lady Emmie smiled weakly, ever the peacemaker between Adela and her sons.

  “I mind enough for both of us. If it weren’t for me, this family would fall into ramshackle practices and moral weaknesses.” Aunt Adela stared down her nose at Garth. “And even I am not bastion enough to stem the depravities of the current duke.”

  “Oh, let’s not start that again.” Garth threw his cards on the table. “You know my reasons, Aunt Adela.”

  “I’m going to bed,” Rand announced.

  “That’s nice, dear.” Lady Emmie waved a feeble good-bye, all her attention concentrated on the developing quarrel.

  Pointing at Rand as if he were an exhibit, Lady Adela said, “See, Garth, even your brother occasionally prevails over his demeaning infirmity.”

  Rand heard Sylvan suck in a shocked breath, then she cried, “Demeaning? What’s demeaning about an injury taken in the line of duty?”

  “It’s not as if he were actually hurt.” Lady Adela dismissed Sylvan and turned back to Garth. “Surely you, as duke—”

  “Not actually hurt?” Sylvan’s fists clenched at her sides.

  “Shut up,” Rand muttered.

  “He’s in a wheelchair!”

  “Just shut up.”

  Losing patience, Lady Adela said, “He wasn’t wounded!”

  Silence hit the room with a thud.

  “For God’s sake, Mother.” James leaped to his feet and paced toward the window.

  Lady Adela shriveled under everyone’s concentrated fury. “Well, somebody had to tell her.”

  Sylvan shifted position subtly, but Rand could read her impatience. “So, somebody tell me.”

  “What should I say?” Rand asked. “I can’t walk, and there’s not a mark on me.”

  “Not true!” James whirled in anguish. “I saw you when you stumbled into Wellington’s presence. Covered with blood and bruises.”

  Rand sneered. “Minor wounds.”

  “Led charge after charge. Had three horses shot out from underneath you. After you lost your regiment, you scrapped like a madman. I fought clear across the battlefield, and I heard about your valor. An inspiration!”

  “But I can’t walk.” Rand pushed his way into the center of the room, and everyone moved back. “If I’m such an inspiration, why can’t I walk?”

  “You could if you just tried,” James insisted. “I know if you just tried—”

  “Do you think I haven’t tried? Don’t you know how much I want to walk?” Rand took deep breaths to combat the constriction of his chest. “I’ve seen doctor after doctor, let them prod me and pour their vile concoctions down me. I’ve taken their stupid herb baths, and for what? To be as useless as I was before!”

  “Please, dear.” Lady Emmie clasped her hands before her, crumpling the cards in her fists. “Don’t say that.”

  “Useless?” Rand took a twisted pleasure in her pain. “Useless. Useless, useless, useless.”

  “Rand.” Garth and Rand locked gazes. “The afternoon proved to be congenial without you. Don’t tempt us to discover what further enjoyment your absence might bring.”

  Rand couldn’t believe his brother—his brother!—would threaten him in such a manner.

  He flashed a glance of hatred at Sylvan. It was her fault. This whole, horrible afternoon was her fault.

  “Boys, let’s not quarrel.” Lady Emmie laid a hand on Garth’s arm and lowered her voice. “Garth, we have to make allowances.”

  “We’ve made allowances,” Garth said. “It’s time for life to go on. He’s hurt, he’s my brother, and I love him, but I’m tired of having him turn this house upside down night and day. Can’t we have some peace? At least until I’ve finished the mill? Can’t we just have some peace?”

  Garth’s despair struck at Rand, building guilt where there had been only rage.

  Is that what his injury had done? Driven his placid brother to the edge of control? Rand knew the burdens that the duke of Clairmont must bear. In addition, he knew Garth’s ambitions for their people, their lands.

  He knew because Garth used to talk to him, exchange ideas, dream dreams. How long had it been since he listened to Garth?

  He looked at James, and James looked away. He looked at Aunt Adela, and her mouth was knit so tight he knew she wanted to agree. He looked at his mother, and she sat wiping her eyes.

  The silence this time stifled all thought.

  “Have none of you heard of wind death?” Sylvan’s voice sounded calm, as if she saw theatrics such as this replayed every day.

  “I—” James cleared his throat. “I have. It’s an old-fashioned term for…ah…when a soldier has no mark on his body, yet he’s dead.”

  Sylvan nodded. “Surgeons used to believe that the wind of a passing bullet sucked the air from the soldiers’ lungs and they suffocated. Upon examination, it was proved that severe internal damage caused the deaths, leaving no external symptoms.”

  “Are you suggesting that’s wha
t happened to Rand?” Lady Adela asked.

  “Not quite,” Rand answered. “I’m not dead, yet.”

  “A trifling distinction, but important.” Sylvan sounded solemn, but Rand wondered. “I am suggesting there may be injury to the spine.”

  Rand wanted to believe it. He wanted to, so badly, but he said, “Impossible. It wasn’t until I went to give my report to Wellington that I collapsed. I was unconscious for two days, and when I woke—” He pointed at his legs.

  “Perhaps it wasn’t one particular injury which crippled you,” Garth suggested. “Perhaps all the injuries, coming one on top of the other, proved your downfall.”

  “Or an accumulation of blood on your spine, and as time goes on, it’ll wash away. Walk again!” James’s excitement betrayed his desire.

  “Anything’s possible,” Sylvan said gently. “But Rand needs to adjust to the situation as it exists, rather than looking for a miracle that may never happen.”

  James still stared at Rand with those haunted, hungry eyes, and Rand felt the weight of his expectations chaining him to the chair. “Who’s going to help me adjust?” He sneered at Sylvan. “You?”

  “Yes, her,” Garth said. “Rand—”

  “Don’t you know who she is?”

  Rand said it so nastily, Sylvan knew what he was going to reveal. Damn him. Couldn’t he have waited just one day? Couldn’t he have waited until she’d had some sleep?

  “Nursing, I’m sure you’ll all agree, is one of the most disgraceful professions a woman can stoop to.”

  The women averted their gazes, acknowledgment contained within their silence.

  “Rand, this is unnecessary,” Garth said shortly.

  “But for this woman,” Rand continued with relish, “nursing was a move up from the world’s oldest profession.”

  “Rand.” Lady Emmie gasped. “You don’t mean…”

  “Sylvan was the mistress of Hibbert, earl of Mayfield.”

  He could have said much worse, Sylvan supposed. He could have claimed she walked the streets of Brussels, or that he had had intimate knowledge of her for a price. But the results were much the same.

  Lady Emmie laid a hand on her heart, and Lady Adela drew herself away as if Sylvan’s mere presence contaminated the air. For just a moment, James viewed her with a kind of half-slobbering anticipation. Then he cleared his features and reverted to his previous courtesy.

  Color flooded Garth’s face. Rand cast one triumphant glance at Sylvan, and she knew he thought he’d won.

  “Why did you tell them that?” Garth stepped forward as if he wanted to pummel his own brother. “Did she make you do what you didn’t want to do? Did she make you realize what an ass you’ve been? Is that why you attacked her?”

  Rand’s smile faded, and he shook his head as if he didn’t understand, and Sylvan knew he didn’t. He’d thought Garth would be as shocked as the rest of his family. He didn’t know that Garth had offered her sanctuary from just those accusations.

  Rand said, “Aren’t you shocked? Don’t you think our mother has the right to know what kind of woman she’s dealing with?”

  “You never used to be a hypocrite.” Garth put his hands on the arms of the wheelchair and leaned forward until his face was level with Rand’s. “I know you, Rand, and I know your tastes. You were jealous of Hibbert. You’re probably still jealous of Hibbert.”

  “How the hell could I be jealous of a dead man?”

  “He might be dead, but when he was alive he had what you wanted—”

  “Garth!” Lady Emmie said, shocked.

  “—what you still want. You’re nothing but a sniveling little coward.”

  Sylvan moaned and covered her eyes. Rand was stupefied by the unexpected direction of this attack, but she was humiliated. How had Garth guessed so accurately about the desire that had united her and Rand in one short dance?

  She remembered it even now. The bright room, overheated with the light of candles and the crush of human bodies. The music, a perfect waltz. The warmth of Rand’s touch on her back, the strength of his shoulder beneath her palm. Their two hands, clasped firmly. Their two gazes, brushing, meeting, avoiding and returning as the rhythm whirled them up off the floor and into a magic place where they were alone.

  And when the waltz finished, his fingers lifting her chin, brushing her lips, promising her unknown delights.

  He hadn’t asked her to dance again. She hadn’t wanted him to.

  The contact had been so brief, none of the gossips had even noticed. No one had noticed except dear Hibbert, and he hadn’t lived beyond the next day.

  “You dare?” Rand shouted.

  Sylvan jumped, but he wasn’t shouting at her.

  He jerked his chair from beneath Garth’s grasp. “Call me a coward?”

  “Oh, you went to Waterloo and killed Frenchies for the safety of England,” Garth acknowledged. “But you’re afraid of the consequences. You’ve lived your whole life challenging injustice and brutality and walked away every time, the victor. Well, you’re the victor this time, too, but you had to pay a penalty. Get on with it, Rand! Stop wallowing in this self-pity and get on with it.”

  Rand cast one flaming glance at his brother and wheeled around. If Sylvan hadn’t moved, he’d have run over her in his haste to flee, and she didn’t think he even noticed.

  Garth touched her arm. “Don’t worry.”

  She stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “I’ll make it right with the ladies and James. They’ll treat you with the respect you deserve, I promise.”

  She nodded stupidly.

  Steering her toward the door and into the hallway, he said, “Betty will show you up to your room now.”

  Betty stepped forward and took her arm, and Garth disappeared back into the study and shut the door.

  “What a fuss, eh, miss?” Betty chatted as she led Sylvan up the grand staircase, down a wide hall, and through double doors. “But don’t you worry. Mr. Garth’ll straighten it out. We put your trunks in here. ’Tis the best suite in the women’s wing, except those which Her Grace and Lady Adela occupy, of course.”

  Garth obviously hoped her living arrangements would ease the sting of her labor, for the door opened off the hall into a lavish sitting room decorated in shades of blue and gold. Chairs and a couch circled a massive fireplace where even now a fire blazed. A burnished table held a setting of china, and the windows were hung with brocade curtains. Through the open door she glimpsed a bedroom with a high curtained bed, another fireplace, and carpets to ward off the chill of the floor.

  When Sylvan smiled and nodded, Betty continued, “We need to know if we should make arrangements for your abigail. Is she following later?”

  “No. No, my father refused to let me take anything more than my clothes.” Betty set to work removing Sylvan’s dress with an efficiency that proved her experience, and she sighed when Sylvan said, “My father claimed if I wanted to be a servant for some upstart noble, I could do it on my own.”

  Betty clucked over her like a hen with a chick. “Aren’t men fools? But I’ll take care of you personally, and if I’m running off to my other duties, I’ll send Bernadette. She’s a bright little thing, and she can sleep in your room with you.”

  “No!”

  Betty gave her a surprised glance, and Sylvan tried to temper her rejection. “Please. I don’t even allow my own abigail to remain in my room. I’m a restless sleeper.”

  “As you wish, Miss Sylvan.” Although puzzled, Betty clearly made no attempt to comprehend the minds of the gentry. “Go in and take your bath, and when you come out, I’ll brush your hair and ready you for bed.”

  Sylvan glanced out the window. “But it’s barely sundown.”

  “Aye, but it’s spring, and the light stays late. You’ve had a hard day of traveling, followed by one unpleasantry after another. I’ll bring you dinner on a tray, and you can go on to bed. You just trust Betty, miss.”

  Surprisingly, Sylvan did. She hadn’t a
llowed herself to be so cosseted for years, nor had she placed faith in another’s judgment since her return from Waterloo. She had a bath and then found dinner awaiting her.

  Surveying the beautifully laid tray, Sylvan said, “There must be a French chef, as well as an Italian confectioner.”

  “Aye, miss.” Betty pulled out the chair and Sylvan sat. Betty swathed Sylvan in the linen napkin, picked up the fork, and put it in her hand. “Eat, now. You look like you’ve missed too many meals.”

  Sylvan didn’t answer.

  Shrewdly, Betty said, “Your clothes weren’t made to hang on you, I don’t think. Seems like you and Mr. Rand suffer from the same malady.”

  “And what’s that?” Sylvan tasted the oxtail soup.

  “Memories.”

  Sylvan put down her fork. “You are a very intelligent woman.”

  Betty picked it up and put it back in Sylvan’s hand. “I am. Try the pasties.”

  As instructed, Sylvan tried the pasties. They were an exceptional combination of beef, pork, onions, and turnips, with a hint of marjoram, wrapped in flaky pastry. Like everything else, they tasted exceptional, but Sylvan thought perhaps the company influenced the flavor of the food.

  After all, how often did a woman of her reputation get treated with respect, even by a servant? And especially by a servant of such discernment. Of course Sylvan realized that her opinion of Betty related directly to Betty’s opinion of her.

  Idly, Sylvan asked, “What do you know about the ghost?”

  “The ghost?” Betty turned away, and in an elaborately casual voice asked, “What ghost?”

  “The ghost Jasper told me about.”

  Betty grimaced. “That Jasper! He has ever had a flapping lip.”

  “So there is a ghost!” Sylvan leaned on her elbow, cupped her chin in her hand, and stared at Betty. “Have you seen it?”

  “Me?” Betty laughed with false airiness. “Seen a ghost? Try the lamb.”

  Sylvan speared one tender slice. “You have, haven’t you?”

  Hunching her shoulders, Betty muttered, “Once.”

  “Once?”

  “It’s good lamb, isn’t it?” Betty asked. Sylvan still stared, and Betty admitted, “All right, twice. Once in the house.” Shivering, Betty went to the windows where night pressed in. “Once I saw it looking in the glass at me.” She shut the drapes.