Move Heaven and Earth

by Christina Dodd

  The room seemed cozier with the drapes closed, Sylvan decided. “I don’t believe in ghosts.” Then she thought of the specters which nightly disturbed her rest. “Or I didn’t used to.”

  “I never believed in ghosts before either, and in the daylight, I still don’t. There has to be another explanation, His Grace says, and I know it’s true.” Rubbing her arms with her hands, Betty took a breath. “But at night when the wind howls and the moon drifts in and out of the fog…well, then I remember the stories my granny used to tell about the first duke and how he always walks when there’s trouble afoot at Clairmont Court, and I hide my head under the covers.”

  Sylvan shivered, too. Betty had a way of speaking that raised the hair on the back of Sylvan’s neck. “Has any of the family seen the ghost? Has His Grace?”

  “No. The night it looked in the window, he…” Betty faltered, and Sylvan could have sworn a blush swept Betty’s fair skin. But Betty leaned to the fire and built it up, then lit more of the candles around the room. “No, His Grace hasn’t, but I think Lord Rand has.”

  “Lord Rand?” Sylvan thought of Rand’s cynical, angry face, and shook her head. “Surely not.”

  “Aye, miss, I think so.” Coming close, Betty squatted by Sylvan’s chair and lowered her voice. “When Lord Rand came back all crippled, he was angry at the world, of course, and dejected a whole lot, but Mr. Garth—His Grace—he talked to Lord Rand about the estate and made him help with the planning of the mill, just like old times, and Lord Rand was getting better. He was adjusting to that wheelchair, and even joked about his useless legs. There for a while he knew he wasn’t the only one his accident had hurt.”

  Sylvan straightened. This was interesting. This was fascinating.

  “Then the night I saw the face at the window, I told Mr. Garth, and when he told Lord Rand—laughing at me, he was—Lord Rand just exploded with rage. We’d never seen him like that, throwing things and cursing. And it’s been the same ever since. He’ll get a little better, then he gets worse again. Like today.” Betty rose. “What else am I to think, but Lord Rand saw that ghost and knows what it portends?”

  “Trouble.”

  “Aye.” Betty rubbed her palms up and down her ample hips as if to dry the sweat off of them. “Trouble.”

  The knock on the door took them by surprise, and they both jumped. Then, sheepish at her alarm, Betty answered it. Sylvan couldn’t see who stood without, for Betty blocked her view, but she heard a man’s rumble.

  “What is it, Betty?” she called.

  Reluctantly, Betty answered, “’Tis Jasper. He wants a favor, but I’ve told him it’s after ten o’the clock, and you’re not to be disturbed.”

  “A favor?” Sylvan stood. “Is someone ill?”

  “’Tis Lord Rand,” Jasper called. “He needs you.”

  Sylvan’s heart thumped in her throat. Had he done too much today? Had she pushed him too hard? Knotting her dressing gown, Sylvan strode to the door and pulled it away from Betty. “What’s wrong with Lord Rand?” She walked down the hall and the stairway, never looking to see if the servants followed. The candles burned brightly in the entry as she passed through. “Is he having spasms? Coughing blood? Unable to speak?”

  “No, miss.”

  Jasper trotted beside her and Betty trailed them both, muttering imprecations.

  “He has a sliver.”

  Sylvan stopped so quickly Betty walked into her.

  “A sliver.”

  “Aye, miss.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “Nay, miss.” Jasper shuffled his feet but still looked her straight in the eye. “He pulled slivers off his wheel when he tried to stop himself today, and one’s fair deep. I could have got it, but he just up and says he wants ye to do it.”

  That was interesting. “I wonder why.”

  “Could have knocked me over with a owl-wing feather, miss, but I don’t know why.”

  “Let’s go back to your room,” Betty urged. “There’s no need—”

  “I think perhaps there is.”

  “At least get dressed!” Betty set her jaw. “Your reputation—”

  “Can’t be hurt.” Sylvan smiled and turned back to her room. “But I will dress.”

  When she stepped out again, looking neat in a simple muslin gown, Betty still clung to her heels, protesting, “Miss, I don’t like this.”

  Trying to surmise Rand’s motive, Sylvan answered, “Perhaps he’s testing me. Perhaps he’s truly in pain, but won’t admit it. Men are like that, you know.”

  “Aye, they are. Fools all,” Betty grumbled, but she started down the hall to Rand’s room. “And whether you worry about your reputation or not, I’ll be there to protect it.”

  Jasper opened the door and half ducked. Apparently Rand routinely threw things at those who dared beard his den. When nothing came out, Jasper called, “I brought her, master.”

  “Send her in.” Rand’s voice sounded rough, as if he’d been crying.

  But when Sylvan stepped through the door, she knew he had not. He probably hadn’t cried since he was a child, and he needed to. As Betty said, men were fools all.

  He sat propped up in his bed, frowning at his palm. He wore more than he had that afternoon—a white bed gown covered his shoulders, arms, and chest. “Did Jasper tell you?”

  “That you have a splinter?” she asked calmly. “He did.”

  “I didn’t think you’d really come.”

  “Of course. I’m your nurse. When you call, I come running.”

  His blue eyes glowed in the light of the candles, his ebony hair stood on end, and she saw the flash of his white teeth when he grinned. “I doubt that.”

  “Within reason,” she temporized. Holding out her hand, she said, “Let me see.”

  He gave her his hand and she cradled it between her palms. The fingers were long and thick, with calluses on every pad. Lines crisscrossed his skin—some natural, some the result of wounds. Flecks of red covered the places where the other splinters had been removed, and she saw the reason for this visit at once. Large, black, and deep, the splinter had worked its way beneath the pad below his index finger. It had to be painful, and if not extracted, it would lead to infection.

  Rand could reasonably have called for his nurse to remove it.

  She didn’t believe that was why he’d called her.

  “Do you have tweezers, needle, and basilicum?” she asked.

  “Aye, miss.” Jasper showed her the instruments and the dark stoppered bottle.

  She needed to hold the hand still, yet at the same time have both her hands free. If she rested his hand on the mattress, it sank among the feathers and out of the light. Yet…

  “Sit on the bed,” Rand instructed, “and hold it in your lap.”

  Betty gasped. “Lord Rand!”

  “Betty, get out of here,” Rand commanded.

  “I will not, sir.” Betty placed her fists on her hips. “’Tisn’t decent, Miss Sylvan being here in the night, and she needs a chaperone.”

  “Jasper’s here.”

  Betty was unconvinced.

  “And Sylvan’s not afraid. Are you, Sylvan?”

  Sylvan stared at Rand and saw challenge personified. “No. I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Go on, Betty. Run away and play.” Rand pointed toward the door, but Betty just stood there, stubborn and unyielding, and to Sylvan’s surprise, he gave in. “Oh, for God’s sake, just go and get me some sliced cold meats and some biscuits. I didn’t eat dinner, and I’m hungry.”

  Betty relaxed her stance and considered.

  “Really, Betty, you can go,” Sylvan said. “If he tries any mischief, I’ll bash him.”

  Rand looked Sylvan over from top to toe. It didn’t take long. “Ooh, I’m frightened.”

  “You’d best be, Lord Rand, because if you give me reason for grief, I’ll see that you’re sorry.” With that startling pronouncement, Betty said to Jasper, “You watch them,” and left.

 
Rand looked after her. “I suppose I’d better do my mischief early so she doesn’t catch me.” Switching his concentration to Sylvan, he commanded softly, “Now get on the bed and remove this thing.”

  Betty’s lack of respect left Sylvan feeling smug and a little superior. After all, if the housekeeper could speak to Rand that way and get away with it, what harm could it do to sit on his bed? The man was paralyzed, and she was his nurse. Calmly, she climbed onto the mattress.

  “Miss Sylvan!”

  Jasper sounded even more scandalized than Betty, but neither of the bed’s occupants paid attention. Sylvan sat on her feet, facing the headboard, and tucked her skirt around her so that no bit of flesh might tempt Rand—although why she should worry about such a thing, she didn’t know.

  His hand rested on the sheets where she had put it, as limp as if it, too, were paralyzed. But when she picked it up to place it on her knee, vitality leaped from the flesh. Never had she touched a person so alive, so vibrant. It was as if life channeled itself through Rand to the rest of the world—and if Rand died, the world would end.

  An odd notion, and one Sylvan dismissed as part of her weariness.

  She pressed the flesh about the splinter, then picked up the needle. “This will hurt.”

  “I know.”

  The gravelly sound in his voice startled her; he seemed almost to relish the pain. Using the needle, she had to dig, and dig deep, but Rand bore it stoically, even when she spread basilicum over the laceration to prevent infection.

  Had he found that pain proved superior to no sensation at all?

  “There you are.” Wiping her hand on a towel, she asked, “Is there anything else?”

  “No.” She started to slide off the bed, and he caught her arm with his undamaged hand. “Yes.”

  She looked at him inquiringly.

  “I want to apologize.”

  “Sir?”

  “For my brother.”

  Amazement buffeted her, then fury, and she shook off his grip. “You’re apologizing for your brother? After all you’ve done today?”

  He opened his mouth, shut it, then ran his hand over his face. “I never thought of it that way. But yes, I apologize for my brother.”

  “You ought to be…”

  He lifted one eyebrow and smiled. “Spanked?”

  “Ashamed of yourself.”

  “No. I’ve been insufferable, but I wasn’t the one who lured you here.”

  “How did you—”

  “Know?” He grinned. “I’m familiar with Garth’s methods, and I can imagine the tale he wove for you. ‘Poor Rand, confined to his bed and a wheelchair and languishing. He’s lost his will to live.’”

  Since that was almost exactly what Garth had insinuated, Sylvan blushed furiously, and Rand laughed. “Garth’s a good man, but my father raised him to be the duke, and my father believed that the duke of Clairmont stood just below the apostles in importance and should always get his own way, regardless of the means.”

  “And you do not?”

  “My father raised me to believe the entire Malkin family could stop the tide with a word.”

  “Then why don’t you?” she asked nastily.

  His blue eyes glinted with mischief. “It is not my desire.”

  She slid one leg off the bed. “I’m not interested in your desire.”

  “Aren’t you?” His tone arrested her, and she froze completely when he said, “I liked the look of you in Brussels.”

  “Sh.” She glanced at Jasper.

  “Go on, Jasper.” Rand waved an impatient hand. “I don’t need you.”

  “But, master—”

  “Go on, go on.” Rand scowled impatiently. “Miss Sylvan can get me everything I want.”

  With a look of wounded resentment, Jasper shambled to the door.

  “Shut it behind you,” Rand called.

  “No!” Sylvan said.

  Jasper shut the door with just a touch of force, and Sylvan tried to slide off the bed, but Rand’s injured hand, which had been lying so limp against her, suddenly turned and grasped her knee. “I like the look of you now.”

  Irritated, Sylvan snapped, “Your eyes still work, then.”

  “It makes me wonder why I notice. What good does it do a crippled man”—his fingers worked their way up her thigh—“to like the look of a woman?”

  She slapped his wrist.

  He rubbed her through her skirt. “And what good does it do a woman to kiss a man?”

  “Kiss?” He wanted to kiss her?

  In Brussels, he had attracted her. In spite of her good sense, her caution, she’d wanted him for his strength, the way he moved, the way he looked. It had been a merely physical attraction. Hadn’t it?

  “Especially one as harmless as I am,” he added.

  “Harmless?” He was as harmless as a sleek and hungry tiger.

  “Come close,” he whispered.

  And she was stupid enough to want to pet the tiger and feel it purr.

  “Consider it one of your nursing duties.” The tiger’s paw prowled up her leg, touching so lightly she scarcely believed it moved. “Like taking the sliver out of my hand. It keeps me awake nights, wondering if I’m still a man.”

  Living with her father had bred cynicism into her bones, and her own sense of self-preservation returned a measure of good sense. “You’ve probably kissed every maidservant working at Clairmont Court to find out if you’re still a man.”

  “Have I?” He watched his hand as it slipped up to the bow on her bodice and untied it. “Then perhaps you should kiss me for another reason.”

  She looked into his eyes. “What is that?”

  “You’re wondering if you’re still a woman.”

  He must be right, damn him, Sylvan thought, because she allowed him to slide his hands around her waist. He pulled her toward him, and she let him, holding herself carefully so her body didn’t quite touch his body. He acknowledged her caution with amusement, and kissed her.

  One closemouthed, off-center kiss, with her gaze fixed on the stubble of his cheek.

  Disappointing.

  Deep in his chest, he growled. “Let’s try again.”

  Manhandling her—tiger-handling her—he settled her across his chest and tucked her head into the crook of his arm.

  And she let him do it.

  With two fingers he closed her eyes and brushed her hair off her forehead, then leaned over her and kissed her. Little tiny bites on her lips, really, and when she opened them, soothing little touches with his tongue. He’d been drinking brandy, she discovered, and he liked the texture of her inside lower lip, for his tongue kept sliding across it in repeated expeditions.

  For such an obnoxious man, he had a delicate touch.

  When he took her lip between his teeth, she almost stopped breathing. He didn’t hurt her, but the threat was there. Instead, he sucked at her lip as if it were an expensive sweetmeat that melted in his mouth.

  She melted in his arms, and waited, breathless, for his next move.

  His hand cupped her breast, weighed it, and he muttered, “Perfect,” against her lips. His thumb brushed her nipple, back and forth, rubbing the texture of lace across her skin, and she shuddered with pleasure.

  Carefully, he parted her lips and touched his tongue to her teeth. She jumped and tensed, wondering at his boldness, wondering if she liked it. He paused as if surprised, then cuddled her closer and did it again. He seemed to be searching with his tongue, looking for something, although she didn’t know what. She only knew this was intimate and intrusive, and it made her feel closer to him than she’d ever felt to any other person.

  She didn’t know him that well. She didn’t even like him that well. But this was the thing she’d sensed when they danced in Brussels.

  They would be good together.

  “Making me do all the work, eh?” His day-old whiskers scratched her when he spoke. “I never would have suspected.”

  Her eyes flew open and he winked. Her mou
th dropped open and he kissed. Really kissed. The taste, the texture, the insistence made this nothing like his previous tentative forays. This was open mouths, straining toward a liaison with nothing concealed. He chased her tongue until he found it, then sucked on it until she obeyed his directive and penetrated his mouth. Until everything was Rand, filling her every sense and blotting out past and future.

  “Lord Rand. Miss Sylvan. That is enough!”

  Someone shook Sylvan’s shoulder, and Betty’s stern voice commanded, “Lord Rand, let her go. Let her go now. Jasper, make him let her go!”

  Sylvan opened her eyes and looked up at Rand.

  His blue eyes seemed unfocused, but at the sight of her, they sharpened. “By Jove,” he said, “I think we found something. Betty, you came back too soon, but you can stop nagging, I’m through.” He brushed his thumb one last time across her nipple. “For the moment.”

  Sitting up, Sylvan glanced at the scandalized Betty and the wooden-faced Jasper. Then she tied her bodice bow. She looked at Rand again, and with shaking fingers, tied a double knot.

  “You can’t erase what we did.”

  Rand’s dark voice caressed her, and she put another knot in the tie.

  “I think it proved something to both of us.”

  Her gaze dropped to his lap, then she pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. She’d never been so close to a man in his condition, but he didn’t appear to be suffering.

  He murmured, “Yes, it certainly proved you heal the sick.”

  His air of possession infuriated her, and without thought she snapped, “Heal the sick, not raise the dead.”

  Rand threw back his head and roared with laughter, but Betty sounded shocked. “Miss Sylvan, that was cruel.”

  “She’s not cruel, Betty.” Rand leaned forward and incited Sylvan. “She’s frightened.”

  “You don’t frighten me.”

  “I ought to.”

  The query hovered on the tip of her tongue. Why? Why should he frighten her? But she knew she wouldn’t like the answer, and whirled to escape.

  He let her get to the door. He let her have that first taste of escape, then, as if she’d asked, he called, “Because you excite me, and I excite you.”