Move Heaven and Earth

by Christina Dodd

  Sylvan wanted to curse him with the language she’d heard on the battlefield. She wanted to damn him to hell and back, but her early training prevented her, and she said only, “You are an odious creature!”

  Long after her footfalls had faded, he stared at the doorway where she had stood.

  “Lord Rand?” Wearing a sly grin, Jasper waited to prepare him for bed. “She’s just like everyone said, isn’t she?”

  Reluctantly, Rand transferred his regard to Jasper. “How’s that?”

  “She’s an easy rider.”

  Still groggy with desire, Rand repeated, “Easy?”

  Jasper came a little closer and companionably nudged Rand in the ribs. “She climbed right on that bed without a complaint and made herself at home.”

  Comprehension flashed through Rand, and he grabbed Jasper by the shirt close to the throat and dragged him until they were face-to-face. “Don’t you ever say that again. Don’t you ever tell anybody what happened here. Unless you want to go back to your father’s farm, you’ll forget what you saw and treat Miss Sylvan with respect. Understand?”

  Eyes bulging from lack of air, Jasper nodded, and Rand knocked him aside. Jasper stumbled backward and landed on his rump. But Rand couldn’t stay angry, not with the triumph of his discovery, and he said, “The rumors about Hibbert were true.”

  4

  The dead were calling.

  “Please, Sylvan, help me, Sylvan.”

  The odor of rot clogged her nostrils as first one corpse, then another grabbed at her. Their fingers, dank and pale, curled onto her skirt, her arm, her neck. She could hear their nails scratching, dry as gorse in winter.

  “Help me. I’m too young.”

  They dragged her down, beseeching her aid. The edge of the grave crumbled beneath her feet as she fought for purchase. Mold stained her skin. Dirt rained down.

  “Not yet. I can’t be dead yet.”

  One by one their specters sucked the air from her lungs.

  “Help me.”

  She struggled, tasting the too-familiar fear.

  “Sing to me.”

  She tried to scream, but dust clogged her throat.

  “Hold my hand.”

  She wanted to strike out, but she couldn’t.

  “Help me.”

  “I can’t!” Heaving herself out of the high bed, Sylvan landed on her knees. She welcomed the pain of impact, the irritation of the carpet’s nap. She looked wildly around, unfamiliar with the surroundings, then sank down until her cheek rested on the rough wool. “I can’t help you. I killed you.”

  The ghouls still danced in her mind, but gradually they retreated, trailing their winding clothes, their hollow cheeks and amputated limbs. They retreated, but they would be back.

  She wiped her eyes, but they were dry, then deliberately she pushed herself upright and leaned against the bed. The polished wood cut into her back, bringing reality into focus, returning Sylvan from the edge of sanity.

  Now she remembered. Rand Malkin. Clairmont Court. The ghost that walked at midnight?

  No wonder she had dreamed.

  Groaning, she sank down and cradled her head in her arms. Would the dead never leave her alone? Would she never sleep peacefully again?

  Scratch. Shuffle.

  She lifted her head and stared at the door.

  What was that?

  She strained to hear but caught no further sound.

  It must be nothing but the shattered remnants of her nightmare.

  Staggering to her feet, she looked around. Moonlight burned a cold streak across the floor, and she crept to the window, parted the heavy curtains, and peered out.

  Her room overlooked the back of the manor where the ruins of the old castle had been blended with a charming garden. Lumps of ancient stone supported creeping vines, and walls that long ago listened to old sorrows now heard nothing but the sigh of the wind. Stark in the moonlight, it seemed as eerie as anything in her imagination.

  Yet nothing moved out there. Everyone, everything, was asleep.

  Loneliness struck at her, scratching the thin coating of control that kept her sane. Was there no one in the world who kept vigil in this night?

  As if in answer, something smacked her door.

  She found herself behind the curtains, shivering, heart thumping, eyes so wide they hurt from the strain. Please, God, she thought. Please, God. But what could she promise Him that she hadn’t promised on all the other lonely nights?

  No other sound followed the first, and she peeked out. Nothing stirred within the room. It was as still as a graveyard.

  La! What had made her draw that comparison?

  Perhaps the echo of Jasper’s shaken voice. Perhaps the memory of Betty’s demeanor when she admitted that she, too, believed that the ghost of the first duke walked the halls this night.

  Gathering courage in hand, Sylvan tiptoed into the room. A candle burned by the bed, but that wasn’t enough. Taking it in her shaking fingers, she began to light every candle in the room, and the Malkin household placed their candles with a generous hand. One by one, the wicks caught flame, chasing the shadows back to the grave from whence they came.

  The room blazed like a ballroom when she finished, and the odor of melting wax smelled like safety. She sank onto one of the chairs and pulled her knees up to her chest.

  One never knew when a phantom might grab at her toes.

  One never knew when a phantom might walk through the wall.

  One never knew if the phantom stood outside, staring through the massive, heavily carved wood door and right at her, huddled in a chair.

  Ugh! Why did she think of things like that? Why now, in a strange place with nowhere to go and no one to run to?

  She didn’t believe in ghosts, she’d told Betty.

  Well, she didn’t. Why should she fear a long-dead someone, when she knew, from cruel experience, it was the men she’d tried to help who so deliberately haunted her?

  Nevertheless, Betty said it best. At night when the wind howls and the moon drifts in and out of the fog, it was easy to forget.

  Only tonight, the wind wasn’t howling. Silence pressed down on Sylvan as if she were a rat trapped in a glass dome. Her breath made too much noise. She could hear the great clock ticking all the way down the hall, and the smaller clock ticking within her room. Then with one dramatic note, the minute hand reached the hour hand, and, in unison, the clocks began to strike midnight. Each chime reverberated through her head. Now time would stop, and that specter in the hall would step through the wall and—

  With a tremulous laugh, she leaped to her feet. Stupid, she scolded. Scaring herself into next week.

  She was Sylvan Miles, bold and dashing adventuress. By heavens, she’d prove herself to her father, fulfill the duke of Clairmont’s every expectation, and in the process, lay her own ghosts to rest. Taking a quivering breath, she nodded. A long dead duke couldn’t walk, and by God she’d prove it.

  The last notes of the clocks struck as she picked up the candelabra, went to the door, and swung it wide.

  She froze in shock and horror.

  The white-cloaked figure of a man walked away from her down the hall.

  When she got her breath and gasped, he seemed to hear it. He half turned and looked, and she realized she had been wrong. He didn’t stare at her from cavernous holes where his eyes had been. He stared with the menacing glint of long dead eyes.

  “He looks just like me, doesn’t he?”

  Sylvan gripped the handles of the wheelchair so tightly Rand could feel her tremble. “He does,” she admitted.

  “Radolf was a mean old bastard, they say.” The trembling increased. What was wrong with the woman this morning? “Bred children all over the estate, but he cared for nothing but Clairmont Court and establishing a dynasty. He married heiress after heiress, but none of them lasted long.”

  “One of them must have lasted long enough to produce an heir,” she said. “You’re here.”

  He str
aightened the ruffles on his white shirt and smoothed his trousers. He’d gotten dressed for her this morning, and she hadn’t noticed. “Yes, he got his heir at last. They say the wife that gave him his son led him a merry dance, and when she died he refused to marry again.”

  “Why should he? He got what he wanted.” If bitterness could be distilled, she’d have produced a pint. “A son.”

  “One son?” Rand swiveled around and looked at her. “Even today, a son is easily lost. No, the duke should have remarried and produced more, but he didn’t.”

  “Maybe she turned the tables on him and made him miserable. Maybe he discovered how dreadful it is to live, day by day, in a bad marriage.”

  “The story is, he swore never to leave Clairmont Court from the day of his wife’s death. They say he never would leave in life, and that’s why he’s still here.”

  She jerked the wheelchair as if her knees had given out, and Rand gestured to the window stools that lined the long gallery. “Sit down before you fall down. You’re trembling like a leaf. Don’t you know I’m the only invalid allowed in this house?”

  He sounded grimly amused, but he watched her with concern as she sank onto a seat. What was wrong with the woman? After that kiss last night, he’d expected her to be shy this morning. To blush and bridle when he teased her.

  Instead, she’d shown up looking as if she’d been dragged through a knothole by a team of farm horses.

  “Didn’t you sleep last night?” he demanded.

  She tore her gaze away from the portrait of Duke Radolf and stared at Rand as though she didn’t know him. “What? Oh, yes, I slept.”

  “How much?”

  “You know how it is. One doesn’t sleep deeply the first night in a strange place.”

  “Perhaps you should go to your room and try again.”

  “What?”

  She was staring at the duke again, and that irked Rand. True, his ancestor was an impressive figure, painted in full armor. His cape flowed around his shoulders and his dogs leaped around his feet. But his face had a wooden appearance and his sternness looked more like a snarl. The first duke had been known for his parsimony. Obviously, he had scrimped on his own portrait artist, although his eyes followed wherever one moved in the gallery.

  He repeated, “Perhaps you should go to your room.”

  “No.” She jumped to her feet and gave a poor imitation of a smile. “Just because it’s raining doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have your constitutional. You can show me more of the manor now.”

  “Damn rude of the rain to interrupt your plans for me, isn’t it?” He thought bleakly of how he had failed himself and his brave ancestors on the previous day, and wondered if his aborted plan would have been more palpable today.

  He doubted it. Not with the memory of that kiss burning in his heart—and places lower. It would have to be done, of course, but he blessed the rain for removing that burden for one more day.

  “I’ll take you to the library,” he decided, wheeling himself toward the end of the gallery. “Maybe you can find a volume there which will bore you sufficiently to put you to sleep.”

  She smiled and relaxed as she walked beside him. “Yes, I’d like that. I left most of my books at home.”

  He admired the way her dimples pressed the cream of her cheeks inward when she smiled. He liked the shape of her just as much as he had yesterday, and just as much as he had in Brussels. Indeed, something about Sylvan made him the man he had been before the battle. He thought again about the man-elf who had put her together, and wondered if that creature had been drunk after all.

  The sound of running feet distracted him, and before he could take evasive action, a slight figure burst through the door of the gallery.

  “Uncle Rand!”

  The child flung herself at him, and he wrapped her in his arms. “Gail!”

  She hugged him as if she might never see him again. “Uncle Rand, I missed you. When are you going to invite me down to tea again?”

  “I had you to tea only three days ago,” he said.

  “Three whole days.” Gail sat in his lap and leaned her head back against his shoulder. “It’s a wonder I haven’t starved.”

  Sylvan stared in horror at the mock-pathetic waif.

  Uncle Rand, indeed.

  The Malkin blood must run strong, for this child showed her kinship to Rand with more than her familiarity. She had his blue eyes, his dark hair, and his handsome features, softened by youth and gender. By her height, she looked to be twelve, but her figure showed none of the dawning of womanhood, and Sylvan guessed her to be more like ten—and quite illegitimate, for she’d never heard a whisper of her existence before.

  Rand’s child.

  Then Sylvan shook herself. Not necessarily Rand’s child. The girl looked like Garth, too, and James, and like the first duke. But the first duke was dead and she couldn’t imagine Garth indulging in a casual romp with a parlor maid, so it had to be James…James? Elegant, fashionable James? Sylvan couldn’t imagine it.

  “Stand straight, miss.” Betty spoke from the door, and her sharp voice brought Gail out of the chair. “Curtsy to Miss Miles and show the manners that I taught you.”

  Gail blushed and bobbed a curtsy in Sylvan’s direction, but Rand caught her hand and squeezed it. “Miss Robards, allow me to introduce you to my nurse, Miss Miles. Miss Miles, Miss Robards.”

  Gail shot a grin at him and a shy one at Sylvan. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Miles.”

  “And I you, Miss Robards.” No, Gail had to be Rand’s child. The hell-raiser of yesterday had disappeared and a civil human being had taken his place. Only the power of parenthood could bring about such a change.

  And who was the mother? Sylvan blinked and made an extra effort to smile at Gail. “Are you taking time from your studies to see your…Lord Rand?”

  “My governess said I must have sat on an anthill this morning, I’m so squirmy, so I’m to run it off in the gallery.” Gail studied Sylvan, and her sharp intelligence showed in her eyes. “Is that what you’re doing here?”

  “Yes. Lord Rand was squirmy this morning, so he’s showing me around the house.”

  Gail giggled and glanced back at Betty. “Can I come?”

  “You’re too bold,” Betty said.

  “Ah, let her come,” Rand begged. “That old witch you call a governess won’t care. You know she lives only to conjugate Latin verbs.”

  While Gail giggled more, Sylvan changed her mind once again. That was not a fatherly statement, designed to uphold discipline and promote education. Maybe James was the father. Maybe Garth. Maybe some unknown cousin?

  Betty rebuked Rand. “You know Gail repeats everything you say. How am I going to explain that?”

  Taking Gail’s hand, Rand patted it and said to her, “Don’t tell the old witch what I said. She’s a nice lady. She can’t help it if she can’t keep up with us.”

  “I won’t tell her.” Gail sounded stuffy and adult. “I like Miss Wainwright, and that would hurt her feelings.” She dropped her voice to a whisper, the kind of whisper that echoed through the gallery. “She’s in love with you, you know.”

  “Is she?” Rand whispered right back. “I won’t tease her about it.”

  Gail thought about it, then said, “Neither will I.”

  “I hate rainy days,” Betty muttered, her gaze on Gail.

  Sylvan sidled over to her. “Do you do everything around here? Housekeeper, personal maid, and nursemaid of the, um, child? Whose daughter…” Betty looked at Sylvan with such an appalled expression, Sylvan blushed for her own boldness. “I beg your pardon. I really don’t even want to know.”

  “Miss, I don’t think…” Betty faltered.

  “I vow, I don’t want to know.”

  “Sylvan!” Rand called. “Come with us.” He and Gail had raced clear across the gallery and were waiting at the opposite door. “We’re going to raid the dining room.”

  With what sounded like relief, Betty said, “
You go on, miss. You need another meal. You didn’t eat a thing this morning.”

  Sylvan went, but only because she wanted to observe Rand with this child. He seemed to like Gail immensely, treating her like a small adult and delighting her with his attention. She talked all the time, and Rand called her “Windy Gail,” making her giggle and roll her eyes at Sylvan. The other servants treated Gail well, too, not like an outcast bastard, but like the child they’d all helped to raise. She’d spoken of her governess, so obviously Rand, or Garth, or James, had acknowledged her as his own and gave her the advantages of wealth. If only Sylvan didn’t so urgently hope the father were someone other than Rand, for what did that say about her?

  “Lord Rand!” The minister hailed them from the doorway of the study as they were about to enter the dining room. “How good to see you’re feeling better today.”

  Sylvan almost laughed at the vicar’s euphemistic phrasing. Feeling better? She supposed Rand was feeling better than yesterday, when he knocked out the windows and rampaged through the house.

  From the expression on Rand’s face, he thought much the same. “Ah, Reverend.” Rand nudged Gail along. “Thank you for your good wishes. I hadn’t expected to see you out on such a miserable day.”

  Gail got a look at the good reverend and bolted toward the dining room, but the Reverend Donald caught her arm in a lightning move that startled Sylvan. He stood taller than the middle shelf on the china cabinet, but his face had the soft look of a man who spent more time reading than working. Still, his knee-length black frock coat must conceal a muscled body. His mouth smiled, but his eyes were stern as he said, “Gail Emmaline, why have I not seen you in church these many weeks? It’s a sad thing when a young lady is allowed to dismiss her communion with God as unimportant.”

  “I don’t do that!” Gail blurted. “I do my Bible lessons every day, but my mama says—”

  “You should go and find your mama,” Rand interrupted, catching the vicar’s wrist and shaking his grip loose. “Mr. Donald wants to speak to me in private, I’m sure.”