Move Heaven and Earth

by Christina Dodd

  “Why would he?”

  “Doesn’t he sleep in the room with you? Doesn’t he change your sheets? Those muddy sheets were the final betrayal for me.”

  Rand had worried about that, the first time Jasper changed the sheets, but Jasper had seemed oblivious. Was oblivious, dammit. “Jasper fought beside me at Waterloo.” Rand struck the arm of his chair. “It’s not Jasper.”

  “Very well, then.” She abandoned that supposition easily enough, and he relaxed. Then she asked, “How about your brother?”

  “Garth?”

  “Who has this madman attacked? Women who work at the mill. Women who your brother has kept after hours.”

  The muscles of his shoulders bunched as tension seized him. “They’re the easiest women to attack. Women alone are vulnerable to anyone.”

  “But His Grace has a temper. I’ve seen it more than once.” She waited until he nodded in admission, then she added quickly, “And perhaps not much liking for the female gender.”

  “Garth?” Reaching out, he felt her forehead. No fever. It must be the exhaustion that made her speak so recklessly. “What are you talking about? Garth loves women!”

  “He isn’t married.”

  His eyes opened wide, then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. “That’s a stupid way to decide a man’s propensities.”

  Her complexion turned bright red, and she snapped, “That’s how Hibbert was judged. I met a few of Hibbert’s…friends, and some of them were lovely gentlemen, but some of them truly disliked women. All women. Don’t you think—”

  “No.” He laughed again. “Not Garth. There are things you don’t know about Garth. And even if what you imagined were true—he’s the duke. If he wanted to hurt women, he could do it without going to the bother of building a mill.”

  Her color subsided, but she wasn’t done. “James.”

  “Oh, now you sound like Garth.”

  “James is a frustrated, angry young man with a grudge against the mill.”

  “He was with me at Waterloo.”

  “He’s third in line for the dukedom.”

  “I saved his life.”

  She checked. “At Waterloo?”

  “I was with my regiment, and I saw him. He’d got separated and was engulfed by Frenchmen and…Well, I was just at the right place at the right time.”

  “And you imagined you might be assaulting women?” Dimples blinked as she tried to subdue her smile, and he could have warmed himself by the fire of her admiration. “You, who would have destroyed yourself in battle to protect James? Who would have flung yourself off a cliff to protect the women of Malkinhampsted?”

  He didn’t know what to say. He only knew he liked having Sylvan act as if he were a hero. Fumbling for a subject, he said, “So we can discount James.”

  Her dimples slid away. “Sometimes putting people in your debt destroys the balance between you.”

  “Rubbish!” Then, sarcastically, he joined in her slander. “And if not James, perhaps the Reverend Donald?”

  “Why not?” She agreed. “He’s out day and night visiting parishioners.”

  Rand couldn’t believe she would entertain such a thought for a minute. “You’ve met him!” He pointed toward the sitting room. “He’s a sanctimonious bastard, but he’s totally dedicated to keeping the word of the Lord.”

  “I’m trying to tell you anyone could be perpetrating these crimes and for any reason. Even your Aunt Adela—”

  “Now there’s a thought.” He pretended to consider it. “Or my mother?”

  “She’s too short.”

  “Ah.” Trying to shame her, he said, “On that basis, I’ll have to mark you from my list of suspects, too.”

  “Generous of you, but you should mark me from your list for another reason. I wasn’t here when the attacks began.”

  “Maybe you were lurking at the inn in Malkinhampsted, waiting for the chance to—”

  “Oh, Rand, I know you don’t want it to be anyone you know.” She pressed her knees to his, leaned forward, and revealed a most glorious vista when her bodice gaped. “But it has to be somebody with a grudge against you.”

  He scarcely refrained from licking his lips. “We employ about fifty indoor servants here. Do you realize what a basket of snakes you’re whistling up with these accusations?”

  She smiled at him in an almost-normal manner. “It would be easier to declare you’re guilty, I suppose, but I don’t believe in convicting a man out of convenience.”

  The time had come, he decided, to redirect their conversation. “Nor do you believe in marrying a man out of convenience, it seems.”

  She jumped back, and something in his expression must have given him away, for she pulled the shirt over her bosom.

  “I’ll treat you well,” he promised.

  “As long as I behave myself?”

  She snapped at him so nastily he wished he could speak to her father. “You’ll be a Malkin, and in all likelihood, you will someday be a duchess. You don’t have to behave yourself. You will set the standard.”

  “How very conceited.”

  “I just want you to realize there are some advantages to this match. And about this morning.” He waited while she looked away, shuffled uncomfortably, then looked back. “I’m sorry for exposing you to such a scene. I should have protected you better. It seems I can’t do anything right.”

  Her legs jiggled up and down as she recalled the way she’d greeted the dawn. “Oh, you did something right.”

  “Is that a compliment? Sylvan.” Tilting her chin up with his hand, he leaned forward and kissed her until she clung to his shoulders with trembling hands. “We’re going to wed in the morning. No more arguing about it.” He looked down at her flushed face with its closed eyes and rapturous expression. “Right?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Not the rapturous words he’d imagined from his espoused wife, but he received them with as much pleasure. “You promise?”

  Her lids fluttered up. “I won’t change my mind.”

  “Give me that hour tomorrow night,” he whispered, “and you’ll see you made the right decision.”

  “You’re dreadfully arrogant. Were you this bad before Waterloo?”

  “Much, much worse.”

  She stood up and shook out her skirts.

  “And likely to be insufferable by day after tomorrow.”

  Before she could answer, Betty and Bernadette dashed out of the dining room where they’d been waiting. They took Sylvan, each by an arm, and marched her up the stairs while Rand looked after them.

  “Sir?” Jasper stood by his chair. “Do ye want to rest, too?”

  “I couldn’t.” When Sylvan disappeared from view, Rand turned to Jasper. “I’m too excited. Congratulate me. She’s consented to be my wife.”

  With his head down and a solemn expression on his plain face, Jasper mumbled, “Congratulations.”

  “What’s the matter, man?” Rand joked. “Are you afraid you’re losing me?”

  “It’s my fault, sir.” A tear dripped off the end of Jasper’s nose, and he twisted his shoulders and wagged his head as if he were in agony. “I’m the reason ye have to wed. I wasn’t here to care for ye.”

  Why was Jasper acting this way? Suspicion, ugly and unwanted, sprang up in Rand’s mind, and he cursed Sylvan for placing it there. Where had Jasper been last night? “I heard that you found Loretta yourself,” Rand said.

  Jasper’s fair skin reddened. “Aye, sir.”

  Even as Rand damned his own conjecture, he asked, “What were you doing out so late?”

  “I—I just worried about the women…ah, the woman who’d been hurt at the accident in the mill. I went to her cottage, and when I left to come back, I found Loretta in the dirt.” His big fists clenched.

  “Loretta’s house isn’t in this direction. Perhaps,” Rand suggested, “you went looking for her.”

  “I—I heard her yell. Aye, that was it. I heard her.”

&n
bsp; Rand pushed himself around Jasper to avoid watching the man bumble his way through these lies—surely the first lies he’d ever told. Was Sylvan right? Had Jasper been chasing after women to harm them? Did he know that Rand could walk? Rand shook himself. Sylvan had ruined his complacency even as she mended his self-respect. Whatever Jasper had been doing, there was no doubt an explanation. Probably he had a girl in the village. Knowing Jasper, he would eventually confide in Rand. Trying to comfort his man, Rand said, “Leaving me last night was a brilliant stroke on your part. You see, I want to wed Sylvan.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Just promise you will serve Miss Sylvan as you would serve me.”

  “I owe ye my first loyalty,” Jasper said, fierce and determined.

  “So you do. And my wife is part of me.”

  Jasper’s whisper sent a chill through Rand. “She’s not yet yer wife.”

  10

  Someone was calling her name. Sylvan woke slowly, responding to the call with the anticipation of a lover. Easing her eyes open, she looked around, seeking the man who had entered her bedroom.

  Seeking Rand.

  He wasn’t there. It must have been another dream, but a curiously pictureless dream. Tonight, no suffering specters begged her to give them aid, and she sighed in relief and eased herself erect.

  Bernadette snored in a steady rhythm on a cot by the fireplace. One branch of candles had burned down to the stubs and smoked, smelling of burnt wick and wax. Another’s flames flickered close to the ends of the wicks. The clock ticked loudly, and Sylvan wondered how long she’d been asleep. All day and half the night, she guessed. It must be the deepest part of the dark, and she was wide awake.

  She wanted a drink. She wanted some company.

  Glancing at Bernadette, she saw that her maid still slept deeply.

  She’d have to settle for a drink.

  She slipped out of bed, her bare toes curling when they touched the cold floorboards. Scampering to the china pitcher, she poured a glass of water. Spooky, this big old house. She almost expected to hear—

  Thump!

  She stared, transfixed, at the door.

  Thump!

  Taking care not to make a clink, she put down the glass and glanced at Bernadette. The maid hadn’t moved. She still snored, oblivious to the racket.

  Thump!

  Rand. Sylvan pressed her hand to her heart. He must be walking. Again. She had to stop him before someone caught him. They teetered on the edge of disaster now; if the servants discovered he could walk, he would surely be blamed for the attacks. Fitting the stub of a candle into a single holder, she slipped to the door and eased it open.

  No one stood there.

  She looked up and down the hall, and caught just a glimpse of a figure turning the corner at the far end. “Heaven help us,” she whispered, and started after him. She turned the corner and saw him again. His chest glinted as she approached; he wore a silver shirt and she squinted, trying to discern its make. “Rand,” she whispered, “wait for me.” He did, watching from eye sockets that appeared eerily empty.

  When she neared, he slipped away without a sound, leaving her alone. She stared at the place where he had been, then hurried around the corner.

  There he was, at the end of the passageway that narrowed alarmingly. Here the night candles were tallow, not wax—they had entered the older part of the manor. She’d never been here before, but she knew the servants resided somewhere close. No doubt many of the doors opened into storage rooms. And if she didn’t catch Rand before someone saw him…

  He put his finger to his lips as if he were aware of her and not asleep at all. He wore an odd kind of cap that made him look as if his hair swept his shoulders, and the toes of his shoes looked as if they extended into a point. Where was he leading her? And why? Anxious, she trailed behind him, amazed to be in hallways she’d never visited and afraid she’d never find her way back. But she did. Tracking Rand as closely as she could—but never closely enough—she soon found herself back at the far end of the corridor by her room. The figure in the glittering shirt stood by her open doorway. “Rand,” she whispered, “let me put you to bed.” He stood still as she hurried toward him. As she reached out to touch him, he faded into nothingness.

  Goose bumps rose on her skin, and when the scream erupted, she almost thought it had come from her throat.

  But instead it came from her room, a full-bodied shriek loud enough to wake the dead. Sylvan ran, stumbling, sure Bernadette had seen what she had, but before she reached the door, someone raced out.

  A man. Dark-haired, in a long white gown. He fled down the hall. Sylvan started after him, but as she ran past the door Bernadette cried, “No!” Sylvan hesitated, and Bernadette shrieked, “No, please, miss.”

  “Are you hurt?” Sylvan demanded.

  Bernadette paid no attention. “Don’t go. ’Twas the ghost of Clairmont Court, and he tried to kill me. Don’t go after him.”

  “What did he do?” Sylvan supported Bernadette as she wobbled back into the bedroom and onto a chair.

  “When I screamed, he hit me with a stick.” Bernadette gasped as if she’d been running a race. “I put up my arm.”

  Running her hands along Bernadette’s forearm, Sylvan asked, “Did he hurt you?”

  “Yes!”

  “Really hurt you?”

  Bernadette wavered, then muttered, “No. I think I’m just bruised. But, miss, it was you he sought.” Tears sprang to her eyes and dribbled down her cheeks. “He struck the bed first, and when he realized you weren’t there, he went into a rage. He ripped the sheets off and—”

  “No.” Sylvan ran to the bed, but his attack had scattered her white linens like ghostly souvenirs. Rand would never do this, but someone had and only that beckoning apparition had saved her.

  How many ghosts did this house harbor?

  “Ghosts don’t hit people.” Sylvan paced over to Bernadette. “They frighten them or chase them or wail or…” Her imagination failed her. “But they don’t pick up a stick and hit people.”

  “Then who…” Bernadette’s eyes grew big, and she asked indignantly, “Are ye saying some person walloped on me fer fun?” Her eyes narrowed once more. “Ye mean, some person from this estate wanted to hurt ye?”

  “I suppose you could—”

  “After all ye’ve done fer Lord Rand and poor Roz?” Bernadette rose to her feet and towered over Sylvan. “Why, that’s scabby.”

  “What’s the matter?” Lady Emmie stood in the doorway, her hair loose and her white nightgown flapping around her ankles.

  “Did I hear a scream?” Aunt Adela shouldered her way in.

  “Don’t tell them.” Gripping Bernadette’s shoulder tightly, Sylvan begged in a low tone. “Promise me you won’t tell them.”

  “But, miss—”

  “Tell them you saw the ghost.” Sylvan shivered. “They’ll think you’re a fool, but I want to see who wears the guilty face tomorrow.”

  Bernadette folded her arms across her chest. “But, miss, he wanted to hurt ye, and I cannot allow—”

  She wouldn’t budge, and Sylvan hurriedly promised, “I’ll tell Rand what occurred this night.”

  Sylvan saw now why Betty had assigned Bernadette as her personal maid. Bernadette’s expression sharpened into shrewd interest, then when Lady Emmie came closer it wilted into hysteria. “Oh, Yer Grace, ’twas the ghost,” she wailed.

  “What nonsense!” Lady Adela boomed.

  “Not nonsense,” Lady Emmie answered. “We do have a ghost.”

  The quarrel was well begun. Sylvan raced down the hallway and the stairs and headed straight for Rand’s room. The door was closed, but she burst in unannounced and for one awful second, her heart dropped to her toes. Rand wasn’t in his bed.

  “Sylvan?”

  His surprised drawl brought her whirling around. He sat, fully clothed, by a small table.

  Betty sat beside him, her mouth and eyes wide. “Miss Sylvan?”


  “What are you doing?” Sylvan asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer. Going to him, Sylvan patted his white cotton shirt, seeking a long white nightgown—or a silver shirt.

  He wore the white shirt and a light blue waistcoat, and his eyes danced when he caught her hands. “What are you doing?” He looked her over with thorough interest. “Running the halls in your nightgown?”

  “Put this on, Miss Sylvan.” Betty held Rand’s black silk dressing gown. “Even in summer, it’s always drafty in this great house.”

  “And you’re chilly,” Rand added.

  Sylvan didn’t ask how he knew, she just slipped her hands into the sleeves.

  “Now.” Rand pointed to the chair Betty had vacated and glanced at the clock on his mantel. “What are you doing here at two o’clock in the morning?”

  “What are you doing up at this hour?” Sylvan seated herself.

  “Preparing for our wedding.” Rand waved a hand at the papers scattered on the table and the unstoppered inkwell with the quill nearby.

  “Our wedding?”

  “You agreed to marry me yesterday. Do you remember?”

  Wedding. Sylvan pressed her hands to the sides of her head. Did she remember? Her first instinct was to deny it. Pretend she didn’t remember sitting on the steps and talking to Rand, discussing the various suspects to this on-going crime, and agreeing, for some ridiculous reason, to a wedding. “When are we supposed to marry?”

  “Today.” He enunciated the word with exaggerated lip movement, as if she needed to connect the sound of his voice and the sight of his speech. “You agreed to marry me today.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we were caught in a compromising position in a wide open field, and you are either to be thrown out as a hussy or wed to a cripple. Not a pretty choice.”

  “That wasn’t the real reason why I agreed to wed you.”

  “I know.” He smiled with beguiling temptation. “It was because I promised to make you happy.”

  “No.”

  His smile disappeared, and he said in disgust, “Then I suppose it’s because Garth promised you’d never have to go back to your father’s house.”