Move Heaven and Earth (12 page)

At the look on Garth’s face, Rand cursed himself. He hadn’t helped with his unthinking comment.

“James helped you after the battle, didn’t he? Yes, I suppose he’s better at it than…” Garth shuffled his feet. “By the way, James, excellent work finding Sylvan. Excellent.”

If anything, James looked as embarrassed as Garth. “It was nothing. A mere bit of luck.”

“Yes, well.” Garth backed out of the room. “Congratulations.”

The silence that followed his departure swallowed all words. Betty looked from the place where he had been standing to Sylvan seated on the bed, then picked up her tray. “Some men,” she said to Sylvan, “don’t understand that there’s more to heroism than fighting a war or finding a lost soul.” She bobbed a curtsy. “But thank you for finding Sylvan, Sir James.”

She left, and James asked thoughtfully, “He really didn’t like being left behind, did he?”

“Garth does his duty,” Rand said. “And if that includes tending Clairmont Court while the rest of us go to war, he does it.”

“He hasn’t married,” Sylvan said. “Isn’t that a duke’s duty? To produce heirs?”

“Oh, well.” James thrust his hands into his pockets. “It never mattered—”

He paused, aghast, and Rand finished the sentence for him. “When I could walk. It was understood I would
provide the heirs for the dukedom. Now Garth says he’ll do his duty, but not until the mill is running. It
is
distasteful for him.”

“Yes, a quandary,” James agreed uncomfortably.

Shivering, Sylvan began to wiggle her feet under the covers.

In a flurry, Rand grabbed for her ankles. Catching them before they’d gone more than an inch, he pushed them away. “It isn’t proper,” he said, trying to wipe the startled expression from her face, but his remark obviously startled her more.

He was going to lose her. Already, he feared, she could see the insanity in him, but he wanted to divert her. Taking the comforter, he wrapped her feet in it. “Is that better?”

“Much better.”

She still stared, trying to fathom his uneasiness, and he quickly turned the subject. “James, tell me how you found her.” He knew James would be more than willing to tell his tale, and he knew Sylvan’s attention would be caught.

“I was looking for Miss Sylvan,” James said eagerly. “I’d watched you two as you wandered about, and thought Miss Sylvan might have gone to Beechwood Hollow and gotten lost on her return. So I walked down toward the Terraces, and I heard a rock tumble and a woman scream. I ran toward the ledges, calling, and another stone tumbled down.”

“Didn’t you hear him groan?” Sylvan demanded.

James shook his head. “I didn’t hear anything but the ocean, the wind, and some animal mating in the dark.”

Rand didn’t believe James. He’d seen that look before when James knew something he didn’t like and didn’t want to admit.

But James’s scorn infuriated Sylvan, and she said, “It wasn’t an animal, mating or otherwise. It was a man, I tell you!”

“Anything’s possible,” James answered. “All I know is that I found you without interference from either the animal in ecstasy or the man in pain.”

Rand laid a hand over Sylvan’s when she would have snapped at him again, and she looked at him with open rebellion. But he nodded and smiled, letting her know that he believed her, and she tucked her mouth tight and scooted off the bed.

Did she suspect? Probably not. James and his doubts would have clouded her mind, and Rand was glad of that, at least.

“There’s an answer to this puzzle, I have no doubt, but I can’t decipher it until I have a clear mind. I’m going to sleep for what remains of the night. I’d suggest the same for both of you.” She staggered a little as she walked toward James. Her voice sounded cold, but she took his hand politely. “Thank you for coming to my rescue. If not for you—”

“If not for me,” James interrupted, “you wouldn’t be here. You owe me your life.”

“No modesty, James,” Rand muttered.

Sylvan’s smile wobbled as the memory of her alarm suddenly possessed her. “I fear that might be true.”

Clucking her under the chin as if she were a child, James commanded, “Go to bed and dream sweet dreams. No one tried to kill you tonight. You were just foolish and female, and those two things march hand in hand always.”

Stiffening again, she said, “I can’t think where you got your reputation as a flatterer.” She marched out without a backward glance.

James watched her with a droop to his fine mouth, and his fingers twitched.

“What did you really hear?” Rand asked.

James turned back. “I told you. The ocean, the wind, and an animal in heat. Nothing more.”

“You wouldn’t lie to a cripple, would you?”

“You wouldn’t try to make me feel guilty, would you?” James countered.

Rand couldn’t restrain his bitter amusement, and he laughed. James nodded, yawned, and said abruptly, “Need anything before I retire, coz? One hates to lose one’s beauty sleep.”

“Nothing,” Rand said hoarsely. “Just go.”

James stared at Rand’s abrupt command, then shrugged. “G’night, then.”

Rand waited until the ring of James’s boots had faded, until he was sure everyone had left him completely alone. Then, moving with the slow anguish of an amputee about to view his mangled limbs for the first time, Rand pushed the covers away. Slowly, he leaned back and stared.

It would do him no good to curse the light that showed him the truth, nor cry to God for understanding. He’d tried it before.

He already knew nothing could erase the stain of mud from the white linen sheets, nor clean the dirt from between his toes, nor wipe the sin from his soul. The proof was there.

He’d been walking again.

But he wouldn’t have tried
to hurt Sylvan. He loved her.

Dammit. Rand buried his head in his hands. He loved her, and he’d tried to kill her. If that wasn’t mad, he didn’t know what was.

He’d come home from Waterloo furious, indignant at being bound to a wheelchair, and livid that he was even alive. One brief moment on the battlefield had saved his life and branded his soul, and he didn’t know if he could ever forgive himself.

But he’d ignored his guilt. Put it aside and resolved to live a useful life as compensation for the deaths.

Then he’d woken one morning with dirt on his feet, a trail from the front door to his bed, and the rumors of a ghostly visitor floating the halls of Clairmont Court.

He hadn’t believed it. It wasn’t possible that he had walked at night when he couldn’t during the day. He’d even tried to walk to prove it to himself, and he’d fallen
on his face like the poor pitiful creature he was. So someone must have come at night and rubbed dirt on his feet and created a false trail. That was the only truth he would accept.

But he had a soldier’s ability to sleep lightly. One developed that talent when one worked for Wellington, and he hadn’t lost it in six short months. When no one arrived to disturb his constant nocturnal vigil, he became convinced he had been drugged. He ordered Jasper to taste all his food and drink before him, and slept only sparingly. He would catch the culprit by hook or by crook.

He hadn’t. He’d just had another one of those dreams of walking, and woke once more to dirty sheets. He wanted it to be a nasty trick, a perverted joke, but he couldn’t cozen himself again. His muscles ached from unaccustomed use. The soles of his feet had been cut by rocks. Worst of all, the ghost of the first duke had been sighted again, and by Betty, the woman he would trust with his life. When she’d told him about seeing the ghostly duke looking in her window, Rand had screamed at her in front of everyone—his mother, Aunt Adela, James, the Reverend Donald, timid little Clover Donald, and Garth, who’d been first amazed, then furious.

After that, his nocturnal wanderings became an irregular ritual that occurred without warning or reason. He came to think of his other self as the ghost, a wily creature who untied self-inflicted knots, avoided Garth’s traps—and attacked women.

How could no one suspect? Dirty sheets, dirty feet, a trail of dirt, and his own increasing lack of control seemed to him to be unassailable signals to anyone who had eyes to see. He watched servants and family members alike for guilt or awareness or any betraying emotion, but while
everyone wanted to lift his pain and share his grief, it became obvious nobody comprehended anything of his guilt.

The sort of guilt no decent man could live with.

Well. He knew what he had to do.

Her toes bumping the risers with every step, Sylvan walked up the stairs. She’d roused Bernadette, the sleepy-eyed maid, to ask her help in removing her clothing, but Sylvan fought a pounding headache and the sick feeling she should be doing something for someone. Her feet dragged across the polished wood floor. It was a familiar feeling, one she’d experienced frequently since Waterloo, but tonight all her instincts directed her back down the stairs.

Rand needed her.

But he didn’t. He didn’t need anyone right now. The predawn hour was meant for slumber, and like everyone else in the manor, he was going to go to sleep. As was she.

“Miss?” Bernadette held her sitting door open.

Determined, Sylvan walked in and watched as the maid laid out her nightgown.

Rand hadn’t looked like a man who would calmly lie down and go to sleep. He’d worn the same expression the soldiers wore when they’d been mortally wounded and knew not how to die.

Or did he? Bernadette worked free the copper hooks of her gown while Sylvan covered her eyes with her hand and sighed. Was her imagination acting up again? Had the events of the day accelerated her predilection to see disaster at every corner? Had the lump on her head and the alcohol she’d consumed ruined her judgment?

Yes. She caught her gown as it slipped free of her shoulders and stared at the gilt curlicue molding on the picture frame.

There was nothing wrong with Rand, and even if there was, what could he do? The man was confined to his bed or his wheelchair. He couldn’t just get up and walk away.

Walk away…

She jerked free of Bernadette’s hands.

“Miss, you ripped your gown!”

Sylvan never noticed as she strode into the hallway. That was it. She’d seen something, heard something, that niggled at her. She didn’t know what, or why, but she knew she had to find Rand before he…She broke into a run, fastening the top hook of her dress as she sped down the stairs. She might be too sensitive, but she was right to be concerned.

She reached Rand’s room as the first rays of dawn lightened the sky, but Rand wasn’t in residence. Instead, she saw a trail of dirt—surely not surprising, with Garth and James tramping in and out. But the trail led right to Rand’s bed, and bits of grass hung from the hem on the sheets. Carefully, she folded the blankets back and stared.

There it was. The muddy stain.

She stared at it as a ripple of anguish grew into a whirlpool. All this time, she’d been infatuated with Rand: with his magnificent body, his incisive mind, his sharp tongue. Yet at the same time, a tiny part of her despised him. Why hadn’t he mastered his emotions? Why hadn’t he conquered his natural woe at being confined to a wheelchair, and why hadn’t he comforted his mother and aunt, assisted his brother with the mill, and helped his cousin achieve his dreams?

Before her lay the reason.

Sometimes, he walked. Sometimes, he wandered the halls of Clairmont Court, scaring the housemaids and foolish new nurses. Sometimes, he wandered outside and tracked mud onto Betty’s floors.

And sometimes, women were attacked when he walked.

Sleepwalking. What a dreadful, wonderful way for Rand’s mind to rehabilitate his body. What an absolutely revolting hoax was being perpetrated with his unknowing assistance.

No wonder Rand threw chairs and tantrums.

No wonder her infatuation had blossomed into something resembling love.

No! She jumped back from the bed as if it threatened her. It wasn’t love, only a great lump of contrition and desire that clogged her throat and brought tears to her eyes.

She didn’t love. She wouldn’t love.

Carefully she covered the evidence with the blankets and rushed into the dim hallway. “Rand,” she called. “Rand!”

No one answered. Where had he gone?
How
had he gone? “Rand!”

In the brightly lit dining room, she found Cole, the very young footman, struggling to pull on his formal coat. “Miss? Might I assist you?”

“Where’s Lord Rand?” She grabbed him before he had thrust both his arms into the sleeves. “Have you seen him?” The gangly youth flushed red. She’d seen the reaction before; a person made so uncomfortable by another’s handicap that he could scarcely speak. But she had no time to soothe his sensibilities. “Did you hurt him?”

“Hurt him?” He looked down at her hands. They clasped the ends of his cravat and threatened to pull the
knot so tight it would cut off his breath. “I had to help him.”

She managed to whisper, “Explain yourself.”

“He was crawling.”

“Crawling?”

He couldn’t look her in the eye, and his prominent Adam’s apple rolled as he swallowed. “More like dragging himself down the hall from his bedroom.”

“Not walking?” she insisted, wanting to be perfectly clear.

“He can’t walk, miss.” Young Cole looked indignant. “Did ye think he was bluffing us?”

“No.” No, she thought he was walking in his sleep. “Where was his chair?”

“In the study.” He pointed as if she might not know where the study was located. “So I brought the…er…the…”

“Wheelchair,” she snapped. “It’s called a wheelchair.”

“Aye, ma’am.” Bobbing his head, he seemed intent on assuring her he knew the name. “A wheelchair. His wheelchair. I brought it to him and I had to…ah…pick him…ah…he couldn’t…” He caught sight of her impending eruption and finished hastily. “I picked him up and put him in the chair and got the other fellows out of bed to help me carry him down the stairs. We’re not supposed to be awake at this hour, but—”

She choked. “What stairs?”

“Out…er…out…er…”

“Outside?” She couldn’t wait long enough to hear his answer. Running to the outside door, she struggled to open it, but the young footman understood his physical duties better than his vocal ones. He nudged her aside and unbolted the locks.

“Why did you let Rand out?” she asked, appalled.

“He wanted to go out.”

“And you let him? No”—she held out one hand—“never mind. Of course you let him. But why lock the door behind him?”

“He couldn’t come back up the stairs without help, and there’s the ghost to worry about,” Cole explained as if she were the dense one.

She wanted to ask what protection a lock would be against a ghost, but he got the door unlocked before she could vent her exasperation, and she dashed onto the terrace. The east was rapidly brightening. The nocturnal animals had ended their forays and the morning animals had not yet begun their activities. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. Rand was nowhere in sight, but she couldn’t see far. “Where would he go?” she muttered.

“Miss?” Cole sounded uncertain.

She scanned the area one more time.

“Miss!” Cole said urgently. “I have to tell ye, I’ve seen Lord Rand knock out windows and scream like a babe, but I’ve never seen him so…ah…”

“Tell me!”

“Grim. Resolved.” He squirmed. “He asked my
forgiveness
.”

“Your forgiveness?” A shudder ran through her. “Oh, Rand, what do you propose to do?” Running down the stairs, she hurried along the rutted path to the place on the cliff where they had gone the first day.

She remembered Garth’s assurances to her. Garth thought that Rand wouldn’t hurt himself, that Rand was too brave, too strong, too honorable. But Garth hadn’t realized the depth of Rand’s despair and self-loathing.

Rand believed he suffered fits during which he rose to stalk and ambush the village women.

The very attributes that made Garth certain his
brother would never take the coward’s way out made it imperative Rand do so, and those attributes made Sylvan sure he was not guilty.

Reaching the top of the cliff, she saw no sign of Rand. The waves tumbled below and her heart sank. “Rand,” she whispered. “Please, wait for me. Don’t…” Headed toward the edge, she skidded down the first rise and stopped. Had he been here and propelled himself off the cliff? A swift examination of the ground and the memory of his terror that first day decided her. This wasn’t the place.

The breeze off the sea stirred her mind, but she didn’t know whether to believe what it whispered. Would he have gone to Beechwood Hollow? It was farther away, more difficult to reach, but perhaps the fondness he felt for the place would ease the bitterness of what he saw as his obligation—the termination of his life.

Swiftly she retraced her steps to the place where the path forked toward Beechwood Hollow. Her sides ached. She gasped for breath. The sun began to do its duty. Every moment brought more light to her surroundings. Puffing up the last gentle rise to the hollow, she espied them—wheel tracks in the damp grass.

He
had
come this way. But how long ago?

Redoubling her efforts, she topped the hill. There he was. His wheelchair perched on the highest point above the draw that led to the ocean. Turned sideways from her, he looked out at the horizon as if he could see eternity there.

She feared he could.

She shouted, but the same breeze that blew his hair away from his face blew her voice into nothingness. He put his hands on the wheels. She screamed and waved her arms. He gave himself a push. She sprinted down the hill.
His chair careened forward. Leaning into it, he concentrated, controlling his downhill ride as if it were a sport and he the master. Panting, Sylvan dashed to intercept him. Clumps of grass flew back under the force of his wheels as he neared the drop-off. He shouted his determination, and the sound moved her to a greater effort. She sprang at him just as he realized she was there. He jerked himself sideways; she hit the chair with all the force of her body. He flew out of his seat, and they hit the ground hard.

Everything stopped.

All sound—the creak of the wheelchair, the pounding of her feet, his laughter, her panting, the whistle of the wind—stopped. His reckless plummet, her mad dash, ended with the taste of grass and the slap of dirt. Opening her eyes, she saw a blur of green and brown under her cheek. Beneath her, she felt the rise of Rand’s chest beneath his white shirt as he tried to get air. Was he hurt? Had she injured him in her rush to save him?

She pushed herself up by her hands, but something slammed her back onto his body.

His arm. It cut across her back like a steel blade. “Damn you, Sylvan Miles.” His voice rasped with agony and fury. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

“Yes.” She tried to crawl forward, but he wouldn’t let her. Then she tried to crawl backward, and that he permitted. She moved until they were face-to-face. Fury narrowed his eyes, and he pressed his lips into a thin line as she reiterated, “Yes. I know what I’ve done. I’ve saved a good man’s life.”

“Not a good man’s life.
My
life.”

She hated it, that he should so doubt his own value, and she blurted, “You’re not doing it.”

His chest began to rise and fall with large breaths beneath her. “Doing what?”

“Assaulting those women.”

The pupils of his eyes widened, swallowing the blue of his iris. His hand slid around to her throat and he circled it with his fingers. “How could I assault any woman from a wheelchair?”

She swallowed and felt the pressure of his grip, but it was too late to back down now. “You’re walking in your sleep.”

Anguish, horror, and fury followed in quick succession on his face. “Who told you that?”

“No one. I realized it by myself.”