Move Heaven and Earth (16 page)

“I’ll send the footmen after him.”

“He’s gone.”

“And I’ll post a guard at your door.”

Jerking her hand free, she snapped, “With orders to shoot if I show myself at an inappropriate moment?”

“The guard is to protect you, not imprison you.” He sounded so sincere, she was ashamed, but she didn’t like it when he took her hands again. “I worry about you, Sylvan. I’ll be happier when we’re wed.”

She shuddered, and he gripped her tighter. “You are going to marry me in the morning.” It sounded as if he were making a statement, not asking for reassurance.

Quickly, impatiently, she answered. “I said I would.” But she hadn’t meant it. She wanted to be here to care for Rand. She wanted to be here to see him walk in the daylight. She wanted to sleep in his arms.

But she didn’t want to pay the price of remaining and never the price of passion.

“Why are there so many rules, and why are they so
easy to break, and why do I have to be the one who gets caught breaking them?”

“The rules were made by men like me who want to hold on to women like you.” He unfurled her clenched hand and kissed the palm. “Besides, someone has to rescue your virtue.”

“I had no trouble hanging on to my virtue until you happened along,” she said. Then, “Uh-oh.” That hadn’t been the thing to tell him. He had more conceit than any ten men, and she’d just admitted that he, and only he, had been capable of moving her to a response. His grin filled her with disgust. “Oh, stop beaming. All of the ton believes me to be a wanton, and you know they have the only opinion that matters.”

He laughed aloud. “You don’t understand men at all, do you?”

“I understand more than I like.”

“If I—and everyone in the ton—thought you were chaste, and I married you, and it was revealed that you had had experience, then I would feel deceived, and our marriage would possibly flounder. If I—and everyone in the ton—believed you had had worldly experience, and I married you knowing about that experience, I would have no cause for complaint and I would, in fact, be looking forward to a long and glorious wedding night. But in your case, the ton thinks you’re wanton, and I have discovered you are unjustly accused. On my part, the wedding night will be”—he took a breath—“restrained. Yet at the same time, I am delighted to know that what you experience with me is unique.”

“Yes,” she muttered, trying to rise. “Well, if that’s all…”

He still held her hand, the palm of which had grown sweaty, and he didn’t let her go. Earnestly, he said, “We
will have a good marriage, I promise, but I’ll need your cooperation.”

She couldn’t help her wary response. “My cooperation?”

“You do realize I’ll need your cooperation to perform my conjugal duties?”

“Have I given you any reason to think I might not cooperate?” she demanded impatiently, then jerked her hand back when he chuckled.

“Not at all, but I understand there’s more to deflowering a virgin than simple pleasure.”

She jumped to her feet and walked toward the door. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I can’t
make
you stay and talk about it.”

His words stopped her in her tracks.

“If you choose to walk away from me, I’m helpless to stop you.”

She chewed on her lip. He was right, and her sense of fair play would hardly let her take advantage of his paralysis. He was going to be her husband, and he was just talking to her. He was probably like her, and concerned about
all
aspects of their life after the wedding. Communication between them would ease their later differences, and she shouldn’t run away from communication just because it was about…
it
. She could handle this. Briskly, she returned and seated herself. “As you say. What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t want you to
do
anything. I just want you to promise you’ll trust to my experience in the performance of our connubial duties.”

Duties? That sounded funny coming from him. Somehow, she hadn’t imagined he thought of them as duties.

“I’m just afraid that I won’t be able to do the things normal men do to ease your fears.”

“Like what?”

“My father and mother used to gambol together like two lambs in the spring.” An affectionate smile lit his face. “They’d chase and tickle and giggle, until they disappeared into their bedchamber, or…well, they were once caught in our town house in London in a state of complete undress by the lord mayor.” He laughed out loud.

“You’re bamming me.” Her parents had never behaved in such a manner. Not in front of her nor, she was sure, when they were alone. For them, marriage was serious business.

“Later, of course, there’ll be the times we quarrel, and you’ll be able to stomp off in a huff and sleep elsewhere for as long as you like. I’m at your mercy.”

“You’ll have to trust to my mercy, then, won’t you?”

“Your mercy I trust, but I’ve had a taste of your temper, and you’ll have to admit you can be unreasonable when you’re angry.”

Bending her head, she pleated the robe into elusive folds that slipped between her fingers. “I don’t have to admit anything.”

“My parents spent every night of their marriage in the same bed, and sometimes half the day.”

He was coaxing now, and the more she heard about his parents, the more she thought she’d like to have such a union. “As you say.”

It was a grudging agreement, but he jumped on it. “So you promise to acquiesce to all my conjugal demands?”

“Ye…es.”

“And we’ll sleep in the same bed every night for all the time of our marriage?”

“As long as we’re in the same town.”

Relaxing into his seat, he lounged, his arm crooked over the back, and looked her over. “I think when we are married, I would very much like you to wear my robe to bed.”

His eyes glowed like blue-hot coals, and she shifted in her seat, suddenly self-conscious within the confines of the clinging black robe. “Why?”

“When I think about rubbing that silk across your—” He checked himself.

She pulled her hands away from his, and he let them go. She rose, and he watched. She backed away, sure that somehow, he’d grab for her, but he made no move. He just watched and waited. Waited for tomorrow night.

The heavy signet ring Rand
placed on her finger almost crushed it. Sylvan could feel the band shrinking as her skin warmed it; any tighter and it would cut off her circulation completely.

In a deep, expressive voice, Rand repeated the words honoring her as his wife and the ring as the symbol of their union, and he cupped her hand between his two palms.

He sounded sincere, and Sylvan supposed he was. She supposed that few men married with the intention of crushing their wives’ spirits and turning them into creatures without will or fire. But it happened.

Lifting her drooping head, Sylvan looked around the terrace. The Reverend Donald had expected to perform the ceremony in the confines of the church, but Rand insisted on the open air. He’d insisted on providing a feast for all who attended, for he wanted everyone in the manor and beyond to witness their marriage.

Sylvan thought he had his wish. The vicar stood with his back to the door, prayer book in hand. She and Rand were in front of him, and the Malkin family stood in a semicircle around them. Gail and her governess were off to the side. Neighbors, the nobility who kept country manors in the area, formed a tight knot behind the family, and craned their necks in ignoble curiosity as they tried to get a view of Rand’s bride. The house servants, Jasper and Betty at the front, formed a looser assembly that covered the terrace, and down the stairs and beyond were villagers from Malkinhampsted.

Too many people. Too firm a bond.

Someone thrust an equally ponderous ring into Sylvan’s hand. She was to place it on Rand’s finger. That would be the final part of the ceremony, the moment at which Sylvan Miles ceased to exist as a person and became an extension of Rand Malkin.

She didn’t want to do it. Her mother had done it, and ever since Sylvan could remember, her mother had been a pale, sighing soul who lived to try and placate her husband.

Clover Donald had done it, and in the time since Sylvan’s arrival, she hadn’t heard Clover do more than echo her husband’s sentiments.

“Sylvan.” Lady Emmie nudged her in the back. “You need to place the ring on Rand’s finger.”

Sylvan looked dumbly at the ring.

“If you don’t, he’ll probably do it himself.”

Sylvan looked at Rand. He probably would. For the first time since she’d arrived at Clairmont Court, his hair was combed, his face was washed, his boots shone, his coat was brushed and buttoned, and his cravat was tied impeccably. He was the epitome of a wealthy English nobleman in appearance, and in manner. He tried to
appear comforting, but he didn’t fool her. The bright sunlight sculpted his face and showed his determination. Nothing would stand in his way today. Certainly not her puny and incomprehensible desire to remain a spinster.

“Put it on my finger, Sylvan.” He captured her gaze and kept it prisoner. “Then it’ll be over, and all will be well. You’ll see. Put it on my finger.”

Reluctantly, she lifted the sculpted gold and matched it to his outstretched hand. The Reverend Donald intoned words that made no sense; she repeated words that made too much sense. She committed herself to Rand in the greatest gamble of her life. She became his wife.

A great collective sigh swept the assembly.

She leaned down to give Rand the kiss of peace, and he waited until she was off-balance and tipped her into his lap. The sigh of relief became a laugh, then a cheer as Rand leaned her back and kissed her. It was a very pleasant kiss, a kind of meat-and-potatoes kiss meant to sustain her through the rest of the day.

It would probably succeed. During her sojourn at Clairmont Court, she had been Rand’s nurse, supporter, and advocate. Somehow, for today at least, it seemed the roles had been reversed. She didn’t like it—she didn’t ever want to depend on anyone so wholly—but she derived strength from the touch of his lips, his firm hug, and the buttress of his shoulder.

Why had she married him?

Now she remembered. Because she recognized the fury that drove him to do what was right, regardless of the cost to himself. It was the same fury that had driven her in Brussels.

And, worst of all, because she loved him.

Rand pressed little kisses on her neck and murmured, “You’re the bravest woman I know.”

“Don’t be foolish.” She pushed him away and stood up, straightening with elaborate motions her magnificent lace-encrusted skirt.

The family rushed forward. Garth embraced her first, the duke of Clairmont providing his official approval of his brother’s wife. “I prayed for this from the first,” he said. “You’ve brought him back to life.”

It wasn’t she who had brought him back to life, Sylvan wanted to say, but the knowledge of his own innocence. Before she could speak, Lady Emmie elbowed her son out of her way and clasped Sylvan to her capacious bosom. “My dear, I always wanted a daughter.”

Sylvan nodded, dumb before such enthusiasm.

Aunt Adela hugged her more gingerly, but agreed. “She did. I always told her it was foolish to fancy a girl who’ll marry away from the family, but she wanted one anyway.”

“They don’t marry away from the family,” Lady Emmie said.

“Sylvan’s mother isn’t here,” Aunt Adela retorted.

“We’ve already invited Lord and Lady Miles to come and visit. They’ll be welcome at all times.”

Sylvan moaned slightly, but Garth reassured her. “We’ll send you and Rand on an extended honeymoon should your father overstay his welcome.”

After he had slipped his prayer book into the pocket of his black coat, the Reverend Donald took Sylvan’s hand and shook it. “I cannot imagine Lady Sylvan being anything but pleased at Lord Miles’s visit.”

“You haven’t met—” Garth cut himself off sharply and folded his lips tight.

Sylvan sympathized with the duke. Her father had been at his most obsequious when Garth arrived at their
home, then at his most obnoxious when he realized Garth wished only to persuade Sylvan to nurse Rand. Her mother, of course, had been pathetically eager to please, then pathetically agitated by her husband’s outrage. The memory of a farce could only underscore Sylvan’s fears, and she turned from the vicar’s scrutiny.

Obviously, not soon enough, for he pressed the hand he still held. “My father, also, was a difficult man who failed to realize that my higher destiny lay with the clergy, but I look back on my early ordeals as the furnace that hardened the steel of my character.” He waved his free hand across the vista of people, trees, and ocean. “The sun shines on this day of holy rites. Lift your heart and be glad.”

Startled, Sylvan stared in fascination at the minister. So that was how he herded his flock along the right path. She’d seen only his austerity, but his gladness in the performance of his duty startled, then pleased her. “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

He must have gestured his wife forward, for Clover Donald appeared beside him, a tremulous smile on her lips and eyes reddened from the tears that spilled during the ceremony. “May I offer my congratulations, Lady Sylvan, on your marriage?”

“Of course,” Sylvan murmured, feeling foolish at having to give permission and wondering if this noble union had completely cut her off from communion with those of less breeding. Always before she’d straddled that chasm, one foot placed with the wealthy aristocrats, one foot with the common folk.

She was, she supposed, lucky to have wed into a family so noble they felt no urge to prove it with sham snobbery.

Clover’s smile wavered, and Sylvan said hastily, “Won’t you join us for our personal celebration?”

“We would be honored,” the Reverend Donald answered, and steered his wife toward Rand to congratulate him with equal fervor.

A long queue of neighbors formed to offer Sylvan their good wishes, and Lady Emmie and Aunt Adela stationed themselves on either side to perform the introductions. Whenever the guests expressed, through word or intonation, their vulgar interest, Lady Emmie or Aunt Adela stepped in. Sylvan, they made clear, was a Malkin now, and therefore beyond reproach. It was no small thing, Sylvan realized, to be a dowager or other relative of the duke of Clairmont. These women elicited respect by their station alone, and when that failed to quell the nosiest of the guests, their patrician demeanor squashed pretension.

One by one, the neighbors moved from the terrace into the house where they would be presented with a fine repast and a chance to watch the newlyweds.

Feeling a sharp elbow to the hip, Sylvan watched Gail struggle her way to Rand. “Uncle Rand, will I still be your girl?”

“My first girl.” Rand enclosed her in a big hug. “And my best girl named Gail.”

Gail giggled, and Betty called, “Miss Gail, you make your curtsy to Miss Sylvan.”

“Lady Sylvan,” Rand corrected.

Betty sniffled with joy as she looked from Rand to Sylvan, from one ring to the other. “Of course, Lord Rand.”

As instructed, Gail curtsied, but Sylvan saw the wariness in the child’s gaze and experienced a kinship. How could Gail not be wary, with this hurried wedding forced by extraordinary circumstances? Circumstances that must have caused gossip to run rampant through
the servants’ quarters and come finally to the child’s ears. Regardless of her paternity, it must be confusing. Taking Gail’s hand, Sylvan leaned over and whispered, “You’ll always be his best girl, but he’s afraid to say so for fear of hurting my feelings.”

Startled, Gail withdrew her hand, and Sylvan blushed. Foolish to be so incompetent when dealing with a child.

Then Gail stood on tiptoe and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “Don’t worry. Uncle Rand told me before he would’ve married you if you were ugly as a wart-causing toad.”

The crowd roared with laughter, startling both Gail and Sylvan, and Rand took each of them by the hand.

“Garth!” Aunt Adela’s voice boomed a little too loudly for discretion. “It’s time you followed your brother’s suit and took a bride.”

Garth stiffened, then laughed with counterfeit jocularity. “I don’t need to marry yet. I can still hold in my stomach.”

There was a light spatter of chuckles, but no one seemed really amused, and Rand said, “Sylvan and I have no objection to providing the heir to the Clairmont dukedom. Do we, Sylvan?”

What was she supposed to say? All the platitudes about blushing brides came to her as she struggled to reply with a trifle of dignity.

James rescued her with a swift peck on the cheek and a cheery, “Let’s go inside so the peasants can quaff their beer and swallow their meal without trying to display manners they don’t possess.”

“They have manners,” Garth rebuked. “They’re just not our manners.”

“Amen to that.” James pushed his way to the edge of
the stairs and shouted, “We’ll just throw the raw meat down to you, and you can fight it out.” A ragged cheer answered him, and he turned back to the family with a smirk. “See? They love me.”

“They think you’re naught but a fop,” Garth answered sharply.

James put one hand on his hip in exaggerated astonishment. “I wonder who told them that.”

“No one had to tell them,” Garth said. “When a man hangs about doing nothing, the peasants, as you call them, recognize his worth.”

“Gentlemen.” Something about the tone of Rand’s voice jerked Garth and James to attention. “This is my wedding day, and you’ll do me the courtesy of calling a truce.”

James flushed, but Garth rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll go to the mill. It’s been one thing after another these days.”

“You can’t go, dear!” Lady Emmie hurried forward and took his arm. “It’s Rand and Sylvan’s wedding luncheon.”

Garth smiled and patted her hand. “Rand won’t mind, and Sylvan doesn’t yet know what hit her.” He lowered his voice, but Sylvan heard him. “Besides, you know how I am about weddings.”

Below them, the villagers began their exodus to the back of Clairmont Court, where the food would be distributed and barrels of beer tapped. It would be a pleasant respite from the continual labor of summer in both the fields and the mill, and when they finished they would return refreshed and ready to work.

“Rand,” Lady Emmie wailed, “talk to your brother.”

“I will,” Rand said. “Go and entertain our guests.” He nodded at Aunt Adela. “Please, Aunt, take her inside.”

“Garth needs to remain,” Aunt Adela said stiffly.

Rand cut her off with a motion, and James laughed dryly. “Rand’s back, Mother, can’t you see? We’ll all do as we’re told.” He presented an arm to each lady. “You know you can squelch the gossip with one look from your fine eyes.” He led them toward the house, then paused. “Do you want me to take your leg shackle, too?”

It was meant to be amusing, but Rand wondered if James knew how close he came to disaster. “Go, James.”

James went. Sylvan sat on the flat surface of the marble railing, her hands folded in her lap, and stared out at the rapidly emptying grounds. The tumult that went before only accentuated the growing quiet, and Garth burst out, “By Jove! Mother’s right. I must stay here to lend my support to you and Sylvan. I try to forget, sometimes, that I’m the duke.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Rand said. “I think you just weigh your primary duty and proceed with it, regardless of the consequences. Now, what’s wrong at the mill?”

“Someone’s…doing things.”

“Things?”

“Breaking things. Hiding things. Making it as difficult as possible for the mill to operate.”

Rand pursed his lips in a low whistle. “What are you doing about it?”

“I haven’t done anything yet. I didn’t even realize, the first few days, what was occurring.” Garth thrust his hands into the top of his best waistcoat. “I’m a stupid fool.”

“Not stupid,” Rand denied. “Trusting.”

“I’m going to organize a patrol of men at the mill. Men who’ll watch for any unusual activity. But dammit!” Garth glanced guiltily at Sylvan. “Beg pardon,
Sylvan. By Jove, what will I tell them? How will I explain this sudden display of malice?”

“They’re no dunces, Garth.” Rand watched his brother with concern, noting the thinning of the broad cheeks, the way he held his hand over his stomach as if it ached. “They’ll just be glad to know their wives have added protection when they work.”