Move Heaven and Earth (31 page)

“When I killed them?”

He tugged her around until she faced him, and waited until she lifted her gaze to his again. “You didn’t kill them.”

“No.” She shoved her hair back out of her face. “I know that. Really I do. Some of the soldiers came to me so wounded, it was a miracle they didn’t die in the field. Some of them died because we didn’t know what to do to help them. God called them to His bosom, I tell myself, but if God placed me there to help them, why didn’t he give me the knowledge and the medicines for a cure? Why did they have to die like
that
?”

Her suffering was his, and he ached for her. He wanted to cure her, but he could only answer, “I don’t know.”

“Some of them cursed me. Most of them clung to me. None of them wanted to die. There wasn’t any resignation, and there wasn’t any dignity.” Silent, she contemplated the stars, and he held his breath, waiting. Finally,
she confessed, “There was one lad…I’ll never forget him. His name was Arnold Jones. Strong as an ox, even with a bullet in his chest. Everyone thought him stupid as an ox, too, because he was nothing but a common soldier, but he wasn’t stupid. Just silent, to keep the evidence of pain and fear inside him.” She turned to him. “Not that he was a coward. He wasn’t. He was just a boy. A cat could have licked the whiskers off his chin….”

Rand realized words had failed her once more. She was too flustered to ask for succor. “Did you help young Arnold Jones?”

Now she did more than shake her head. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed, a hysterical note in her voice. He sat up in alarm. Scooting back, she raised her arm as if she expected a blow, and he conjectured that she’d been treated for hysteria before, and in the most brusque manner possible.

He clasped his hands to keep them at his side and watched as slowly, painfully, she regained control.

“Help him?” Her voice shook. “If keeping a man alive is helping him, then, yes, I did. He took an infection in his lungs. Well, the doctor who removed the bullet said it nicked one lung, so it wasn’t surprising that he…well, Arnold just wanted a soft hand to hold occasionally. He had no family, had brought himself up in the streets of Manchester, and only survived with his wits. That’s why I knew he wasn’t stupid, because he…”

She was edging away from Rand, and edging away from the story. Gradually, trying not to startle her with sudden movement, he lay down again. “So you held his hand?”

“He was so sick. I was the only one who could control him, because he was strong as an ox.” She hesitated. “Did I already say that?”

“Strong as an ox,” Rand repeated. “But you could control him with the touch of your hand.”

“And my voice. I used to sing to him.” She chuckled, but the sound cracked. “There’s no accounting for taste. The other men in the ward used to ask me to stop, but Arnold liked the lullabies and the rhyming songs you sing to a baby. It was like having my own giant baby to tend.” Drawing her knees close to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them and began rocking back and forth, back and forth.

“How long did you tend him?”

“Weeks. He was in hospital from the moment I stepped in until the moment I left.”

Rand was startled. He had thought she was going to confess a tragedy. “He was alive when you left, then.”

Tucking her knees in tight, she rocked harder. “I left one evening because I…I had to rest sometime. As soon as I came back to the hospital, I went immediately to examine Arnold. If I didn’t, no one else would, so I always made him my priority.” Her breath quivered as she sighed. “And they’d covered him with a sheet, all the way over his eyeballs. Those fools. They thought he was dead.”

He stiffened. What was she talking about? “Wasn’t he dead?”

“No, he’s not dead. Nanna was right. I see him every night, begging me to sing the rock-a-bye song.” Dropping her face into the cradle of her knees, she hid it from any chance sighting. “I don’t really remember what happened. They tell me I went a little crazy.”

Her muffled voice tantalized him. He had to know, and she needed to tell him. “Crazy?”

“I tried to revive him. Sang to him, talked to him, crooned to him.”

He thought she must be crying, but she looked up and her cheeks were dry and her chin was set.

“He’d been dead over four hours. He was already cold.”

He could scarcely restrain his horror.

Now she looked directly at him, and said, “That’s when Dr. Moreland sent me away. I was no help to him after that. I came back to England and went to my father’s house and thought about what I’d seen and what I’d done…and I wanted to kill myself. I probably would have, if Garth hadn’t come and rescued me.”

He wanted to speak, but he still had no words. How could he express his rage at her pain, his admiration of her bravery? Like a eulogy spoken over a new-made grave, any speech he might make would be barren, lifeless, inadequate.

“Now that you know, do you want me to go?”

“Go?” He croaked, then spoke more fully. “Go where?”

“Back to London or”—she shrugged—“back to my father’s house. It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter? You want to leave me, and you say it doesn’t matter?”

“I don’t
want
to leave you, but I understand if you’re repulsed—”

He found himself on his feet. “Don’t you ever say that again! I am not repulsed by you or your actions. With your courage and your strength, you’re more than I deserve, but I have you and I will keep you.”

She just stared up at him as if she didn’t believe him, and he knew what he had to do.

He didn’t want to tell her. When she’d first come to Clairmont Court, he’d been at the mercy of his emotions and his disability. Then he’d stood and walked, and had
become the duke of Clairmont in one dreadful event, and he thought it a sign that he had to be all the duke of Clairmont should be.

Like all the dukes before him, he’d had to be strong, in charge of everything, and most important, impregnable. He admitted to no weaknesses, because the duke of Clairmont wasn’t weak—and he’d lost Sylvan. She was sitting at his feet, but the essence of her had escaped him. He had laid a claim to her, but he knew one day he’d turn around and she’d be gone, unless he shared with her his pain and his fear. Quickly, before he could change his mind, he confessed, “I have nightmares, too.”

“You do?” Bitterly, she asked, “But what could you possibly have nightmares about?”

“Every night, I have nightmares of being confined to a wheelchair again. And every day, I wake up and think, ‘My legs won’t work.’” His heart began a slow steady thump, a thump so loud it no doubt shook the ground. He couldn’t get enough air, sweat coated his palms, but he fought to speak. “Because you know what? I never know when that paralysis will return. We don’t know what caused it, we don’t know what cured it, and we
don’t know
if it will return.”

“It won’t.”

He recognized her bravado from another time. From the time she’d found him holding Garth’s body. She didn’t know what she was talking about, but to comfort him she pretended knowledge. Savagely, he struck the marble wall beside him. “Pray God, it won’t! I walk too far, and my legs cramp, and I’m happy for the pain. Grateful for the ground beneath my feet. All my life I’ll live with uncertainty, but damn! It’s made me savor each step, each moment.” Squatting down, he took her by the shoulders and shook her gently. She was crying now, and
he urged, “Mourn for the lads you lost. Grieve for them. Cry for them, and cry for you, too, and all the innocence you forfeited on that battlefield. Then let them fly up to the stars—Arnold, too—and twinkle. They don’t want to haunt your nightmares, Sylvan. They want to go.”

Her slow seepage of tears became a deluge, and he drew her down onto his chest and wrapped the rug tightly around her. His shirt got wet, his handkerchief got used, and he encouraged her to persist until all her sorrow was discharged. When the sobbing slowed, he said, “Sylvan, do you ever think about the people you’ve helped? The ones who walk with a limp, but they walk? The ones who can’t see, but they can speak and hear?”

“Ye…es.” Her voice wobbled pitifully.

“Do you really?”

“I try to.”

“Remember Hawthorne and Sagan? Remember how they watched over you at Lady Katherine’s house party?”

“They were nice.”

“Nice.” He snorted. “They would have killed me if you’d asked them to.”

She dug her fingers into his shirt. “I thought about it.”

“Yipe.” Carefully, he disengaged her hand, freeing his chest hairs to curl another day. “I’m glad you didn’t.” Lifting his head, he kissed her ear. “I heard what Nanna told you tonight. She’s grateful to see her children grow up. Can you imagine how grateful her children are that they still have her?”

“Maybe.” This time he nipped her ear. “Probably.” She was silent but not relaxed, and finally she stirred and asked, “Don’t you blame me for all the deaths?”

Honestly bewildered, he said, “Why would I blame you?”

“Those society women despised me so much, and I don’t think I’ll ever wash all the blood off my hands.”

“You are a fool, Sylvan Miles Malkin.” He picked up her hands and kissed each finger. “Don’t you know the newest duchess of Clairmont is following a tradition that reaches back to Jocelyn, the first duchess?”

Warily, she watched him. “What tradition?”

“Jocelyn had the mind and soul that inspired everyone, especially despicable old Radolf, to an eternal love.” Rand turned her head up to his. “Won’t you stay with me and, every morning, touch me with your healing hands? With you, I’m not afraid.”

She stared at him, trying to see the truth behind his words, but she couldn’t. The truth couldn’t be seen, only felt, and she felt the strength of his body, the profundity of his soul, the perception of his mind. They formed the whole of Rand, and Rand restored the whole of her.

She broke into a smile. “I’ll touch you in the morning if you’ll hold me in the night.”

“I promise,” he said fervently. “On your command, my duchess, I will move heaven and earth.”

“
When are you coming home, Radolf
?”

It had been a very long time since Radolf heard that voice, but he recognized it immediately. “Jocelyn?” He turned, and there she stood, looking as lovely, as healthy, as impetuous as ever
.

“I’ve been waiting for you, and been very patient, too.” She belied her words with the restless tap of her foot. “I knew you wanted to assure yourself that our family will prosper, but haven’t you done enough? Don’t you think they can take care of themselves now?”

Radolf tore his gaze away from the miracle of Jocelyn
to glance at Rand and Sylvan. “They can, but what about their children?”

“Their son’s already forming in her belly—can’t you see him kick?” She smiled fondly at Sylvan. “He’ll be the best of his father and the best of his mother. He’ll be fine.” She looked back at Radolf. “After that, who knows? We have a strong and fecund bloodline, we’ve proved that, with men and women who survive, regardless of the challenge. Now can’t we go home?”

She held out her slender hand, palm up. He looked at it, then around at Clairmont Court. He’d been here so long he’d almost forgotten he should be somewhere else, and it took the sight of Jocelyn to jolt his memory
.

“We’ll be together always,” she said
.

The promise of Jocelyn convinced him. Reaching out with his broad hand, he laid it in hers. A light began to glow where spirit met spirit; it dazzled him as it grew. “What is it?” he asked
.

Jocelyn laughed, showering silver notes of joy throughout eternity. “It’s you and me—together at last. Hold on. We’ve got a long way to go.”

Sylvan stirred in Rand’s arms. “Did you hear that?”

“Hm?” He pulled her closer, trying to absorb her into his bones.

“It sounded like a lady laughing.”

“Yes, I heard it.” Propping himself up on his elbow, he smiled at Sylvan. “It was the angels laughing because we’re together at last.” He clasped her hand; their palms kissed. His lips touched hers; their souls kissed, and through closed eyes, he saw a glow as two stars shot from horizon to horizon and formed bright new lights in the heavens.

Christina Dodd’s novels have been translated into ten languages, won Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart and RITA® Awards, and been called the year’s best by
Library Journal
. Dodd is a regular on the
USA Today
,
Publishers Weekly
, and
New York Times
bestseller lists.
The Barefoot Princess
is the second book in her classic new series, The Lost Princesses, following her enormously popular novel,
Some Enchanted Evening
.

Christina loves to hear from fans. Visit her website at www.christinadodd.com.

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