by Julia Ross
“I don’t understand.”
“To begin with, Jack would always drop everything to follow the wildest, least expected answer to a problem, whatever promised to expand his view of the world.”
“He’s a younger son. He doesn’t have your responsibilities.”
“No, but for the first time in my wretched life, that’s what I’m going to do, too. I told you that I wanted to walk out of my life for a few weeks, but I need to do it—to better understand my brother, perhaps to better understand myself.”
“So to gain this mysterious new understanding, you’ll go gallivanting up the spine of England with a whore who’s wanted for murder?”
He seized the ladder and slid it over the edge of the loft. The feet hit the stone floor below with a thud. Hooves clattered as the horses startled and jumped away.
“Was it murder, Miracle?”
“I don’t know what else you’d call it.” She looked down at the wine flask, the contents delicately flavored, a perfect match for the cheese. “I stuck a knife into a man’s chest. He was Lord Hanley’s dearest friend, one Philip Willcott.”
“Why?”
“For all the obvious reasons. I didn’t like him. He didn’t like me. It was ugly and sordid and there’s no use at all in talking about it.”
“You don’t regret it?”
She made a face at him, though her heart thundered and her palms felt clammy and cold. “I only regret that I didn’t stab Lord Hanley, too, when I had the chance.”
“Why?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“Yes, I do.” Every inch his father’s son, Ryder stood squarely by the top of the ladder, his arms folded. His eyes burned with green fire. “Before we leave this loft, you will be pleased to tell me everything that took place before you were set adrift in that dinghy.”
“No.” She stood up to gather her few possessions. “I shall not be pleased to do any such thing. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that I’m not your minion to do as you bid. Whatever I’ve done—even if I’d killed a hundred men—I’m still a free agent, at this moment, at least.”
Everything about his stance was intimidating, probably more than he intended, his mouth set, his jaw hard. “He abused you?”
“What difference does it make?” She lifted her chin and walked close enough to inhale his scent: man and night and whispers of clean linen, far more heady than the wine. “Now, if you’ll kindly stand aside, my lord, I need to go outside.”
“I shan’t stand aside until you tell me what happened.”
“No.” Taking a deep breath, Miracle stepped forward as if to brush past him.
One booted foot kicked back at the top rung, sending the ladder flying. The horses careened into a gallop as it fell to the floor below and shattered.
“We shall not leave this loft,” he said, “until you tell me the truth.”
She laughed defiantly up at him. “You would blackmail me with the pressure from my own bladder?”
Deeper color flooded his cheekbones. “If that’s what it takes.”
“Unless you wish to embarrass us both beyond repair, my lord, you should know that I can’t wait that long.”
“Very well.” His boots resounded as he strode to the window. “Of course. But then you will tell me?”
“I don’t see that it’s any of your business. However, I need to go outside and now there’s no ladder.”
“I’m aware of that.” A tall silhouette against the brilliance of daylight, he seemed rigid, inflexible, but he tipped his head back and laughed, as if suddenly amused at himself. “However, its loss isn’t an insolvable problem, just an uncomfortable one.”
“Ah,” she said. “The walls of the Fortune Tower? You now intend to carry me down from that window?”
“It seems that I must.” He turned to grin at her. “You will understand—after what I said—that I face that prospect with a certain reluctance?”
She walked up to him. “If you hadn’t been so precipitate, my lord, you wouldn’t now be forced to touch me.”
Heat flared as if a fire had been lit beneath his skin. “But I long to touch you, though I didn’t intend it. I didn’t expect the ladder to break.”
“In your world nothing gets old or worn out, does it? Nothing breaks, and if—by some mad audacity—something has the nerve to crack or splinter, some invisible elf repairs or replaces it instantly.”
“I’m not quite so removed from daily reality, Miracle.”
“Yes, you are,” she said. “Yet now I’m becoming quite desperate to get down from this loft. I’m happy to accept whatever means present themselves, even those that you face with such dismayed self-derision. So how shall we do it? You’ll need both hands free in order to climb. Do you wish to sling me over one shoulder, or shall I cling to your back like a monkey?”
His eyes were as green as glass. “Whichever you prefer.”
“Then the monkey method will probably inconvenience my person a little less, considering my present bodily needs.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For kicking away our ladder? Don’t be!” She moved closer and slid both arms about his neck. “We’ve launched into an adventure, you and I, my lord. Why not include a little derring-do? I’ll do my best not to choke you, while you endeavor not to drop both of us into a pile of broken bones. Shall we go?”
He didn’t know if he could bear it. Her fingers strayed; her palms lay serenely on the hot flesh of his neck. Wisps of straw still decorated her hair, as if promising gilt opulence and harvests of plenty. She was laughing up at him, her eyes pools of darkness and wicked mirth, her skin as cool and perfect and inviting as a pan of thick cream in the dairy.
He wanted to kiss her, ravish those red lips, delve deeper into her wicked, knowledgeable passions. Yet it seemed imperative that he refrain, as if she were Calypso tempting him to seven years’ forgetfulness.
“You must get behind me,” he said.
“Like Satan?”
He laughed openly then. “Like the witch that you are. But even without your enchantments, I won’t let us fall.”
“My dear Ryder, I didn’t think for a minute that you would.”
One fingertip trailed fire along his jaw as she slipped around him. His pulse beat hard, filling him with more wild, self-deprecating amusement. Men aren’t beasts? Circe’s enchantment had turned men into swine. For the first time in his life, he thought he understood why.
She slipped both arms over his shoulders and wrapped them tightly about his chest, then jumped onto his back, embracing his waist with her thighs like a child playing pickaback.
The stone wall was rough and half-tumbled where the entire building had settled sideways, so it was an easy enough climb offering plenty of footholds, even with his burden. Easy, and foolish, and mad!
She clung tightly against his back—all delectable softness and heat and sweet scents—as he swung down hand over hand. Unnerving images swarmed into his mind. Hot images that aroused, followed by memories that disturbed and tormented. Ryder shook his head in a vain attempt to drive them away. Surely he could at least control his own thoughts?
As soon as they reached the ground, Miracle jumped down.
“Well done,” she murmured in his ear. “But now you’re torturing yourself because you cannot remain indifferent when a female presses her breasts into your spine and wraps her naked thighs about your waist?”
Ryder pressed his forehead onto the cold stone wall between his spread hands, thinking he might yet dissolve into painful hilarity. “God, Miracle!”
“And you claim that men aren’t beasts? What were you thinking about just then? I wager that—in spite of what you demand of me—you won’t have the courage to tell me.”
He choked back his misplaced mirth and stared down at the crushed weeds. “You really want to know what flashed into my mind?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“It was just a memory—nothing to do with you.”
“Though you insist that I tell you all the facts about my shabby past,” she said, stepping back and grinning up at him. “Surely I can demand at least one insight into yours?”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Yes, it is.”
“If you insist that we exchange truths,” he said, “you’ll learn things that I’ve never told a living soul. But I thought you were desperate—”
“For the bushes? I am. Though I wonder what the duchess would think if she could see her elder son at this moment?”
“My mother?” He was genuinely taken aback. “I don’t know. Her Grace would probably raise one elegant brow and wonder at my lack of good manners.”
She winked. “Or perhaps she’d be amused at the sight of her virtuous elder son panting like a stag in rut for a woman he’s sworn never to molest again?”
He was surprised into laughter. “Why the devil do you care what my mother thinks?”
“I just wondered where you learned your strange ideas, my lord. Would the duchess understand that Lord Ryderbourne thinks he may have unwittingly begun a sacred quest, without even knowing what hallowed object he seeks? Would she then agree that abstinence is necessary, lest the Grail slip away before Sir Galahad can grasp it?”
“Her Grace is a subtle and complex lady, but I doubt that she’s ever given the intricacies of my conscience that much thought.”
“Ah, then perhaps that’s why I think that I must taunt you: to see if your claims to nobler motives are just hypocrisy?”
Before he could reply, she picked up her skirts and ran for the edge of the nearest woods.
Laughter fled. Just hypocrisy? Ryder leaned back as if he might simply become part of the cold stone. Dumb, blank, rooted to the earth. He stood in silence for a few minutes, then with a sudden longing for solidity, he sank down to sit on the damp ground. With his legs extended and his back against the wall, he watched the sun break over the trees. The meadow flooded with brilliant light.
She was enchanting. He was enchanted. In spite of what he had told her, was there truly no good reason for him to be here, except that? She had killed a man named Philip Willcott. She was fleeing for her life. If he really cared about nothing but duty, he would turn her over to the nearest magistrate and walk away. Was he, like the enthralled travelers in The Odyssey, in danger of forgetting all of his other obligations?
He watched her through narrowed lashes as she returned, the sun bright on her hair, her skirts rimmed in gold. Her movements seemed carefree, wanton, as free as if this walk over the buttercup-spangled meadow were enough by itself to bring her untrammeled joy. Every now and then she bent to pluck a poppy or a cornflower from the tall grass that bordered the path. As if she had no past and no future, she seemed complete in the moment.
No past, no future: like that one night they had shared at the Merry Monarch?
“Here,” she said, walking gracefully up to him. “I’ve no pennies to spare, but I always pay my own way, so here are some petals for your thoughts.”
Scarlet and cobalt rained from her hands to scatter over his lap.
He squinted up at her, silhouetted against the bright sky. She was more than lovely. Even damaged, even bruised, she shone as if she were nothing but gold at the core, pure and upright and clean as a knife blade, as if her very bones had been stolen from the angels.
“Which thoughts?” he asked. “At this moment my mind is filled only with uncertainties.”
The remaining flower stems dangled from one hand. Sunlight framed her fingers in gilt. “I thought that was the main reason you came.”
He laughed. “I suppose it was. Yet such uncertainty is a bit more uncomfortable than I’d imagined.”
Miracle crouched down, crushing scarlet and sapphire against her skirt. She tipped her head to one side as she smiled at him. “Adventure is meant to be uncomfortable, Ryder. Didn’t your brother tell you that?”
He plucked the wilting poppies and cornflowers from her grasp. “Of course mountains and deserts are uncomfortable. I wasn’t referring to that.”
“Yet if Lord Jonathan told you about rocks and sand—”
“—and snow—”
“—and snow, that was only half of the story. The challenge of adventure isn’t physical discomfort. Anyone can put up with that. The challenge of adventure is change. And change is always uncomfortable, if not downright terrifying, even when it’s been chosen with both eyes open.”
He gazed into the black core of a poppy, the stamens thick with pollen. “Is this pounding in my blood caused by terror, then? Or is it just that poppies are known to bring headaches and thunderstorms?”
She wrinkled her nose at him and stood up. “I’ve no idea, though the bulge in your trousers is caused by something else entirely. You know, we really ought to make love again, just to disabuse you of your romantic absurdity.”
“No,” he said, grinning up at her. “The romantic absurdity is more fun.”
Miracle glanced up at the sky. The remaining wisps of cloud were burning away in a suspiciously bright bowl of blue.
“Well, if you want a challenge, I think my poppies may bring headaches and thunderstorms quite soon.” She leaned down to take the flowers from his fingers. “In case you’ve forgotten, my lord, my neck is forfeit if I’m caught, and the world seems very precious to me right now. I’d rather my last image in this life wasn’t of jeering crowds and obscene comments.”
“Then you want to die old and alone in your bed?”
She thrust a wilting poppy into her hair. “Not necessarily alone, but definitely a good deal older than I am right now.”
“Then let’s get the horses,” he said. “We can talk as we ride.”
Her skirts rustled as she walked away toward the door. His pulse still unsteady, his mouth dry with longing, Ryder watched her go, then sprang up and strode after her.
The heavy planks groaned as she dragged the door open just enough to slip inside.
“Good Lord!” she said. “What’s this?”
He peered over her shoulder at the two horses now standing quietly nose to tail. “What? I see nothing wrong.”
Miracle pointed and spun back to face him. “That is your mount?”
“Yes. Why not?” He stepped past her to take his bridle from the hook on the wall where he had hung it the previous evening. “Beauty’s an excellent mare. I had her sent up from Wyldshay.” He strode toward his horse. “Are you jealous?”
“Jealous? You left your black gelding behind, then brought that dazzling chestnut mare, instead?”
He slipped on the bridle. “Why not?”
Miracle slumped back against the door and gestured her exasperation with both hands. “Because if Beauty lifts her head, she shouts quality. If she flares those sensitive nostrils, coins clink and ring. One dainty step of her delicate feet, and her noble breeding calls out as loudly as if the town crier rang a bell in the market square. We’re supposed to be slipping unnoticed along the packhorse trails, my lord, not advertising our progress to the world.”
He rubbed the mare’s nose. “I don’t agree.”
“You don’t agree to what?”
“I don’t agree that we should travel only as you planned, or that Beauty will make any difference. Anyway, I may need her.”
“With her stunning silver stockings and flaming red mane that anyone would instantly recognize anywhere?” Miracle sat down on a large stone by the barn door and tipped back her head. “Heaven save me from the romantic idiocy of duke’s sons! I thought you might be a holy fool. Now I know for certain.”
“You think if we travel as peasants, we’ll succeed any better? I cannot agree to become that vulnerable to chance, and I’m damned if I’m going to e
ither walk all the way to Derbyshire, or ride some short-pasterned pony that’ll rattle my teeth out.”
“You didn’t have to come.”
“No, but since I have, I might as well ride a decent horse.”
“I suppose it was a vain hope that a duke’s son could simply blend into the armies of unemployed wretches that trudge the countryside looking for work?”
“It’s absurd and unnecessary. There are places where the drovers’ roads blend with the turnpikes. No one is really looking for us, and if they are, we should concentrate on making better time.”
“Lord Hanley is looking for us,” she said.
“Why should I believe that, when you won’t even tell me why he cares?”
She closed her eyes. “Very well. We can argue about this later. In the meantime, the excellent Beauty is the only mount that you have, so by all means saddle her and let’s go.”
“I’m so glad you see reason,” he said. “Allow me to saddle Jim for you, also. He may look fat and lazy, but he has some decent enough breeding of his own.”
“Unlike me,” she said.
He glanced around from buckling the girth. His gaze pierced. “I don’t know that.”
“Ah, but I do.”
He raised a brow, then handed her Beauty’s reins to hold while he went back to fetch Jim. “Are you sure?”
Miracle plucked out the drooping poppy and tossed it aside. “Did you think me an orphan who never knew her real ancestry? The long-lost last scion of a noble house, perhaps? Or the natural daughter of a local aristocrat, accidentally misplaced at birth, but soon to be reunited with her loving father, who’ll shower her with wealth and social acceptability?”
He was startled into laughter. “Who are you, then?”
“Ah, that’s asking for too many secrets at once.” She stood up. “But I probably know as much about my lineage as you know about yours.”
“I doubt it.” He set her saddle on Jim’s back. “The St. Georges trace an unbroken line of descent all the way back to the Norman Conquest.”