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 gre
w. “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.
Thanks to all the nurses who served in Vietnam and saved the boys I knew.
No one who lived through that time will ever forget.
About the Author
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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Praise for
CHRISTINA DODD
“Treat yourself to a fabulous book—anything by Christina Dodd.”
—Jill Barnett
“Christina Dodd’s talents continue to grow and readers are guaranteed pleasure and true enjoyment.”
—Romantic Times
“Memorable characters, witty dialogue, steaming sensuality—the perfect combination for sheer enjoyment.”
—Jill Marie Landis on Priceless
“Christina Dodd just keeps getting better and better.”
—Debbie Macomber
“A beautiful, sensual love story filled with mystery, intrigue and adventure…. A book to curl up with and enjoy.”
—June Lund Shiplett on Treasure of the Sun
“A very special romance—heartbreaking and heartwarming, original, beautiful, compassionate, and well written. It is a story you’ll never forget…. Ensures Christina Dodd a place in readers’ hearts.”
—Romantic Times on Candle in the Window
“A great hero, a gripping plot and all the color and excitement of the Middle Ages. Christina Dodd is a joy to read.”
—Laura Kinsale on Castles in the Air
Credits
Cover art by Doreen Minuto
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
MOVE HEAVEN AND EARTH. Copyright © 1995 by Christina Dodd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition January 2006 ISBN 9780061766176
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Christina Dodd, Move Heaven and Earth
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