Move Heaven and Earth by Christina Dodd Page A

had been known for his parsimony. Obviously, he had scrimped on his own portrait artist, although his eyes followed wherever one moved in the gallery.
    He repeated, “Perhaps you should go to your room.”
    “No.” She jumped to her feet and gave a poor imitation of a smile. “Just because it’s raining doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have your constitutional. You can show me more of the manor now.”
    “Damn rude of the rain to interrupt your plans for me, isn’t it?” He thought bleakly of how he had failed himself and his brave ancestors on the previous day, and wondered if his aborted plan would have been more palpable today.
    He doubted it. Not with the memory of that kiss burning in his heart—and places lower. It would have to be done, of course, but he blessed the rain for removing that burden for one more day.
    “I’ll take you to the library,” he decided, wheeling himself toward the end of the gallery. “Maybe you can find a volume there which will bore you sufficiently to put you to sleep.”
    She smiled and relaxed as she walked beside him. “Yes, I’d like that. I left most of my books at home.”
    He admired the way her dimples pressed the cream of her cheeks inward when she smiled. He liked the shape of her just as much as he had yesterday, and just as much as he had in Brussels. Indeed, something about Sylvan made him the man he had been before the battle. He thought again about the man-elf who had put her together, and wondered if that creature had been drunk after all.
    The sound of running feet distracted him, and beforehe could take evasive action, a slight figure burst through the door of the gallery.
    “Uncle Rand!”
    The child flung herself at him, and he wrapped her in his arms. “Gail!”
    She hugged him as if she might never see him again. “Uncle Rand, I missed you. When are you going to invite me down to tea again?”
    “I had you to tea only three days ago,” he said.
    “Three whole days.” Gail sat in his lap and leaned her head back against his shoulder. “It’s a wonder I haven’t starved.”
    Sylvan stared in horror at the mock-pathetic waif.
    Uncle Rand, indeed.
    The Malkin blood must run strong, for this child showed her kinship to Rand with more than her familiarity. She had his blue eyes, his dark hair, and his handsome features, softened by youth and gender. By her height, she looked to be twelve, but her figure showed none of the dawning of womanhood, and Sylvan guessed her to be more like ten—and quite illegitimate, for she’d never heard a whisper of her existence before.
    Rand’s child.
    Then Sylvan shook herself. Not necessarily Rand’s child. The girl looked like Garth, too, and James, and like the first duke. But the first duke was dead and she couldn’t imagine Garth indulging in a casual romp with a parlor maid, so it had to be James…James? Elegant, fashionable James? Sylvan couldn’t imagine it.
    “Stand straight, miss.” Betty spoke from the door, and her sharp voice brought Gail out of the chair. “Curtsy to Miss Miles and show the manners that I taught you.”
    Gail blushed and bobbed a curtsy in Sylvan’s direction, but Rand caught her hand and squeezed it. “MissRobards, allow me to introduce you to my nurse, Miss Miles. Miss Miles, Miss Robards.”
    Gail shot a grin at him and a shy one at Sylvan. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Miles.”
    “And I you, Miss Robards.” No, Gail had to be Rand’s child. The hell-raiser of yesterday had disappeared and a civil human being had taken his place. Only the power of parenthood could bring about such a change.
    And who was the mother? Sylvan blinked and made an extra effort to smile at Gail. “Are you taking time from your studies to see your…Lord Rand?”
    “My governess said I must have sat on an anthill this morning, I’m so squirmy, so I’m to run it off in the gallery.” Gail studied Sylvan, and her sharp intelligence showed in her eyes. “Is that what you’re doing