Wizard's Daughter (Sherbrooke Brides 10)

"Perhaps you could ask me to sing and that would distract me from those liberties."

He couldn't help it, he burst out laughing. Several people turned his way, smiling with him. One, Nicholas suspected, was a pickpocket, one a housemaid with lovely thick black hair, and the third a matron with the look of a baker's wife, what with the streak of flour down the bodice of her gown, three children clinging to her skirts.

"It is his passion," Rosalind said, watching Grayson gracefully weave his way through a group of military men singing ditties at the top of their lungs, their voices well oiled with ale. "Grayson is immensely talented. He began telling ghost stories when he was a little boy. He never stopped."

Nicholas said. "Why did you kiss him?"

That brought her to a halt. She cocked her head to one side, looking up at him. "He is my cousin. He is like my brother. I love him. I have known him forever."

"You are no blood relation to him," Nicholas said, voice hard, dangerous.

An eyebrow shot up, but she said nothing, merely eyed him. Did she want to shoot him, or kiss him? She wasn't

sure what to make of him. Was this an example of a man's possessiveness?

Rein in, rein in. Nicholas said, "I mean to say I heard Ry-der Sherbrooke call you his ward."

"That too. It's all rather complicated and really none of your business, my lord."

"No, I suppose not. At least not yet."

Now, what do you mean by that? she wondered. You thrive m mysteries and secrets, don't you ?

She ducked past a small boy running full speed toward a pasty vendor. "I am very glad my aunt and uncle didn't real-ize the beautiful weather would unleash the population of London into the park. This has turned into quite an affair. Oh, look, there are boys performing acrobatics. Let's go watch."

She grabbed his hand and pulled him to the edge of a cir-cle to watch the three boys. "Oh, one of them is really a little girl. Would you look at how she leaps onto that boy's shoulders—so smooth and graceful, and she stands so tall on lis shoulders—it looks easy, doesn't it?"

After he dutifully tossed several pennies into a large top hat, Nicholas bought her lemonade that tasted remarkably our, and a hot half pie. They walked away from the crowd to the far side of Hyde Park and sat on a small stone bench in front of a narrow, still pond.

"No ducks," Rosalind said.

"They're probably alarmed by all the bustle, hiding under hose bushes over there."

"You're probably right. 'But I'll tell you, these ducks are great performers. They quack and leap about, knowing they'll get bread and biscuits. Hmm, I hope they're not in any of the vendors' pies."

"I wager they're also fast."

Rosalind bit into her beef pie, chewed, took another quick bite. "Here, have a bite. A small bite."

She fed him a bit of her pie. Nicholas looked at her while he chewed. Her hair was mussed, her color high; she was smiling and looked utterly pleased with herself and her world. Suddenly four young men, all dressed in red, came bursting through the trees to form a half circle around them. Nicholas was an instant away from having his derringer in his hand when they began to sing. Sing! And in lovely har­mony. He settled back to listen. He realized soon enough they were singing to Rosalind. They knew her and she them. Now, this was interesting. He didn't like it, but—when they finished a lilting Scottish ballad about a bonny girl who loved a one-armed highwayman called Rabbie McPherson, Rosalind clapped and said, "That was lovely, gentlemen, do give Lord Mountjoy another."

Another song filled the sweet air, this one sounding like a tragic song from an Italian opera. So she knew them, did she? He didn't know if that was odd or not. It probably was.

When they had finished, each of them bowed low, and a short, plump young man with lovely blue eyes said, "Ros­alind, we have sung for you. We have sung for your compan­ ion. It is your turn now. Come, we will blend our voices with yours."

Her turn?

She laughed, handed Nicholas the rest of her beef pie— telling him to hold it carefully and not eat it—then went to stand with them. She cleared her throat, looked straight at him, and began to sing. The men's voices came in under hers, harmonizing beautifully, never overpowering.

See the flight of the moon Through the dark stretch of night Bathing the earth in its radiant light. All those in love who look to the sky Fear not the death of the night's final sigh.

When she sang the final haunting word, she dropped her head a moment, then raised her eyes to his face. It was the voice that made you weep deep inside where you didn't even know tears resided. It wasn't the child's voice, but it was still

the same voice. The men applauded her even as he sat there stunned, mute, unable to move. Even though he'd known, still he trembled at the knowledge of what she was. And what he was to her.

She asked after a moment, "Ah, did you like it?" He nodded, still without words.

He watched the young men move away and he still sat there on the bench, the rest of the beef pie clutched in his hand. He said slowly, looking up at her, "You spoke of Grayson's talent. Your voice, it is something one can scarce imagine. It sinks deep." He simply hadn't realized how deep.