Wizard's Daughter (Sherbrooke Brides 10)

"Did you live with your grandfather?"

"After my mother died, yes, I did. My father remarried, you see, and his new wife didn't like me, particularly after she gave birth to a son of her own. I was five years old when my grandfather welcomed me to Wyverly Chase, the country seat of the Vails since the sixteenth century. He was the Earl of Mountjoy, you see, and there was nothing my father could do about it, not that he wanted me to remain."

"You were only five years old."

"Yes. In the following years, my father and his new family rarely visited Wyverly Chase. I remember my father was angry he had to wait to come into the tide and my grandfather's wealth, though I knew he was very rich in his own right."

"But you were your father's heir. Surely that was more important than any dislike on the part of your stepmother. You were only a little boy, why—"

Nicholas merely shook his head at her and smiled. "Re-member our giant drunk juggler? Before we left the park I saw him snoring beneath a bench by the Serpentine."

"Very well, Nicholas, keep your secrets. But I will clout you if you are not more forthcoming in the future. The near future."

He reached over and lightly clasped her hand in his. He smiled at her, an intimate smile, one that made something very deep inside her stir to life.

How very odd, she thought later, that she knew to her bones that there would be a future. He was now in her life, and he would remain in her life.

7

An old man walked toward her, his long white robe brushing his sandals. A thick, twisted rope belted the robe, its frayed ends nearly reaching his knees. His beard was so long the tip nearly touched the hem of his robe. She saw large white toes. He smiled at her, his teeth shining as white as his toes. It was odd, but she wasn't the least bit afraid even though she was lying on her back on her bed and her bedchamber should be dark, but it wasn't. His skin looked soft and pale, as if he hadn't spent any time in the sun. He looked like a prophet, she thought, and he was here to see her. He bent down beside her bed, leaning close to her ear. She heard his voice, gentle as a soft whistle of a warm breeze. I am Rennat, the Titled Wizard of the East. All know you will come into your own. You — He turned to look toward her door, his head cocked to one side, as if listening to something she couldn't hear, some­thing coming here, to her bedchamber. He turned back to her, his beard brushing her shoulder as he leaned close once again. She heard his whisper in her ear, Obey the rules, obey the rules, obey—

Rosalind jerked awake, heart pounding, her nightgown damp with sweat. She jerked up in bed, her palms against her chest, trying to grab a breath, trying to bring herself out of that dream. The strange old man standing over her—no, he wasn't here, standing by her bed, his beard brushing her shoulder, there was nothing here at all.

She looked over at the thick shadows on the other side of her bedchamber that could easily hide something frightening—she sucked in her breath—no, she was being absurd. It was a dream, only a dream about the Rules of the Pale, and that wizard Nicholas had told her about, and her mind had spun it into that strange dream. How odd that she'd seen the wizard in the greatest of detail. Rennat—that was his name, an odd name that tugged at something deep inside her. Had Nicholas said that name? Perhaps so, but she wasn't sure. It didn't matter; if he hadn't, that simply meant her mind had supplied it.

Obey the rules, obey the rules. Her heart thrummed, gooseflesh rippled her skin. She was not about to fall asleep again, not with those dreams waiting to leap out of the cor­ner of her mind when she closed her eyes.

All know you will come into your own. That's what the old man had confided to her, so close he'd been she fancied she could still feel his warm breath on her ear, and his breath— she'd swear she could still smell that light scent of lemon. Come into her own what? Rosalind sat very still, calming her­self, her breath slowing, her squirreling brain righting itself.

She wasn't afraid, not really, since she knew ghosts—at least, that's what she called the voices, for want of anything better. She'd lived with them for years. Sometimes she heard them murmuring from shadowed corners, but more often they came like thick mist in her dreams, whispering, always whispering, but unfortunately she could never understand them. And she wanted desperately to see them, but never could. Rosalind wished her ghosts would say actual words, as Rennat had.

Then she could ask them what her real name was.

Enough of mad hoary old men with skinny gray beards dangling to their big white toes, their breath smelling of lemons. She felt restless, twitchy, and strangely cold as well. Rosalind put on a robe and slippers, lit a lucifer and touched it to her bedside candle, and went down the great wide staircase, her hand cupping the candle flame. She was going to steal some of Uncle Ryder's brandy. Her hand was reaching toward the doorknob when she saw a flickering light coming from beneath the library door. What was this?

She raised her hand to knock, lowered it, and quietly opened the door. She saw Grayson sitting at the great ma­hogany desk in the far corner, a single candle at his elbow il­luminating what she knew was the Rules of the Pale.

The candl

e was nearly gutted.

She hadn't seen him since he'd left her and Nicholas at Hyde Park. He hadn't appeared at dinner nor had he come to the drawing room for tea. Since his writing hours were er­ratic, no one else had thought anything of his absence—but she had. His hair was disordered, his shirt open at the neck .

She lightly touched her hand to his shoulder. "Grayson?"

He nearly jumped out of his chair. "Oh, Rosalind, you gave me a royal scare. It's the middle of the night. What are you doing out of bed at this hour?"

"I had a strange dream," she said. "You're still reading the Rules of the Pale?"

"I can't read it, at least not yet. It's in some sort of code I haven't been able to figure out. Sarimund starts off in an old formal sort of English I can read. Then he tells the reader he has written the Rules in his own personal code and he doubts the reader will be able to decipher it. You can almost see him preening over his own cleverness, the bastard. I'd shoot him if he weren't already dead."

The book lay open on the desktop. She waved to it. "Why didn't you tell your parents about it?"

"My parents are very comfortably set in the modern day, you know that, Rosalind."

"They accept the Virgin Bride. Even though Uncle Ryder carps about it all being a bloody myth nurtured by the ladies of the family. You know as well as I do both of them believe in her."

Grayson shrugged. "Oh, aye, I believe in her too, this un­fortunate young lady who's lived at Northcliffe Hall since Queen Bess was in full flower—but she's different. She's a ghost, long dead, yes, but she's not a chain-dragging ghoul out to terrify. She's part of the damned Sherbrooke family. Corrie tells me the Virgin Bride has visited the twins many times and they accept her just as they accept their nanny, Beth."