Wizard's Daughter (Sherbrooke Brides 10)

"No. The ghosts came and I've asked them over and over who I am, but I can never understand what they say, if in­deed they themselves know."

"But your name—La Fontaine."

"I selected the name myself when I was ten years old be­cause I liked Jean de La Fontaine's fables, as simple as that. I'm more of a fiction than his fables are—at least his fables have a moral. I don't have anything. I don't know who I am. At first Uncle Ryder and Uncle Douglas tried to find out about me, but they could discover nothing. Then they de­cided that whoever had tried to kill me could still be out there, and still want me dead. If someone hated me enough to try to kill me, then I must be worth very little. Or worth nothing at all."

Nicholas had never considered anything like this, never. It didn't matter. He hated that her eyes were sheened with tears, hated her pallor. He pulled her against him and kissed her, gently, as if she'd only just been beaten and he didn't want to hurt her more. "I'm so very sorry, Rosalind ."

She pushed away from him. "No, no, you don't yet un­derstand, Nicholas."

"I understand someone tried to murder a child but you survived thanks to Ryder Sherbrooke. I will be grateful to him for the remainder of my life."

"Yes, yes, of course, but that isn't it, Nicholas. Don't you see?" She drew in a deep breath. "You are the seventh Earl of Mountjoy—an earl, Nicholas, a peer of the realm. You have an impressive lineage, whereas, well, to say it plainly, I am nobody. I am very sorry I did not tell you immediately when you asked me to marry you, but the truth is, I simply didn't think about it. I wanted to kiss you too much and it all hap­pened so very quickly and we've been tossed into the Rules of the Pale, trying to figure out what it all means, and I sim­ply didn't think about it until I was lying in bed last night and it hit me in the nose. I cannot do this to you. I cannot marry you, Nicholas. Actually, it's you who cannot marry me."

Nicholas turned from her and walked to the bow win­dows. He pulled back the drapery and looked out onto the spring-ripening gardens across the street. There were daf­fodils swaying in a light breeze, their yellow vivid against the well-scythed green grass. He turned slowly to face her. 'This is unacceptable, Rosalind."

She felt clouted to her soul. She wanted to burst into tears, but she didn't. When she'd realized at the advanced age of eight that her brain was perfectly blank, she'd wept until she was ill, and learned tears were good for exactly nothing. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm very sorry I didn't tell you immediately. I allowed you to gain lust and fondness for me."

"Lust and fondness," he repeated, a dark brow arched. "You put that nicely. You misunderstand me. I find it unac­ceptable that someone tried to murder you—a child."

"That is because you are noble. But I survived. Listen, Nicholas, I could be a butcher's daughter, a pickpocket, a match girl. I could be a perfect nobody."

"No, you're not a nobody. Otherwise why would some­one try to kill you, an eight-year-old child?"

"My Uncle Ryder and Uncle Douglas agree with you. They believe I must be the daughter of someone important, someone who made powerful enemies. It's true I was wear­ing very nice clothes when Uncle Ryder found me. Ripped and torn nearly off me, of course. And this." Rosalind unfas­tened a gold chain from around her neck. Hanging from the chain was a small heart locket. She handed it to him.

Nicholas held it in his palm. It was warm and smooth. He felt the small latch and opened the locket. Both sides were empty. He checked the thickness of the gold. No, there wasn't hidden space.

"It was empty when Ryder found you?"

She nodded. "Perhaps there were two pi

ctures, one of my mother or father, and one of me. Perhaps, but I don't know. Were the pictures removed because someone might recog­nize them?" She shrugged. "But it doesn't matter, Nicholas. No one has any idea at all of who I am or who my parents are—or were—or if they're English or Italian. Uncle Ryder believes I'm possibly hath, since when I began speaking, I spoke both Italian and English. Uncle Ryder also believes my parents must be dead" or they would have searched the earth for me. Of course that is what he would do if Grayson disappeared. It's a damnable thing, Nicholas, but I am a blank page."

"No, you're not at all blank. You have an ability that none of us have—you can easily read the Rules of the Pale. This is a gift, so perhaps you come from parents with a similar gift. You've accepted this gift of yours without question. I would say this gift is only one of many."

One of many? Hmm. "So much has happened so quickly. I haven't even wondered why I can read that blasted book." She gave him a pathetic attempt at a smile. "I will ask the ghosts when I next hear them. They come to me less often now. It's odd, but I miss them. It's like they're my only link to my lost past. And now they're giving up on me."

"Ghosts," he repeated. "Ghosts around you."

"You don't think me mad, do you?"

He looked distracted. He drummed his fingertips on the mantelpiece. "Mad? Oh, no. My grandfather, I believe he was intimately acquainted with ghosts, and he wasn't mad, believe me." He shrugged. "To be honest, I suppose I as­sumed you were of my class. Say we discover you aren't, Rosalind . What does that mean in the long course of events? Not much of anything. My own father was a weak man, ma­nipulated by my stepmother, but vicious as only a weak man can be. Whoever you are doesn't matter to me. You 're Rosalind de La Fontaine. You will shortly be mine, Rosalind Vail, the Countess of Mountjoy."

"You cannot be so noble, Nicholas, so elevated in your spirit, you cannot—"

"Hush. That's quite enough. Let's be sensible here. You would like to know who you really are. I am acquainted with many different sorts of people from all over the world. I will have your portrait painted, perhaps a dozen miniatures, and I will have them sent out. We will discover who your parents were, Rosalind . Or, perhaps, one morning you will wake up next to me, and smile, and you will remember. I quite under­stand why your Uncle Ryder and Uncle Douglas stopped the search. But you will not worry about anyone ever hurting you again. I will protect you with my life."

Rosalind turned and ran out of the drawing room.

15

"Rosalind !"

"My lord, Miss Rosalind scampered out of the house. Are you responsible for this, my lord? Did you insult that sweet young pullet?" Willicombe, all puffed up, actually barred Nicholas's way.

"The pullet has nothing but air between her pretty ears. She ran out for no reason at all." Nicholas lifted Willicombe beneath his armpits, set him down to one side, and ran after her through the open front door. He paused when he saw a flash of her blue skirt swing around the corner.

He heard a yell and a shout. He came around the corner at a dead run to see her on her backside on the sidewalk, skirts billowed about her. Beside her sat a heavy matron, flushed to her eyebrows, hat askew, a lovely ruffled petticoat fluffed up about her knees, parcels scattered around her, her mouth open to yell again.