Wizard's Daughter (Sherbrooke Brides 10)

She touched the tip of her tongue with her finger, and he stared at her tongue, ready to throw all finesse to the wind and leap on her, but he managed to hold himself in check be­cause she looked so damned silly gaping at him. She said, "Nicholas, oh, dear, how difficult this is to say, but the fact is you stuck your tongue in my mouth. You actually touched my tongue with yours. I'm trying not to think about that but

I can't seem to help it. I suppose it's something men feel they must do so that—no, no, let's speak of that house—is that Wyverly Chase?"

He'd kept his distance during their six-hour trip, truly he had, at least for the most part, until just three seconds ago when he simply couldn't bear it anymore. Her mouth— staring at her mouth while she spoke of the red Lasis and its fire spears—but not really hearing much of what she said, her words lovely background noise while he thought of cup­ping her breasts in his hands and kissing them, pressing his face against her warm flesh, then her mouth, her tongue—it had done him in. He'd wanted to wait for the simple reason that taking a virgin on the seat of a moving carriage lacked a certain finesse. Yes, he'd planned to wait until he had her in the huge master suite at Wyverly with its immense ma­hogany bed and thick soft feather ticking. He'd planned to have her in that bed not more than six minutes after he car­ried her over the threshold—the greeting of Peter Pritchard and Block his butler, and all the servants—very well, he could have her in the middle of that bed in eight minutes. But then she'd wet her lips with her tongue as she'd won­dered aloud if the red Lasis ever attacked that disagreeable lot of wizards and witches with their Celtic god and goddess names who resided atop Mount Olyvan. Done in, he thought, dazed, as he'd slipped his tongue into her mouth. But he didn't get the result he'd expected—actually, he nearly shocked her out of her slippers. Of course she'd never been kissed like that before. He grinned fatuously.

What had she said? Oh, yes, she'd asked about Wyverly Chase. He focused his eyes on his home and managed to clear his throat. "Yes, that's Wyverly Chase, our country home, built in the sixteenth century by the Wyverly heiress who saved the first Vail's bacon with her immense number of groats. Ah, what do you think of your new home?" He re­alized in that moment that his house wasn't perhaps what a new bride would expect. It wasn't in the Palladian style, nor was there a single Elizabeth diamond pane to be seen. No moat, so a castle was out as well. It was, quite frankly, out­landish, not to him, certainly, but— What was she seeing, thinking? He found he was holding his breath.

She straightened, righting her charming little green hat with its cream-colored feathers that curved around her cheek. She remained silent, her eyes widening as the carriage bowled up the long winding drive, the graveled road surrounded by thick maple and pine trees, up, up, to the top of a bare gentle slope, thinking it rather looked like a full-bearded man with a baid head. He waited, praying she wouldn't laugh.

"It's magic," she whispered, wonder and excitement in her voice. "Magic. The Wyverly heiress, she built it? She was magic, Nicholas. You know that, don't you?"

He looked at the nearly white stone that rose up and up, al­most touching the clouds, and the late afternoon sun beamed a silver spear through the clouds to strike a certain point on the back eastern turret and make the stone sparkle like raindrops. There were four rounded stone towers that rose high above the house itself. No, not really a house—it was simply Wyverly, his home. Was it magic? No, surely that was absurd, and yet— yet he knew

deep in his gut that what was happening right this instant was very, very important.

He said slowly, feeling his way, "Magic? No, not the Wyverly heiress. The newly created earl built it. Before Queen Bess tapped him on the shoulder with the ceremonial sword, he was the captain of the Bellissima, Sir Waiter Raleigh's for­ward ship in the battle with the Spanish in 1578. He saved Raleigh's ship Falcon from a broadside. Since Raleigh won the battle and was in good stead with the queen, she thanked him with gold in his coffers, and at Raleigh's request, she be­stowed land and an earldom upon my ancestor, making him the first Earl of Mountjoy."

"Where does the title Mountjoy come from?"

"It had become extinct but the year before, displeasing the queen, even though she herself had beheaded the final earl in the line. But the first earl didn't settle down. You see. he was a very successful trader before he threw in his lot with Raleigh, and so he went out again. Not three months later, his ship sank in the Mediterranean. He was the only survivor. He never wrote about it, only that he'd been both cursed and blessed, whatever that means.

"My grandfather told me the first earl kept a journal. He'd written that he'd pictured this house or castle or manor house, whatever you wish to call it, in his mind, all full­blown down to the last white round tower stone, and his new heiress wife had enthusiastically poured all her money into the venture, and Wyverly Chase was the result."

"I trust the Wyverly heiress gained an excellent husband for her money."

"Well, they both lived a long time, if that is any measure. His name was Jared Vail. From his portrait—it's in the long picture gallery in the east wing—he was a strapping gentle­man, the flashing dark eyes of a pirate, face ruddy from the wind and sea, and a wicked smile. Fortunately, the Vail men have been fairly astute in dealing with finances over the years and have flourished." Nicholas grinned. "Do you know Captain Jared also wrote of that dreadful day in I6I8 when Raleigh was beheaded with an axe? He claimed Raleigh boomed out before the axe fell, 'This is a sharp Medicine, but it is a Physician for all Diseases.'"

She studied his face. "I agree, the Wyverly heiress wasn't the magic one, it was this ship captain, Jared Vail, he was magic and you know it, else he couldn't have built this mag­nificent house that must whisper of secrets and ancient magic rattling about behind its walls. You also know it be­cause you carry your grandfather's blood and his teachings, and he carried his father's blood all the way back to Jared Vail. I want to see your grandfather's library, Nicholas. I want to see his copy of the Rules of the Pale."

"You will," he said, looked at her mouth again, and lifted her onto his lap. "Let me kiss you, and don't try to leap away from me in shock."

For the moment, the magnificent magic house receded to the back of her mind. Rosalind gave him a slow smile. "I've never had a man's tongue in my mouth, Nicholas. I've been kissed before you, naturally, but not this way. Grayson was the first."

"Grayson?" His temperature of his voice plummeted. "Grayson?"

Rosalind poked him in the arm. "Yes, but truth be told, I goaded him into doing it. I told him Raymond Sikes was the best kisser in all of Lower Slaughter and I was willing to wa­ger a shilling that Grayson couldn't come close to him." She laughed. "Poor Grayson, he didn't know what to do. I was fourteen and he was quite the young man, newly up from Ox­ford, ready to sample all London's wickedness. I remember I puckered up when he forced himself to lean down and peck my mouth." She paused a moment, remembering the appalled look on his face, then giggled, a delightful sound Nicholas had never heard out of her before. Who knew Rosalind could giggle like any other young girl? Then she laughed. "Poor Grayson looked so revolted, so guilty, really, and so I told him I'd kissed a frog not more than five minutes before he'd kissed me—he fled to London. I didn't see him for six months. Do you know that I was convinced to kiss three more frogs?"

"None of them turned into princes, I gather."

"Not even a duke. I worried for months I would get warts, but I didn't."

"What about Raymond Sikes?"

"Oh, I made him up. Poor Grayson never knew I'd plucked the name out of nothing at all. I suppose now that I am mar­ried, I should tell him. He can't smack a wife, can he?"

"It would be very bad form," Nicholas said, then shook his head. "So Grayson gave you your first and only kiss before me?"

"Well, to be perfectly honest about it, yes."

He kissed her again, this time running his tongue over her bottom lip, and whispered, his breath hot and exciting, "Open your mouth, Rosalind . Open now."

She did. All of his focus was on her mouth. He wanted the warmth and wet of her and so he eased his tongue—

The new footman he'd hired himself a month before yelled right outside the window, "My lord! We've arrived! Shall I open the door for you and her ladyship or would you prefer that Mr. Lee Po and I carry in all the luggage and leave you alone here with your new bride, perhaps until it is dark?"

Nicholas hadn't even realized the carriage had stopped in the wide circular drive in front of Wyverly. Given the dazed expression in Rosalind's eyes, neither had she. He wanted to kill. He wanted to cry. Instead, he rolled his eyes and re­moved his tongue from his wife's mouth. His wife, what a thought that was. He'd known her for nine days, and she was now his wife.

He pulled himself together and stuck his head out of the carriage window. "Thank you for felling me with your wit, John. Ah, I see Block is opening the front doors. Tell him we need several more footmen. Introduce him to Lee Po. Go."