Wizard's Daughter (Sherbrooke Brides 10)

There was another cackle.

Nicholas turned back to her and touched his forehead to hers. He drew in a deep breath and raised his head. "Grand­father, go away."

There came yet another cackle.

Nicholas cursed with great and long fluency, involving goats and chickens and the sharp quills of feathers. "You are very good at that."

"Thank you." He picked her up in his arms, grabbed a small branch of lit candles, and walked to the door. He man­aged to turn the key in the lock, no small feat, and not scorch either of them with the candle flame. He said over his shoul­der, "Old man, I am taking my wife to another bedchamber. You will take yourself off, back to the library, or I swear we will leave to return to London in the morning. All the servants will leave then and you will have no one to appreciate your wretched songs."

And he slammed the master bedchamber door.

When he opened a door near to the opposite end of the endless stretch of hallway, he carried her into a room small enough so the branch of candles lit every corner. There was a narrow had in the center, an armoire and a desk against the far wall. In front of the small fireplace was a dark blue rug with a wide green border, well worn, a very old chair sitting

on it, high-backed, its seat sunk in. A lot of bottoms had set­tled in that chair over the years. Rosalind said, "I like this bedchamber." Then she shut up fast when he laid her on her back in the center of the had.

He was breathing hard, unable to focus on her words, on anything. "Now, Rosalind . Now."

"Wait, Nicholas!"

"What? What is it?"

"This room, ah, I think it suits you more than that mas­sive earl's chamber—particularly with your grandfather in it."

She was afraid, dammit. He had to slow himself down even though he knew it would kill him. He owed his grandfa­ther a fist to the nose, if a ghost had a nose. He set the branch of candles on the small table beside the had, managed to say in a credibly calm voice, "It was my bedchamber as a boy. I spent many happy hours here. I plan to spend many more this night."

And the dam broke. His hands were all over the buttons on her gown. His fingers were nimble, a vast relief, and when he pulled the gown off her shoulders and down her arms, imprisoning her, She lay on her back, looking up at him. "Nicholas?"

"Hmm."

"That cackle we heard in your bedchamber—maybe that was a chicken we heard and not your grandfather."

Laughter spurted out of his mouth, and he turned away, holding his stomach he laughed so hard. He finally caught his breath, leaned down, and pulled her up against him. He whispered against her cheek, "How is a man supposed to perform his marital duties if he's howling with laughter?" "I'd rather it was a chicken."

He kissed her, then laid her onto her back again. "Per­haps," Nicholas said, laughter bubbling up again, "if it was Grandfather, he will sing advice to me tomorrow."

"Oh, dear, do you need it?"

That got his attention. He prepared to lunge.

"Nicholas, no, wait. You've got me half-undressed and here you are still in your bloody coat."

In record time, his record at least, he was naked, his boots tossed at right angles next to his boy's chair, his clothes scat­tered on the floor at his big bare feet.

She made a funny noise in her throat.

"Rosalind?"

He saw himself then through her eyes and cursed, this time detailing a goat who mistook a boot for a female goat. He was naked. Could he be any more of a clod? What to do? He couldn't very well grab a blanket and wrap it around himself, that would lack finesse, it would be, quite frankly, unworthy of a man who knew what was what. So he faced her, arms to his sides, and didn't move. "I'm a man, Rosalind, just a man. I am sorry if you are disappointed there is no tree trunk sticking out from my belly."

What if she were repulsed? What if she thought him the ugliest creature on God's earth?

She was breathing hard; he heard it and wondered what she was thinking, feeling. He continued to stand there, look­ing down at his big toe, stubbed in his haste to get her away from his grandfather's bedchamber. It pulsed with pain. It steadied him. What was she thinking? What—

She came up on her elbows, never looking away from him. "You are beautiful, Nicholas. I never imagined a man could look like you do, all hard and smooth. I mean—" She actually broke off, swallowed, and her eyes went right to his sex.

He was aroused, nothing he could do about it. He was beautiful? He cleared his throat. "You think all of me is beautiful? Or just parts? Or maybe just my feet? I was told once that I had David's feet, you know, Michelangelo's sculpture? What do you think?"

Whatever she thought remained unspoken. She looked ut­terly absorbed, staring, staring, and her eyes were looking nowhere near his face. Because he was a man, because a woman's attention was focused on him, he predictably got bigger.