Wizard's Daughter (Sherbrooke Brides 10)

They didn't touch the journals until an hour later. Even then, Nicholas really didn't give a good damn. He was stretched out on his back, naked, his shirt, pants, and boots tossed to the ground beyond his right arm, a silly grin on his face, his eyes closed against the spear of sunlight coming through the maple leaves, basking in utter contentment, re-membering when she'd dropped to her knees in front of him. "Tell me what to do," she'd said, her warm breath on his flesh, but he'd said nothing at all.

"Nicholas?"

A soft voice, a sweet voice, coming from above him, in­sistent, that voice. She kissed him. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked up at her. What to say when the earth had opened beneath his feet, and he'd dived right in? "That was very fine, Rosalind ."

She preened, she actually preened. If he'd had the energy, he would have laughed.

She nearly sang it out. "You were as wild as I was, Nicholas."

His eyes crossed. He blinked. "Perhaps," he said. "Per­haps. I suppose you wish me to get myself together, don't you?"

"Yes. I just looked over at the journals, and I swear to you, they've moved closer to us."

Nicholas sincerely hoped that Captain Jared's ghost hadn't nudged them closer since that would mean the old boy had gotten himself a ghostly eyeful. He raised his hand and lightly touched his fingertips to her lips. "I love your mouth."

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip and he swelled, ready to take her down again. He swelled even more when she looked down at him.

No, he had to get a grip on himself. At least she was wearing her chemise—how did that happen? But a chemise didn't matter since he was a young man and he was newly married and—he took her down, both of them laughing wildly, then there were only whispers and deep sighs. This time, he managed to work her chemise up to her neck.

When he buried his face against her breasts, and moaned deeply, all those dark places inside himself that had been empty far too long, bubbled and filled, perhaps even over­flowed. It was astounding.

When he handed her his handkerchief, she walked into the trees, giving him a quick smile over her shoulder. Her wild curling red hair tangled about her shoulders. He lay back and closed his eyes, grinning like a fool, he couldn't help it. When she came back, her chemise was in place again.

He dressed himself, then assisted her with the buttons on her wrinkled gown, even rubbed at the grass stains, and knew the laundress would know well what had happened to the mistress's gown.

"It is two hours after noon, Nicholas, only the second day of our union, and you have already loved me three times." She gave him a huge grin. "And I loved you."

"I have always liked the number four. Would you—"

She raised her face to the cloud-tumbled sky. "I am stal­wart, I am focused, I will not let you distract yet again. Ah, but you are beautiful, Nicholas."

He had to clear his throat three times before his brain was focused enough to read from the first ancient journal. The handwriting was spidery and barely legible, the years had so scarred and faded the ink.

"This entry is

dated the same year as his marriage to the Wyverly heiress," he said.

"Goodness, you remember that?"

"No," he said absently, "Captain Vail wrote it here."

"Have you already read the journals, Nicholas?"

"Just a few pages here and there. In this first one, he chats about what was happening at the time—how his decision to wed the heiress was a good one because his pockets were so empty they were dragging the ground. His creditors were six feet behind him, and closing fast. You will like this: She is eager, a fine thing for a virgin of seventeen, and even though she has an arse the size of a cow's—"

"What a nasty thing to write, particularly when she saved him."

"Yes, very true," Nicholas said. "He goes on to detail the actual building of Wyverly—at great boring length, I might add—and the workmen he'd like to kick in the arse. Ah, he appears to have an obsession with this rear part. All right, here we go. Now he writes about what happened to him the previous year when he lost everything in the Mediterranean, his ship, his cargo, his crew, yet he was saved. He writes, I knew something wasn't right. I was lying on my back and I couldn't move. A single light shone directly onto my face, but it wasn't a strong light so it didn't blind me. The light was strange, all soft and vague, and it seemed to pulse like a beating heart.

... I don't know who or what this being is, but I indeed promised to pay my debt so that I would continue living. ... A young girl appeared in front of me, her hair streaked with sunlight, loosely braided down her back, eyes blue as an Irish stream, freckles across her small nose, a sturdy little girl with narrow hands and feet. She threw her head back and she sang.

"What did she sing, Nicholas?"

He saw that she knew well what the little girl sang.

He read:

I dream of beauty and sightless night