Wizard's Daughter (Sherbrooke Brides 10)

He laughed. "Oh, no, my brain is dead, but nothing else. I beg you, Rosalind , don't move your hands, well, I take that back, yes, move your hands but not away from me. Touch me, Rosalind . This is about us now, only us, and I want you very badly."

When Nicholas lay on his back a short while later, a sleeping Rosalind tucked against his side, he stared up at the shadowed ceiling, listenin

g to the light rainfall against the windows.

He suddenly realized he didn't like the way the room smelled. It wasn't musty, no, it smelled coppery. Then he re­alized what it was. The scent he smelled was blood.

He lifted his wife in his arms and carried her back to the earl's bedchamber, kicked the door to the countess's room closed with his foot.

She jerked awake when he laid her onto the cold sheets.

"Shush," he whispered between kisses, "it's all right now. Come close and I'll warm you."

She murmured against his neck as she settled once again against him, "Sarimund said I'd be with him soon, soon I'd be coming to him."

He kissed her eyebrow, then her eyelids. "Rosalind , did you see any resemblance between you and him?"

He felt her start. "Did I look like him? Oh, no, Nicholas, I told you, he was beautiful, like an angel, all golden, his eyes light, light blue."

"What do you think he meant when he said to you, 'You are mine'?"

"Could it mean I'm a descendant of his? Sarimund lived in the sixteenth century, at the same time as Captain Jared. And he's hare, at least his voice."

A descendant of Sarimund—he supposed it explained a lot, but what exactly he couldn't say. He kissed her again, pulled her close. She whispered against his chest, "I let you make love to me. I shouldn't have done that."

Laughter came up in his throat, but he managed to hold it in. "Do you feel better now?"

"Yes, you know I do, but that is not the point."

"The point, whatever that is, can go to the Devil." He kissed her forehead, and settled in.

He was nearly asleep when he felt her lips move against his shoulder, and somehow, even though she only murmured the words against his flesh, he knew what she said. "The Pale—that's where all this is leading us."

He fell asleep to the sound of the rain against the window-panes and an image of a red Lasis in his mind.

It was the bright sunlight shining onto his face the follow­ing morning that brought him instantly awake, but it was the sound of Mrs. McGiver's loud shout that made him leap out of his had, nearly dumping Rosalind onto the floor.

41

Rosalind yelled, "Nicholas, you're naked!"

He stopped at the door, whirled back around, and caught the dressing gown she threw to him. She pulled a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around herself.

The two of them raced down the long corridor.

There was another loud shriek.

They ran down the main staircase and pulled up short. Mrs. McGiver stood over Peter Pritchard's body.

Nicholas was at Peter's side in an instant, his fingers against the pulse in his neck. He breathed a sigh of relief—his pulse was steady and slow. Peter was wearing trousers and a shirt, and only his socks. His boots lay beside him. He'd prob­ably come into the house and taken off his boots because he didn't want to disturb anyone. "He's not dead, thank God." But he was unconscious. Nicholas felt for injuries, but nothing seemed broken. He heaved him to his shoulder and carried him into the drawing room and laid him on a sofa. He said over his shoulder, "Mrs. McGiver, what happened?"

"Oh, dear, my lord, I was coming down to see Cook about the oatmeal—there were lumps yesterday, and that's just wrong—well, yes, I saw Mr. Pritchard lying here. I immedi­ately went to him, my lord, and I thought he was dead be­cause he didn't respond even when I pinched his arm on the inside just above the elbow like I do to my grandchildren when they're naughty." "Then what happened?"

She sucked in her breath and blurted it out, "I thought that miserable ghost had murdered him. I was afraid, my lord."

"Who is the physician in these parts?"

"Andrew Knotts, my lord, skinny as a windowpane but he doesn't go out of his way to kill his patients. Oh, here's Mr. Block."