is the least of your worries. This woman—your precious new bride—who has no family, no known background—she killed you."
"Then what did she do?" Nicholas asked him.
Richard's face flushed, his eyes darkened. "You think this is all a jest? You're mocking me?"
"Tell him what she did, Richard," Aubrey said. "Tell him."
42
Richard gave Rosalind such a venomous look she wanted to cross herself.
"She dug out your heart and held it up as if it were an offering to some heathen god, your blood streaking down her arms, dripping off her fingers. There was blood everywhere. She was covered with your blood, Nicholas, splattered upward even to her face."
"What did she do with my heart?"
Lancelot took a step toward Nicholas, fist up. "You bastard, you don't believe my brother. He doesn't lie, damn you. Listen to him if you Wish to live."
"I'm listening, Lancelot, but so far it sounds like a tale Grayson Sherbrooke would write, perhaps set at Stonehenge. You said this was a dream, Richard?"
"I'm not sure, actually, I was in a sort of waking state, so not really a dream, no. More like a vision. A vision of something that will happen. I was alone, in my bedchamber at home, and time lost all meaning to me and then the vision came into my brain, clear and sharp. I could even smell the blood when she cut your heart out of your chest."
Nicholas looked at each of them in turn. He saw bone-deep resentment in Lancelot, a sort of academic interest on Aubrey's face, flat contempt on Miranda's face, and on Richard's face—cold fear. He said to his half brother, "You came to warn me because—?"
Miranda stepped forward, her expression now venomous. "She held up your heart, you moron, and she chanted foreign words Richard didn't understand. Your wife killed you! And you have the gall to question your brother's motives in coming to help you?"
Rosalind spoke. "Richard, what was I wearing in this vision?"
"A white robe belted at your waist with a thin rope of some kind. Its ends hung down nearly to your knees. Your hair was long down your back."
"You are certain it was me?"
"Yes, all that wild red hair, your blue eyes. It was you." He frowned. "But it was as if you were in a different time, in a different place. I don't know, that doesn't really make sense, but I know it was you."
Nicholas said, "So now she's a vestal virgin of some sort or a high priestess?"
"I don't know," Richard said finally. "I don't know. There were no priests hovering about, no one else, only the two of you, you bound on your back and her leaning over you."
"Do you know why I cut out my husband's heart?"
Richard, for the first time, looked uncertain. "I don't know that either," he said slowly. "All I know is that you did it." He looked at Nicholas. "You asked me what she did with your heart. She flung it away from her, as if it were refuse, then she rose and stood looking down at you sprawled at her feet, and she was rubbing her bloody hands together."
"Like Lady Macbeth?"
"No!" Richard shouted at her. "There was no real blood on Lady Macbeth's hands, only her guilt made her believe that, but your hands were covered with Nicholas's blood."
Rosalind said, "We did have an argument last night, and I admit I wanted to smack him with a book, but I didn't even do that. This ripping-out-his-heart business, that would require a dedication to something fanatical. Another time, another place, I think you said." And she thought of the bloody knife in her own vision, the white drops sliding to the floor off the tip. Where had the blood come from?
"Be it elsewhere and in another time, you still did it, I saw you do it!"
"My lord."
Nicholas turned to see Block in the doorway, looking stiff and proper, though his eyes were a bit on the wild side.
"What crisis is upon us now, Block?"
"The old earl's ghost will not stop singing lewd ditties. Mrs. McGiver requests that you order him to stop."
Nicholas turned to his half brother. "Would you care to attend the old earl's ghost, Richard?"