Wizard's Daughter

by Catherine Coulter

  "I think," she said, looking up at him, "that we have some­thing very important to accomplish."

  "Yes," he said. "Yes, we do. Do you know, I've never be­fore heard my grandfather sing. I remember once he told me his voice scared small children and dogs."

  Rosalind said nothing, but she still stared at the empty wing chair lying on its side on the carpet.

  30

  Nicholas took a bite of his roast pork, and chewed quickly. Dinner had been the last thing on his mind when Block had waylaid them coming out of the library. "Now that you are in the country, my lord, it is country hours you must observe." He bowed. "It is now well after six o'clock, nearly seven as a matter of fact and Cook is anxious to present you with her pee-ss de resistance."

  What was a poor beleaguered very newly married man to do? Strangle Block, that's a good start.

  After Rosalind met the cook, Mrs. Clopper, tall and bony, dressed all in white, not a single food stain to be seen, and a mustache that looked like a thin swatch of black satin, Block steered them into the massive dining room.

  Nicholas had no fond memories of this airless, gloomy room, but the table was set for the two of them and candles were lit. "After this, Block," he said, "we will have our meals in the breakfast room. This room is so dark a half dozen thieves could be hiding in the shadows. I don't wish to come armed to my dinner."

  Block bowed. "As you wish, my lord. Ah, I will now fetch Cook's white soup. It is renowned. She never serves her soup first, as perhaps you may remember, my lord, but to­night, she believed ..."

  Rosalind wasn't listening, she was breathing in murky air and studying dark corners. A single twelve-branch of can­dles stood in the middle of the table and cast strange shad­ows on a large bowl of muddy-looking grapes. She said, "If Grayson saw this table, he would say it was at least three coffins long."

  "At least," he said and gave her hand a squeeze, all of her he could reach. He heard Block clear his throat yet again, and whispered, "Eat as much as you want, Rosalind , for I plan enough activity to skinny you to the bone."

  She smiled at him, though he saw that her eyes were a bit dilated, perhaps her face a bit pale.

  The two of them, if asked, would have said the dinner was quite delicious, but in truth, neither particularly noticed the succession of dishes brought out by Block.

  "I am quite fond of fig pudding," Rosalind said finally, and forked up a small bite.

  "I believe that is an apple tart."

  "Oh, dear."

  "Figs, apples, it doesn't matter, keep eating. You will need your strength."

  She took another bite. "I believe you are right, it is apple. Do you know, Nicholas, I wonder if your grandfather will visit us in your bedchamber."

  "Our bedchamber. If Grandfather comes to sing us a lull­aby, we will listen, I suppose, then applaud and politely ask him to leave, else he will find himself shocked to his ghostly toes."

  "If I know the lullaby, I could sing it with him." She gave him a look from beneath her lashes.

  She felt the urgency in him, heard it in his voice even though he sounded light and amused. Despite her excitement, she knew this was uncharted territory. She had to admit to a bit of apprehension, a bloodless word, really, when she felt her innards jumping with excitement mixed with terror.

  "Nicholas? about this lovemaking business."

  He came to full attention, his focus on her. "Yes?"

  She waved her hand around her. "This is all very civilized, I mean, we're eating our apple tarts, but now I'm thinking about what you're going to do to me as soon as you get me into the bedchamber."

  He did indeed have plans, wonderful, detailed plans. "Did you look at all the pictures in the book Aunt Sophie gave you?'

  "I tried to thumb through it quickly, but neither aunt would give me a moment's peace. I think they were embar­rassed and regretted immediately giving it to me, but I held on, let me tell you."

  "If you wish, when we are in our bedchamber, we can look at the pictures together. Should you like that?"

  "Yes. Well, no. I don't think I could do that with you peer­ing over my shoulder, your eyes on the same things mine are on. The couples don't have any clothes on, Nicholas. There is not a single petticoat to froth up and hide things."

  "And the gentlemen in the pictures? Are they unclothed as well?"

  "I looked at as many as I could while Aunt Sophie was trying to gently tug it out of my arms. I think I managed to get a brief glimpse of a good half dozen before—to be on the safe side—I folded it beneath my chemises in my valise hoping they wouldn't filch it. The gentlemen"—she cleared her throat—"well, they looked very strange, not at all like the little boys at Brandon House."

  "Strange how?"

  "The front of them, low on the front of them—they looked deformed, big and puffed out and, well, one could not help but think there was a tree trunk sticking out of their stomachs."

  Nicholas laughed. "Sounds to me like the artist was a man with a grand view of himself, a man who wanted to impress, and that led to a good deal of exaggeration to carry home the point."

  She sat forward, her fingers locked together. "What point? I didn't see a point. Now, I don't wish to speak of that book anymore. I don't wish to dive beneath this table to hide my mortified self. I don't like to think what could be under this bloody table when it is dark, and no feet are there in a row to keep strange creatures away."

  He merely smiled at her. "Finish your fig pudding. Let's go to the library and request that Grandfather not pay us any bridal visits. Then, we will enjoy ourselves, Rosalind. I promise you everything will be fine. I am your husband and you will trust me."

  She chewed on that a moment, then said to his surprise, "Nicholas, do you know why your grandfather's chair fell over when I sang my song?"

  Oh, he'd thought about that all right. "We will discuss it, tomorrow at noon, at the earliest."

  Block came into the dining room, carrying another branch of lit candles. The light haloed his face, making him look like a ruddy-cheeked devil. "I fancied you might wish to have your port now, my lord."

  Was that irony in Block's voice? Nicholas folded his nap­kin and laid it beside his plate. "No, thank you, Block. We are going upstairs now. Is the house quiet and secure?"

  "Yes, my lord. May I say I thought it particularly sensitive of Mr. Pritchard not to dine with you this evening, what with this being your very first evening together at Wyverly Chase, er, and your very first evening together as a married couple?"

  "No, Block, you may not say it."

  Rosalind choked back a laugh. "Please thank Cook for the delicious meal, Block. My lord?"

  Nicholas pulled back her chair and took her arm. "Good night, Block. Ah, tell Mr. Pritchard to hire some additional staff. I can't imagine Cook was pleased to clean all the pots and pans by herself. I will personally speak to each of them, allay their ghostly concerns."

  "Very well, my lord, but I don't hold much hope of gaining an additional servant. There's talk in the village, you see, and people are remembering your grandfather and the fact that there was no body."

  "I assure you, Block, when Grandfather died, he left his earthly remains behind. After all, what use would he have for his corporeal self in the hereafter?"

  "As to that, my lord, you were only a lad, and didn't know anything at all. I remember well what was said by He Who Should Know."

  "Who would that be?"

  "The physician. You remember Dr. Blankenship, my lord, a fussy little man with wheat-colored hair and eyes so pale he could stare at you and you wouldn't know it? He evi­dently whispered to his sister that when he made his final visit, the old earl wasn't snug in his coffin, as he should have been. You, my lord, were, of course, already gone."

  "I remember Blankenship. What happened to him?"

  "I believe he went to France, my lord."

  "Well, now, there you have it," Rosalind said. "Very fit­ting. Anyone who would claim such a thing deserves to wind up in Fra
nce."

  Block nodded. "I must admit that Dr. Blankenship was a strange little man. However, as you may imagine, having the old earl's body missing was a titillating tale. However, we will try, nonetheless, despite knowing we will fail, to bring more servants here."

  "What happened to Dr. Blankenship's sister, the one he whispered this to?"

  "Why, she still lives in her brother's house in the village, still dines out on her brother's whisper. It appears that our fellow man never tires of hearing about otherworldly phe­nomena. Unfortunately she is now also drooling in her soup. Ancient she is."

  Block trailed them into the library, watched by the door as they spoke briefly to the empty chair in front of the fireplace.

  When they came out, Block cleared his throat and stood his ground. "My lord, it is Lee Po."

  "What about Lee Po?"

  "It is Cook, my lord. At dinner she asked him to prepare a Chinese dish for her." "I see."

  "He told her he was a master at noodle preparation, but lit­tle else, to which Cook said she'd heard that heathens ate raw octopus and live squid still trying to crawl off your plate. Lee Po laughed, my lord. He informed her that he'd always al-lowed octopi and squid to escape although many times they tangled themselves up in his noodles. Cook was charmed. She batted her eyelashes at him. Such a thing hasn't hap­pened since she was eighteen and fancied herself in love with Willie, the old butcher's son." Block sighed. "I don't know what she will do now. If that weren't enough, Marigold wanted to touch him. He allowed her to lightly lay her palm on his cheek to see if yellow came off on her hand. It didn't. She remarked in a throaty voice that his skin was very nice, soft as—then she began reciting colors. I fear there might be a rivalry brewing between Cook and Marigold, for Lee Po's favor."

  "He is quite used to females admiring him, Block. Don't worry about it," Nicholas said. "I remember he even once impressed the empress with his superior tailoring of a sable robe." Nicholas frowned a bit. Lee Po also had a way of making events unfold just as he wished them to. He'd told Nicholas once that they fit together very nicely, both of them with abilities that flew above the heads of normal men. Nicholas didn't like to think about what Lee Po had meant by that.

  When he and Rosalind had the master bedchamber within sight four and a half minutes later, Nicholas was breathing hard and fast, his eyes a bit on the glazed side. Rosalind was matching him, step for step. He saw her so clearly—lying naked beneath him and she— He ran the last dozen steps, pulling her with him now. He closed the door, thought about it a moment, then locked it. He left the key in the lock. "Not that a locked door would stop him if Grandfather decides to stir from the library."

  "I don't think he was in the library."

  Nicholas said, "Perhaps he was sleeping."

  Rosalind didn't say anything. She was staring over at the massive bed.

  31

  Nicholas laughed as she walked over to the fireplace and be­gan to desperately warm her hands.

  At least there were a good three dozen candles lit against the darkness, but still it wasn't enough. "Is this a lovely room, Nicholas, when the sun is shining strong through the windows? There are windows, aren't there?"

  "A good score of them. Big windows, I promise. Think of it as being nice and cozy in here right now, all right? Now, come to me, Rosalind , and I will play your maid."

  "But—"

  "No, don't worry about Matilde. I told Block to inform her that she was free to get to know Marigold and Mrs. Sweet and Cook and Lee Po this evening."

  "I see my nightgown is lying on the bed. Perhaps your grandfather is snuggled beneath it."

  "Forget Grandfather." Nicholas fetched her nightgown and laid it on the back of a lovely brocade wing chair facing the fireplace. He said, "This was my grandfather's favorite chair when I lived here, this one and the one in the library.

  When I was a hay I spent many hours sitting on that worn hassock listening to him tell me stories about the great wiz­ard, Sarimund. He told me Sarimund was married, but no one ever saw his wife. It was said by some, he told me, that she was a figment of his tortured brain, not a real woman, but then one day he was strutting about demanding everyone congratulate him on the birth of his little daughter, and surely she would be an explosion of light in the dark English skies. This announcement was met with skepticism. As far as Grandfather knew, no one ever saw the daughter either."

  She grinned up at him. "Is there any written record of her?'

  Nicholas shrugged, cupped her chin in his palm, raised her face, and ran his thumbs over her jaw. "I don't know, Lady Mountjoy. Ah, such a lovely name." He leaned down and kissed her. It wasn't the sort of kiss meant to stir her blood and make her heart pound like a battle drum, but rather a light touch of his lips against hers, and his tongue, always his tongue, now tracing the outline of her bottom lip. Such an odd feeling it was. He continued to kiss her until she lay her palms flat against his chest. She felt his heart thud­ding loud and fast beneath her palms.

  To Nicholas's delight and relief, she snuggled up against him, wrapped her arms around his back.

  He knew he needed patience, a difficult thing for a man on his wedding night after weeks of abstinence. He knew she could feel him against her belly, she was so close now, and he wondered if she believed a tree trunk was pressing against her. He kissed her mouth a dozen more times, licked and nib­bled on her earlobe. Her hands moved to his shoulders, squeezing him, hard. Ah, good, she wanted more, he couldn't be wrong about that, and so he said against her warm mouth, "Open, Rosalind, let's try this tongue business again."

  "Your tongue has been all over me, licking me between nibbles. Even my chin is wet."

  A lot more of you is going to be wet, he thought, but man­aged to hold his tongue.

  She opened her mouth wide, and he laughed. "No, not quite that wide, just a little bit. Tease me."

  Her eyes flew open and she stared at him. "You're sure about this, Nicholas?"

  "Oh, yes." And he slipped his tongue into her mouth after again nibbling her bottom lip. "Yes, that's right. Give me your tongue, Rosalind. I'm suffering here."

  To his besotted relief, she did, and with a good deal of en­thusiasm. His hands cupped her even though she was sepa­rated from his hands by at least five layers of clothes. He'd swear he could feel her. He wanted to take her to the floor this very minute. He felt her start in surprise, and that firmed his brain a bit.

  Rosalind heard a moan, stiffened, but it wasn't from his grandfather, thank the good Lord, nor was it from Nicholas. Oh, dear, it appeared to be from her, from deep in her throat, from a place she didn't even know was there, then there was something else—

  A low cackle came from behind them. Nicholas whirled around, ready to kill.

  No one was there.

  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?"