Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123)

by Coulter, Catherine

  Nicholas stared at her. “No, that is not possible, you must be able to.”

  “I am sorry, my lord, but it makes no sense to me either. It appears to be in the very same code, but the meaning of it is gone to me.”

  Grayson struck his fist on his thigh. “What is the game Sarimund is playing?” He took the book from Rosalind and opened it to the final six pages. Then he turned back to the beginning and compared the pages. He raised his head, frowning deeply. “She is right, they look exactly alike, but—you really can’t make any sense of them, Rosalind?”

  She shook her head. “It’s rather scary,” she said finally. “It’s scary being able to read most of it so easily, but then to have it stop—that scares me more, I think. It’s as if there had been magic at work in me but now it’s gone. Nicholas, why don’t you look at the final pages, see if you can read them.”

  He took the book and gently turned each of the final pages and studied them a long time. His lips moved but he didn’t say anything. Finally, he looked up. “Sorry, it’s like the beginning, nothing but a series of jumbled letters to me.”

  Grayson had to study the book again himself, comparing the final pages to all the others. “Nothing,” he said at last. He cursed, which surprised Rosalind, for, as with his father, it was a rare thing, except for “blessed hell,” of course, the Sherbrooke curse of many generations. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I cannot bear it to end like this.”

  Rosalind said, “But would it not be something to travel to the Bulgar and see if the Dragons of the Sallas Pond would whisk us away to this magical place? I wonder who named this place the Pale and why? A pale is only a blockade, after all, to protect those within it. So why that name?” She sighed. “I surely would like to meet Sarimund’s son in Blood Rock.”

  “I wonder if the son is still alive,” Grayson said. “After all, Sarimund wrote this in the sixteenth century.”

  Nicholas said slowly, “Epona, his mother, if she is indeed the Celtic goddess, then she is very old indeed. Immortal, I should say.”

  They all looked at each other.

  “I wouldn’t want to tangle with the Tiber,” Rosalind said. “You do realize that there aren’t all that many rules, yet that is the wretched title. So what is the purpose of leading you to buy this thin little book, Grayson? And who did the leading?”

  “It wasn’t meant for me, but you, Rosalind,” Grayson said. “After all, you’re the only one who can read it, and read it easily, I might add. Except for the final pages. Ah, that teases the brain.”

  “Then why wasn’t I directed to the bookseller’s stall rather than you, Grayson?”

  Grayson looked over at Nicholas, who was writing something in a small dark blue notebook Rosalind hadn’t seen before. “Perhaps Grayson is the catalyst,” Nicholas said.

  There was a perplexed moment of silence.

  “What is that book, Nicholas?” she asked.

  He smiled over at her, closed it, and slipped it back into his pocket, the small pencil with it. “Merely a list of appointments I was in danger of forgetting.”

  “What do you mean I am the catalyst?” Grayson asked.

  Nicholas shrugged. “You must be the spark to set this all off. Ah, who knows? At least Rosalind could read most of it. Like you, though, I do wonder why she can’t read the final pages. Perhaps you are right, Grayson, perhaps this is meant only as a fine tale to amuse and tease. But enough for today. Rosalind, are you ready to go to Madame Fouquet’s to meet your Uncle Douglas?”

  “For your bloody test in good taste?”

  He grinned at her.

  “Will you toady up to him, Nicholas?”

  “We will have to see, won’t we?”

  “I,” Grayson said as he rose, “have decided that you have no need of Lorelei at your fitting. I am taking her for a walk in the park.”

  19

  After Grayson left, Nicholas slowly rose and walked to her, gave her his hand, and pulled her to her feet. He realized in that moment he wanted to kiss every inch of her. He said, “Perhaps you will find me quite useful in the future, if, that is, I pass his lordship’s test.”

  The future, she thought as she walked beside him out of Grillon’s Hotel. She looked up at his profile. He looked stern and preoccupied. She hated it. She thought, He is my future. I will not let him go away from me once he is mine.

  Once she was seated in the carriage, her full green skirts spread around her, she thought again: He is my future. But what was the future going to be about? To be honest with herself, Rosalind hadn’t given a thought to the future, save that it would be perfect, a fairy-tale ending. What a dolt she was. Nothing was ever perfect. So many bad things could happen, did happen, all too often. Look at what had happened to her. What had her parents thought? Had they loved her? She had disappeared—simply there, then gone. Had they searched for her? Had they grieved?

  She sighed. She’d asked herself these questions dozens of times, perhaps even more times than she could count. She wished she had more of a past than a measly ten years. Only the ghosts knew about her first eight years. Ghosts, she thought, those vague memories that crowded around her in quiet moments, memories and faces she could never grasp.

  And now a future spread out before her with this man beside her, a future all blank, ready to be filled in. She felt a ripple of uncertainty. No, that was absurd, she was being absurd. For heaven’s sake, he was about to be tested to see if he had good taste. No strangeness or evil could be attached to such a man. But then there were the missing years in Nicholas’s life—not to him, of course—but she knew nothing about what that boy of twelve had done to survive. Then there was Macau—what sort of person lived in a place few people had even heard of? What Englishman spoke Mandarin Chinese? Did men have harems in Macau? No, the Portuguese were there, all Catholics, surely, not Muslims.

  She became aware suddenly that he was studying her, just as she’d studied him. She turned to him and asked, “Nicholas, are you Church of England?”

  “I suppose that’s as good as any,” he said, and studied his knuckles.

  “Come, answer me. Are you a religious man?”

  “Yes, I suppose I am. My boyhood years with my grandfather meant Sundays in the village church, but after I left England—well, to be honest, survival was more important than attending church, at least until I managed to make my way in Portugal. I believe I tend more toward Catholicism—the repetition of the ritual, the sound of Latin on my tongue—but it isn’t deep inside me. And you, Rosalind, what religion are you?”

  “I have been one of the local vicar’s favorite parishioners for several years, since I began organizing fairs and gathering clothes for the poorer families. Before I came to Brandon House?” She shrugged. “I have no idea. But sometimes there are feelings that come, feelings for God, but a God not quite like the Church of England’s God. Does that make sense?”

  “It probably means you were raised in another religion before someone tried to kill you. If you’re Italian, it would mean you’re probably Catholic.”

  He’d said it so calmly, so—so emotionlessly. Someone had tried to kill her and she’d been only a child. Odd, she felt rather emotionless about it as well, since it had never been part of what she was, what she had become. Could she be Italian? Catholic?

  She said, “A monster, I always believed it was a monster. When Uncle Ryder first brought me to Brandon House, I knew the monster was close by, especially at night, and I knew he would kill me and eat me whole. I remember Jane had me sleep with little Amy, to protect her, Jane said, from her bad dreams. Amy was an adorable little girl who wanted to design and make bonnets when she grew up. I remember one Sunday, Aunt Sophie wore one of Amy’s first efforts to church. A bunch of grapes were hanging down over her forehead, but she never took it off.”

  “And she protected you?”

  “Jane was very smart. I soon forgot about the monster, since I was so worried about Amy’s nightmares. She never had a single nightmare, as
I recall. Now that I’m grown, the monster is flesh and blood, and whoever he is, wherever he is, he brims with malevolence. Whenever I remember waking up to see Ryder Sherbrooke holding me, whenever I remember the black nights, I can still feel the fright of the child, but it’s vague now. Now it doesn’t raise any horror or terror in me.”

  He took her hand, looked her directly in her eyes. “No one will ever hurt you again, Rosalind. I swear it to you. Do you believe me?”

  “Yes, I believe you. But what if someday I remember and I know who tried to kill me?”

  “If that day comes, we will deal with it. I promise you that as well.”

  The carriage hit a brick in the roadway and she was nearly thrown into his lap. A nice thing, she thought as she regretfully settled herself back against her seat. “Where will we go on our honeymoon?”

  He hadn’t given it a thought, and she saw it on his face.

  She punched her fist into his arm. “What is wrong with you, Nicholas? Surely you must have given at least a small passing thought to our honeymoon, since it will be the official place where you may indulge yourself with my fair person.”

  Just saying those words made her cheeks flush, and he saw she was both excited and embarrassed. He smiled at her, which was difficult, since he wanted to indulge himself now. But of course he didn’t. “It’s not that I haven’t thought about it, precisely.” He gave her a look that made her feel absolutely naked. She didn’t know what to do, what to say. He continued easily, “However, I sincerely doubt we will reach a destination before I indulge both of us.”

  He nearly leapt upon her when she looked about the carriage, obviously eyeing the cushions with lovemaking in mind, something, he imagined, she knew very little about. But she loved the forbidden wickedness of it. He wondered what she’d think when he had her naked, what she’d do when he kissed her white belly, pulled her equally white legs over his shoulders.

  “I heard Aunt Sophie say to Aunt Alexandra that she feared all of society will believe I’m increasing since we are marrying so quickly. Although now that I think of it, we are wedding too quickly for me to even realize I’m pregnant, if, naturally, we’d been wicked immediately upon our acquaintance, say within a half hour of meeting.”

  In that moment, Nicholas actually saw himself coming into her. He cleared his throat. “I imagine you will be soon enough.”

  Rosalind fell back as if he’d shot her. Gone was the look of wickedness. He saw she was shocked and appalled.

  Rosalind thought, Soon enough? SOON ENOUGH? It boggled her mind. It was the same when he’d spoken about their daughter. No, this “soon enough” business wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t ready to stop running across the fields, leaping ditches, tying her skirts around her waist so she could shimmy up the apple trees in Uncle Ryder’s fruit orchard. She saw herself fat, waddling about, her belly huge, and made a grab for the carriage door handle.

  He grabbed her hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed her palm. “Don’t worry, Rosalind. I will take very good care of you.”

  “I know, of course,” she said slowly, voice as thin as Cook’s ham slices, “that lust leads one to make love, which then leads to babies.”

  “That is the normal way of things, yes. What’s wrong, Rosalind?” He kissed her palm again. “Why is the light of exploration gone from your eyes?”

  “I don’t think I wish to have any more lust for a while, Nicholas. I am eighteen. I am too young. So please do not kiss my palm again, it makes me want to hurl myself into all sorts of wicked experiments that might lead to my own undoing.” She pulled her hand away from his, clenched it into a fist, and began to hit it against her leg.

  He stared at her fist. “You’re trying to erase the wicked feelings?”

  “Yes, and they are very nearly gone now.”

  “Rosalind, if you do not wish to have a child immediately I will take steps to prevent conception.”

  “You can do that? It is possible?”

  He nodded. “It is not always successful, but I will try.” “Well, that is good. Yes, that is very good. I’m pleased you’re a reasonable man. It greatly relieves my mind. I like to race, you know, both on my own feet and atop a horse’s back. I want to continue racing for perhaps another five or so years.”

  Was he a reasonable man? “Fine,” he said, knowing he had to calm her, reassure her, give her no reason to doubt him, “we will speak of my heir again when I am thirty.”

  “Now that we have solved that small problem”—she beamed at him—“let me tell you again that it is your duty to select our honeymoon, Nicholas. Apply yourself to the task.”

  He grinned easily at her, a grin he’d known for many years usually gained him his way with women. He saw her ease. She smiled back at him, a blinding smile that made him stare at her. Potent, that smile of hers. He wondered if she knew how effective her smile was.

  When they arrived at Madame Fouquet’s, the Earl of Northcliffe showed Nicholas a dozen drawings of desperately elongated females who looked to weigh no more than the feathers that adorned their gowns, and more bolts of different-colored materials than Nicholas would have dreamed existed, and asked at least two dozen questions. Everyone else stood about, paying close attention. Finally, Nicholas was pronounced to have satisfactory taste. “Rosalind,” the earl said to her, lightly patting her cheek, “you are blessed. Nicholas has sufficient taste at the present time. I am certain it will improve even more as the years pass. I don’t mind telling you I was worried. I find it odd that so many ladies in my life select colors that make their complexions look like oatmeal.

  “But no matter, you needn’t worry about looking like your breakfast since Nicholas has presented himself. All will be well.” The earl pointed down to a drawing of a willowy lady who seemed to be floating at least three inches off the floor. “You won’t embarrass yourself wearing that hideous shade of green with those ridiculous rows of flounces at the hem. Would you look at this? It fair to shrivels my liver.”

  But it didn’t shrivel Rosalind’s liver. In fact, she particularly liked those flounces. Those lovely flounces would make her look as if she were floating too. Because she wasn’t a dolt, she kept quiet. She saw Nicholas and Uncle Douglas exchange a look.

  As for Madame Fouquet, she looked at Uncle Douglas with too fond an eye, Rosalind observed, and agreed with everything he said. Uncle Douglas didn’t appear to mind the toadying from her.

  When at last her wedding gown was pronounced acceptable by Uncle Douglas, she and Nicholas were dismissed. Nicholas winked at her and took her hand. When they arrived back at the Sherbrooke town house, Willicombe, his bald head sweating, came flying out of the front door, his face pale, and told them Miss Lorelei Kilbourne had been kidnapped, and everyone was tip over arse, and they must do something.

  20

  It seemed Grayson and Lorelei were strolling in Hyde Park, hand in hand, when suddenly two ruffians, handkerchiefs over their faces, jumped from the bushes and coshed Grayson over the head. When he awoke, Lorelei was gone.

  But then, not more than two hours later, she was dumped unceremoniously on the Sherbrooke front door, bruised, her clothing dirty and ripped, and a bit dazed, but not hurt. All the Kilbournes—father, mother, four other daughters—were clustered in the drawing room, Alexandra and Sophie trying to keep them calm.

  The gentlemen had just returned from examining the abduction spot in Hyde Park and suddenly, there she was in the open doorway, supported by Willicombe. Her mother screamed, pressed her palms over her bosom, and ran to enfold her precious chick. “God returned my oldest treasure to me,” Lorelei’s mother said over and over, clasping her child to her soft bosom. The four other treasures cried, and Lord Ramey looked like he needed brandy badly.

  It was Grayson who placed a snifter of his uncle’s finest French brandy into Lord Ramey’s hand. Since Grayson had been the one to lose his daughter, he hoped this would begin his redemption in her father’s eyes. It was particularly fine brandy, and Uncle Dou
glas’s favorite.

  At Uncle Douglas’s request, Sir Robert Peel appeared some thirty minutes after the reunion to question Miss Kilbourne, who was reclining gracefully on a pale blue brocade chaise, a lovely shawl spread over her legs, a dainty cup of hot tea in her hand, Grayson standing behind her, his hand on her shoulder. Since Grayson had wisely told her he was impressed by her wonderful bravery, despite her mother’s and sisters’ tears Lorelei didn’t hesitate when she spoke. “I feared Mr. Sherbrooke was dead since one of those brutal men struck him so very hard on the head. I fought them, Sir Robert, but they were stronger and one of them picked me up and threw me over his shoulder. He carried me to a carriage hidden in a nasty alley and threw me inside onto the floor. One man climbed in and gagged me and tied my hands behind my back. He didn’t say anything to me, just sort of grunted, as if satisfied he’d done a good job. The door slammed and the other man whipped up the horses.

  “Perhaps fifteen minutes later the carriage stopped and one of the men opened the carriage door”—here she looked up at Grayson, who nodded encouragement at her—“but before I could do anything, he pulled the gag out of my mouth and pressed a handkerchief over my face. I breathed in a sickly sweet odor. I suppose I must have become unconscious, for I do not remember anything more.

  “When I woke up I was lying on the carriage seat. My head ached, and I felt all logy, as if my legs were too heavy to move. Then the carriage stopped and one of the men opened the door and dragged me out. He tossed me on the doorstep. I looked up to see them driving away very fast. I kicked the door so someone would come. Willicombe untied my hands and helped me up.”

  Sir Robert Peel, blessed with a judge’s unbending shoulders and beautifully dressed all in gray, nodded slowly at the pretty young girl and looked wise, which he was. “That was very well stated, Miss Kilbourne. Did you notice anything distinctive about the men who took you, or the carriage?”

  Lorelei thought about this. “The men were toughs, the sort you see lurking around the tavern in our village at home, dirty clothes and mean eyes, as though they’d rip out your gullet and not regret it for a moment.”