Wizards Daughter

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 a

She gri

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 fu

"Rosalind?"

He saw himself then through her eyes and cursed, this time detailing a goat who mistook a boot for a female goat. He was naked. Could he be any more of a clod? What to do? He couldn't very well grab a blanket and wrap it around himself, that would lack finesse, it would be, quite frankly, unworthy of a man who knew what was what. So he faced her, arms to his sides, and didn't move. "I'm a man, Rosalind, just a man. I am sorry if you are disappointed there is no tree trunk sticking out from my belly."