Wizard's Daughter

by Catherine Coulter

"But that's all he does, only sings out one ridiculous ditty after another, no rhyme nor reason."

  "Well, this last one was pointed and fairly accurate, I'd say. I've given this a lot of thought. Fact is, I don't think it's my grandfather."

  "Then who?"

  "I think we need to go back to Sarimund's century, to someone he knew firsthand. We need to go back to the time of the first Earl of Mountjoy. Fact is, Rosalind, I think our ghost is our long-ago captain, Jared Vail."

  "But why is he here? Why did he welcome me?"

  Two excellent questions, Nicholas thought, and asked the empty chair, "Are you indeed Captain Jared Vail?"

  There was a faint cackle, from behind the wainscoting, Rosalind thought, or maybe it came from that empty spot above a painting of a seventeenth-century Vail with a very elaborate curled black wig, holding a ripe peach in his hand, some sort of ancient ruin behind him.

  "So, if you are Captain Jared Vail, why are you glad to see me?" she asked, looking in that direction.

  Nothing at all, just calm peaceful air, no lurking ghost to stir it up.

  Then the painting cocked itself crooked.

  35

  Two hours later, Rosalind went in search of Nicholas. She paused when she heard Mrs. McGiver's rich contralto com­ing from the library. She was singing a clever song about a young girl in Leeds who fell in love with a cooper's son and how things went awry over a beer barrel.

  Rosalind moved closer to the library door, listening, then, finally, a scratchy old voice sang out,

  Three girls are better than two Two girls are better than one Nail one and it's fun Nail two and swoon Nail three or more And the lion wars.

  Praise be, Praise be. I always nailed three Until I had to wed

  And take the fat cow to bed. Alas, my cock fell dead, so dead.

  She heard Mrs. McGiver's sharp voice, "What a nasty thing to sing, my lord! It was somewhat funny, I'll grant you that—but I must say your words aren't what the vicar would consider respectful. And what is this about a cow for a wife? Your wife was never fat. She was a thin little mite as I recall. For shame." And in the next moment, Mrs. McGiver, plump cheeks flushed, came striding out of the library. She shut the door sharply behind her. She pulled up short when she saw Rosalind.

  "Oh, my lady, did you hear that nasty old—" She waved a work-roughened hand toward the library.

  Rosalind said, "I heard you sing very prettily, Mrs. Mc­Giver, and yes, I heard the old earl's reply." There was no need to tell Mrs. McGiver which old earl—a two-hundred-year-old ghost might not go over as easily as one who'd just gained his ghostly wings only ten years before. Still, Mrs. McGiver was clearly outraged, not because she'd heard a ghost sing, but because of the words of his bawdy song. Rosalind couldn't help herself, she burst into laughter. She cleared her throat, and quickly said, "Do forgive me, but don't you see? Our ghost listened to you. He was probably enchanted by your lovely voice and trying to think of a song to flatter you, to amuse you, but unfortunately those ap­palling rude verses were all he could think of. Don't forget, Mrs. McGiver, he was still a man, and you know what men are." Rosalind herself didn't know much about what men were and weren't, but she was married, after all, and so she gave it her best.

  To her surprise and relief, Mrs. McGiver's outrage dis­appeared. "Hmm. My lady, do you think he really liked my song? But, take the fat cow to bed —I mean, how spiteful—well, perhaps you have the right of it, perhaps our old earl couldn't think of a more uplifting tune. The odd thing is, though, I can't ever remember the old earl harking so often to the pleasures of the flesh. You don't think that ghosts—?"

  "No, no, surely not. The thing about our ghost... He re­alizes that he upset you, Mrs. McGiver. Perhaps next time, he will moderate his content."

  To Rosalind's astonishment, Mrs. McGiver giggled. Then she harrumphed and cleared her throat. "Well, as to that, I must say now that I think about it, it was fairly amusing. Now, I left him, my lady, all upset, perhaps his ghostly in­nards twisted with shame and embarrassment, and I realize I must go back in the library and dust. Mrs. Sweet told me it fair to shriveled her liver to work in the library, particularly after the old earl's chair tilted from one leg to the other to work itself closer to the fireplace, right in front of her."

  "I know. Mrs. Sweet has a fine set of lungs. You're an ex­ample to all the staff, Mrs. McGiver."

  "Well, that's as may be. I told Mrs. Sweet that since he was a ghost, there was little if anything at all left to him now, so didn't it make sense that he had to have more warmth?"

  "But the fireplace isn't lit."

  "Aye, that's true enough, and I'll admit I did hold my breath, but luckily Mrs. Sweet accepted the explanation. Aye, in addition to singing like an angel, I'm a very brave woman, and that's what my father told me when I married Mr. McGiver. Of course it didn't take much bravery to crack Mr. McGiver's head with a cooking pot when he sent his fist to my jaw, now did it?"

  "You were fast?"

  "Oh, yes, it only required a couple of smacks right in his face—a man with a black eye doesn't like to be questioned about it by other men—and Mr. McGiver turned into a model husband. As you said, my lady, the old earl was still a man, whatever else he is now."

  "Hmmm."

  Mrs. McGiver whirled around at the sound of the deep male voice, a deep male voice that warmed Rosalind to her toes, and she would swear that deep male voice made those toes flush. She'd been working with Peter Pritchard, and hadn't seen Nicholas for two hours—too long a time without him. Mrs. McGiver quickly bobbed the new earl a curtsy. "Oh, my lord. So you're here and not somewhere else. Well, these sorts of things must occasionally happen, I suppose. It is still a pity you were close by, if, that is, you chanced to hear anything you should not have heard." And Mrs. McGiver bobbed him another curtsy and took herself off. "I'm a critter?"

  "Doubtless a model critter, my lord." She saw that he was carrying several old books, and raised a brow.

  "I found these in an ancient trunk on the third floor." He stepped closer. "They're Captain Jared Vail's journals, Rosalind."

  "Oh, my." The books he held were ancient cracked black leather, laden with dust, and looked ready to crumble. She eyed those books. "They are very old indeed. You told me your grandfather said Captain Jared kept a journal, but how did you know where to find it?"

  "Come into the library. I don't want any of the servants to hear this. They'd think I am quite mad and send for the mag­istrate. Wait, I am the magistrate. Unfortunately, I still might just declare myself ready for Bedlam." He gave her a crooked grin and led her back into the library. He closed and locked the door. "I don't know how good Captain Jared's ghost is with locked doors. Perhaps we'll find out" He looked down at the books lying in the palm of his hand. "Or maybe he's seated right there. If so, perhaps he'll want to sing about the journals."

  She didn't tell him that the ghost had just sung a bawdy ditty to Mrs. McGiver. "But how did you find them, Nicholas?"

  "Fact is, I think when the old fellow saw I'd figured out who he really was, he knew it was time to direct me to his journals."

  He touched her cheek with a dirty finger. "Sorry." And he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped her cheek.

  "Perhaps you will believe me when I say I knew, I simply knew. From one moment to the next, I knew there would be something in a corner room on the third floor in the east wing, and so I went up there. Sure enough there was this an­cient trunk tucked snug under a window beneath a pile of equally ancient draperies, so moth-eaten they fell to pieces when I lifted them off the trunk. Nothing else in the room, just that old trunk. Inside the trunk was a mound of clothes, and at the bottom of the trunk, wrapped in a tattered yel­lowed petticoat, were these three volumes." He grinned. "What's wonderful is they aren't in code. I can actually read them."

  Rosalind was frowning at him. "I don't understand, Nicholas. As a boy, you must have explored every inch of Wyverly. Why didn't you find the trunk?"

  He fr
owned, stared toward the library door he'd firmly closed and locked when they'd come in here. Now it was the tiniest bit open. He hadn't heard a key turning in the lock, he hadn't heard a thing. How had Captain Jared managed to un­lock it? He walked over and closed it again, and once again turned the huge old key in the lock, saying over his shoulder to her, "Yes, I did explore every inch of this place during the seven years I lived here. So did my grandfather—he would brag that he knew where every splinter was, where every creaky stair step was. But even though he knew about Cap­tain Jared's journals, he didn't know where they were." He stared down at the key a moment, then pulled it from the lock. He looked around the room as he waved the key about. "Come and get it, you old sea dog," he said, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  "So the trunk with the journals just somehow appears? This is getting rather alarming, Nicholas."

  He shrugged. "Who knows? I think I shall wrap the jour­nals in cheesecloth and take them on our picnic. We can study them in private, with no ghost or servants to peer over our shoulders."

  36

  An hour later, Nicholas helped her down from Old Velvet's back in a maple copse set at the back of the Wyverly prop­erty. Rosalind was carrying the cheesecloth-wrapped jour­nals as tenderly as she would a baby.

  Old Velvet, he'd told her when he'd introduced her to the bay mare with lovely white socks, had been intended to mate with Beltane. Unfortunately, Beltane wasn't interested, a blow to Nicholas and to Velvet, who proceeded to eat every oat she could find and became quite fat. "They still ignore each other," he said, and patted the old mare's nose.

  After they tethered the horses, Nicholas carried the pic­nic basket and a large tartan blanket, the plaid of Scottish Highland cousins many times removed, and led her deeper into the maple copse.

  The air was as soft as Old Velvet's nose, soft like silk lightly touching her cheek. The scent of wild roses and star jasmine filled the air. Was that lilac she smelled? There were animals rustling about in the woods around them. A lone nightingale sang from the top branch of a maple tree.

  Rosalind looked around her, touched the leaves of a wild rosebush. "What a wonderful place. It is perfect."

  He nodded. He was standing very still, his eyes closed. "When I was a boy I always thought something good and fine lived here a very long time ago. Whatever it was, or whoever it was, it left an echo of sweetness behind. And joy," he added, then flushed.

  This hard tough man, she thought, who'd carved himself an empire with his brain and his back, and he thought of an echo of sweetness. And joy. And he was flushing because surely a man shouldn't speak so poetically.

  He'd seen her and wanted her. Only her. He hadn't cared that she could very well be less than a nobody.

  She watched him fail to his knees and spread out the tar­tan, and arrange the food atop it. She stood there, the jour­nals still clasped protectively to her chest, and marveled at him. At Fate. At a two-hundred-year-old ghost and the jour­nals he'd led Nicholas to find.

  He smiled up at her, patted the plaid. "Come, sit down."

  "I must be very careful not to hurt the journals."

  He said with absolute conviction, "They're not about to disintegrate on us now, since I—we—were meant to find them. Hand them to me, Rosalind ."

  He laid them on the tartan. "Let's eat first, I'm starving to death, unless—"

  "Unless what?"

  He shrugged, all indifferent, picked up a leg of baked chicken, and bit into it.

  She said, "Unless perhaps you would care to kiss me first?"

  He chewed on the chicken and looked at that mouth of hers, and slowly smiled. "A very nice idea."

  She laughed aloud and leapt on him. He fell onto his back, tossed the chicken leg over his head, heard a small an­imal scurry to pinch it, and brought her over him.

  He would never tire of kissing her, he thought, never, and when his hands touched her bare flesh, he trembled. She didn't know what to do—until she felt the earth suddenly tilt and all her embarrassment fell out of her head. She grabbed his hair to yank him down to her.

  When she lay quietly, her head on his shoulder, her breathing finally smoothing out again, he sighed. "I am a selfless man, a man so noble he ignores his own needs, con­tent to bask in the pleasure he gives his wife. Ah, if I feed you, Rosalind , will you have the energy to perform your marital duties?"

  "But, you—" She reared up and grinned down at him. She struck a pose. "Ah, I understand. You want more than one marital duty from me. Do you know, I have some ideas about that." She remembered one drawing in the haok her aunts had reluctantly given her that showed a woman on her knees in front of a standing man and he had his hands clenched in her hair while she was pressing her face against his belly. At least at the time she'd thought it was his belly, and hadn't understood why that was of enough interest to merit a page in the book, but now she knew the truth. She gave him a look to cramp his guts.

  They didn't touch the journals until an hour later. Even then, Nicholas really didn't give a good damn. He was stretched out on his back, naked, his shirt, pants, and boots tossed to the ground beyond his right arm, a silly grin on his face, his eyes closed against the spear of sunlight coming through the maple leaves, basking in utter contentment, re-membering when she'd dropped to her knees in front of him. "Tell me what to do," she'd said, her warm breath on his flesh, but he'd said nothing at all.

  "Nicholas?"

  A soft voice, a sweet voice, coming from above him, in­sistent, that voice. She kissed him. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked up at her. What to say when the earth had opened beneath his feet, and he'd dived right in? "That was very fine, Rosalind ."

  She preened, she actually preened. If he'd had the energy, he would have laughed.

  She nearly sang it out. "You were as wild as I was, Nicholas."

  His eyes crossed. He blinked. "Perhaps," he said. "Per­haps. I suppose you wish me to get myself together, don't you?"

  "Yes. I just looked over at the journals, and I swear to you, they've moved closer to us."

  Nicholas sincerely hoped that Captain Jared's ghost hadn't nudged them closer since that would mean the old boy had gotten himself a ghostly eyeful. He raised his hand and lightly touched his fingertips to her lips. "I love your mouth."

  She ran her tongue over her bottom lip and he swelled, ready to take her down again. He swelled even more when she looked down at him.

  No, he had to get a grip on himself. At least she was wearing her chemise—how did that happen? But a chemise didn't matter since he was a young man and he was newly married and—he took her down, both of them laughing wildly, then there were only whispers and deep sighs. This time, he managed to work her chemise up to her neck.

  When he buried his face against her breasts, and moaned deeply, all those dark places inside himself that had been empty far too long, bubbled and filled, perhaps even over­flowed. It was astounding.

  When he handed her his handkerchief, she walked into the trees, giving him a quick smile over her shoulder. Her wild curling red hair tangled about her shoulders. He lay back and closed his eyes, grinning like a fool, he couldn't help it. When she came back, her chemise was in place again.

  He dressed himself, then assisted her with the buttons on her wrinkled gown, even rubbed at the grass stains, and knew the laundress would know well what had happened to the mistress's gown.

  "It is two hours after noon, Nicholas, only the second day of our union, and you have already loved me three times." She gave him a huge grin. "And I loved you."

  "I have always liked the number four. Would you—"

  She raised her face to the cloud-tumbled sky. "I am stal­wart, I am focused, I will not let you distract yet again. Ah, but you are beautiful, Nicholas."

  He had to clear his throat three times before his brain was focused enough to read from the first ancient journal. The handwriting was spidery and barely legible, the years had so scarred and faded the ink.

  "This entry is
dated the same year as his marriage to the Wyverly heiress," he said.

  "Goodness, you remember that?"

  "No," he said absently, "Captain Vail wrote it here."

  "Have you already read the journals, Nicholas?"

  "Just a few pages here and there. In this first one, he chats about what was happening at the time—how his decision to wed the heiress was a good one because his pockets were so empty they were dragging the ground. His creditors were six feet behind him, and closing fast. You will like this: She is eager, a fine thing for a virgin of seventeen, and even though she has an arse the size of a cow's—"

  "What a nasty thing to write, particularly when she saved him."

  "Yes, very true," Nicholas said. "He goes on to detail the actual building of Wyverly—at great boring length, I might add—and the workmen he'd like to kick in the arse. Ah, he appears to have an obsession with this rear part. All right, here we go. Now he writes about what happened to him the previous year when he lost everything in the Mediterranean, his ship, his cargo, his crew, yet he was saved. He writes, I knew something wasn't right. I was lying on my back and I couldn't move. A single light shone directly onto my face, but it wasn't a strong light so it didn't blind me. The light was strange, all soft and vague, and it seemed to pulse like a beating heart.

  ... I don't know who or what this being is, but I indeed promised to pay my debt so that I would continue living. ... A young girl appeared in front of me, her hair streaked with sunlight, loosely braided down her back, eyes blue as an Irish stream, freckles across her small nose, a sturdy little girl with narrow hands and feet. She threw her head back and she sang.

  "What did she sing, Nicholas?"

  He saw that she knew well what the little girl sang.

  He read:

  I dream of beauty and sightless night

  I dream of strength and fevered might

  I dream I'm not alone again

  But I know of his death and her grievous sin.

  He looked up at her. Neither said a word. He knew she also realized she was the little girl. Rosalind whispered, "Then what does he write?"