She looked out the carriage window to see that they were passing by the entrance to the park. She didn’t care a whit. It was overcast today, cooler, but she felt comfortably warm. There weren’t that many people wandering about, not at this unfashionable hour, only a few children with their hoops, yelling to each other in sight of nannies and tutors. A flower girl and a pie vendor were walking about to find buyers. She said on a sigh, “So that I am not a complete liar, tell me about Macau.”
“The air smells different there.”
“Well, yes, of course it does. It is a foreign clime.”
He laughed, shook his head. “And just what do you know of foreign climes?”
“Actually, London was a foreign clime to me until two weeks ago. I’ll admit it, I’m a provincial. Do you despise me for it?”
“I don’t think so. Should I?”
“Probably. When you are angry with me you will doubtless think of several reasons.” Then she found herself once again staring at his mouth. She cleared her throat. What were they talking about? Oh, yes. “I’m sure the blue of the sky is different as well as the smell of the air in Macau. Tell me, how did you live?”
He stared at her, all of his dangerous suave self suddenly nonplussed. Until now, no one had shown the slightest interest in the life he had before London. “What do you mean?”
“Come now, Nicholas, I’m sure you were very prosperous. All these nonsensical rumors about your not having a sou because your father purposefully beggared you, I don’t believe it for an instant.”
“But it is true,” he said slowly. “My father’s intention was to beggar me. He left me only the entailed family estate in Sussex with its three thousand acres of dying land.”
“What he did doesn’t matter to you. You have the funds to fix everything. Indeed, I imagine you have already begun setting things to right. I am willing to wager my next allowance that you have no need at all of an heiress.”
“No, you’re quite right. I have no need of an heiress.”
“I knew it. I am equally sure you moved easily in Portuguese society in Macau. Tell me about your life there.”
He gave her a brooding look. “Your eyes are the most incredible shade of blue. I was thinking of a soft blue blanket a Portuguese woman wove for me.”
“A blanket? That sort of flattery could shatter a girl’s heart. As for your eyes, Nicholas, they are black as any tar pit I have ever seen.”
“Have you ever seen a tar pit?”
She shook her head, never looking away from his face. “Your eyes do not, thankfully, look like wet tar. They’re simply black and deep and there are answers inside that you hide very well. You’re a man brimming with secrets, Nicholas. I have secrets myself, only I don’t know what they are.”
A very strange thing to say, he thought, but said, “Shall I tell you about how beautiful I think your hair is? The shades of it—hair your color graces Titian’s paintings.”
He leaned toward her and lightly touched his fingertips to the curls over her ears. “I must adjust my opinion. The color of the stuff is richer than any red Titian ever produced. It is glorious hair you have, Rosalind.”
“Why do you pay me such an extravagant compliment? Are you trying to atone for the blue blanket?”
“When I saw you at the ball Thursday night, I knew, I simply knew, that you were—”
“Were what?”
He frowned a moment out the window, and shrugged as he turned back to her. “You dance well,” he said.
“Thank you. You’re quite right about that. Uncle Ryder taught me himself. Stop avoiding the subject, Nicholas. I wish to hear about how you lived in Macau. I want to know how you dealt with daily life in a strange land.”
“Ah,” he said absently, “listen to all the noise outside the carriage window. And all the people moving about—black-frocked clerks, ladies with their maids, gentlemen of leisure strolling to their clubs, swinging their canes, solicitors muttering to themselves, vendors hawking pies, flower girls surrounded with splendid color. It was the same in Macau, only you wouldn’t understand what anyone was saying.”
“You are extraordinarily eloquent.”
“Thank you. Now—”
“Now nothing. What did you do, Nicholas? Where did you live? How did you live?” Did you love a woman? Many women?
And out of his mouth came, “I will tell you when you agree to marry me.”
She stared at him for an instant, then laughed so hard she hiccupped and fell sideways.
Then she straightened up, hiccupped again, and looked over at him—stiff, silent, wary. By everything that was glorious and splendid, he was serious. Her body hummed. She felt the leap of excitement, the feeling that very suddenly, so very unexpectedly, everything was right. It didn’t matter that she’d seen him for the first time the night before last. She laughed again, joyously, and said, “Yes, I should like to marry you, Nicholas Vail.”
He looked suddenly panicked. “But I—”
She leaned toward him and lightly laid her finger against his mouth. Then she kissed him.
10
Rosalind read:
“The Tiber is vicious. Only slight force is needed for its hooves to smash a man’s face into pulp. The Tiber has one weakness. It craves the taste of the red Lasis. The black Lasis or the brown Lasis will not do, only the red Lasis. But the red Lasis, unlike the brown and black Lasis, is wily and reveals itself to the Tiber only when it can lead it to a covered pit. The red Lasis easily jumps the pit but the Tiber does not. It falls in and the Lasis sends fire spears into it until it is dead. A man must make friends with the red Lasis. Otherwise a man is destroyed by the Tiber. Sing to the red Lasis of your loyalty just as they sing to the Dragons of the Sallas Pond, and they will protect you.”
Rosalind looked up. “It is like Sarimund is writing for a child—simple, basic, crude, if you will.”
Nicholas sat on a sofa opposite her, holding a large silk pillow between his hands. He said as he tossed the pillow from one hand to the other, “Or he is writing an instruction manual and wants to make certain there is no misunderstanding. It is crude, you’re right about that, Rosalind, and unfortunately it gives us no information at all that is helpful.” And he wondered, as he had each time she read from Sarimund’s book: Why is this so clear to you and not to me?
Grayson was rubbing his hand, cramped from writing so quickly to keep up with her. He said, “Or the Tiber and the red Lasis simply stand for something else—they’re metaphors.”
“Metaphors for what?” Nicholas said.
Grayson shrugged. “Perhaps concepts of the afterlife. The Tiber represents Hell, the Dragons of the Sallas Pond and the red Lasis—well, Heaven seems a bit of a stretch.”
“Maybe the red Lasis are angels,” Rosalind said, an eyebrow raised. “They protect men, help them to survive. I don’t know, Grayson; even though Sarimund writes simply, I can see the red Lasis leaping over a pit meant for the Tiber. I can even picture a fire spear.”
“But note there’s no description of them, it only tells the reader that the Tiber has hooves,” Grayson said. “It’s interesting too, you have words like ‘Tiber’ and ‘Lasis’—foreign, strange words—but then there are words we know, like ‘moon’ and ‘spear.’ Read, Rosalind. I have a feeling this will change. I know it will change.”
He dipped his nib pen into the inkwell on the floor beside him and nodded to her.
She gave Nicholas a quick look and felt her insides glow even brighter. She fully intended to marry this man—it was astounding and absolutely mad. So few days earlier she hadn’t even known he existed. He was a stranger, she knew nothing about him, yet she knew, simply knew to her soul, that this man was the one for her. She thought again of what she’d said to him as they’d walked into the house earlier.
She’d looked up at him sadly, shoulders dropped, and sighed deeply as she’d whispered, “I hope no one believes me a failure.”
That pulled him up short. “A failure
?”
“Well, the fact is, my lord, you are not a duke.”
His quick full laugh had made her want to jump on him.
Grayson snapped his fingers under her nose. “Come along, Rosalind, back from wherever you went. Why are you blushing? No, don’t tell me. Read.”
She studied the next sentence a moment, then raised her head. “This is strange. It’s a new section, but there is no empty space between to mark the end of one and the beginning of the next. It also changes from narrative to first person.” She read, “I discovered the Dragons of the Sallas Pond only eat every three weeks, and only fire rocks, heated for those three weeks until they’re soft and glowing. They have never eaten a man. When men venture to the Pale they cower inside caves and build fires, but learn quickly that the flying creatures swoop down upon them to kill the flame. It is a frightening sight, the dying flames, the creatures sucking at the embers, the men screaming, but withal, the flying creatures do not harm men.
“The men who survive settle into the body of the Pale. Just as I did, they observe the Dragons of the Sallas Pond and see that their snouts are rich glittering gold and their eyes bright emeralds and their huge triangular scales, the sharp points glistening beneath the brilliant ice sun, are studded with diamonds.
“To the best of my knowledge, the Dragons of the Sallas Pond do not die. They exist for the now and the ever after. If a man holds himself perfectly silent, he will hear the Dragons singing to each other, perhaps telling about men, what very different creatures they are, foolish and lost and afraid. If a man has patience and can wait, the Dragons will determine if he is worthy, and if he is, as I was, the Dragons will teach him the rules of the Pale.
“For myself, their love songs moved me unutterably, for the mating of the Dragons of the Sallas Pond is for all eternity. They are your salvation. Never lie to a Dragon of the Sallas Pond. This is a rule of the Pale.”
Rosalind stopped reading, frowning as she read again, silently, the last few lines. Grayson raised his hand and began rubbing it. Nicholas tossed the bright blue silk pillow to a brocade chair opposite him. He said, “Dragons of the Sallas Pond—it sounds like a tale spun out of an incredible imagination. What is the Sallas Pond, I wonder?”
Rosalind said thoughtfully, “A sacred place, perhaps like Delphi. And Mount Olyvan could be Mount Olympus, could it not? My throat is quite dry. Should you like some tea?”
“Nutty buns?” Nicholas asked, perking up.
“Stand up, Nicholas. Let me see your belly first.” He obligingly rose and waited for her to come to him. At the last moment before she touched him, she saw Grayson was gaping at her, his mouth open.
Nicholas said mildly, catching her hand, “I am thin as a pole, Rosalind, no extra flesh on me. Any man who allows himself to gain flesh in his belly is doomed, and will be spat upon. This is a rule of the Nicholas.”
His words, spoken with such seriousness, undid her. Laughter spurted out of her. Grayson didn’t know whether to laugh or to hit this man who was on such friendly terms with Rosalind. She’d thought to touch her hand to his belly to see if it was flat—what the devil was going on here?
“Oh, goodness,” she said, “does the rule of the Nicholas apply to the ladies as well?”
“Indeed it does. Heed me, for I speak true. Should I check your belly, Rosalind? I proclaim you exempt from this rule when you carry my—when you carry a child.”
Grayson leapt to his feet and opened his mouth, only to close it when he saw Rosalind’s face. Her eyes were wicked. He knew that look. She gave him a bow as she walked to the bell cord and gave it a tug. When Willicombe appeared in the library a scant three seconds later, Grayson said, “Willicombe, were you waiting outside? Did you somehow fathom that we were starving?”
“I am desolated to announce there are no more nutty buns, Master Grayson. I heard Cook say the last three were stolen right out of her kitchen, and it so upset her that she was unable to prepare more.”
“Oh, dear, I swear I am not guilty,” Rosalind said.
“I suspect my mother,” said Grayson. “Nutty buns are her weakness. And she is sly.”
Rosalind sighed. “Is it time for luncheon yet, Willicombe?”
“Actually, Miss Rosalind, I was on my way in to fetch the three of you. Cook has prepared ham slices so thin you can see through them.” While Willicombe spoke, he looked at Sarimund’s book. Rosalind could see his fingers twitching. He bowed once again, holding it a long moment so the full effect of his bald head could be appreciated.
Rosalind watched Grayson carefully tuck the Rules of the Pale into his jacket as they followed in Willicombe’s wake.
Nicholas said, leaning close to her ear, “I could not examine the flatness of your belly. Grayson would have surely run me through with that ceremonial sword over the mantel.”
“Perhaps if we slip around behind those stairs, I can kiss you quickly even as I suck in my stomach for your inspection,” Rosalind said and raced down the hallway.
He laughed. “Come back, Rosalind. I will feed you a ham slice instead.”
11
During luncheon, Grayson told his parents the plot of his new novel to distract them from the Rules of the Pale. His fond parents knew what he was doing, but they loved him, and told him they adored the idea of a young Oxford student dueling with a demon who held the heart of his beloved inside a magic gem, rumored to have been ripped out of Satan’s crown. It wasn’t bad, Rosalind thought, particularly since Grayson was making it up as he spoke.
The moment Aunt Sophie rose from the table, Rosalind pulled Nicholas into the small room that the Countess of Northcliffe had designed for ladies some two decades before.
“No,” Nicholas said as he lightly touched his fingers to her cheek. “We mustn’t say anything yet to anyone, particularly your aunt and uncle. We’ve known each other such a short time. Give them another day at least to witness how dazzled I am with you. So soft, you are, Rosalind.”
“I don’t wish to admit it, but you’re right. Uncle Ryder would believe we’d both lost our wits. He might have you kidnapped and shipped back to Macau. You really think I’m soft?”
He touched the tip of his finger to her nose. “Your Uncle Ryder would not consider lost wits; he would believe lust rules us. Your Aunt Sophie would have stars in her eyes at the romance of it, but upon brief reflection she could agree with Uncle Ryder—nothing more than rampant lust, all on my part since you are such an innocent. I am a man of the world, they would say, and one must always beware a man of the world when it comes to a young girl who looks like you do. You’re softer than a butterfly’s wing.”
“I will have you know I am not that innocent.” She fidgeted a bit. “The fact is, Nicholas, I don’t look like anything much.”
“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps you aren’t much at all.”
She crossed her arms across her chest. Her foot tapped, tapped, tapped. He was enchanted. She said behind her teeth, “You needn’t go that far. Now, this lust business—what a very strange word that is. I’ve never even thought about lust before. If it is lust that makes me want to leap on you and kiss you until you crumple to the carpet, then it is a powerful thing. I think I quite like it. Is that why you asked me to marry you so quickly, Nicholas? You’ve gone over the edge with lust for me?”
He hadn’t wanted to consider lust with her, it wasn’t what was important, but—he drew in a deep breath. Truth was truth, and it had to be faced. He said, “Lust is a fine thing, but I don’t believe it is lust that rules us.” Well, most of the truth was important.
She stared at him in amazement. “Never say so!”
He held back his laughter. She had to recognize it was more. “Well, it doesn’t rule us entirely. I am not completely mad with lust for you. You realize that, don’t you?”
She said slowly, her eyes going yet again to his mouth, “I honestly don’t know what I realize, Nicholas. All I know is that it is right for me—you are right for me, no one else, just you. Whe
n you kissed my hand this morning, something deep inside me recognized that you were for me.”
So quickly, and she knew? He knew he was the one too, of course he was the one, but he wouldn’t tell her that until he had the vows from her, not until she was legally his. He said lightly, “Not even one of the three dukes?”
“Into the fire with the dukes.”
He laughed again. He believed he’d laughed more in the past two days than in the past five years. “You have a wit that pleases me,” he said.
And she said then, flooring him, “But there is more to this, Nicholas, and I suspect you are well aware of it. For me, it is these overwhelming feelings, this recognition of you, but I think—well, it sounds absurd, I know, but I feel you were perhaps looking for me, as I, perhaps, was looking for you.”
“Looking for you? Actively searching for you? And you looking for me? You mean Fate guided our boats to the same shore?”
“I think our boats docked next to each other with our bows knocking together makes more sense than this place called the Pale with its Tibers and Dragons.”
“Perhaps the Pale isn’t real—perhaps it’s a metaphor, as Grayson said.”
“You believe it is real, Nicholas. I ask you, how is this book—the Rules of the Pale—possible? It was Grayson who found it, who was led to find it. Was this Fate or something stronger? And you say your grandfather had a copy of the book. This book boggles the mind. You know it is too much. And when I begin asking these sorts of questions, I become afraid.”
The whole thing would frighten him too if he weren’t so long used to it. He wanted to bring her against him, reassure her, but knew he’d be a fool to do it. He couldn’t ruin things now. Even this conversation, conducted only a room away from her guardian, was madness.
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 133