She pressed closer. He held her tight, felt her nails digging into his back. "It's all right," he said, and repeated it once more, twice.
She said finally, her voice thread thin, "I was dreaming I saw a man I'd never seen before. He was very handsome, Nicholas, like a golden angel, with the most beautiful pale blue eyes, but I knew there was darkness behind those pale eyes of his, and that sounds strange, but it's true. Too much darkness, and such intensity. I felt his intensity to my soul. Even though he looked at me he didn't seem to see me, didn't seem to know I was there, although I was standing right in front of him, on the other side of a huge fire. He was brewing something in a large pot and I thought he must be careful else the flames would burn him, for they were leaping upward, spewing, then funneling, forming peculiar shapes. I'd never seen a fire like that before in my life. I told him to be careful of those mad flames, but he didn't hear me. For him, I suppose I wasn't there. It was as if there was a wall between us and it was clear only from my side.
"He continued to stir the pot with some sort of long-handled metal spoon. I watched the pot bubble and hiss and the flames roar, as if an unseen bellows blew on it. I realized he was chanting something and I thought, Why can't he hear me if I can hear him ?"
She fell silent, her hands in fists now against his shoulders. He continued to hold her tightly, running his hands up and down her back.
"There is a clear wall between us, I thought as I watched him, but it made no sense to me and so I stuck out my hand to touch it. There was nothing there. I stepped to the side of the fire, and stuck my hand out again." She shuddered against him. "I touched his shoulder. He jumped in surprise. Believe me, so did I. He stopped stirring, stopped his chanting, and looked straight at me, and I knew he could see me now. Nicholas, he smiled at me."
"He what?"
"He smiled at me, and said in this deep voice, 'You are mine. Isn't it odd how the light always brings clarity?' Then he looked back over his shoulder as if hearing something or someone coming that alarmed him. Then he turned back to me and he put his fingertips to his lips. He stared at me. I saw something strange and scared in his eyes, but it was gone quickly. His eyes were so intense, Nicholas, so powerful, I felt he was looking into my soul. He whispered, 'Be careful, look to the book, and you will be here, soon now, soon now—'"
She looked up at him now, and he saw her eyes were clearing, becoming more focused. "What happened then?"
"Suddenly it was as if I was hurtled into a huge well of white, like a blizzard, but there was no wind, no movement of any kind, no cold, nothing save blinding white. Then you were holding me and talking to me and I slowly came back into myself. Was it the white that frightened him? Or was he the one who stopped it when you commanded it? Nicholas, what was in the pot? What did he mean that I had to be careful?"
"For once a being in a dream says something that makes sense. This being believes" you're in danger, he's warning you."
"But who was he?"
"We will find out, don't worry."
"And the book, I'm to look to the book. That has got to mean Sarimund's the Rules of the Pale or Sarimund's short book that belonged to your grandfather. All right, I can do that. I can read both books again, we can study them more closely."
"Yes, we will even look at the book seams, see if there is anything hidden within the covers. Another helpful clue. We're getting there, Rosalind ."
"And what did he mean when he said I would be there soon? In the Pale?"
He didn't like it, but he said, "Yes, very likely. As to the light bringing clarity, that requires more thought. We will figure it all out." He pointed to the knife. "When I came in, you were holding this knife. Blood was dripping off the tip, only the drops were white like everything else. Do you know where it came from?"
She looked horrified. "No, no, I've never seen it before. It wasn't in my dream. I was holding it and it was dripping white drops of blood?" She sounded terrified now and he couldn't blame her. "But wait, Nicholas, you were wrong, there's no blood on it, white or red."
He picked up the knife, looked down, and felt his heart stop. She was right—there was no blood, no sign there had ever been any blood. The blade was glittering silver. He immediately released her and fell to his knees to study the carpet. No blood.
Nicholas slowly rose, felt his heart tripping. He hated that there was something going on here he couldn't begin to understand, hated not understanding, not knowing what it was. He felt helpless, impotent. What if she'd been with him? Would she have dreamed the same dream? Would there have been the same thunder, the terrifying white that filled everything? Would he have seen the knife appear in her hand? He said, "Wait, I saw blood drip on your bare foot." She raised her foot. There was nothing at all. She raised her other foot. Nothing.
"Well," he said, trying to center himself, trying to think clearly, calmly. "You called it a dream. It would seem you were plunged into the middle of a vision."
Rosalind laughed, a shaky laugh, and said, her voice a bit stronger now, "I don't know where the knife came from. I've never seen it before in my life."
"It's kept in a glass case down in the library."
"Nicholas?"
He laid the knife back on the night table, gathered her against him again. He kissed her ear. She was at last warming. He began stroking her again through the soft muslin nightgown.
"The man who was stirring the pot," she said against his shoulder, "I told you I'd never seen him before."
He kissed her temple. And waited. And his heart pounded slow deep strokes.
"He smiled at me. He knew me. He said, 'You are mine.'"
He waited.
She pulled back in his arms and looked into his face. "It's all so clear to me now. I know who the man was in my dream. It was Sarimund."
There was more confusion in her voice than fear now. He tried to keep his voice light. "Since I met you, Rosalind, I must say my life has been anything but boring. So Sarimund is in the middle of this rich mix of chaos, no surprise there."
"First I dreamed of Rennat the Titled Wizard of the East and now Sarimund. What does it mean, dammit?"
He smiled at her curse, touched his fingertip to her chin. "We'll figure it all out."
"All of the whiteness, the dagger with the white blood, Sarimund speaking to me—you're right, it wasn't a dream, Nicholas, it was a vision."
"Yes," he said, "I think* it was." Having a vision sounded all well and good, but he had no answers that he could get his brain around, and it nearly killed him.
"And that knife. Is it someone's message that there will be violence? Was that an additional warning for me to be careful?"
"I plan to keep you safe, sweetheart, I swear that to you. As for the rest of it—" He paused, stared down at her. "But not now, not now." He leaned down and kissed her mouth.
He felt her jerk of surprise, felt her initial resistance, then she sank into him.
She whispered against his mouth, "Sarimund was a vision, but you're not. You're thy husband, Nicholas, and you're naked."
He'd forgotten, truth be told. Her hands stroked up and down his back now, and she moved even closer, if that were possible. Her palms stroked down his flanks, his legs, then smoothed forward toward his belly. He wanted to laugh. Here he was ready to take his wife down on the bed and there was a knife not a foot away from them that had, five minutes before, been dripping white blood. Whose? Sarimund's?
He pulled back and closed his eyes when her hands pressed against him between their bodies, and her fingers touched him. He jerked away.
"Did I hurt you?"
He laughed. "Oh, no, my brain is dead, but nothing else. I beg you, Rosalind , don't move your hands, well, I take that back, yes, move your hands but not away from me. Touch me, Rosalind . This is about us now, only us, and I want you very badly."
When Nicholas lay on his back a short while later, a sleeping Rosalind tucked against his side, he stared up at the shadowed ceiling, listenin
g to the light rainfall against the windows.
He suddenly realized he didn't like the way the room smelled. It wasn't musty, no, it smelled coppery. Then he realized what it was. The scent he smelled was blood.
He lifted his wife in his arms and carried her back to the earl's bedchamber, kicked the door to the countess's room closed with his foot.
She jerked awake when he laid her onto the cold sheets.
"Shush," he whispered between kisses, "it's all right now. Come close and I'll warm you."
She murmured against his neck as she settled once again against him, "Sarimund said I'd be with him soon, soon I'd be coming to him."
He kissed her eyebrow, then her eyelids. "Rosalind , did you see any resemblance between you and him?"
He felt her start. "Did I look like him? Oh, no, Nicholas, I told you, he was beautiful, like an angel, all golden, his eyes light, light blue."
"What do you think he meant when he said to you, 'You are mine'?"
"Could it mean I'm a descendant of his? Sarimund lived in the sixteenth century, at the same time as Captain Jared. And he's hare, at least his voice."
A descendant of Sarimund—he supposed it explained a lot, but what exactly he couldn't say. He kissed her again, pulled her close. She whispered against his chest, "I let you make love to me. I shouldn't have done that."
Laughter came up in his throat, but he managed to hold it in. "Do you feel better now?"
"Yes, you know I do, but that is not the point."
"The point, whatever that is, can go to the Devil." He kissed her forehead, and settled in.
He was nearly asleep when he felt her lips move against his shoulder, and somehow, even though she only murmured the words against his flesh, he knew what she said. "The Pale—that's where all this is leading us."
He fell asleep to the sound of the rain against the window-panes and an image of a red Lasis in his mind.
It was the bright sunlight shining onto his face the following morning that brought him instantly awake, but it was the sound of Mrs. McGiver's loud shout that made him leap out of his had, nearly dumping Rosalind onto the floor.
41
Rosalind yelled, "Nicholas, you're naked!"
He stopped at the door, whirled back around, and caught the dressing gown she threw to him. She pulled a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around herself.
The two of them raced down the long corridor.
There was another loud shriek.
They ran down the main staircase and pulled up short. Mrs. McGiver stood over Peter Pritchard's body.
Nicholas was at Peter's side in an instant, his fingers against the pulse in his neck. He breathed a sigh of relief—his pulse was steady and slow. Peter was wearing trousers and a shirt, and only his socks. His boots lay beside him. He'd probably come into the house and taken off his boots because he didn't want to disturb anyone. "He's not dead, thank God." But he was unconscious. Nicholas felt for injuries, but nothing seemed broken. He heaved him to his shoulder and carried him into the drawing room and laid him on a sofa. He said over his shoulder, "Mrs. McGiver, what happened?"
"Oh, dear, my lord, I was coming down to see Cook about the oatmeal—there were lumps yesterday, and that's just wrong—well, yes, I saw Mr. Pritchard lying here. I immediately went to him, my lord, and I thought he was dead because he didn't respond even when I pinched his arm on the inside just above the elbow like I do to my grandchildren when they're naughty." "Then what happened?"
She sucked in her breath and blurted it out, "I thought that miserable ghost had murdered him. I was afraid, my lord."
"Who is the physician in these parts?"
"Andrew Knotts, my lord, skinny as a windowpane but he doesn't go out of his way to kill his patients. Oh, here's Mr. Block."
Nicholas saw Block pulling on his black coat over a white linen shirt not tucked into his trousers. He did, however, have his boots on. "Block, get the physician immediately. Go, man."
Peter stirred some five minutes later. Both Nicholas and Rosalind , now in a dressing down brought to her by Mrs. McGiver, hovered close, her feet, like his, unfortunately still bare. Rosalind dabbed a handkerchief dipped in rose water to his forehead.
"Peter?"
His eyes slowly opened. "My lord?" "Yes. How do you feel?"
"There were three of you, but now there are only two, so I must be better."
"Yes, you are better. Peter, what happened? Mrs. McGiver found you unconscious on the floor."
"My lord!"
It was Marigold, breathing fast, racing to a stop inside the drawing room door. "There are visitors. They're coming fast, impudent as you please, and here it is barely dawn."
Nicholas said, "Keep yourself still, Peter. Rosalind is going to give you some nice strong tea. I'll be back."
He walked into the entrance hail to see his stepmother standing squarely in front of him, dressed entirely in lavender all the way to the straw bonnet atop her head with two very purple curling feathers that quivered, chin up, looking like a banty rooster ready to take all comers. Arranged behind her were all three of her sons—Richard, Lancelot, and Aubrey.
Nicholas crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, now, it's true I've been gone from England for a long time, but isn't this a bit early to pay a morning visit?"
Miranda said, "You aren't dressed. There is a bruise on your foot. Your bare foot."
He shrugged. "Why are you four here in my house?"
Richard stepped forward. "We had meant to arrive last evening, but our carriage broke down and we were forced to spend the night in Meckly-Hinton."
His mother whisked around him to stand in front of him. As if she were somehow protecting him from Nicholas? "We were forced to stay the night at this miserable little inn called the Raving Rooster, set in the middle of a village that shouldn't exist since it has nothing to recommend it."
"And you got up before dawn to pay me a visit. May I ask why?"
Richard Vail, dressed in black, dark beard stubble on his face, gently eased in front of his mother again. He said without preamble, "We are here to warn you."
Miranda stuck her head around his shoulder. "I told him, why bother? You hate the lot of us, who cares if you croak it? Or if someone croaks you?"
"Mother," Richard said.
"Warn me?" Nicholas's voice was all languid and arrogant, and he knew it drove Richard mad. But Richard didn't look as if he wanted to kill him; he looked pale, he looked— frightened. Nicholas frowned at him. "I know the four of you would not shed a tear were I belowground, yet you all troop into my house at near dawn to warn me?"
"Yes," Lancelot said, his poet's face flushed with anger, his voice nearly breaking with it, "but I didn't want to come. Don't tell you a bloody thing, that's what I wanted, but Richard insisted, blast him. I don't know about Aubrey."
"Shut up, Lance," Richard said, not looking at him. His brother sucked in a curse.
Aubrey, with his red hair and bright intelligent eyes, nearly bounced forward. "I wanted to come, Nicholas. I don't even know you, so why would I hate you? You and your bride were quite nice to me at your wedding. Listen, Nicholas, the fact is, we are here. Mother is fatigued, though she has the energy of three Druid priests. Won't you invite us in? We really are here to warn you, that's no lie."
"My lord!"
Trying to edge past his half brothers was Block, towing a very tall, very gaunt man in his wake. The man's hair was nearly as white as his own hair had been in the vision.
"You are the physician, sir?"
The man gave him a short bow. "I am Dr. Knotts. Where is my patient? I hope it is serious enough to justify bringing me out at this unleavened hour of the morning. I say, there are quite a few people standing here in the entrance hall. Madam, I must say you look on the bilious side. Perhaps it is because of the vast quantities of lavender you're wearing. My lord, would you care to direct me?"
Nicholas eyed his stepmother. "Ma'am, you and your whelps will accomp
any Block to the library and he will give you tea. I shall be along shortly."
"But—"
Nicholas didn't look back at her. He directed Dr. Knotts to the drawing room. He heard grumbling behind him but didn't turn.
As he stood by the door watching Dr. Knotts gently shove Rosalind out of his way, he called out, "Come with me, Rosalind. You and I must dress now. We have unexpected guests."
Not twelve minutes later the two of them returned to the drawing room to see Dr. Knotts standing beside Peter, the doctor's arms folded over his chest.
He turned at Nicholas's entrance. "My lord, there is nothing to warrant leeches." He sounded disappointed.
"Do you know what caused Mr. Pritchard to collapse?"
"He carries the curse of youth, which is idiocy, but he assures me he was not drunk. I have no idea what made him faint, for that is what he did, pure and simple. He had no seizure, no sudden pain in his head or limbs. So I must conclude that he collapsed for the simple fact that he is young and untried and—"
Nicholas said, "He is older than I am, Dr. Knotts."
"Then it must be a stricture in his bowels. This is not uncommon, particularly in young men with excesses of male vigor."
Peter sat up suddenly, thoroughly alarmed now. "A stricture in my bowels?"
"Aye, lad, but it will work itself out. Now, I must be off." And Dr. Knotts, after bowing to both Nicholas and Rosalind, was gone within the next second, Block at his side.
Nicholas said, "Don't worry, Peter. I fancy the good doctor has no idea why you passed out. Odd things sometimes happen when you least expect them, but then they pass. How do you feel?"
"I am fine now, my lord. I honestly don't know what happened. I was feeling quite fine, and suddenly, I saw this bright flash of white and then you were leaning over me, speaking to me."
It was the light that had laid him flat, Nicholas thought. But why? He said to Peter, "I wish you to confine yourself to very light duty today, Peter. Let's not take any chances. Now, my stepmother and my three half brothers just arrived. Her ladyship and I must attend them. Rosalind , come with me."