A Royal Wedding(20)
‘That wasn’t flattery.’
He had her. He strode back to his office, knowing that tonight she would grace both his table and his bed. She was as good as his. And tonight, and for all the nights that she remained here, he would have her. Nothing surer.
He almost growled in anticipation. He didn’t understand this need, this compulsion to have her. He hated strangers. And yet he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything before in his life.
Did it matter why?
Wasn’t it enough to know that he wanted her and that she was his for the taking? And by the time she left he would have rid himself of whatever spell this was that she had cast over him—rid himself of this compulsion to bed her and to watch the sparks in her eyes, to feel the electricity inside her as she came apart around him. He could hardly wait.
CHAPTER SEVEN
GRACE rubbed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, a bubble of excitement glowing pearlescent and pretty as her raw theory took shape and substance—a bubble only slightly tainted by a niggling concern that she had missed something.
She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Her supposition that the pages had been removed to protect them rather than to destroy them wasn’t just a rash idea now; the pages she had translated since then only lent weight to her theory.
One page had been in praise of mothers and motherhood and the sacred mother-child bond. Another had been a celebration of spring and renewal in all things spiritual and physical. Another an endorsement of acting kindly to friends and strangers alike. All of them fabulous. All of them a revelation into thoughts based more on humanitarian principles rather than the dictates of any particular religion. That would have been crime enough to have them destroyed.
But it was the last page that gave the most credence to her theory.
It was probably the most spectacular of all the pages.
The inks were fresh and clear, the colours almost leaping from the page, bold and beautiful. It was the message that disturbed her on some deep, uncomfortable level.
It warned of an affliction with no cure. An odd subject, Grace had thought, in a so-called book of healing, assuming it must contain a description of a disease beyond the range of a physician’s treatment. Cancer, or any number of things that would have been similarly incurable back then.
The affliction was random, the scribe warned, regardless of wealth or station. It was ruthless and devastating in its impact.
It must be something like cancer, she’d mused as she’d made notes before continuing. But, reading on, she’d realised she’d been wrong.
It made your chest thump and left you breathless and weak. It turned your mind to a porridge filled with poems and songs and other, darker, carnal longings. And should you fall you were doomed, and no god in heaven or on earth could save you. Yet if you succumbed you were the most blessed soul alive.
Love, Grace had realised with a smile, working through the translation. Love was the scribe’s fatal affliction, its victims both doomed and blessed. She’d heard plenty of modern ballads with similar themes. It never ceased to amaze her how some things transcended not only the generations but the centuries.
Still, something bothered her. She checked her notes, unable to dispel the glimmer of uneasiness. But there was nothing untoward that she could see, and anyway it was time to pack up and get dressed for dinner.
She gathered her things, sending up silent thanks to whoever it was who had removed the pages from the book for safekeeping all those centuries ago. Soon, if all went well and her findings were corroborated, the pages and the book would be reunited.
And tomorrow she could leave. Her heart gave a little lurch she interpreted as relief. Already she felt better about dinner, more in control. The doctor was back in charge, her earlier recklessness put aside. Dinner would be fine, she told herself. She’d tell him what she’d found and ask him about why he thought the pages had ended up here. She’d tell him she was leaving and ask him to arrange transport. What could possibly happen when she was leaving tomorrow?
She returned to her bedroom. Gloomy light was filtering into the room courtesy of the dark clouds hiding the sun. Wind rattled at the windows. Another rough night, she presumed, the scientist in her firmly back in control. There was nothing sinister about it. Stormy nights were just the way things were here.
But the weather faded to insignificance when she turned on the light and saw what was waiting for her on the bed.
It was a gown of liquid silk, a waterfall of blue and green rippling over the coverlet, and it was the most glorious thing she had ever seen. She held it up against herself and realised it was new, its store tag swinging free. A store she’d never been game enough to walk into in her life. It must have cost a fortune. How on earth had he found it?