The Wedding Night (5 page)

His eyes brightened in his conceit, never shifting from hers as he left her for a small table near the soaring windows.

"Vaults, madam, museums, the archbishop's ear—just as I promised you." Rushford swept aside the red velvet cloth, revealing a
squarecornered
object nestled in the center. "My credentials."

He was good, this mining baron, surprisingly theatrical. But she wouldn't be swayed to his side—not even tempted.

"You're wasting my time, Rushford."

"I doubt that, Miss Faelyn. Come, see for yourself."

There was something deeply stirring about the object, about its weight as he lifted it to show her, and the faint ornamenting across its broad face.

It wouldn't hurt to look. Setting her heart and all her hopes against him, she indulged the wicked man and approached the table.

In the next instant, the room began to reel. A legend come to life—the
Dyrgel
Gofarian
; the secrets of the Celtic silversmiths. Most antiquarians doubted it had ever existed. And this marauding heathen had it here in his library! Mairey could hardly breathe, could barely hear for the maelstrom of hope and terror.

"Where did you get this?"

"It was delivered to me yesterday under guard from the archbishop of
York
, at the behest of the queen herself."

"Impossible."

"Nothing is impossible, Miss Faelyn." He reached down to touch the page with his bare fingers.

"Not that way!" Mairey caught his hand in hers, felt the glance of lightning in his fingers. "A kerchief, please."

Without a word Rushford set the book gently on the table, then proffered a kerchief from his breast pocket. "Madam."

Mairey whipped it from him, wanting more than anything to find the book fraudulent, an elaborate hoax to trick her into joining him.

But this was old lambskin, old tanning,
evidence
that it had once been laced and scrolled. The ends of the stiff parchment were bound by thongs into two strips of oaken heartwood, and those were bound to flat covers, front and back.

"This cover isn't the original." Wonder and habit made her speak aloud. "Nor the binding."

"It had damn well better be original! How the bloody hell can you tell?"

"The gilding, for one. A thousand years old, no more than that." History
be
damned—this was legend come to life!

"A thousand years? Blast it, woman! Isn't that old enough?" Rushford shook the table with his weight as he leaned over the book, his hands resting hard on the tabletop.

"The cover missed the
Gofarian
by five centuries."

"Damn the man! The archbishop swore to me this book was authentic."

"I didn't say it wasn't." She prayed that it was, for it was a miracle. Mairey opened the cover to the parchment, and the first words of Latin took her breath away.

As the
Willow
shall race the Moon

On footsteps bright with silver.

Begetting of sorrows,

Begetting of joy.

Tears rushed to
Mairey's
eyes, so very hot and incriminating if Rushford ever saw them. Here was magic—a priceless sword dangling above her head, held there by a man who had the power to destroy her village and the people she loved. The same man who could open doors so long closed to her.

"Well, madam?" His voice
came
rumbling from behind her, and frightened a sob from her chest. The blackguard must know for a damning fact that she would have crawled on her knees from here to
York
just to catch a glimpse of the
Gofarian
. And now here it was, inside Rushford's library. He was a sorcerer, a piper whose music was meant only for her, and she was helpless against his enchantment.

She could almost feel the weight of the
Willowmoon
Knot in her
hand,
feel the cool silver turn warm. It was as near to her as Jackson Rushford.

"Well, yes," she managed to say, though too softly, as she wiped a stray tear off her cheek. "The book is
interesting
."

"More than interesting. I can see it in your eyes." He was leaning so close, he might have seen inside her heart.

"A scholarly surprise then."

"Ha! Private museums, Miss Faelyn," he said evenly, giving a wicked crook to his brow. "Gilded invitations into restricted archaeological sites, sacred books, crumbling manuscripts, sealed vaults, tea at Windsor with the queen—they are yours for as long as you associate yourself with my search for the
Willowmoon
Knot and the secret of its silver."

Oh, Papa! What should I do?

"We're an impeccable fit, Miss Faelyn." He was impossibly tall. Impossibly dark-eyed and handsome. "Offer your skills to me, and I shall give all this to you. A simple, profitable business relationship."

Not simple. Terrifying. Impossible.

And as perilously tempting as gazing over the side of a cliff and believing with soaring certainty that she could fly. This man, this predatory beast, was offering her a precious set of wings and making her fly over the mouth of hell.

He was offering the
Willowmoon
.

"But if you're truly not interested, Miss Faelyn…" He offered his open palms. "I will engage someone else."

The threat was so blatantly idle that Mairey snorted. "Who?"

"There was a young man recommended to me.
Brawlings
, I believe."

"Arthur
Brawlings
." Mairey knew him well. A despicable charlatan who would boil his own mother's bones and salt an ancient barrow with them, if he thought it would bring him an ounce of glory. Yet
Brawlings
was also a scholar of the Celts and treasure hungry. With all the resources that Rushford was offering, the man would soon be on a trail that would bring sorrow to everyone Mairey loved.

Rushford had thought of everything.

As always, the man was watching her every move, had probably seen the teary redness in her eyes and would make the most of her weakness.

"Should you refuse me, Miss Faelyn, I will put these same resources at
Brawlings's
disposal." He folded the cloth over the ancient text, one corner and then the next, until it was gone from her sight. "We will surely lose precious months of research while he catches up—a year or two, perhaps. But I am a patient man, willing to search the world for what I want, if need be. The
Willowmoon
Knot will eventually be found, and its clues will lead me to the silver."

She couldn't take that chance.

She would have to make a pact with the devil. Yet not on the
devil's
terms.

Deception, half-truths, sleight of hand … the secrets of the
Willowmoon
still belonged to her, and the truth could be as blinding and deceptive as any lie. Let the man believe that she was as greedy as he, that they were after the same glittering prize.
Mairey's
heart was raw and her head ached.

"You've left me little choice, Rushford. I want the
Willowmoon
Knot as much as you do. A fortune in silver is difficult to deny. Very well—I'll join your project."

He raised a dark brow as though he were surprised that he'd won. "Done, then."

"Yes. Done." Mairey felt as though she'd been flogged and thrown out on a rock. "Now, sir, if you'll point me in the direction of the nearest lodging house, I'll return to
Drakestone
in the morning to see my library properly packed and sent back to Oxford, where I can conduct my research properly."

"No." The word was plain and clipped; but as powerful as a blow. "You work for me now, Miss Faelyn. Your library stays here."

"I can't afford to ride the train back and forth to
Oxford
every morning and evening." She couldn't leave her sisters and her aunt. And if she was to keep Rushford from learning too much, she needed to conduct her research safely distant from his prying.

"And I can't afford the time to have you on that train. You'll live here on my estate—"

"I'd rather sleep on a park bench! Good day, sir." Mairey got three steps toward the foyer before

Rushford got a fist-hold of her skirts.

"Be still, girl!" His momentum propelled him against her before he easily hauled her backward into his chest.

"I'll not live alone with you, sir!" He was wrapped around her like a winter coat buttoned up against a cold wind.

"I'm offering you a private lodge here at
Drakestone
," he murmured against her ear.

"No."

"I assure you, Miss Faelyn, that if I had improper designs on you I would be forthright about it."

"What the devil does that mean?" The man was forthright enough with his shimmering heat and the fierce banding of his arms, a cocoon as ravishing as she remembered in her dreams.

"It means that you and I have contracted a business deal, which satisfies both of us in equal measure."

"As I measure it, Rushford,
you
got the bucket and
I
got the hole."

Rushford was silent and still for the space of a heartbeat, then Mairey heard a rumble and realized that he was laughing softly, the sound coursing through her like another pulse.

"Indeed," he said, freeing her from his grasp but blocking her retreat. "
Drakestone
is large and the lodge is separate, secured behind as many locks as you find comfortable. But you will work with me in the main part of the house. My hours are long and unreliable. The sooner we find this Knot and its silver the sooner we'll be quit of each other, and the happier we both will be. Agreed?"

She looked up over his shoulder. His library was enormous, with two full stories of books and polished mahogany, and a mezzanine ringing the room. And a quarter of the shelves on its lower floor were empty but for a few of her field note boxes lined up together.

She could build an impregnable fortress against him here.

"Whose desk is this?" Mairey slid her hand just under the edge of the desktop, following the undulations of the mahogany-cabled carving. "Have you a clerk?"

"It belongs to me."

"How often do you use it?"

"Rarely. This is my library. My office is through that connecting door."

"Your hours?"

"Vary, as I said, as required by my business concerns."

"Your
mines
, I assume." She endured the bitterness, offered him a smile.

"Yes. As well as my forges and smelters, my foundry—"

"So you're busy most days?"

"And most nights."

Busy stripping hillsides of ancient trees and defiling gentle waterfalls with coal slag. Like any busybody dragon, he'd soon tire of sniffing round his new bauble and leave her to the wonders of his lair. Hiding her work from him would be simple if she built her walls of dancing mirrors.

Oh, Papa, the possibilities.

"May I see the lodge?"

* * *

He led her silently through the clipped shadows of the formal garden, past an afternoon-gilded greenhouse, over a low footbridge and its crystal stream, and into a remarkably unspoiled willow woods. He was single-minded in his long stride, constantly looking back to make certain she was following.

And when the lodge appeared beneath the heavy canopy of oak and hornbeam, Mairey thought they had accidently stumbled onto a storybook house.

It had a thatched roof and round-topped windows, three chimneys and a winding path of pearly gravel that seemed to sing as she followed it to the front porch.

Rushford held open the door, and Mairey found
herself
as charmed by the inside as she had been by the outside. Big, bright rooms freshly furnished, the homey smell of
woodsmoke
caught up in the timbers.

The girls would love it here!

"I trust it meets with your approval, Miss Faelyn."

Rushford was waiting for her in the wide hall as she came down the stairs. He'd been oddly puritanical in staying below while she explored the bedrooms, this feral-forged man who had thought nothing of pinning her to a post in an abandoned mill and fondling her as though they had been hungry lovers.

"The house is very unlike you, Rushford."

"An old royal hunting lodge. It was the first building on the property, some three hundred years ago. And as I promised, a full five-minute walk from the main house, with plenty of locks and a sturdy bar for the door. It's yours to do with whatever you wish."

"Are you married, my lord?" Mairey hadn't meant to ask that particular question, and never so bluntly, but it seemed important if she was going to be tied to the man indefinitely.

She'd have thought the question a simple one to answer, but Rushford just stood there looking at her, frowning.