Read Online The Wedding Night by Linda Needham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Needham
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his eyes.
"That will do, gentlemen." Jack walked away from the stinging heat and found his anger again. "Leave your report on the table, Dodson."
"My lord, we've not finished explaining—"
"One more season, Dodson," Jack said, holding open the door to the breezy foyer. "That's all I'm giving you. Then I shall terminate our association."
"But, sir, we—"
"Good evening." Jack waited while the men clucked and eyed each other gravely as they gathered their ruffled dignities and left.
Jack listened to Sumner's balmy tones as the man let the Messrs. Dodson and Greel out into the twilight, and he wondered if he could ever act upon such a threat. Terminating his relationship with Dodson's firm would be admitting that hope was lost, that he had abandoned his pledge to his father. A trust betrayed. He wasn't ready for the shame of it; would never be.
More than that, he wasn't ready to be alone in the world with no other blood of his heart but his. He battled every night to keep the memories from fading to fog, turning them into dreams where his parent's small cottage was larger and brighter and warmer than it had ever been. Where his father told stories of his soldiering, and his mother combed the tangle of twig and bramble out of Banon's hair. Where Emma read the month-old Times aloud and Clady wrapped Jack around her finger, and his heart around hers.
Jack bit the inside of his cheek and tucked away his grief. He couldn't risk losing them. Not yet. He would give Dodson a year, perhaps longer. After all, the man's son seemed to have taken a real interest in the case. New blood. Yes, that's what was needed.
Just as he needed to give Mairey Faelyn free rein to find the Willowmoon Knot. If its design truly was a cryptic map to a vein of silver hidden in some forgotten part of Britain , he would find it as surely as he had found the glitter of silver in her eyes.
Granted, the woman was ill prepared to conduct a prudent investigation. Her library had resembled a squirrel's nest and had had just as much security.
She would need a key to the Drakestone library. Jack unlocked his desk drawer and fished out the extra key. He kept his own deep in his pocket, but for some reason he would never understand , women rarely had such conveniences stitched into their garments.
A piece of twine would do nicely.
Jack left the house through the rear door, relieved at the head-clearing mission, and traversed the graveled garden walk to the toolshed . He found only bailing wire there—strong, but hardly suited to hanging about a woman's neck. He tried the stable and the laundry and finally located a thin length of hempen cord in the cook's pantry.
Jack let himself into the library, lit the lamp at his desk, and noticed the broken pot, sitting like an indictment. Beside it was a brush- stoppered bottle of cement.
"Thank you, Sumner," Jack said to the bottle, "you've just saved my hide." He would glue the bowl back together in no time, and Miss Faelyn would be none the wiser.
He sat down at the desk and found a shard that looked as though it would fit perfectly—well, almost perfectly—in the space near the lip of the bowl. He unstoppered the cement and was about to dab the sharp-smelling goo against the first piece when the library door opened.
"What the devil do you think you're doing, Rushford!" Miss Faelyn was on him in the next blink, a cloud of peach-scented fury as she grabbed the bowl out of his hand and cradled it as though it were a baby chick and he were a slavering wolf.
"It's … broken," he said, feeling foolish as hell for stating the obvious.
"It isn't broken , sir. It's Pictish !" She held the thing up to the lamp, inspecting the finish as though suspecting he had bruised it.
" Pictish ?"
" And irreplaceable. What were you going to do?"
Jack felt like a child confessing to roughhousing in the parlor. "I was trying to repair the bloody thing."
"Repair it? Sweet blazes!"
She clutched it tighter, abject horror on her
"That will do, gentlemen." Jack walked away from the stinging heat and found his anger again. "Leave your report on the table, Dodson."
"My lord, we've not finished explaining—"
"One more season, Dodson," Jack said, holding open the door to the breezy foyer. "That's all I'm giving you. Then I shall terminate our association."
"But, sir, we—"
"Good evening." Jack waited while the men clucked and eyed each other gravely as they gathered their ruffled dignities and left.
Jack listened to Sumner's balmy tones as the man let the Messrs. Dodson and Greel out into the twilight, and he wondered if he could ever act upon such a threat. Terminating his relationship with Dodson's firm would be admitting that hope was lost, that he had abandoned his pledge to his father. A trust betrayed. He wasn't ready for the shame of it; would never be.
More than that, he wasn't ready to be alone in the world with no other blood of his heart but his. He battled every night to keep the memories from fading to fog, turning them into dreams where his parent's small cottage was larger and brighter and warmer than it had ever been. Where his father told stories of his soldiering, and his mother combed the tangle of twig and bramble out of Banon's hair. Where Emma read the month-old Times aloud and Clady wrapped Jack around her finger, and his heart around hers.
Jack bit the inside of his cheek and tucked away his grief. He couldn't risk losing them. Not yet. He would give Dodson a year, perhaps longer. After all, the man's son seemed to have taken a real interest in the case. New blood. Yes, that's what was needed.
Just as he needed to give Mairey Faelyn free rein to find the Willowmoon Knot. If its design truly was a cryptic map to a vein of silver hidden in some forgotten part of Britain , he would find it as surely as he had found the glitter of silver in her eyes.
Granted, the woman was ill prepared to conduct a prudent investigation. Her library had resembled a squirrel's nest and had had just as much security.
She would need a key to the Drakestone library. Jack unlocked his desk drawer and fished out the extra key. He kept his own deep in his pocket, but for some reason he would never understand , women rarely had such conveniences stitched into their garments.
A piece of twine would do nicely.
Jack left the house through the rear door, relieved at the head-clearing mission, and traversed the graveled garden walk to the toolshed . He found only bailing wire there—strong, but hardly suited to hanging about a woman's neck. He tried the stable and the laundry and finally located a thin length of hempen cord in the cook's pantry.
Jack let himself into the library, lit the lamp at his desk, and noticed the broken pot, sitting like an indictment. Beside it was a brush- stoppered bottle of cement.
"Thank you, Sumner," Jack said to the bottle, "you've just saved my hide." He would glue the bowl back together in no time, and Miss Faelyn would be none the wiser.
He sat down at the desk and found a shard that looked as though it would fit perfectly—well, almost perfectly—in the space near the lip of the bowl. He unstoppered the cement and was about to dab the sharp-smelling goo against the first piece when the library door opened.
"What the devil do you think you're doing, Rushford!" Miss Faelyn was on him in the next blink, a cloud of peach-scented fury as she grabbed the bowl out of his hand and cradled it as though it were a baby chick and he were a slavering wolf.
"It's … broken," he said, feeling foolish as hell for stating the obvious.
"It isn't broken , sir. It's Pictish !" She held the thing up to the lamp, inspecting the finish as though suspecting he had bruised it.
" Pictish ?"
" And irreplaceable. What were you going to do?"
Jack felt like a child confessing to roughhousing in the parlor. "I was trying to repair the bloody thing."
"Repair it? Sweet blazes!"
She clutched it tighter, abject horror on her
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