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 accompany 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."