The Wedding Night by Linda Needham Read Free Book Online Page 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