She laughed as he rolled over onto his back, bringing her with him.
He clasped his hands around her slim waist to hold her steady. “It’s also true you are so beautiful you make my teeth ache.”
“And you, sir, are a dangerous man, taking advantage of my helpless damsel self, always tempting me to fall from virtue. There is only one solution I can see.” Miranda leaned down and kissed him. Grayson felt such a punch of lust and incredible tenderness he thought he’d expire with it.
“Before you tell me your solution, please put me out of my misery,” he said, and so she did.
Grayson closed his eyes. No man could be more blessed than he.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Papa!” Pip was on him in a flash, sticking a small wrapped package into his hands. Grayson came down on his haunches at Pip’s eye level, gave him a hug. “What is this?”
Pip was so excited he was bouncing from one foot to the other. “It’s a present for you, Papa. I asked Lise Marie if I had enough coin to buy it for you, and it turns out I did! Look, look!”
Grayson sat on one of the entrance hall chairs, Pip now dancing around him while Grayson unknotted the twine and peeled back the brown paper. Inside was a book, a very old book, and there was no name or title on the faded vellum cover. Grayson drew in a deep breath. Was it another book written by John Culver to make him believe long-ago events in Scotland were contrary to what historians claimed as fact? But were they facts, were they indeed what had actually happened, or did history’s pronouncements depend upon who was the victor in any conflict? “History is written by the winners,” his don at Oxford had always reminded his students.
“Do you like it, Papa? The bookstore clerk—he was an old man, all bent over, and his trousers were really baggy, more baggy than Mr. Terduck’s. He gave me licorice, said the book was for you, no one else. He told me the price was exactly the number of coins I had. Isn’t that amazing? Do you like it? Is it about ghosts?”
“We’ll see. Thank you, Pip.” Grayson gently set the book on the table beside him, lifted Pip onto his lap, and took his beautiful face between his palms. “It is the finest book I have ever seen. I cannot wait to read it.” And he fully intended for Lise Marie to take him to the bookstore as soon as they could get away. He wanted to question this old man.
When Grayson and Lise Marie were finally able to separate themselves from the children, they walked to the Royal Mile. It was a sunny day, warranting only two layers of extra warmth.
They were greeted at the Clowder Bookshop by a lovely plump woman who told them she couldn’t imagine who the old man who’d sold Pip the book was. He certainly didn’t work in her bookshop. Still, Grayson asked the other two employees. Neither knew of the old man Lise Marie described. Grayson showed Mrs. Clowder the book. She was bewildered, frowned, told him she’d never seen it before. None of the other employees knew of it either. Grayson’s heart sped up.
When they left the bookstore, Lise Marie took his arm, smiled up at him. “George was right. There is never a dull moment with you about, even if you won’t tell me what is in this strange book from an employee who doesn’t exist.”
Grayson said, “Lise Marie, had you planned to go into the bookstore?”
“No, I wanted to take the children into a store nearby that sold pens and paper, but Pip saw the bookstore and insisted he had to buy you a book. P.C. and Brady were agreeable, so in we went.” She paused. “Grayson, you believe Pip was somehow guided into the bookstore, don’t you? And the old man who sold Pip the book—was he a spirit?”
Grayson turned and hugged her. “It is possible. Thank you, Lise Marie, for being you.”
She hugged him back, grinned up at him. “George also told me you keep things close to your vest. Very well, I will remain in ignorance. Do you know, before I married George I feared I was doomed to spend the rest of my life with my mother.” Lise Marie sent a prayer of thanks heavenward, kicked up her heels, and laughed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Grayson rode Astor to Cibalto’s house only to be told by Mrs. Brush he was at the palace. Grayson found him in his small office in the east wing, reading, he said, “A glowing treatise written by a contemporary of the Earl of Lennox.” He beckoned Grayson to be seated. “He also compliments the Earl of Lennox’s intelligent education of his grandson, James VI of Scotland. He naturally assumed the intelligent part.”
Grayson only nodded and waved the book in Cibalto’s face and told him how Pip had come to buy the book from an old man who didn’t exist. He handed Cibalto the thin volume.
“Yet another amazement,” he said. “You’ve read it?”
“Yes. You’ll notice no author’s name is printed on the cover, no title. It is in English. Tell me if you can read it.”
Cibalto stroked the old vellum cover. “Very well, let us see.” Cibalto opened the book, shook his head. “No, I cannot read it. The writing is cramped and faded. I suppose it is in Old English. Would you read aloud, please?”
Grayson nodded and read:
It is cold tonight, and I am alone. I lie in bed, a satin hood over my head so no one can see my face, including me. The running, fetid pustules are hideous. I lift the hood only so I may eat. I wonder if I will die with the face of a monster.
I will remain here in the old provost’s house in Kirk o’ Field until the sores are gone. Both Mary and my father refuse to see me. Mary ignores me. My father sent his secretary to me with a letter. He wrote I deserve the syphilis because I was a whore and I have no allies because no one can trust my word. It isn’t true, none of it. I tell my father I am the king of Scotland and I have given England and Scotland a future king. I can hear my father laughing at me, calling me a worthless clump of dung. I know he no longer wants me. I am frightened. The vile eruptions come more often now. How much longer will I have to remain alone? How much longer will I live?
I miss David. He loved me, told me so many times when he caressed me. He believed me beautiful, believed I could do anything. If he could see me now, he would flee from me. I would not blame him. I know now this vile disease gave me madness for that single moment when I signed the agreement with David’s enemies. They murdered him, not I. Of course Mary saw my signature, believes me guilty, even though it wasn’t my fault, even though I swore to her I was forced to add my name. Mary’s hatred of me swells and swells like a bloated, rotted fruit. Will she have me killed now she has her precious son and heir? Or will madness take me over and kill me? I lie here and wait, for what I know not.
Cibalto rose and began pacing. “All of it, it makes no sense. The old man at the bookstore, was he a spirit, Darnley’s spirit? If so, did Darnley actually write these pages? Does he want us to feel sympathy for him?” He looked toward the crackling embers in the fireplace. “I suppose I could feel sorry for him if he took any responsibility for what he did. But he always blamed others, nothing was his fault. He even wanted Mary’s secretary, David Rizzio, the man who was his lover, to die brutally.
“I wonder if the house exploded the very night he wrote these words? Darnley was only twenty years old when he was strangled. I wonder how this small tome survived all these years with no one finding it.”
