“And you are the—”
“Eleventh. The seventh son in line, and sadly, destined for the same. With one difference compared to the previous six.” His voice etched in steel. “I’m the only one who has no son to carry the curse forward. However things play out, the cursewillstop with me.”
It was to her credit that she sat there quietly. Not shrieking like a banshee, not jumping away as if he bore the plague. Just her lips pursed in thoughtful contemplation. “I have a couple of questions.”
He inclined his head.
“Have you always heard the trees… talking?”
There was no reason to lie. He was falling in drastically in love with her, and he wanted someone to know—herto know. “Yes, but they haven’t always been so loud. Every year they seem to grow louder.”
“What exactly breaks the curse?”
“I can’t say that I know for sure.”
“Any ideas?”
“No.”
She blew out a breath in an audible whoosh, her eyes on the tightly folded hands in her lap. “When is your thirty-third birthday?”
“In two days.”
Tears burned behind Peyton’s eyes. She blinked them back. “What a horrible way to live.” All thoughts of the investigator’s report she’d discovered earlier that day fled her mind.
His whole body stiffened next to her. “I don’t need your pity.”
“Of course you don’t,” she snapped. “What we need is to discover the exact nature of the curse and what breaks it.”
“We?” His astonishment at her standing by his side said much for his trust in others.
She leaned over and brushed her lips against his. “Unless you don’t want my help.” She sat back quickly and tapped the journal with her forefinger. “This should have some answers. It’s directly related, in case you haven’t noticed.”
He snorted. “I’ve been haunting the halls of Griston, trying to find this damn thing for years. What I fail to understand is why or how it ended up in Leander Skerry’s possession. I never even met the man. What few times I’d seen him, it was of him scurrying away. It’s a well-known fact how much he hated any of the peerage. From a lowly baron to a royal duke.”
“What difference does it make at this point? The diary is in our possession. We’re the ones who found it.” She moved to the other end of the sofa, tugged the throw over her legs, and snuggled beneath it. She relaxed pose attempting to conceal her concern she couldn’t disguise in her expressive eyes. “Read on, sir.”
He nodded. Touched and afraid, but he picked up the journal and began. “The tenth of July 1832. I rode Velencia to the edge of Griston’s property today. She was very antsy. I’m not certain why Winslow wished to meet there, but I don’t mind saying I was a little frightened. The trees were highly active, aggressively so. I could almost make out some of the words, they were so vehement. Of course, I couldn’t decipher them. They are in a language I don’t understand. Meaning they are not in French, Italian, Latin, or English. Winslow said he couldn’t tell either but assured me neither was it German or Spanish. He thought it sounded Russian or Slavic. One of the branches flailed so violently, I feared it would snap and kill us where we stood. Thankfully, we didn’t stay long, and the ferocious sound muted to something more tolerable as we vacated the vicinity.”
Alistar stopped, his expression one of harsh consideration. “I believe I know the spot she speaks of.” He glanced over at her. “Do you ride?”
“Ride?” Her voice rose a full octave. “You mean, like, bicycles or motorcycles, right?”
“Horses. You’ll love it.” He shut the journal and slapped it on the marble tabletop. “Wear jeans and boots.” He stood. “Come by the house at seven in the morning.”
He came to her end of the couch and braced an arm on either side of her then leaned down and kissed her. A hard, possessive kiss that tilted her world to a dangerous angle.
“I’m going home. I shall see you tomorrow. Oh, bring a change of clothes.” He pointed to the journal with a grimace. “Might as well bring that too.”
Before she could convince him to stay, his car was zipping down the road.
Peyton surveyed the room. He was turning thirty-three in two days. Her gaze landed on the journal. They were running out of time to read it together, if what he said about the curse was true.
She picked up the diary and continued reading.
12 July 1832
Oh my. Oh my. Oh my. Winslow kissed me. It was the faintest brush of his lips. My face heats like an inferno just thinking about it. I tingled all over. I dare not write another word tonight. The page may combust beneath my fingertips. I’m so, so, so happy.
