The More I See You (46 page)

Assuming, of course, that she had truly gone back in time.

Margaret knew the answer lay before her and there was no reason—despite what the police might say—for her not to find out the details.

She reached out, picked up the book, and ripped away
the shrink-wrap. She found that her hands were shaking. What if the investigation actually turned up something? What if she looked through the book and didn’t see anything to prove that Jessica had found Richard again? Margaret knew nothing about the time period besides what Jessica had told her. What if every other girl in the Middle Ages bore her daughter’s name?

She thumbed through the index, found Burwyck-on-the-Sea, and looked up the most substantial of the references. Sitting down seemed to be the wisest course of action, so she sat on the edge of the bed and gripped the book with trembling fingers.

And she read:

Leave it to a history book
, Margaret thought dryly,
never to mention a woman by name.

She continued reading about Lord Richard and his wife, the places they traveled, and the wars they managed to always find themselves on the right side of. Margaret was somewhat relieved to see a Jessica listed there as his wife, but she wasn’t relieved enough to get up and call off the search.

She looked through the index again for any personal information, but none was listed. In desperation, she wrote down all the page references and started at the beginning, reading each one carefully for that little tidbit that would let her know that her Jessica was the one spoken of.

The morning passed. There were several knocks on the door, but she answered each with a curt “go away” and the knockers went. Apparently they were more than willing to leave her to her grief.

She read all the references, but to no avail. She took a deep breath, turned back to the beginning of the book, and started from page one, reading every page for something the indexers might have missed.

It was sunset before she found what she was looking for. She reread the passage several times, then closed her eyes and let the tears flow unchecked.

And it was only then that Margaret Ruth Blakely closed the book and went to call off the search.

Her daughter had made it.

Jessica stood on the dais and looked up at the windows lining the great hall. Four of them, just as perfectly fashioned as Richard had drawn them. As she watched, daylight faded, deepening the colors in the glass.

The firelight and the light from the torches on the wall finally competed fiercely enough that she could see the windows no longer. With a smile of contentment, she turned and walked toward the stairs.

It was about time she got back to her room anyway. At least there she could keep watch over her precious stash of chocolate. She deserved all of it for having gone through labor without drugs, though she hadn’t begrudged Abby what had been brought especially for her plus a little. But for herself, she was afraid that if she left her room for too long, Richard might filch what was left before she could get to it.

She entered the bedroom, then shut the door behind her and leaned against it. She never tired of the sight that greeted her.

Richard sat in a chair near the fire with his feet up on a stool. His eyes were closed. His toes were moving subconsciously. The CD player rested on the floor next to
him. Jessica hardly knew if she should laugh or shake her head in disbelief at the complete incongruity of the scene. Richard’s sword was propped up against the table, he was dressed in his most comfortable medieval garb, and he was rocking out to her favorite jazz group’s funkiest rhythms.

And baby Ruth slept contentedly on her father’s chest.

Richard opened his eyes, then smiled when he saw her. Not that his smile was much more ready than it had been at first. He made it a point not to show it to his guardsmen and he graced his brother with it infrequently. But, he had admitted grudgingly, the sight of her forced it to his lips despite his best efforts to stop it.

All she knew was that he smiled at her because he loved her.

He took off his headphones with a practiced tug.

“Good even’ to you, my lady.” He held out his hand to her and she crossed the room. He smiled up at her.

“The more I see you,” he said quietly, “the more I want you.”

“Sinatra on the CD?” she asked.

“His words,” Richard said, “but my heart.”

How could she not love the man? She leaned over to kiss him, then stopped and sniffed. Her eyes narrowed.

“You’ve been in it again.”

He looked hideously guilty. “A small taste.”

“Richard!”

“’Tis your fault,” he retorted. “If you hadn’t brought the bloody stuff back with you, I wouldn’t be craving it at all hours!”

“How much is left?” she demanded.

“Less than you’d like,” he muttered.

Jessica started to remind him that her stash had to last her through however many children he intended to have, then she threw in the towel at the sight of the chocolate lingering at the corner of her husband’s mouth. He was right. She’d taken a fierce and cunning medieval lord and turned him into a dyed-in-the-wool jazzer and chocoholic all in one fell swoop. It wasn’t something she wanted
making the history books, but as long as she could enjoy it in private, she was happy.

Richard brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it in his normal, unpolished way.

“You gave up much for me,” he said. He looked at the CD player. “The music alone.”

She shook her head, but he spoke again before she could say anything.

“It was a difficult choice, surely.”

“It wasn’t. There was no choice.”

He chewed on that for a bit, then sighed. “I could attempt to build you a piano.”

“Risky.”

“Entertaining.”

“You’re very difficult.”

He only flashed her the slightest of smiles. “Likely why you wed me. It wouldn’t have done for you to have found a man simply and won him without effort.”

“I won you?” she mouthed, then scowled at the glint in his eye. He was teasing and she would repay him—once she found something besides the current topic. He was probably right.

“You were worth the effort,” she said dryly.

“Even at the expense of Bruckner?”

“I brought enough of him with me to satisfy for a few years.”

Besides, as much as she loved Bruckner’s symphonies, he just couldn’t touch a man who had painted his bedroom walls with views of the sea to please her, who gave his precious smiles to her alone, who wept when he watched his daughter sleep.

Yes, the choice had been hers.

And she had made the right one.

She couldn’t ask for more.

A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

Lynn Kurland
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of numerous novels and novellas. Visit her online at lynnkurland.com.