Night Storm [antikvár]

mmms prologue ibi Garrick Grange, Northumberland, England December 1814 Alec touched his lips to his wife's pale forehead, still damp from the sheen of sweat. He straightened over her, feeling the distance between them that could never be crossed. It was too late now, too late to say the words that were choking in his throat. He shook his head. Finally he lifted her arms and crossed them over her chest. Her flesh was cool now. Still, though, he wouldn't be surprised if Nesta suddenly opened her eyes and looked at him, smiled at him, asked to see their son. She'd wanted a son so badly. His name would have been Harold. After the Saxton king who had fought and lost to William of Normandy. Alec stared at her, hard, and he thought, A child wasn't worth your life, Nesta. Oh, God, I never should have fiiled you with my seed. Open your eyes, Nesta. But she didn't move. Her eyes didn't open. His wife of five years was dead. And there was a scrap of humanity in another room that was alive. He couldn't bear to think of it. "My lord." At first Alec didn't hear Dr. Richards's low voice. Then, slowly, he turnéd to look up at his wife's physician, a small man, foppish in his dress and, at this moment, sweating protusely in the hot room, his intricately tied cravat as limp as his hair.