Free Jacquie D'Alessandro by Who Will Take This Man Page B

and friend, Andrew Stanton, is at the British Museum today, looking over artifacts there. Another friend and antiquarian, Edward Binsmore, has also offered his help.”
    The name sounded familiar, and after a second’s thought, recognition hit her. “The gentleman whose wife passed away?”
    “Yes. I think he is looking for a way to keep busy.”
    “It’s probably best for him,” Meredith said softly.“Grief is sometimes harder to bear when nothing but hour upon hour of loneliness yawns in front of you.”
    “You sound as if you speak from experience.”
    Meredith’s gaze flew to his. He was watching her, his eyes soft with understanding, as if he, too, had known such sadness. She swallowed to ease the sudden lump clogging her throat. “I think most adults have experienced grief in one of its many forms.” He looked as if he were about to question her, and as she had no desire to answer any questions, she forestalled him by asking, “Can you show me the stone the curse is written upon and tell me exactly what it says? It seems that would better enable me to know what I am looking for.”
    He frowned. “I have hidden the Stone of Tears so as not to risk anyone else finding it and translating it. However, I have written down the English translation in my journal.” Opening the worn leather book, he passed it to her. “I cannot see any harm in letting you read it, as you will never take a bride.”
    Meredith set the journal on her lap, then looked down at the neat, precise handwriting on the yellowed page and read.
    As my betrothed betrayed me with another,
    So shall the same fate befall your lover.
    To the ends of the earth
    From this day forth,
    Ye are the cursed,
    Condemned to hell’s worst.
    For true love’s very breath
    Is destined for death.
    Grace will fall, a stumble she’ll take,
    Then suffer the pain of hell’s headache.
    If ye have the gift of wedded bliss,
    She will die before you kiss.
    Or two days after the vows are said,
    Your bride, so cursed, shall be found dead.
    Once your intended has been lo
    Nothing can save her from
    There is but one key
    To set the cursed f
    Follow the b
    As she
    And
    An involuntary shiver snaked down Meredith’s spine, and she fought the urge to snap the book closed and not gaze upon the eerie words any longer.
    Lord Greybourne leaned forward and ran his finger over the last lines. “That is where the stone is broken, leaving only these fragments of words and sentences.”
    The sight of his large, tanned hand hovering just above her lap snaked another shiver—of an entirely different nature—through Meredith. Swallowing to moisten her suddenly dry throat, she asked, “How large is the stone?”
    He turned over his hand, resting it palm up on the journal. “About the size of my hand, and approximately two inches thick. I judge the missing piece is about this size, or a bit smaller.” He curled his hand into a fist.
    Her gaze riveted on his fisted hand, the weight of which pressed upon her thighs through the book. She swore she could feel the warmth of that masculine hand right through the journal, an unsettling, disturbing sensation that seemed to heat her from the inside out. An overwhelming urge to shift in her seat hit her, and she had to force herself to remain still. He seemed oblivious to how improper his casual familiarity was. And she most assuredly would have told him—if she’d been able to find her voice.
    Thankfully, the coach slowed, and Lord Greybourne leaned back, his hand slipping from the journal. Helooked out the window, allowing Meredith to expel a breath she hadn’t even realized she held.
    “The warehouse is just ahead,” he reported.
    Excellent. She couldn’t wait to exit the confines of this carriage, which seemed to grow more restraining with each passing moment.
    A few minutes later, feeling much recovered from the short walk from the carriage, Meredith stepped into the vast, dimly lit warehouse. Row upon row of wooden crates stood