The Taking (Seven Deadly Sins #3)(8)
Author: Erin McCarthy

It never bothered Regan when Chris referenced her money. She had it, plain and simple, the result of an inheritance from her maternal grandparents, and he treated it as such. She hadn’t earned it, didn’t deserve it any more than any other human being, yet it was hers, and there was no envy from Chris. “The house cost nine bajillion dollars,” she joked. “And we’re so cool that we’re being chic with our plastic cups… we’re retro, not kitschy.” She ran her hands over the middle drawer, then for some reason felt compelled to pull it all the way out Except that it stuck, so she yanked harder.

“Exactly,” Chris said. “And if we really want to be pretentious, we can only drink like two sips out of each plastic cup, then get new ones.”

“That wouldn’t be—”

Regan cut short her forthcoming speech on environmental consciousness when she realized the drawer she had been tugging had swung to the right on a hinge. Behind it was another one.

“I found it! Look, I found a drawer behind a drawer.”

Chris abandoned his own search through the bureau and turned to see, looking more satisfied than surprised. “Told you so.”

“I’m glad you did.” Regan opened the drawer, which was a perfect replica of the one in front of it, swag design and all.

“Do you think it’s safe to drink one-hundred-year-old hooch?”

A shiver rolled over Regan as she peered into the dark depths of the secret compartment and spotted the shadow of an object. “We’re not going to find out tonight,” she murmured as she reached in and carefully pulled out the dusty item tucked away. “It’s not liquor at all, but a book. A journal actually, I think.”

It was black leather, about an inch thick, and the cover had the initials CAC embossed in gold foil on it. A faded pink ribbon was dangling out of the top, marking a spot midway through the book. As she carefully opened the first page, Regan’s anticipation increased. There was writing, spidery formal handwriting in black ink, the careful penmanship of centuries past.

“Oh, my God, it is someone’s journal. This is so cool.”

“What’s it say?”

“‘June 28, 1878. I received this journal for my twentieth birthday today as a gift from Mr. Tradd, the man my parents wish for me to marry. I imagine it will be so. I shall become Mrs. Tradd before the end of the year unless something unforeseen occurs.’”

Regan ran her finger down the yellowed page, immediately feeling sympathy for the long dead author. She knew what it was to feel parental pressure, to drift into marriage simply because it presented itself. “She doesn’t sound thrilled about getting engaged, does she?”

“Not particularly. What else does she say?”

“That’s it for that entry.” Regan turned the page. “ ‘June 29, 1878. I went to the hospital with Mother again today to give them the fresh linens the church has donated. I wore my emerald green dress with the black ribbons, newly arrived from Paris. This was an error in judgment as the streets were swollen with summer rain and I fear the hem will never recover.”’

“Well, someone leads an exciting life. The next page is probably a description of the cold cuts served for lunch.” Chris continued to fiddle with the bureau. “Maybe the booze is in another drawer.”

Regan smacked his arm and closed the book, pressing it against her chest. “Come on, let’s go outside and open the wine since you’re clearly your grandmother’s descendent and need alcohol. Maybe the journal gets more interesting as Mr. Tradd courts her.”

“Yeah, sure. ‘Went in the carriage. Saw a play. Had my underpaid servant put my hair up in the latest fashion.’” Chris rolled his eyes and followed her onto the balcony. “Flip to the middle while I open the wine. Look at what I do for you… chairs, cheap wine, plastic cups, and a corkscrew. Never say I didn’t give you anything.”

“And you’re always so humble about it. Thank you.” Regan sat down in the chair Chris had dragged out and tucked her straight hair behind her ear. The heels of her black sandals scraped across the wood floor as she stretched out, journal in her lap. She opened the book at random and started to read. “ ‘August 12, 1878. I tasted his nectar for the first time last night.’”

“Nectar?” Chris said when she paused, frowning herself at the word. “Did she take up beekeeping for a hobby or is that implying something totally different?”

“She has to be talking about honey. I mean, she didn’t sound remotely sexual before.”

“Maybe someone stole her journal, or maybe she learned a trick or two from Mr. Tradd. Keep reading.”

Regan cleared her throat and focused on the tight, slanted writing. “‘It was not as I expected, rather salty and bitter, but I understand the principle behind swallowing his fluid—I consumed his sexual energy, took his magic inside me, and it was terribly exciting. I cannot wait to see him again, I must convince him to allow me to conduct my own spells …”

Regan was so flabbergasted she stopped reading. “Hello. Wow. I really didn’t see that coming, even after the word nectar was dropped.”

Chris stared at her, the bottle between his legs, hands suspended in the act of twisting the corkscrew, eyes wide and mouth open. “And speaking of coming… it seems our little Victorian socialite was learning the art of fellatio between piano lessons and visits to the poor.”

“So much for the cold cuts,” Regan said. They looked at each other and started laughing. “I could totally make a bratwurst or Vienna sausage joke here, but I won’t.”

“I wish you would.” Chris went back to the cork and pulled it out. “But if you’re not going to, give me the next entry. This journal just got way more interesting.”

“Okay, okay.” Regan found her place again. “‘I must convince him to allow me to conduct my own spells, or if he proves uncooperative, perhaps I will do them on my own, without him. At times, he becomes too domineering, and he must understand I am no longer a naïve girl, but an angry woman.’”

“Uh-oh. Angry woman alert.”

Regan felt the edge of uneasiness. This didn’t even sound like the same person as the first few simplistic entries. She turned a few more pages and saw that the writing had grown sloppier, as if the author were writing faster, with no concern for appearance. There were notations in the margin, so spindly Regan couldn’t interpret them.