Susan Wiggs - At The King's Command

He forced himself to attend to what Jonathan was saying. “You tell a most singular tale about your past, my lady,” said the older man.

Juliana took a dainty bite of salad, then with a slender finger traced the rim of her glass fingerbowl. Just for a moment, sadness haunted her eyes, a melancholy so intense that Stephen’s breath caught.

Then her eyes cleared and she gave Jonathan a serene smile. “It is no tale, my lord, but the absolute truth.”

Stephen suppressed a snort of derision. Small wonder gypsies were outlawed. No one should be so adept at lying.

“The unexpected marriage to Lord Wimberleigh must have given you a bit of a turn.”

“Indeed it did,” she admitted with a pretty shrug. “I confess that I felt like the lady of Riga.”

“Riga?”

“A small principality to the west of Novgorod. My old nurse loved to tell the story. The lady of Riga found herself on the back of a tiger. Once mounted, she had no way to go but onward, for if she tried to get off, she would be eaten alive.”

“So you liken marriage to Stephen to a ride upon a tiger.” Jonathan seemed to be enjoying himself enormously.

Stephen vowed to ignore this foreign woman, ignore the garish beauty that so overpowered Meg’s demure costume. He would ignore Juliana’s captivating smile, her low-toned, beguiling speech.

To do otherwise would be to open his heart to unspeakable pain. He endured the meal in silence, then said his farewells to Jonathan.

“She is charming,” Jonathan said as they waited in the darkening yard for Kit to bring round his horse. “Tell me, where would a gypsy wench learn such manners?”

“I know not. Nor do I care.”

“She is fascinating to watch.”

“So is a poison asp,” Stephen stated. “Here’s Kit.”

The tall, sturdy lad approached with Jonathan’s horse in tow. “You’re good to the boy. He was getting lost amidst my wild brood.”

“No chance of that here,” Stephen said, and a familiar ache flared to life inside him. “Kit is quick of wit and masters every art I introduce.” He forced a smile. “Though I trow, other arts will interest him before long. He can hardly pass through the hall without setting the maids and scullions to sighing.”

Jonathan laughed. “Teach him chastity, Stephen. I’d not have him siring a brood before his time.”

“He’ll learn no bad habits from me.” Stephen stood watching as Jonathan bade Kit good-bye and trotted off down the lane. Chastity. Stephen was reputed to be the most profligate of noblemen, frequenting the dives of Bath, the harborside stews of Bristol, the gaming houses of Southwark.

He took no pride in his reputation, only a bleak satisfaction that it had made him distasteful to marriageable maidens. Now that Juliana had come into his life, he wondered what would become of the bad habits he’d cultivated so assiduously.

For a long while, he stood in the formal garden with its cruciform walks enclosing fragrant beds of foxglove and woodbine. The clean fragrance of springtime enveloped him, and he paused near a fountain to gird himself for the coming hours. The stone basin still held the warmth of the sun.

He pressed his fists against the basin, trying to banish all feeling, all emotion, forever. Yet he was like a rock in the sun, holding its warmth even as darkness surrounded him. He remembered Juliana’s smile when he had no business thinking of her at all.

The sun slipped below the horizon. A few more minutes, and it would be time for him to go.

Shuddering, he turned and went back inside.

Juliana stood waiting in the entrance to the hall. She held a hooded candle in one hand. The diffuse light showered her eyelashes and hair with gold dust and carved mysterious shadows in the hollow of her throat, between her breasts.

God Almighty, Stephen thought. Didn’t Jillie know a lady should wear a silken partlet there for modesty?

Just below the overtly feminine hollow, the jeweled brooch winked, its large center stone as darkly brilliant as fresh blood.

“What do you do after supper, my lord?” she asked softly.

Her question panicked him, and he lashed out in anger. “I’m sometimes wont to tumble a wench or two.” Narrowing his eyes, he let his burning gaze sweep over her. “Three are even better.”

Her small teeth caught in the fullness of her lower lip. “I do not believe you.”

“You know nothing about me,” he said.

She shrugged, the motion of her shoulders as graceful as a waterfall. “How much I learn is up to you. I noticed a music room connected to my chambers. Perhaps I could play for you—”

“The collection of instruments does not include gypsy bells and guitars.” Stephen saw the look that crept into her candlelit eyes. I have to hurt you, Juliana, he thought, wishing he could explain, knowing he could not. To show her kindness would be a far greater cruelty.

Juliana came awake slowly. Just for a moment, she was confused by the lavish bed hangings that soared above her, the silky warmth of the fur-lined covers blanketing her.

In that distant, half-aware realm between waking and sleeping, she fancied herself in the nursery at Novgorod, waiting for Sveta to come with a cup of warm honey-sweetened milk and a tray of soft bread and herbed sausages.

The image drifted away and Juliana came up on her elbows. Lynacre Hall. She was here in this noble house, not in a bedroll under a tree, nor beneath the rank mildewed covering of Laszlo’s caravan. She lay in a strange, beautiful chamber that had once belonged to the wife of Lord Wimberleigh.

What had the first baroness been like? Had he loved her, hated her, regarded her with cool indifference?

Had she been responsible for making Stephen into a cold, angry man, or had he always been that way?

Juliana decided to find out. In the cool morning breeze through the open window, she called Jillie and then waited, absently petting Pavlo’s long, sleek head and listening to the manor come to life—the call of the goose girl, the sound of shutters being opened, the scolding of chickens, voices from the bakehouse. A few moments later, Jillie came into the room, balancing a salver between her arm and hip.

“Ah, you’re awake, then,” she said briskly, thumping the tray down on a spindly gaming table. “Good morrow, milady. Hungry?”

“Always,” Juliana admitted, throwing back the counterpane. During her years with the gypsies, she had often gone to sleep with hunger gnawing at her belly. Begging, pilfering and poaching had their limits.

Jillie rummaged in the carved chest at the foot of the bed and emerged with a long wrinkled robe of finely woven wool. As Juliana put her hands through the gaping armholes, the scent of lavender and bergamot rose from the garment.

“Uneven dye job,” Jillie muttered, shaking out the folds. “Me da does better work—when he can get it.”

“Is there no work for a dyer, then?” Juliana peered at the thin brown liquid in the cup.

“Time was, he had the vats in the dying shed bubbling day and night—year ’round. But the trades have been moving to the cities—to Bath, to Salisbury and even London town.”

Juliana took a sip. Small ale. Hardly her favorite for breaking her fast. She bit into the bread. The flour had been coarse ground and was mealy; her teeth crunched down on a hard piece of chaff. She was going to have to make some changes around here.

With elaborate casualness she said to Jillie, “Didn’t the former baroness patronize local tradesmen?” She crumbled the bread crust between her fingers. “Dyers, millers and such?”

“No.” Jillie looked down at her large red hands. “The lady Margaret never seemed to…to think of such things.”

Margaret. Her name was Margaret. “I see. What sorts of things did she think of?”