SILK AND SECRETS (8 page)

Oblivious of his speculations, Juliet said, “By the way, your two servants are here, none the worse for wear. They are staying in the men’s quarters.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Trained to be polite under any circumstances, Ross pulled out a chair for her. After a moment’s hesitation Juliet sat down. Her silky hair brushed the back of his hand as she did, and Ross jerked back as if scalded. His mother’s training in manners had not extended to how a man should behave when dining with an estranged wife who wished that she had never met him.

Taking his own seat, Ross asked, “How long have you lived here, Juliet?”

“Over nine years now. After I…”—she hesitated, then chose a neutral term—“left England, I traveled through the Mediterranean, then into the Ottoman Empire. As you know, I lived in Teheran as a girl, when my father was posted there. I wanted to see Persia again, so I spent quite some time journeying through the country. I was about to return to Constantinople when I discovered Serevan.”

Ross tasted his soup. It contained yoghurt, rice, and mint and was delicious. “Was the fortress a ruin then?”

“Yes. This eastern frontier of Persia is terribly poor from the constant Turkoman raids. Many of the villagers were taken to Bokhara as slaves, and others left for safer places.”

He tore off a piece of flat bread and used it to scoop up a mouthful of hummus, a blend of chickpeas and various flavorings. “Serevan looks capable of withstanding attacks.”

“It is now, but when I came here the walls were crumbling and the main well had been poisoned, so only a few people were left in the village.” Juliet sipped at her wine, her expression distant. “I fell in love with the place, though. There is something very pure and elemental about the mountains and the desert. Saleh was living in the village. He is an Uzbek, from Bokhara originally.”

That caught Ross’s attention; he would have to talk to Saleh before he went on, to see if the Bokharan might have some useful suggestions. He also wondered if the Uzbek was Juliet’s lover; the man might be old enough to be her father, but that meant nothing. His mind veered away from the thought. “And since you admired Lady Hester Stanhope, you decided to emulate her and set up a little kingdom of your own here?”

“I suppose one could put it that way.” Juliet stood and cleared the empty bowls away. Then she placed on the table a platter of roast lamb surrounded by rice mixed with nuts and dried fruit. “I was tired of continually traveling and wanted to settle somewhere. Money is power, and my fifteen hundred pounds a year has been enough to finance new wells, rebuild the fortress, and buy livestock and seeds. Once they knew they would be safe, people began trickling back. Now there is quite a sizable community. Mostly Persians, but there are Uzbeks and Afghans, even a few Turkomans. All are welcome, as long as they will live in peace with their neighbors. It is a rather feudal arrangement, with me as lord of the manor.”

Reluctantly Ross admitted to himself that she had made good use of his money. It would have been easy to lavish it on herself in the fleshpots of Europe; instead, she had created an island of peace and prosperity in a troubled land. And it took more than money to rule here; the men of Serevan would not obey her orders if she had not earned their respect. “Speaking of Lady Hester Stanhope, did you hear that she died? About a year and a half ago.”

“No, I hadn’t heard. I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose—she was well along in years. But she was a legend for so long that it’s hard to believe that she’s gone.” Juliet looked wistful. “When I was in Cyprus, I thought of going to Syria to meet her, but decided to wait until after my trip to Persia. Since I stayed here, now I’ll never meet her.”

“Perhaps that’s just as well,” Ross said. “She was a fascinating person, but she liked men much more than women and would probably have been very uncivil to a young female who so much resembled her. This way, you can retain your illusions.”

Juliet’s eyes rounded. “You actually met Lady Hester Stanhope?” When Ross nodded, she exclaimed, “Please, tell me everything about her!”

“Not tonight.” Ross divided the last of the bottle of wine between his glass and hers. “Why the Tuareg costume?”

She smiled. “It lends an aura of mystery, which is no bad thing in a land where myth is as powerful as reality— perhaps more so. Also, the veil protects my face from the sun and disguises the fact that I’m a woman. Everyone at Serevan knows, of course.”

“It sounds like you have created a unique niche for yourself here.” Ross paused, then found himself adding in a soft voice, “Have you been happy, Juliet?”

Her face closed and she looked down at her plate. “I am content. It is important to do something worthwhile.” Then, with an obvious desire to change the subject, she asked, “How is Sara?”

“Very well. She’s expecting a child early in the summer.”

“Does she have other children? I suppose she could have half a dozen by now.”

“Not considering that she’s been married less than two years,” Ross replied. “This is her first.”

“Didn’t she marry that young man she met when she came out?” Juliet asked with surprise. “They certainly seemed on the way to the altar. I forget his name, but his father was a viscount and his uncle was a cabinet minister.”

Ross had not forgotten the name, but he never used it. “No, he decided that he didn’t want to marry a woman who might be crippled for life. Since there was no official engagement, it was easy for him to withdraw after Sara’s accident. Not very honorable, but easy.”

Juliet had been about to sip her wine, but at Ross’s words she set her goblet down on the table, hard. “What accident?”

“Don’t you know? I assumed that your lawyer communicated news to you, along with the bank drafts.”

“He is under orders to restrict himself to things like deaths in my immediate family. He never said anything about Sara.” That had been a deliberate choice on Juliet’s part, because she did not want to be weakened by longing for her friends and family. Now, shaken, she realized how much she had missed.

“Just a few weeks after you left England, Sara had a riding accident. She nearly died, and would never have walked again if she was not so indomitable. Her horse had to be destroyed. It was that pretty gray mare, Gossamer.” Ross’s face hardened. “I’ve sometimes wondered if the accident happened because she was distracted with worry about you and me. I know that she was very upset about what had happened, and it wasn’t like Sara to be careless, particularly when she was riding.”

Juliet gasped at the implied accusation, wanting to refute it, but she could not, for Ross was right: it was not like Sara to be careless. Juliet swallowed hard. All of the years she had been thinking Sara happy, her friend had been suffering pain, probably despair and loneliness at the loss of the man she loved—and quite likely some of the blame could be laid at Juliet’s door. Every action produced ripples of reaction, and Juliet would never know all of the consequences of her mad flight from England. Her voice tight, she asked, “How is Sara now?”

Ross’s face eased. “She couldn’t be better. She married a friend of mine and they are quite besotted with each other. Mikahl suits her much better than the vapid young fool who abandoned her.”

So perhaps the ripples of consequence from Juliet’s actions were not all bad. Or perhaps, she thought with the fatalism she had developed in her years in the East, she had just been a very small link in Sara’s chain of fate. At least Sara was happy now.

Lost in thought, Juliet did not react quickly enough when she caught a familiar flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. In one graceful bound a sleek black cat leapt onto the table. The tablecloth skidded under the intruder’s weight so that the cat slid across the surface, ending with both forepaws in the lamb platter and looking as surprised as Ross did.

Embarrassed, Juliet exclaimed, “Scheherazade!” and scooped the cat up in her arms. “I’m sorry, Ross. When I’m writing, she usually sleeps sprawled here on the table. I suppose she thought I was working and wanted to join me. I don’t think she intended to end up in the platter, for she never interferes when I’m eating Eastern-style.”

He smiled as he observed Scheherazade’s avid interest in what was on the table. “That may not have been her intention, but she’s willing to be flexible.” Taking a small piece of lamb, he leaned over the table to offer the tidbit to the cat, who accepted eagerly.

“You’re corrupting her,” Juliet said ruefully as Scheherazade struggled in her arms. “If she starts expecting to be rewarded for disrupting a meal, she’ll become impossible.”

The humor that had briefly illuminated Ross’s face died and he leaned back in his chair. “Sorry.”

Juliet bit her lip, wishing she had said nothing. Throughout the evening, Ross had maintained his distance, polite, contained, and thoroughly formidable. The back of her neck had been prickling as she waited for some kind of explosion from him. Then, when he finally relaxed a little, with a few careless, teasing words she had broken the mood.

Fortunately an interruption arrived in the form of Fatima, Juliet’s favorite six-year-old. “I’m sorry, Guli Sarahi,” the girl said as she pelted into the room. “Scheherazade ran away from me.” Then the child stopped and stared, her dark eyes widening. “Guli Sarahi?” she said questioningly, not at all sure about this strangely dressed female.

“It is really I, Fatima,” Juliet assured her. “I am wearing the costume of my people in honor of the visit of this gentleman, Lord Ross Carlisle. He is… an old friend from my native land.”

The girl’s gaze went to Ross. Suddenly she blushed and pulled her veil across the lower part of her face so that only her bright, fascinated eyes were visible. Rather dryly Juliet observed to herself that her husband frequently had that effect on females. In this part of the world his height and golden hair made him seem more than mortal.

Untangling the feline from her Kashmir shawl, Juliet said, “Here, my dear, take Scheherazade and go back to bed.”

When Fatima had collected the cat, Juliet gave her an affectionate hug and a pastry from the dessert plate. The girl paused by the door hanging and gave a polite bow, her gaze going to Ross again. Then she skipped away.

When the child was gone, Ross asked, “Is she your daughter?”

“Good heavens, no,” Juliet replied, startled. “She is Saleh’s youngest.” Though Juliet should not have been surprised at the question, since Ross did not know what she had been doing over the last dozen years. Or not doing, in this case.

Unnerved by her train of thought, she rose from the table and removed the empty plates and remaining food. “Would you like some coffee? It is French-style rather than Turkish or Arabian.”

When he nodded, she poured two cups from the pot, which had been keeping warm over a candle, then set them on the table. She glanced up at Ross, who in the lamplight was the epitome of casual English elegance. It was like the evenings at Chapelgate, where they had spent hours talking over after-dinner coffee, the conversations covering every topic imaginable.

Though Juliet knew it would be wiser not to reminisce, she found herself saying quietly, “It’s strange. Dressed this way, with you across the table, I feel like Lady Ross Carlisle again.”

“But you aren’t Lady Ross Carlisle,” he said expressionlessly. “Not anymore.”

Juliet froze, all of her muscles temporarily numb. In its way, this was an even greater shock than seeing Ross lying apparently lifeless on the road. Though her final note to her husband had urged him to divorce her, she had been selfishly glad that he had not done so. Through all the years and miles of separation, she had found secret comfort in the knowledge that they were still husband and wife, that an invisible thread of connection joined her to Ross. Losing that bond hurt more than she would have dreamed possible.

Forcing her voice to be level, she said, “So you finally got a divorce, as I suggested all of those years ago. I’m surprised that my lawyer did not inform me, but likely the letter was lost.” She set the plate of pastries on the table, then sat down again, hiding her hands so that he would not see them trembling. “Have you remarried?”

“I have not divorced you. English law hasn’t changed, and the only ground is still adultery.” He stirred sugar into his coffee. Quite without inflection he continued, “Your progress through the Mediterranean generated a number of rumors, and if even a quarter of them were true, you were providing a positive embarrassment of riches in the way of evidence of adultery. However, obtaining a bill of divorcement is a very sordid, very public process. I did not want to subject myself or my family to that. There had been quite enough scandal about our marriage, and I was already quite enough of a laughingstock.” Though Ross’s voice did not lose its softness, pain and anger pulsed just below his surface composure.

For one of the very few times in her life, Juliet found herself literally speechless as an unholy mixture of shock and guilt surged through her. Taking a deep breath, she focused on what he had said earlier. “If you didn’t divorce me, why did you say that I am no longer Lady Ross Carlisle? Surely it was not possible to annul the marriage.”

“No, it was not. We are still legally husband and wife.” His gaze was ironic, as if he could read the maelstrom of emotions that he had set off. Perhaps he could. “My brother died last autumn and left no sons, so you are now the Marchioness of Kilburn. Congratulations. If we both live long enough, you will be the Duchess of Windermere.”

Curiously, her first reaction was neither relief that they were still married nor anger that he had deliberately baited her. Instead, what she felt was sympathy. “Ross, I’m so sorry.” Impulsively she laid her hand over his, where it rested on the table. “I know that you never wanted to be the heir.”

Though his hand did not move, the tendons went rigid under her touch. Very carefully, as if Ross were a fused bomb, Juliet withdrew her own hand. “Or have you changed your mind about that? What seemed like a prison when you were twenty-one might look like a prize now that you are older. Certainly most men would not be sorry to inherit a dukedom.”