Silk and Shadows (31 page)

It was a salutary lesson on the dark currents that lay just beneath the surface of daily life. A man like Mikahl could be judged and condemned for the crime of being foreign, an English lady in the throes of passion could throw morality to the winds, and a respectable servant could have a mind that would shame a guttersnipe. Perhaps it was even possible that Charles Weldon was a whoremonger, though Sara did not really believe that.

As Sara's anger cooled, she realized with wry amusement that Hoskins's vituperation implied that the maid was female enough to notice Mikahl's potent masculinity, and prudish enough to be horrified by such interest.

Sara smiled a little as she resumed brushing her hair. By his mere existence, her betrothed sowed disruption in the minds of modest English womanhood. Certainly he had disrupted Sara's orderly life. But at least her sense of humor was still working; she would surely need it in the weeks to come.

The family dinner that evening went smoothly. Sara's father was somber, but Ross and Aunt Marguerite had enough aplomb to carry the conversation, and Mikahl, as promised, was on his best behavior. Sara found herself watching him with extra intensity, impressed at how well he blended in with her family, though there was a suggestion that he did not take aristocratic English customs quite seriously. Well, that was all right, neither did she, though such customs were undeniably part of her.

As expected, her betrothed and the duke disappeared after dinner for a time to discuss marriage settlements, and when they emerged, the duke's expression was a bit lighter than it had been. Sara hoped that meant that the men would deal comfortably with each other, even if they would never be friends.

After tea was served, Mikahl suggested to Sara that they take a turn on the patio. She agreed, feeling a need to talk to him privately. Outside, the pale moonlight reminded her of the night on the balcony when he had coaxed her into dancing. It seemed a long time ago, though it had only been a few weeks. She was a different woman, but he was the same lithe and fascinating man. That night she had thought of him as a dangerous distraction; now he was her future.

Putting her serious thoughts aside, she remarked, "Aunt Marguerite said earlier that if you could survive this evening, you were made of strong stuff. I gather that you and my father reached some kind of truce?"

He chuckled and tucked her hand under his elbow as they strolled the length of the flagstone patio. "He resents me deeply, but is too well-bred to be insulting. I believe that fathers always resent the men who take their daughters away.''

It was a tactful way of glossing over her father's lack of enthusiasm for the marriage. Deciding a change of subject was in order, Sara said, "I suppose that now I should call you Mikahl, like Ross does. Unless there is another name you prefer?"

"That's fine. I have acquired a number of names over the years, but Mikahl Khanauri has been with me the longest."

"Mi-kahl Khan-aur-i," she repeated, trying to duplicate the unfamiliar vowel sounds. "That's close to the Christian name 'Michael,' which I've always liked." She gave him a teasing smile. "Traditionally, Michael is the archangel who leads the legions of the Lord."

He laughed. "Obviously it isn't a very appropriate name, for no one would ever mistake me for any sort of angel."

As she studied his rugged face, she couldn't agree. "Don't be too sure. Michael is God's avenging arm, the patron saint of warriors. Surely warrior angels are a rowdier lot than the ones who do nothing but sing and pray and think good thoughts?"

He gave her an odd glance. "Perhaps it isn't such a bad name, if rowdiness and vengeance are allowed."

They had come to the far end of the patio, out of sight of the people in the house, and he stopped and turned to face her. "I like being betrothed, because now I can look at you as much as I like and be considered romantic rather than rude," he said, his gaze moving over her with leisurely enjoyment. "You look particularly delectable tonight, sweet Sara."

The warmth in his eyes made her feel shy, though undeniably flattered. "If so, it's a miracle. I discharged my maid this afternoon, and she left things in a rather chaotic state."

He raised his brows. "Dare I ask why you discharged her?"

She hesitated, realizing that the subject would have been better left unmentioned. "She was impertinent."

"Which means that she probably said something appalling about your choice of husbands. Doubtless it is better if I don't know just what it was."

"Doubtless." Sara's tone was repressive.

His brows drew together consideringly. "Do you have someone in mind for the position? If not, I know of a young woman who might be suitable. After a difficult start in life, she is now learning to be a lady's maid. While she has no formal experience, she is intelligent and willing."

"In what way was her life difficult?"

"It isn't a pretty story." Mikahl studied Sara's face as if wondering how she would react. "Her father sold her to a brothel when she was little more than a child, and she spent several years there."

"I see." Sara was silent for a moment, thinking that this had been the strangest day of her life. Yesterday at this time, she had still been respectably betrothed to Charles. In the twenty-four hours since, she had been disgraced, seduced, re-betrothed, and now she was being offered a prostitute for a lady's maid. Her stomach knotted unpleasantly as she wondered how Mikahl had made the girl's acquaintance; could he possibly be trying to install a mistress in his wife's household? No, not that, she decided, but she would really rather not know any more. "Send the girl to see me. If she is better-natured than my previous maid, the position is hers."

His brows arched in question. "As simple as that? You don't feel that you will be contaminated by her past?"

"My former maid thought she would be contaminated by me," Sara said dryly, "so I think it will all even out."

"You, my lady, are living proof that a genteel upbringing doesn't have to ruin a woman's sense or heart."

As she smiled at the compliment, his fingers skimmed lightly over her cheek and his voice dropped, becoming husky and intimate. "Three weeks seems a very long time to wait."

He traced along the underside of her jaw to her throat, his touch doing strange, melting things to her insides, but this time Sara stepped away before the process could go too far. Memory of what they had done earlier hung in the air like smoke. But while he might want to repeat the experience, she had done some serious thinking during the day, and knew that she was not yet ready to do so. "That is what I want to do, Mikahl," she said haltingly. "Wait."

"I really did upset you this morning, didn't I?" he said quietly after a silence that stretched too long. "Don't worry, Sara, I can wait as long as necessary. Perhaps it is best if we not see each other between now and the wedding, except on formal occasions. That should prevent any more… misadventures."

She swallowed hard, intensely grateful. "You are very good to be so understanding.''

His smile widened, becoming genuine. "One thing I am not is 'very good.' But I am not usually a fool, especially not twice in the same day." He tilted her face up and gave her a quick, expert kiss that sent pleasant tingles throughout her body. Then he whispered in her ear, "Now let us go inside before I am tempted to make a liar of myself.''

The intensity of her relief was almost dizzying. It amazed her that a man so forceful could also be so considerate. And at that moment she finally admitted the truth to herself. What she felt for Mikahl was more than passion, more than infatuation, more than need: it was love, soul-deep and irrevocable. The realization was a soaring joy, like racing across a meadow on horseback or whirling across a ballroom in the waltz, but a thousand times greater.

His arms were still loosely linked around her waist, as if he was reluctant to let her go, so it was easy to catch his head between her hands and draw it down. His dense black hair silken beneath her fingers, she kissed him, not with passion, but with aching gratitude. Sensing something of her mood, he returned the kiss with tenderness, his arms tightening around her waist.

Sara wanted to engrave the sweetness of the moment on her heart—his look and scent and feel, the warmth of his lips, the sheer, solid reality of him. Love was a greater terror than passion, for she knew that she was mad to fall in love with someone so improbable and unpredictable. Though he desired her, he did not love her; perhaps he was incapable of returning the kind of love she wanted.

But in spite of the risks and the certainty of future anguish, she also knew that never would she regret loving him.

As a gesture to decorum, Peregrine had had Kuram drive him to Chapelgate, but for the return to Sulgrave, he took the reins himself. The Pathan lounged back in the seat, quite content to be driven by his master. When they were clear of the grounds, Peregrine observed, "You look pleased with yourself. I gather that they took good care of you down in the kitchens?''

Kuram smiled, his teeth white in the night. "Most friendly, these English girls. And most curious about wicked foreigners."

Peregrine grinned. "I know. After all, I'm marrying one."

The Pathan snorted. "A mistake to let a woman in your life. They are nothing but trouble."

"Nonetheless, I am looking forward to marriage. Winter is coming, Kuram, and nights are cold in the north." Reaching a straight stretch of road, Peregrine urged the horses into an exuberant dash that matched his own mood. "And my woman is a treasure rarer than ancient amber or Cathay silk."

"She has the quality of a fine Arab mare," the Pathan admitted, "but good women are the worst kind, and a man need not take a wife to have his bed warmed."

"You are a cynic, Kuram," Peregrine said, refusing to be affected by the other man's opinion.

Yet as he drove through the quiet country night, he found himself reflecting on the strangeness of what he was doing. For twenty-five years, personal pleasure had always been subordinated to his mission, but now that the end was in sight, he found himself impatient for the future that lay beyond vengeance. He wanted to put down roots, create a place where he belonged— and to have someone who belonged to him.

Undoubtedly it would have been wiser to wait until Weldon was destroyed, for a home and wife would be distractions. But delay might have lost him Sara and Sulgrave. Both moved him deeply, and he had learned early that one must seize the gifts of the gods when they were offered, for one seldom received a second chance. Sulgrave was like a dream home of the imagination that had been made physical in stone and earth, and Sara…

Ah, Sara, how could one describe Sara? She was a living symbol of his first victory over Weldon, but so much more: wit, warmth, honesty, and the quiet courage of a tempered blade. Though he regretted how he had treated her, he did not regret discovering the steely strength she had revealed in adversity.

Caring for Sara would be a pleasure, for simply being in her presence was a delight. When they were finally married, he would atone for his clumsiness, would teach her the mysteries of passion with the same care a connoisseur would use with fine porcelain. He was amazed by her willingness to accept him despite his mistakes, and he made a mental pledge that she would not regret her generosity.

As he turned into Sulgrave's long drive, he realized that all the things he had ever wanted—revenge, roots, a passionate companion—were now within his grasp. And with the confidence that carried a warrior invincible through battle, he knew that nothing and no one would deprive him of his prizes.