At The King's Command

“To Henry, it was a jest.”

“The king has a passion for amusement—at the expense of a good man’s pride.” Jonathan rested his thick forearms on the table and leaned forward. “So what’s she like? Sloe-eyed and passionate? I’ve heard the Romany folk are a hot-blooded race.” He jiggled his eyebrows.

Stephen scowled over the rim of his goblet. “She is rather…” He groped for a polite term. “Rustic.”

“Ah. An earthy beauty, then.”

“Not quite.”

“She’s not earthy?” Jonathan’s gaze moved past Stephen; he seemed to be studying something behind his friend.

“She’s not a beauty.” Stephen realized he had little notion of what his wife truly looked like under all the grime and tangled hair. She had been too wild during the bathing, and he had glimpsed only raking fingernails and a red mouth spitting foreign curses.

In his mind’s eye he pictured her: dark strands escaping two thick braids, a dirt-smudged face, a small shapeless form draped in rags. “Her looks hardly matter to me. I intend to be rid of her once the king has had his fill of tormenting me.”

“I see.” Merriment gleamed in Jonathan’s eyes, and his lips thinned as he tried not to smile. “She is truly a humiliation, then.”

“Aye, a bedraggled wench with all the appeal of a basin of ditch water.”

“Why, thank you ever so much, my lord,” said a soft, accented voice behind Stephen. “At least I haven’t the manners of a toad.”

Jonathan wheezed in an effort to stifle a laugh.

The gypsy. How much had she overheard?

Slowly, still clutching his cup, Stephen rose from the table and turned. His fingers went slack. The pewter goblet dropped to the table, spilling wine across the polished surface. Stunned into silence by the vision that had entered the room, he could only stare.

She wore a gown and kirtle of dusky rose brocade with a high-waisted bodice and fitted sleeves, and an overgown with a long, trailing train. The square neckline of the bodice revealed her bosom—fine-textured and rosy, as inviting as a ripe peach.

Had it not been for her vivid green eyes, he would not have recognized the face. Every trace of dirt and ash had been scrubbed away to reveal a visage as exquisite as the delicate blossom of a rose in springtime.

Eschewing the usual fashionable French hood, she wore her hair long and loose, dressed with a simple rolled band of gold satin. A thorough cleansing had turned the indistinct dark color to deep, rich sable ablaze with gleaming red highlights. The endless length and fine, billowy texture of it made Stephen’s hands itch to bury themselves in it.

If I were to touch her now, he caught himself thinking, I would touch her hair first.

And with a dreadful, sinking awareness, he knew he would not stop there.

“You must be the lady Juliana, the new baroness.” Jonathan bumped against his chair in his haste to get up. He swept into a dramatic bow. “I am Sir Jonathan Youngblood of the neighboring estate of Lytton Mount.”

“Enchantée.” With a slim white hand, Juliana swept back a glorious lock of soft hair. Pinned to her bodice was the large brooch she had brandished in front of King Henry. She gave a faint smile. The color stood out high in her cheeks. “It appears my husband was entertaining you with his vast charm and wit.”

Stephen hated himself for recognizing the hurt in her voice. He hated himself for caring that his words had wounded her.

She faced him squarely, dipped her head in greeting, and said, “Le bon Dieu vous le rendra.”

Her French was impeccable. The good Lord will repay you. He did not doubt it for a moment.

Moving cautiously, as if navigating a snake pit, he took her hand to lead her to the table. Her easy grace surprised him. She took her place in a nobleman’s dining hall as effortlessly as if she had been doing it all her life.

The servitors came in their usual formal parade, with river trout and salad, venison pasty and loaves of dark bread, cold blood pudding and soft new cheese. Juliana received them with unexpected poise, nodding at the spilled malmsey and whispering, “His lordship needs more wine.”

Stephen scarcely tasted the food he ingested mechanically.

He could not tear his attention from his wife.

Her manners astonished him. Where had she learned to wield knife and spoon so deftly, to sip so daintily from her cup? And, Christ’s bones, to murmur such apt and discreet instructions to the servants?

Everyone knows gypsies are great imitators. Much like a monkey…The words of Nance Harbutt echoed through his mind.

But that wasn’t the answer. It couldn’t be.

Stephen barely heard the bluff, easy conversation of Jonathan, barely heard Juliana’s soft replies as they discussed Kit, the weather, and her wild claims about her past. Caught in the grip of amazement, Stephen could do no more than stare at his wife.

He had expected the crude gypsy wench to be overwhelmed by the opulence of his home, crammed with the spoils of battles fought by his ancestors, church treasures plundered by his father, and the rich yields of his own endeavors as baron of Wimberleigh.

Instead, she seemed only mildly interested in her new surroundings. It was as if the plate tableware, the Venetian glass cups and art treasures adorning the hall, the solicitous servants, were commonplace to her. As if she had found herself in these circumstances before.

Nonsense, Stephen told himself. Perhaps the treasures were so alien to her that she could not begin to grasp their value.

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.”