An Interrupted Tapestry

by Madeline Hunter

  Andreas smiled. “It sounds as though the bargain is struck, John.”

  He waited while John retrieved the silver from the hiding places where he kept his coin. A long time later Andreas tied the heavy chest to the back of his horse.

  He sent word to Giselle that he would leave at once to deliver the money.

  From his place in the saddle, he could see some of the masts of the ships at the docks. Moored among them would be the long, low, sleek galleys of the Venetians.

  He gazed in that direction, not moving his horse.

  A future he had planned and built for years waited on one of those galleys. A dream beckoned that he had constructed as a youth and then pursued as a man. It was a magnificent dream, in which wealth was the least of the rewards. The achievement itself would be the true prize, and the fame would be the enduring legacy.

  The chest pressed against his back, reminding him of Giselle. Memories of their lovemaking flooded his mind. The image of her face, aglow with trusting passion, hung in front of him.

  He turned his horse, fully aware of what he would be giving up.

  Before he returned to his house to fetch the fresh mount and the guards, he stopped at a Venetian galley moored at the docks, in order to finally visit with Signore Alberti.

  Nine

  Giselle sat on the carved bench with her back pressed to the edge of the table behind her. She gazed at the wall across the chamber. The tapestry had hung there for so long that now, even after three days, it startled her to see only plaster and timbers instead of silken vines of red and gold.

  She was not thinking about the tapestry, however. Her eyes might fix on that wall, but her head was elsewhere, in a different chamber. She was looking up at the face of a man she had known for years, as passion stripped her heart and laid bare a hidden love.

  Andreas had filled her thoughts since he walked out of the house carrying the tapestry. Filled her soul. The warmest happiness accompanied those images and memories, but a poignant nostalgia was creeping in already.

  He absorbed her so completely that it did not startle her to find him standing at the threshold. She had not heard his steps approach. He was simply there suddenly, and it was right and natural that he should be.

  The joy sparkled, as it had so many times. Only now she understood what it meant.

  He came over and sat beside her, so that the two of them faced the blank wall.

  “It is done?” she asked.

  “Wolford is appeased. We even dined together. Reginald was right. His wine is sour.” He gestured to the wall. “You should not have sold it. It was not necessary, and I know what it meant to you.”

  It had been necessary. “I find that I do not miss it. In fact, I think I am glad that it is gone. I have been sitting here, waiting to be sad, but instead whenever I see that empty spot my heart rises instead of falls. It is the oddest reaction. Almost triumphant.”

  “It is a very odd reaction. That tapestry wove you to your heritage and place. It was a banner proclaiming who you should be.”

  “I never thought of it that way, but perhaps you saw more clearly than I did. Maybe I thought of that interruption as the years I lived here in London and of the continuation as the future when my family would be restored. I know that will never happen now, and I am glad to let that expectation die. It feels good to be free of it.”

  He took her hand in his. “I am relieved if you do not grieve for it.”

  “The tapestry?”

  “The expectation.”

  “I grieve for nothing. I should, but I don’t. I should be afraid, too, but I’m not.” She turned her attention from the wall to him. His own gaze rested on their hands, but his handsome profile attracted hers. “I have been thinking these last two days about what I will do now. I have realized that I have several choices and that my situation is not very dire at all.”

  “It will be some months before the others realize I will not be taking the property. It will not be until I return that anyone demands to see the pledges, to learn if they still stand. You do not have to do anything right away.”

  “All the same, I must consider my future.”

  “What choices do you see?”

  She crooked her leg up on the bench so she faced him and could enjoy watching his thoughtful gaze resting on their connected hands. “Well, I have a kinsman in the north, east of York, who is my father’s cousin. They broke with each other because of the rebellion, but I can go there. I am his blood, and he would give me a place, I’m sure.”

  “I do not like that choice. This kinsman will marry you off to some small landowner to be free of the cost of you. Also, York is far from London, or any port.”

  Far from the England that he visited was what he meant. It touched her that it mattered to him, but in the years ahead it no longer would. She suspected that desire faded quickly once fulfilled. He had wanted her for ten years, but two years hence he probably would not think of her much anymore.

  She would be the one who remembered.

  “There also is Lady Agatha. She spends many months here in her London house and has always been a friend to me. She guessed my situation, I think, and has several times asked me to join her household to help educate her daughters.”

  “You mean that she has asked you to be a servant.”

  “Not truly a servant.”

  “Most truly a servant, no matter where you sleep or if you take your board at her high table. But without the freedom of a servant, since you will be tied to that hearth by your blood and need. Better to go serve in a tavern, where the pay is in coin and your life is your own.”

  His reaction annoyed her. These choices she had discovered during the last days’ contemplation had given her hope and confidence. Andreas appeared determined to belittle them.

  “I do not approve of these options that you have found,” he said.

  “That is obvious.”

  “You must find another.”

  “There is no other.”

  His head turned. The way he looked at her made her heart flutter.

  She knew what he was thinking.

  “At least, there is no other that is respectable,” she said quietly.

  He reached out, and with great care slowly brushed some errant hairs away from the sides of her face. “That is not true. There is one other choice that is respectable enough. You could marry me.”

  His words stunned her. She could not move, not even to blink. She just stared at him as his hands gently grazed her cheeks.

  It was an astonishing proposal. Tempting and mesmerizing. Reckless and impossible. In the silence of her daze, her heart filled with the purest, lovely emotion and then fell with excruciating pain, all in one instant.

  He was being as impractical and foolish as Reginald.

  “Signore Alberti . . .”

  “I have told him that my marriage to his daughter will not happen.”

  “But the trading alliance . . .”

  “It was too ambitious. My pride wanted it, and for all the wrong reasons. Alberti and I will continue to be friends and to enrich each other.”

  This new proposal of marriage was being made for all the wrong reasons, too. She turned her face away from his gaze and touch.

  “Look what I have done. I came to you with my problem, and now you feel obligated enough that you will put aside an alliance that you have been planning for years. This is very kind of you, Andreas, but you do not have to do it. I knew in that chamber that a marriage was impossible, and I did not give myself with that expectation.”

  “I am not being kind. I am being selfish. I want you for myself. I do not make this offer under obligation, but with the excitement of a boy. I do not want you living with some kinsman and maybe given to some other man. I do not want you with Lady Agatha, at a house where I am not welcome because my trade is scorned as base. I want you in my home in Bremen and with me on my ship when I journey back here. When I walk down a lane to my house, I want your arms and body wait
ing for me, and your eyes filling with their warm lights when I enter through the threshold. All the Venetian gold in the world cannot purchase any of that, Giselle.”

  “The excitement of a boy quickly dims, Andreas. The luster of Venetian gold never does.”

  His fingers closed on her chin and turned her face back so she had to look at him. “I could have settled the marriage negotiations with Alberti months ago, Giselle. His agent was in Hamburg, and it could have all been done there, by proxy. I insisted on coming here to meet with him personally, however. I think my heart secretly knew what it really wanted and was hoping that something would happen to bring you and me together again before I committed myself. And something did. I will thank God for Reginald’s recklessness until the day I die.”

  He stunned her again. Aching hope almost left her speechless. Her love wanted to grab hold of a future with him. If she had still been a girl, ignorant of the world, she would gladly surrender to that emotion. Her heart wanted to. Cried to.

  “Your family will hate me. I am impoverished.”

  “There are many ways to be impoverished, and lacking property and coin is only one of them.”

  “It is the one that matters in marriage. I have nothing to bring you.”

  “You bring me the woman whom I have loved for years. If you also bring me the chance that I will have your love in return, that is enough.”

  Love. He had been alluding to that, but there it was, casually stated, as if they had spoken of it many times before.

  Maybe they had. Not in words, but in the joy that accompanied his returns and in the quiet hours by the hearth or in her garden. And in the soulful passion that they had shared in that Essex bed.

  His gaze mesmerized her. Lights of warmth and passion, of the old Andreas and the new, burned in them. So did the determination of a man who had decided to take what he wanted.

  Her heart was so full she thought it would burst. “You already have my love in return, Andreas. And not only the love of a friend.”

  He pulled her into his arms, surrounding her, claiming her.

  She had not been doing well keeping her hope contained, and now it overflowed. He kissed her and it became a flood, carrying away her misgivings.

  His embrace warmed her like a toasty hearth on a winter day. She shed her worries and fears like so many garments that had protected her from the chill. His kisses gave excitement and love and safety all at once. The bliss filled her so completely that tears blurred her eyes.

  He noticed and kissed at a line of wetness on her cheek. “What is this?”

  “Happiness. Joy at learning that you love me as I love you.”

  “I told you that night that I have loved and wanted you since the first time I saw you.”

  “You said nothing of love.”

  “Didn’t I? Well, I discovered that my English is not so good at such moments. I have had little practice in speaking of love in any language, and I was very distracted that night.” He rose and held out his hand. “Come up to bed with me. I promise to speak the words correctly this time.”

  She took his hand and rose on her toes to kiss him. “If I am to live in Bremen, maybe you should teach them to me in your language.”

  He caressed her face. “Ich liebe dich. I love you.”

  “Ich liebe dich.”

  “Meine Liebe. My love.” He kissed her cheek. “Meine Freundin.”

  “Meine Freundin?”

  “My friend.”

  As Andreas led her to the stairs, he looked to the wall where the tapestry used to hang. Giselle had said that she was glad it was gone, but that would pass. She would not mind when he bought it back from John Hastings. He had planned to do that anyway, but it would be essential now.

  The tapestry with the interrupted weaving belonged in their home.

  If you enjoyed An Interrupted Tapestry, look for Madeline Hunter’s delicious new novel,

  DANGEROUS IN DIAMONDS

  On sale April 26, 2011

  No one could distract im from following pleasure’s path to hell—until now . . .

  Outrageously wealthy, the Duke of Castleford has little incentive to curb his profligate ways—gaming and whoring with equal abandon and enjoying his hedonistic lifestyle to the fullest. When a behest adds a small property to his vast holdings, one that houses a modest flower business known as The Rarest Blooms, Castleford sees little to interest him . . . until he flays fees on its owner. Daphne Joyes is coolly mysterious, exquisitely beautiful, and utterly scathing toward a man of Castleford’s stamp—in short, an object worthy of his most calculated seduction.

  Daphne has no reason to entertain Castleford’s outrageous advances, and every reason to keep him as far away as possible from her eclectic household. Not only has she been sheltering young ladies who have been victims of misfortune, but she has her own closely guarded secrets. Then Daphne makes a discovery that changes everything. She and Castleford have one thing in common: a profound hatred for the Duke of Beksbridge, who just happens to be Castleford’s relative.

  Never before were two people less likely to form an alliance—or to fall in love . . .

  READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT FROM MADELINE HUNTER’ S

  DANGEROUS IN DIAMONDS . . .

  Chapter One

  The death of a duke is cause for many people to mourn, but none so much as those dependent on his patronage. So it was that the passing of the fourth Duke of Becksbridge left many a relative and retainer in tears. A few had to swallow the inappropriate inclination to smile, however, in particular several persons named in his testament as recipients of gifts or pensions.

  One such beneficiary neither wept nor rejoiced. Rather, on the Tuesday following the duke’s funeral, he finally attended to the oddity that he had received any gift at all.

  “I hope he did not expect me to maintain the mourning rituals in his memory because of this,” Tristan, Duke of Castleford, muttered.

  He examined the deeds of the properties he had just inherited. If his head did not ache from the sobriety he adopted once a week on Tuesdays, he might muster some grief or nostalgia for this recently departed fellow peer. It would take considerable effort on the best of days, however.

  Becksbridge had been a collateral relative, some distance removed, and most of the bequeathed holdings appeared to be distant as well. Also small. So small and insignificant as to hardly be worth the ink used to record the gift in the will.

  “You do not intend to mourn? He was an important man and much esteemed.” Mr. Edwards, his bespectacled secretary, spoke from his paper-covered desk in the study where together they labored on Castleford’s business affairs.

  “He was an ass. Worse, a boring, self-righteous ass. The boring part was only tiresome, but the self-righteous part unforgivable.”

  The latter had been an inherited turn of character, but in Castleford’s opinion, that hardly absolved Becksbridge from being tedious in executing the tendency. That entire side of their complex family tree was so smug in their goodness that it made one want to puke. All the same, if Becksbridge had lived and let live, he might have been tolerable.

  But, of course, he couldn’t “let live.” The Becksbridges of the world believed it was the duty of paragons of virtue to remind others they should strive for equal dreariness. In fact, in anticipation of his inheritance, Becksbridge’s son and heir, Gerome, Earl of Latham, had been publishing popular screeds on morality. The next Duke of Becksbridge had already taken his scolds to the world through print and had forged a reputation as an arbiter of morals with his damned essays.

  Castleford was inclined to sneer at the irony, but thinking much on the topic would only make his head hurt worse. Still, he knew Latham better than anyone else in the world did. Of similar age, they had raised hell together in years past. Even perfectly tended branches of family trees produce a few wormy fruit. The boring ass was about to be succeeded by a dangerous hypocrite.

  “You have that sniveling expression you wear when you are choking on
swallowed words, Edwards. Do you disapprove that I speak ill of the dead?”

  Edwards flushed. Only twenty-five years of age, he had not yet learned to keep his own counsel on Tuesdays, especially when his employer invited him to speak freely. “The duke was unparalleled, and he was very generous. It is said he endowed an orphanage in his will.”

  “Unparalleled? Are you saying outright, to my face, that I am not his equal? That is ungrateful for a secretary who may have to labor on the one day a week when I tend to my estate, but who otherwise has more freedom of movement than any servant ought.”

  “I—that is, you are unparalleled as well, Your Grace. Everyone says so, and—”

  “I do not hold with the notion that asses should be fondly remembered just because they have the means to spread around gifts to make others beholden. As for his generosity to me, I neither need nor want these small landholdings. The man has managed to be a nuisance beyond the grave.”

  “The properties all have tenants. Managing them will not create more trouble.”

  Castleford peered at the deeds. “It is too peculiar that he gave them to me at all. We were not fond of each other. We had not spoken civil words in years.” That was an understatement. Their few meetings had been marked by reproaches on Becksbridge’s part and ridicule on Castleford’s.

  A letter had been delivered with the deeds. Castleford tore it open.

  Castleford,

  You are no doubt surprised by the legacy that I left you, since you of all men need nothing from me. Neither the lands nor the money would form more than a tiny drop in your ocean of wealth. Therefore I assume that you will not care that it was never my intention for you to enjoy the fruits of either. Rather, I am depending on what little is left of the better side of your character, and requesting that you discreetly handle a matter for me that I prefer not to address through my testament.

  The landholdings that I left you are currently used by tenants in whose welfare I have a committed interest. It is my wish that the tenants be allowed to remain indefinitely at the current rent of one pound a year. Furthermore, the money left to you should be used to ensure that the tenants’ families are never in want of the basics of life.