by Susan Wiggs
An ancient weariness pressed down on Stephen as he pulled Jonathan away from the trembling earl of Havelock. “Not now. ’Tis done. You’re an unctuous little varlet, Algernon, but I cannot change what has happened. Henry’s nobles will learn of Oliver. I can only wait and see what the king will do.”
Algernon backed away. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”
Stephen could summon nothing but bleak emptiness. “ ’Tis too soon to ask for it, Algernon. We’ll speak of it later.”
Havelock bit his lip, seeming more nervous than ever. “I must go. I’m expecting news from London.” The shadows swallowed him up.
Jonathan looked after him with eyes narrowed in speculation. “London, eh? Now what mischief is he about?”
Fourteen
“I don’t want to go.”
Juliana took Oliver’s small, cold hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. “Of course you don’t.” She sank down on one knee and looked him in the eye. “The music is loud and all sorts of people are arriving. I do not blame you for being afraid.”
The pointed little chin shot up. “Afraid? Who said I was afraid?”
She shrugged and peered over his shoulder. Beyond the tent flap Stephen waited stiffly by the bonfire. How alone he looked, despite the presence of Jonathan, Kit and the people of Lynacre. Her husband’s great shoulders seemed tense with anticipation, and in the flaming glow from the fire his handsome face appeared ravaged by uncertainty.
“No,” she whispered in Oliver’s ear. “Your papa is the one who is afraid.”
He craned his neck to see Stephen. “Papa? How can Papa be afraid? He’s the biggest, strongest man here. The biggest and strongest in all of Wiltshire.”
“Yes, he is. But the biggest, strongest man in the world can be afraid because he can love.” She lowered her gaze. “And love can hurt you, no matter how big and strong you are.”
Oliver fiddled with the laces of his new velvet doublet. “I don’t understand.”
“You will one day. For now, I want you to understand that he needs to know that you love him and you want him to be your papa.”
“Then why didn’t he just say so?”
Juliana laughed, steering Oliver out of the tent and into the firelight. Someday, this lad would comprehend male pride. And probably would possess it in excess. She took his face between her hands and turned him toward Stephen. “He is saying so right now.”
Oliver stared across the leaping fire at his father. In his curiously sage, adult fashion, he nodded and patted Juliana’s hand. Then he bit his lip. “Will it hurt?”
She shook her head and hugged him. Not in the way you think, little one. Not in the way you think.
The pipes skirted up to a shrill note, and the bulb-nosed shawm drew out a long, spine-shivering tone.
Juliana took Oliver by the hand. As they walked toward Stephen, she suffered a moment of misgiving. Oliver was still a very sick little boy, and no Romany rite could mend that. But it was too late to turn back now. In the circle of firelight stood the gypsy tribe and the people of Lynacre. And in front of them all was Stephen—vast and vulnerable, the firelight flickering across his unsmiling face.
The ceremony was only a symbolic act, Juliana told herself as she walked toward Stephen around the climbing fire. Nothing more. The magic had to come from father and son.
She stopped before him. The music shimmered, soft and liquid like a warm rain. It seemed they stood there for the longest time, staring at each other—Oliver pressed back against her skirts, and she with her face raised to Stephen’s while tiny sparks from the hazelwood fire flew between them.
Her hands rested on Oliver’s shoulders. She felt the evenness of his breathing and gave silent thanks. His bothersome cough persisted, but he had not suffered a full-blown attack in several days.
Laszlo placed a blanket on the ground between Stephen and Oliver. He held up a hand to silence the music. In Romany, Laszlo said, “If this child be flesh of your flesh and blood of your blood, then claim him.”
Stephen knelt at the edge of the blanket. He kept his gaze fixed on Oliver.
Juliana wondered how she could ever have thought Stephen’s eyes to be cold and emotionless. They were quite beautiful now—blue as the heart of a flame and blazing with fierce love and hope.
“You are Oliver de Lacey,” he said, drawing out his dagger and pulling the blade across his palm. “You are my son. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood.” He made a fist and held it over the blanket, letting a few drops fall onto the bleached fabric.
Juliana felt Oliver’s shoulders draw tight, then relax as Stephen put away the dagger. He picked up the blanket, holding a corner in each hand.
Oliver stood like a soldier at attention. Juliana wanted to shove him forward, but she resisted the impulse. Oliver had to go to his father on his own.
“Please, son.” Stephen’s whisper was faint and racked with pain.
The gypsy musicians began to play again. The strange, sinuous song rippled up Juliana’s spine. The counterpoint of shawm and pipes, guitar and tambour, haunted the evening air, and the melody was as mysterious as the ineluctable bond between father and son.
Oliver took a step forward. Stephen caught the boy against his chest, wrapping the anointed blanket around him and holding on tight.
A cheer went up from the people. The tempo of the music rushed into a dance tune. Stephen swept Oliver up, higher and higher into the air, and whirled him around while the boy shouted with laughter.
For as long as she lived, Juliana would remember them thus, laughing into one another’s faces, whirling around and around while all the world seemed to smile at them.
And though she smiled, too, it was not without a pang of regret. In all the excitement over Oliver, Stephen had made no further mention of the annulment. Yet she knew the papers were there on his desk, waiting for a decision. And the worst of it was, she no longer knew what she wanted—a life here with Stephen, or the chance to find out who was responsible for that night in Novgorod.
Rodion grabbed Jillie around the waist and led her in a high-stepping jig. Laszlo clapped his heels together smartly and bowed to Nance Harbutt, who blushed, fanned her face with her apron and shook her head vigorously.
Laszlo shrugged and started to turn away. Nance grabbed him by the arm, pulled him back, and they joined the dancers. Those who did not partner off simply joined hands and reeled in a circle around the fire.
Juliana watched through a blur of tears. Her rising joy crested, aching and bittersweet, in her throat. She had come to love them all, to cherish both their triumphs and their pain. And yet she stood apart, a stranger watching from afar, because long ago she had made a blood vow, and she was bound to fulfill it.
But not yet, not tonight. Tonight was not a night for revenge, but one for love and healing. She found herself facing Stephen, her breath coming quickly and her heart in her eyes. Oliver sat on his shoulders, skinny legs hooked beneath his father’s arms, hands tangled in his hair.
As Stephen bent forward in an exaggerated courtly bow, Oliver shrieked with delight. Then the three of them joined the dancing, laughing while the firelight bathed their faces.
“Shhh.” Stephen put his fingers to his lips as he settled the sleeping boy into his bed.
Juliana brushed her hand over the pale, tousled hair and bent to kiss Oliver’s brow. Sweet, sharp affection welled up in her, and she hesitated with her head bent, the night shadows hiding the emotion in her face.
Stephen kissed the boy, too; then their eyes met when he straightened. “I used to kiss him only while he slept,” he whispered.
The searing honesty of his words touched Juliana’s heart. “I think he always knew,” she said, tucking the blanket under Oliver’s chin. “But I think, too, that you and your son are strangers who must come to know each other. Day by day.”
He caught her hand in his. “Moment by moment.” He brought her hand to his lips. “It is how I came to know you, Juliana.”
I love you. Somehow she heard the words he did not say, the question he did not ask, and she gave him the answer she knew he sought.
“Stephen, yes.”
He swept her into his arms, up and up with graceful strength. She tucked her head against his shoulder as he left the room, stepping over the sleeping Pavlo and the fantastical toys he had made for his son, forgotten now that Oliver was permitted to play with other children.
They went directly to Stephen’s chamber. She felt a warm flood of excitement flow through her. As the evening had progressed, she had sensed an inevitability about this night. They would make love; the knowledge had come to her slowly and in secret as if he had whispered his intention into her ear.
He had said nothing, but the message was there in a long, half-lidded look, in a brush of a hand on a thigh, in a private shared smile.
The one thing she had not expected was that he would carry her to his private chamber.
Embers burned low in the brazier. The subtle orange light mingled with moonglow streaming through the window. Swaying shadows from the breeze-blown trees danced across the floor and flickered upon the painted wall hangings. The bed, with its filmy summer draperies, seemed shrouded in mystery.
Stephen set her gently down. The rushes stirred softly under her bare feet. He caught her face between his hands.
“This is madness,” he said. “Tell me to stop, Juliana.”
“Tell you to stop?” she whispered, still not wholly convinced that she wasn’t dreaming. Very deliberately, she freed her hair from its coif so that it toppled down around her hips. “Now that, my lord, would be madness.”
His rich, alluring chuckle drifted from the darkness. Then she heard a rustling sound as he shed his doublet, letting it drop to the floor.
“You’re no help at all, Baroness.” He bent to kiss her.
First his lips brushed hers, light and delicate as a breath of wind. The graze of his lips made hers tingle, and the sensation spread downward, touching the tips of her breasts, the pit of her belly, the place between her legs.
“Please,” she said, pressing close, seeking release from the delicious ache inside her. “Oh, Stephen. Let it not be like before, that night in the field, when you made me soar and yet took none of your own pleasure.”
He laughed again, the sound oddly thrilling, for it was so rare. “I can manage that but once. You’re doomed tonight, my sweet.”
He deepened the kiss, and she felt the warmth of his tongue, evocative and tender as it slipped in and out of her mouth. She let her neck arch back while her hands ran up his chest, over the smooth fabric of his shirt. She inhaled deeply; he had a spice all his own, as intoxicating as vintage wine.
She had forgotten how clever he could be with his hands. How inventive. Now he reminded her, disengaging her sleeves, sliding his fingers up under the laces of her bodice, and pulling the garment loose with a single long tug. Within seconds, he had her skirt and petticoats drifting to the floor, and then she stood before him clad only in her shift.
He lifted his mouth from hers and touched her mouth with one finger, tracing the moist curve of her lower lip. Then he took her hand and drew her closer to the bed.
“Good God in heaven,” he whispered as she stepped into the pooling moonlight. “You are a witch.”
She tilted her head to one side, feeling the weight of her unbound hair and glad for its concealing length. “Why do you say that?”
He pressed one hand over her breast and cupped the other hand behind her neck, pulling her firmly against him. “That is what you do to me, my gypsy bride, and I know of no other word for it than witchcraft.”
“Call it what you will,” she whispered and moved closer still, nearly undone by the rich sensation of his hand on her breast.
“Ah, Juliana. Do you know how hard it’s been for me to stay away from you? Knowing you were my wife and not being able to have you?”
“Yes,” she said, her fingers finding the laces of his codpiece. “I think I might have a vague idea.”
He groaned as her fingers brushed against him, loosening his trunk hose. “You know, don’t you, that this night will change everything between us.”
For the moment, she did not pause to consider what he meant. “It had better,” she said, pressing her lips to the hollow of his throat, intoxicated by the taste of him.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I have fallen in love with you, Stephen de Lacey.”
As he lifted her off the floor and spun her about, the sound that escaped him was one of mingled joy and frustration. She threw back her head and watched the play of light and shadow whirling, whirling, as enchanting as the faceted lamp chimney he had made for Oliver.
When he set her down, her back was against one of the thick bedposts, and she stood breathless, waiting, her skin on fire with wanting.
Stephen gave a secretive smile as he bent low. He kissed her earlobe and then the side of her neck. His tongue flicked out and touched the sensitive skin there, and then his teeth were nipping, nibbling, as if she were a feast and he a man on the verge of starvation.
He clasped his hands around the pillar, imprisoning her between himself and the great, waiting bed. Soft laughter vibrated in his throat as he bent lower still and took hold of the ribbons of her shift with his teeth and pulled back. The bow came loose and the shift shivered down, baring her body inch by inch until she stood in a spellbound state of helpless anticipation.
“Ah, Juliana,” he said, his voice wavering over her name. “Ah, love, you can’t know how it makes me feel to look upon you—all of you.” He brushed aside a tendril of her hair and lowered his head to kiss her breast. “Sweetheart, you come to me so clean and new, all innocent.”
“And so do you, my beloved,” she whispered. “For in truth you seem a different man of late.”
“You taught me to hope again,” he said, scooping her up and laying her on the puffy velvet counterpane.
Living among gypsies had taught Juliana that lovemaking was a frantic, furtive affair enacted in the dark to the discordant rhythm of uneven breathing, the occasional muffled shout and the creak of wagon springs.
Being with Stephen in the massive bed corrected that notion. Though a fire blazed in his eyes, he took his time with her, lowering himself beside her and kissing her lips, her throat, her breasts, then pulling back to watch her like an artist surveying his handiwork.
He said little and his infrequent whispered phrases were disjointed, but his meaning was clear. From the depths of her being he summoned passion and tenderness and the jewel-bright conviction that she belonged here, in his arms. She felt as if she had reached the end of a long journey.
And then he left her with her body bathed in firelight and moonglow. She gave a little cry of dismay and came up on her knees, reaching into the shadows.
He laughed quietly, cupping her chin in his hand. “Patience, love.” Bracing one hand on the bedpost, he removed his boots, his hose and trunks. He stood there for a moment in only his large, blousy shirt. His gaze touched her like a caress.
He needed her. She saw it in his eyes as clearly as if he had admitted it aloud. His unguarded expression made her tremble.
“You are afraid,” he whispered.
“No, I …” She looked away. “Yes.”
He captured her chin again and made her look at him. “ ’Twill hurt.”
“Perhaps.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No!” She clenched her hands into his shirt. “It is as if, all my life, I have been searching, seeking. Without quite knowing what I sought.” Her hands drifted down to the hem of his shirt. “And it is not just the heat of your body next to mine that I need, but something more. Something deeper. Something I begin to believe I can find with you, and you only.”
He made a strange, low sound in his throat. She studied his face, and what she saw surprised her. “You are afraid, too.”
He gave her an endearingly crooked
grin. “It’s not every day that I bring a wife to bed.”
“I am a woman, no different in essence from any other. And you’ve had so many—”
“Hush.” He kissed her briefly, firmly. “First of all, you are very different indeed. I daresay you are the most singular baroness in all of England. And second of all, I think you should know that there has been no one since Meg.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Please don’t lie to me. Not tonight. You are notorious, Stephen. Your love affairs with lightskirts are common gossip.”
“Pure invention, love. It was a way to chase off unwanted betrothals.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.” He winnowed his fingers into her hair. “There is no greater intimacy than this, Juliana. Some take it lightly. I do not. I never have.”
“I love you,” she whispered.
His mouth hardened, just for a heartbeat. Just long enough to shadow her heart with doubt and make her blurt, “Stephen, did you love your first wife? Did you love Meg?”
He hesitated, his fingers ceasing their exploration. “Must we speak of her now?”
“ ’Tis a thing I have long wondered—ever since I first saw the shrine you built to her memory.”
He rolled his eyes. As if the ceiling were a higher authority, he asked it, “Why do women always want to know these things?” Then he looked down. “Sweetheart, you do use words as a bucket of ice water.”
She stifled a giggle and brushed her hand over his. “By knowing what you cherished, I learn to know you.”
Stephen heaved a great sigh and sat on the edge of the bed, clutching his head in his hands. “She was chosen for me in the same manner my first horse was selected. We wed as children, and at first it seemed we were only playing at being married. How could I have loved her if I did not even think she was real?”
Juliana clutched the bedclothes to her chest and sat forward. She had no answer, so she simply listened, trying to picture a much younger Stephen, a Stephen untouched by sorrow.
“Of course, the world changed, and I changed. My father died and the estate fell to me. Meg was delivered of a son—Dickon.”
