She felt suddenly confused, very confused, and her gaze left him to dart frantically around the room, as if to make sense of her confused tumble of thoughts, conflicting thoughts that lay beneath her desperation. She wanted to disappear, to vanish into thin air to emerge a thousand miles away, someplace, anyplace where she would not have to see him ever again, where she would not have to face what had happened ever again.
"I see your confusion, love," he said, watching her intently. "I see that a hundred thoughts have passed through your mind. I am wondering what these are?"
"I need to know . . . where are we? I don't even know where we are."
"We are on my ship, The Raven, sailing on the high seas now."
He watched the luminous mist of tears fill her eyes. Held back like an unsung poem, these tears would not be shared, and she bit her lip with the effort to control it.
"I want to go back," she said in a whispered rush, realizing it as she said it. "I want ... I want very much to see Tomas."
As soon as those words sounded, her hand clasped over her mouth, as if to contain the nearly overwhelming emotion the realization brought her. She wanted to see Tomas more than she ever wanted anything in the whole of her life, as much as she wanted her next breath. She wanted to see that it didn't matter; she wanted to be held and loved and told that it wasn't her fault, that he had forced her. Against her will, he had forced her, and she could not be held accountable, she wanted him to know that ....
Garrett watched these emotions, knowing full well he walked a thin line here but absolutely refusing to frighten her anymore. Not immediately. "Juliet, we have to go at this slowly—"
She reached for his hand, a desperate gesture as she cried in a whisper. "I don't want to go slowly! Please!"
Garrett's gaze dropped to her hand curling tightly around his ring finger to keep him there until he promised to send her back. Her hand was so small and white, making him unnervingly aware of her femininity. He gently uncurled the fingers from his, opening her hand to see a dark red scar covering the whole of her palm. He stared at it with confusion for a moment, seeing the way it covered the whole of her palm, an ugly color, darkest in the center, lightening slightly toward the edges, as if—
Dear God, no ... Yet as he stared at it, as his fingers brushed lightly over it as if to make it go away, he knew what he stared at. The scar marked the hand with the mangled finger.
She pulled her hand back, making a fist to hide it. Why was he staring at her like that? As if her scar made him cold to her suddenly, his emotions retreating behind a mask of control.
"We will talk after you're up and dressed and have had some breakfast. I had someone mend your dress. It's hanging in the closet there." He stood up to leave but stopped upon seeing his cat. "Will you feel safe alone with Tonali?"
She looked over at the great cat, fastidiously engaged in cleaning a paw, and she nodded. She felt safer with Tonali than with his master, that was certain. As soon as the door shut behind Garrett, she jumped out of bed and slipped into the dressing room. The abrupt movement washed her in dizziness and she felt how hungry she was, a small sign of life.
She tried hard not to think as she looked around. The small room was darker. Her clothes hung neatly in the closet, separated by a few inches from his. Without any real awareness, she ran her hand over a vestlike jacket hanging alongside a dozen or more breeches and even more shirts. Two formal dress jackets hung at the end, too. So many clothes for one person.
Dressing water and cloths sat atop a tall bureau and she helped herself, taking a good twenty minutes or so with the sponge bath. She slipped on her clothes as best she could without the use of her hand, but the buttons in back were impossible. She never let her hair go unbound, it was too thick and long and always in the way, but there was no choice with her dress open in back. She brushed it out, leaving it to cover her back.
She hesitated upon spotting his toothbrush, its curved gold handle the finest she had ever seen. After his kisses, there seemed little reason not to borrow it. A small gold box contained diced mint leaves, and she helped herself, scrubbing furiously before she could change her mind.
Yet the thought of his kisses brought a sudden heat to her face again, as her memories traveled to one of many heights of passion he had led her to. "Now, Juliet? Say it, love, I want to hear you say it ..." The toothbrush dropped as she remembered the thick, swirling sensations as he brought her to a summit, an unbearable peak that made her reply, and—
Stop! Stop, she almost screamed out loud, clasping her head as her heart pounded wildly with these thoughts. She felt hot, the room seemed to be closing around her. She slipped out the door, and as if needing support she leaned against it, her eyes wide, her face flushed, and her breathing quick. Only then did she realize that she was not alone. She found herself staring at the bright blue eyes of Leif, sitting at the table. She did not know how, but in the long minute or two that it took her to recover, she had the strangest sense he saw right to her very soul, where no secrets were kept.
Juliet's eyes widened more as the great giant stood up and quietly came to her, his gaze never straying even as he towered over her. Yet there was no threat from this man, though the rage of her emotions made her lower her eyes at last, unable to bear the depth of his sympathy. Not with the shame. . .
Leif gently touched her face. The brush of his callused fingers felt cool on her hot skin and she trembled slightly with uncertainty and confusion. "How can you wear my own shame like this? Why would you?"
She looked up with his question.
"Aye," he said in his remarkable voice, nodding his head slowly for emphasis when none was needed. "How could you own shame when 'twas me that stole you from the light of day, me that terrorized you as no young girl ever should be? For God's sake, girl, it does not belong to you; it belongs to me and mine, a thing we must, we will, carry to our graves."
Juliet saw many things as she searched his face, his sympathy as warm as his sincerity was plain; resisting him was not possible. This man tried to tell Garrett he had made a mistake. Somehow he had known she was not Clarissa. This man stopped Garrett from hurting her when he saw she wore his brother's ring. "How did you know 'twas me and not Clarissa?"
His smile was a thing to behold, transforming the harshness of his fine features into a warm and friendly thing. "Ah, well," he shrugged with this smile, "the path of knowledge is as hard to see as the flight of a hummingbird, but your innocence was plain to me from the start." His brows drew together as he examined her, making him look cross now. "Garrett has left you with fear, I see. I curse him for that, though I can guess 'twas too much for anyone, even Garrett, with all that he put you through. Are you . . . Dear God, tell me you are not frightened of me now?"
She shook her head and wanted to smile, unable to account for the effect of his manner. He went right to the heart of the matter; she had never met anyone so completely without pretenses.
"Well, thank God for that. Now let me have a hand at the buttons back there."
She could not guess how he knew, but the idea of a man doing up her buttons made her shake her head, which in turn made him look cross again. "Don't be ridiculous. I have four grown daughters, which means that I have been buttoning dresses since before you were a glimmer in your mother's eye, and if you think I have a mind for taking advantage of the small favor—"
She stopped him by presenting him with her back, lifting her hair to the side. He took a very long time at it and she didn't understand until she heard a soft curse. "Garrett said 'twas a sight but. . ." The rest was in that patois the Scots use, a language she did not know. Once done, he took her hand, meaning to lead her to the table, but he stopped when he felt the slight tremble in it. He looked from her hand to her face, seeing that this at least had nothing to do with fear. "God in heavens, on top of everything we are starving you. You are faint from hunger."
Leif rang a bell thrice, then feeling it was not enough, he went to the door, opened it, and shou
ted. The sound was a well-known one, for it was generally agreed that among many other talents, Leif owned a voice capable of waking the dead. Leif s curse and complaint echoed over the entire ship, and Garrett, presently aloft midair from the lower mast, guessed what it was about. He and Tonali were not the only victims of Juliet's bewitchment.
Leif poured her a glass of water and began a long-winded attempt to set her fears to rest: assuring her the worst was over, that she'd never see Garrett as he was yesterday. "Really understand, you have to know Garrett, the fierceness of his love for his lost brother . . ." and on and on, all things she sensed were true but which reassured her to hear nonetheless.
The door burst open and Leif stopped as Garrett entered behind Prince as he stepped inside carrying an enormous tray of food. Juliet saw only the Indian. He was tall, slender, and not unhandsome, but with the sole exception of Garrett himself, never had she seen such arrogance in a person, the wonder being that he could condescend to carry a food tray at all. He met her eyes with a lazy indifference, save for a hint of amusement that made it plain he knew her predicament.
Juliet's eyes fell to the table with a wave of red-hot humiliation. Leif s hand came over hers. She heard Garrett snap with unconcealed irritation. "Say a good morning to the lady Juliet, Prince, and if you don't want your ears boxed, you had better put some humility behind it. You are serving her breakfast after all."
The young man was heir to the throne of one of India's wealthier states. With the plots and conspiracies of dozens of brothers, uncles, and even more wives, King Cashmir Punjab's court had more intrigue than the Bible had verses. Succession to the crown was as complicated as any one of Garrett's calculus equations, and murder often figured in the equation. To assure the prince's succession and to protect his heir and favorite son, as well as to provide him with a Western education, the king gave the care of his firstborn to Garrett, one of his best friends.
Prince set the tray down, ever undaunted. "Ah, a very good morning to the Lady Juliet." The young man's smile appeared to be genuine, much to Garrett's alarm. "My humility manifests itself without effort, the natural response of any man, even your most humble servant here, to the young lady's beauty."
"A fine show, indeed," Garrett observed. "Now let's see your highness sweating on the muck watch. Out with you now."
The door shut and she looked up.
Garrett started to speak but stopped. His gaze fell first to Leifs hand over hers, then to the sudden veil over Leifs gaze, and he knew, tensing enough to cause Tonali to leap down from the bookcase and begin slowly circling his legs.
Leif did not want the sight, but once started he could never stop it. As he had laid his hand over hers the last years of her life came to him in a kaleidoscopic vision. First he felt flashes of pain from the beatings, a hot stinging pain reverberating through his nerves, causing his face to contort and seizing the whole of his huge body. The pain vanished with the sight—glimpses of Stoddard as she had seen him: Stoddard's face changed with rage and hate, his hand raised over her face, the man's hands as he tied her braids to the bedpost, changing as they held a kitten over the snapping jaws of mad dogs, the same dogs chasing Juliet up a tree like a hunted creature when she tried to escape, and—
"No . . . dear God, no," he said in a whisper as he saw Stoddard coming up behind her as she sat there all day waiting in fear, not knowing how it would end until she felt her finger crushed beneath the heavy round pole. Leif braced to feel her pain, but the vision vanished to darkness . . . darkness where she watched the flames of a single candle, searching for a light in the darkness but. . . Stoddard . . . her hand, and dear God, no —
The smell of her burning flesh burst into the fragments of her fear. Oh my poor, poor child, how terrible it was . . . this fear, the crudest trick was how he made the fear so much worse than any pain could be.
Leif closed his eyes, praying for an end to this vision, certain he could bear no more. Without her knowledge, a door opened in her mind to let him see the place of redemption that she kept safe in her heart: a light at the end of the tunnel, her faith in the ultimate purpose that was at the end. It spilled into him, all her joy and happiness and love, the untouched miracle of her life. . . .
Leif emerged from the vision at last, shaken to the very depth of his soul. The whole experience felt like an eternity but had taken no more than the space of a minute. Juliet had not a clue, not a clue about anything since the moment Garrett walked through the doors. He stood near the table, staring not at her but at Leif, the great cat circling his legs in agitation. Taken together, Garrett and his cat looked like a great mythological sight, beast and man, the same powerful and deadly manifestation in two forms.
As Garrett's gaze came to her she looked away. In the same instant she felt nervous and apprehensive. Her hands grew clammy, and just as she wisely thought to remind herself to breathe, Leif stood up and Garrett excused himself, as he and Tonali followed Leif out the door.
She looked at the food. She wondered how she could think of a thing like propriety, not just because she was starving but after she had been forced to travel so far form propriety's civilized circle. Yet here she was waiting before helping herself.
The parrot flew to the chair opposite her.
"'Ello, 'Ello!" Polly ruffled his feathers. "Ballarney! Bawk, bawkV He got to the point, "Polly wants a carrot, Garrett."
"Oh!" A smile lifted to her eyes, overcoming the sadness there for a brief moment. "I'm not Garrett, but I don't mind serving you, Polly. No carrots here. Do you think you might want a bit of muffin?"
"Aye, aye ... Bawk, I want ... oh yes, I want . . . bawk . . . now Garrett, now!"
The source of the parrot's words were lost to her, though she sensed a queer feminine lilt in his squawks. She broke a piece of roll. The bird flew to her shoulder, she tensed with the feel of his claws, but he took the piece of roll she offered and flew away, leaving her with a roll in her hand.
Garrett and Leif finally returned—much changed—only she was too interested in the food to notice. Watching her carefully, and with surprising obsequiousness, Garrett set about serving her breakfast. Leif and he talked about the wind and the sails, a race with time and a wager they had, as he carefully arranged a plate and bowl, a napkin, glass, and cup, then served her portions of eggs, cheese, and fried fish, a bowl of fresh fruit cut into tiny squares, rolls, and bread. There was even jam. She had had the impression from books that food on a ship was dismal, consisting of little more than oatmeal, bread, and salted meat. Yet here sat a breakfast fit for a vicar's table.
"I see Pots made you some juice," he interrupted his conversation to look into the container. "Tomato juice, love. Would you like some?"
She swallowed her confusion and managed to nod. He was so obsequious she half expected him to spread the jam on her bread for her. She did not realize the constraint prevailing here, that nothing of import would be discussed until she finished eating. Garrett politely, if not obliquely, stopped his conversation to answer her shy inquiries when they came, which was whenever she could not help it.
"What does Tonali eat? Why, whatever Tonali wants. I am happy to tell you that does not include people so far. Where did I find him? Well, first in a dream and then in the Spanish colonies of the Americas, where such cats live. . . . Oh, his name is Polly. . . . Yes, I suppose that's ludicrously unoriginal, but then, so is he. He only repeats what others say . . ." and so on, but even these inquiries about his creatures were hard to make in the face of her maddening, acute consciousness of him.
An acute consciousness that made her study him, measuring his every small move against what she knew of other men. She did not know many men; she supposed she could count them on one hand: her uncle, Mr. Wilson barely, Reverend Loman, Niles, and Samuels, barely, and Tomas. Garrett seemed so different from them as to be of another race entirely. It was not any one thing but everything: his strength and height, the ease of his command, the distinguished character to his features, the rea
ch of his intelligence, and even his unparalleled, wholly original choice of a pet. Everything about Mm put him in a class all his own. She saw this in his every movement, as he fed bread crumbs to Polly, listening to Leif, his unfathomable gaze hardly leaving her throughout. Each movement seemed to reveal the magnitude of his character as well as a supreme ease with life. Little wonder that when no one else dared, he alone was able to stop her uncle, that it had not been difficult for him to do so. Truly the miracle was only that she had survived. . . . "Your uncle is dead and you are alive; two things to celebrate," he had told her, and she agreed now but—
But dear Tomas, oh how scared for me you must be. ... And Garrett, she wanted badly to ask, why does it matter to most men?
Apprehension filled her eyes as she thought of Tomas. The roll in her hand dropped to her plate and with effort she swallowed the last bite. "Tea, love?" Garrett saw she was through. "No?" He paused with his concern. "Do you feel better now?" She nodded slowly.
"Well enough to answer some questions? Would you rather rest awhile?"
She shook her head. "I'm fine now. Truly." Yet as she spoke, her voice seemed to come from a different place in the room. That she could talk to him at all after what had passed between them felt like yet another miracle, one she would have to get used to if she was to discover when he would take her back to Tomas. Tomas would marry her now; she had to believe this. He wouldn't care what had happened, so long as she was alive and well and her uncle dead. ...
Garrett stood across from her, leaning on a leg braced on the chair as he studied her with plain concern. He looked over at Leif, who nodded almost imperceptibly as his hand came over Juliet's again. There was a strange comfort in Leif s touch, though she was abruptly cautioned by the solemnity descending over the room like a storm cloud. Why? What goes here?
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