Silk and Shadows

by Mary Jo Putney

  When they passed through the rose garden, Peregrine picked a white rose and presented it to his companion. "This flower reminds me of you— thorny but very beautiful, and with an irresistible scent."

  Sara accepted the rose, remembering that he had given her flowers like it the day they went to Tattersall's. "You say the most outrageous things," she said, inhaling the rose's fragrance.

  "It is not right to be romantic? I thought that was what women liked."

  She lifted her head and gave him a level stare. "What happened last night was no accident, was it?"

  Peregrine considered lying, then discarded the notion since he doubted she would believe a protestation of innocence. "No, it wasn't. As I told you, Weldon is a dangerous man. I am sorry you were distressed, but I could not permit you to marry him."

  "Distressed? What a pallid word for shattering someone's life." She was not angry; her cool, ironic expression was beyond anger. "As for 'permitting' me to marry him, you had no right to interfere as you did."

  "If you saw a child rushing out in front of a carriage, would you have no right to stop it?" As soon as he uttered the words, he knew that he had picked a poor example.

  Sara's lips thinned. "That's an inappropriate and insulting analogy. I had some doubts about marrying Charles because of his domineering personality, but based on the evidence, you would be much worse."

  "Do you truly regret that you will not be marrying Weldon?" He knew the answer to that question, but perhaps Sara did not.

  "Don't try to change the subject," she said sharply "The issue is not what I feel for Charles, but your contemptible behavior. What you did was wrong, no matter how noble your motives. How can I ever trust a man who is so high-handed?"

  Not waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel and resumed walking toward a footbridge that arched over the little river. His long strides easily kept him apace with Sara.

  "I am beginning to understand something Ross told me last night," he said thoughtfully. "Your cousin said that the best that could be said of my principles is that I believe that the end justifies the means, and that you would find that unacceptable because you believe in right and wrong."

  "Ross was correct," she agreed, her voice cool. "The result you wanted did not justify the means you chose to attain it."

  "I thought that it did." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully because he must win her mind as well as her body. "That is a difference between us, Sara, but not an irresolvable one. I am not usually highhanded, and I do not expect you always to agree with me. If you have a conflicting opinion, I will not beat you or lock you in your room with bread and water. There will be times when you disagree with my methods, and there will be times when I disagree with your judgments. But surely we can live with the fact that sometimes we will disagree?"

  Sara could do worse than marry a man who acknowledged a woman's right to her own opinions— always assuming he was sincere, which was a rather large assumption. She stopped in the middle of the small bridge and leaned against the railing, gazing at the flowing water rather than her companion.

  "You make that sound simple, but principles are not," she said slowly. "Differences of opinion can tear people and nations apart. In marriage, men have the ultimate power, physically, legally, and financially. If your methods include forcing me to do things I believe are wrong, what advantage is there in my having your permission to disagree?"

  "Legally a husband may have the power, but practically speaking, the situation is much more complicated. You have great personal strength, as well as a powerful family that is concerned for your welfare. That would protect you from me, if you ever feel you need protection. But I doubt that will be necessary— we are talking about marriage, not war."

  "Some say there is little difference between love and war." Sara turned to look at him, her voice challenging. "Why do you want to marry me? Charles was interested mostly in my fortune and social rank. Is that what you want, too?"

  "Not particularly." He leaned on the railing, silhouetted against the glowing, light-drenched leaves of the trees that overhung the river. "Wealth is a fine thing, much better than the lack, but I have sufficient now. If you doubt my motives, a settlement can be drawn up reserving your fortune to your 'sole and separate use.' I believe that is the legal phrase. As to social standing..." He shrugged. "If I stay in England, it will be useful, but it is of no real importance to me."

  "Do you intend to stay in England?" Sara plucked a leaf from the stem of the white rose and dropped it in the water, then watched it whirl away. Would he expect her to accompany him back to those mountains at the edge of the world, to live under primitive conditions with no knowledge of the language and customs? "I'm not averse to travel, but England is my home. I can't imagine myself in the wilds of Kafiristan."

  "Nor can I. It is a hard life and wouldn't suit you."

  Rather than being gratified, Sara was perversely irritated by the implication that she was a frail, helpless creature. "So you will abandon me and return to your home alone?"

  He shook his head. "Perhaps I'll visit Kafiristan, but I will never live there again."

  "You would exile yourself from your own country and people?" Sara said, incredulous.

  "It is a hard thing to be born in a place that does not suit one's spirit," he said obliquely, not looking at her. "My birthplace was never my home. I don't even want it to be."

  For Sara, whose spirit was as deeply rooted in English soil as any oak, it was a strange idea. Tentatively she said, "Did you know that the word Peregrine means wanderer or pilgrim?"

  "I know," he said tersely.

  Sara was silent for a time, thinking that his words gave her some insight into his complex nature. "Have you ever had a real home?"

  "I have owned property in many places, but I don't think any of them were what you would call a home.''

  He glanced at her, his eyes as green as the sun-saturated leaves above his head. "I envy your sense of place. You are utterly English. I can't imagine you thriving anywhere else."

  "You are right," she admitted. "Is that good or bad?"

  "I don't know." He gave a faint, rueful smile. "Do you?"

  "I am glad that I know where I belong, but surely I must seem boring to a man who has seen and done as much as you."

  "You could never be boring, Sara," he said slowly. "You see below the surface of things. While it may not be a comfortable trait, it is an interesting one."

  She turned away from the railing and continued over the bridge, wondering just what it was that she wanted from him. No one could guarantee another person happiness. Even if Peregrine should try to convince her that they would live in endless bliss if they married, she knew better than to believe him. Perhaps what she wanted was to know that he cared for her a little, enough to try to make a marriage work.

  On the far side of the river, enormous efforts had been expended to make the gardens look like natural countryside, only better. After a few minutes more of silent walking, the path curved and entered a long, high wall of clipped yew. "Have you ever been in a maze?" Sara asked. "This one is at least two centuries old, probably older."

  "I've never been in a maze. There is something very fitting about finding one now." Peregrine glanced down at her, his eyes intense. "We have been wandering aimlessly long enough. It is time to face the ultimate question. Will you marry me, Sara?"

  Unsettled, she turned away from him again. "Before I answer, we must delve into the heart of the maze."

  "I sense that there is a metaphor loose between us," he said, amused. "Or do I mean an allegory?"

  Sara smiled and entered the maze, quickly whisking out of her companion's sight around a corner and leaving him to find his own way through. She and Ross had played hide-and-seek here as children, and she still remembered the correct turns.

  The center of the maze was an oval clearing of short, lush grass, as soft as a living carpet. It was one of the most private spots on the estate and a favorite retreat of S
ara's. This time, however, there was no relaxation to be found. She prowled the clearing, too tense to sit on the stone bench while she waited for her companion to find her.

  Peregrine joined her in an impressively short time. "Are we at the heart of the maze yet?"

  "Nowhere near it." She clasped her hands in front of her, trying to look composed, but her fingers twined tightly. "How can I marry a man who is in most ways a stranger, and a rather alarming one at that? For all I know, you have a wife in Kafiristan. Or a dozen wives, or concubines in half the cities of the Orient."

  He shook his head, his face becoming as serious as her own. "No, Sara. I have never taken a wife, nor even considered it. While I have had mistresses in the past, there is no woman but you who has a claim on me now."

  "Is that how you think of me, as an obligation to be met because you ruined my reputation?"

  "No," he said calmly. "That is the advantage of my un-noble principles. I would never marry because of any abstract sense of obligation. I simply like the idea of having you as a wife."

  There was some comfort in that answer. Shifting to another subject, Sara asked, "What about religion? I don't know what, if anything, you believe in. I was raised in the Church of England and want to be married in it. Would you object, or would that offend your own beliefs?"

  "I will not be offended by an Anglican wedding ceremony." He regarded her with a glimmer of humor. "As I said, the people of Kafiristan are pagans. I can talk with some understanding on Buddhism, Taoism, Hinduism, and several less-known Eastern religions, and have some knowledge of Christian theology and Jewish law as well. Twice in my life, when the alternative was to be executed on the spot, I accepted forcible conversion to Islam, but I do not consider such conversions binding."

  Startled and a little shocked by his recitation, Sara said, "But what do you believe? Don't you have any kind of faith?"

  "I have faith in myself, sweet Sara." He took two steps closer, and the familiar current of attraction pulsed into potent, irresistible life. "And I have faith in you."

  He was so close she could touch him, and she wanted to, wanted to so much it hurt. But far more than passion, she needed understanding. She needed to feel that there existed a foundation on which a marriage could be built.

  Ross had once explained that the European concept of love was alien to Orientals, so Peregrine was unlikely to speak of love, but Sara would settle for less. For much, much less.

  Softly she asked, "What kind of faith do you have in me?"

  "I believe that you will be good." He cupped her chin in one hand, his vivid gaze holding hers. "I don't imagine that it will always be comfortable, but perhaps your honorable nature will improve me."

  She didn't know whether to laugh or weep. "You make me sound like some kind of medicine, to be taken from necessity rather than choice."

  "Both, Sara." There was a rueful note in his voice. "You are my choice, and perhaps also my necessity." He lowered his head and kissed her. At first his mouth was light, almost playful, but as she yielded, sliding her arms around him, the kiss became demanding.

  She responded in kind, hungry for the nourishment only he could give her. His arms around her felt so good, so right....

  Then she remembered why they were here, and broke away from his embrace. Nothing had been settled. She needed answers, not lovemaking. Her breathing unsteady, she tried to formulate questions that might elicit what she needed to know.

  Before she could think of a single worthy question, he stretched his hand out to her. "Don't deny your desire, Sara." His deep voice was soft and rich, as tantalizing as the forbidden fruit of Eden. "Don't run from me. I will not harm you."

  The pull he exerted was as inexorable as a river sweeping toward the sea. Involuntarily she took a step forward, then stopped. Something was wrong, for what she felt was more than desire, it was compulsion. "Stop doing that!" she burst out.

  His dark brows arched. "Stop doing what?"

  She stammered with embarrassment, knowing how foolish her words must sound. "Sometimes it seems as if you... you cast a spell over me, an enchantment that robs me of my willpower."

  Rationally she knew it was impossible, but emotionally she felt that he was trying to coerce her. Perhaps he had some subtle Oriental power unknown to Europeans. "It happens whenever you want me to do something I have doubts about. I feel like... like a mongoose hypnotized by a cobra."

  She saw that she had startled him, and briefly the magnetic pull diminished. "What a very original idea," he said, an enigmatic gleam in his eyes. "Hypnotizing people to do my bidding would be a useful skill, if it were possible. But alas, I do not think it is." As he spoke, the pull intensified, becoming stronger than ever.

  Sara fought that potent attraction. To yield and go into his arms would be to give up her ability to choose, because once he embraced her, she would be lost. "Why do you want to marry me?" she asked again, shifting her eyes because his gaze weakened her resolve. "Me in particular, rather than anyone else? If not for money, social position, or guilt, is it because you want an English wife and I am convenient?"

  "You are missing the most obvious reason of all." Lightly he placed his hands on her shoulders. "I want to marry you because you are you, unique and fascinating, unlike any other woman I have ever known. Isn't that reason enough?"

  Then he drew her to him, and her resistance crumbled and vanished like dust in the wind. Before when they kissed, her sense of honor and obligation to her betrothal had protected her. But now that obligation was gone, and there was nothing to save her from her own dangerous longings.

  Wherever he touched, her body sang in response and found echoes throughout her whole being. And while he was not offering love, did his words not mean that he cared, at least a little? Surely that would be enough?

  "In the language of Genghis Khan, the word sira meant silk. Sira Sara—silken Sara," he breathed as his lips drifted from her temple to her hair. "Like the finest silk, you have a subtle, sensuous beauty that shimmers with hidden fire."

  He caught her lobe teasingly between his teeth, not hard enough to hurt. The delicately judged pressure made her shiver in response,. She turned her face, seeking his mouth with hers and finding it. Her eyes closed and her world narrowed to the hot, moist touch of tongues and teeth, of breath and taste, depths and sliding surfaces. Dimly she was aware that he was bringing her gently to the ground, lowering her onto the soft, sun-warmed turf, but reality was the dark fire of his kiss.

  He warmed her even as he blocked the sunlight, lying beside her, his hard body half over hers. His hands roamed over her, deft and knowing, leisurely in their knowledge. Even through her heavy clothing, his touch aroused her. She arched her breast against his palm, wanting to feel him on her bare flesh as she had the night before. But this dress was not so easily defeated as her ball gown. His questing hand roved lower, from breasts to waist to hips, an endless caress that roused and tantalized.

  When he first touched where her thighs and abdomen joined, she flinched, momentarily grateful for the protection of her clothing. Then the warmth of his hand melted away her disquiet, as answering warmth slowly flowered inside her. She rubbed against him like a cat being petted.

  He raised her skirt and petticoats, and she felt almost naked with only the sheer muslin of her drawers between his questing hand and her yearning flesh. The delicate fabric added a rustling sensuality as he caressed her, massaging her calf, her knee, moving ever upward.

  When he reached the exquisitely sensitive inside of her thighs, she gasped with fearful pleasure, breaking the kiss in her need for breath. His broad palm came to rest between her legs, motionless while she became accustomed to the intimacy. Then he began rotating his hand in a slow circle. Her breathing roughened as her inchoate longings began to focus into a swirl of sensation beneath his palm.

  "You like that, don't you, sweet Sara?" he murmured. He shifted from general pressure to a delicate, more specific exploration, his fingers searing through the thin
muslin.

  She pulsed against him in wordless answer. When the stroking ended, she almost cried out at the deprivation before realizing that he was only pausing to untie the ribbon that fastened her drawers around her waist. She knew she should protest, but instead she shamelessly raised her hips to help, no longer knowing or caring what was proper, or what the consequences might be.

  The air was cool on her heated skin when he tugged the flimsy garment off. Shyness was not yet gone, and she tensed when his fingers skimmed across the subtle, satin curve of her belly, then traced a path through the soft curls to the mysteries below. When at last he touched her bare flesh, she was startled and embarrassed at the moist heat of her response.

  He held her close with one encircling arm. "Relax, sweet Sara, relax," he whispered. "Your body was made for love. Let me teach you."

  At first she was unbearably sensitive, fearful of such intimate invasion. But he knew her body better than she did herself, knew exactly where and how to touch, easing her disquiet even as he inflamed her senses.

  She was aware of his soothing voice, but not the words he uttered, was aware of the scratchy feel of his wool coat against her cheek, of the subtle, musky male scent of him in her nostrils. Her hips began moving involuntarily, and her breathing was ragged, desperate, as waves of need threatened to drown her.

  "Yes, Sara, yes. Yield and be free." His voice was husky and uneven, and she felt a hot, hard bulge where her leg pressed against him. The last of her inhibitions were dissolved by the knowledge that he was also aroused by her. She lost control of her body entirely, crying out as shattering urgency overwhelmed her. She was falling, falling, frightened yet joyous.

  In the aftermath, she felt as if she had been fragmented and was only slowly being reassembled. She lay on her side, and Peregrine held her against him, one hand cradling her head while he whispered gently in a language she did not understand. His other hand still rested on her, calming the heady throbbing of her most private parts.