by Olivia Drake
“Memsahib.”
The soft foreign word stopped her; she swung back to meet that inscrutable gaze. He pointed a dusky finger to the left, where sunlight glinted off the river.
“Walk that way,” he said. “You will find His Grace on the bridge, where the river turns.”
Wary, she tilted her head. “Why are you telling me now?”
He bowed, this time with the homage of a servant for his mistress. “Because perhaps the daughter is forthright... as forthright as the father is devious.”
Stunned speechless, she watched as Ravi walked toward the stables, the robe swishing around his lean back. Her skin bristled. If he meant to compliment her, he’d chosen a backhanded manner. How dare he denounce Papa as wicked when William Deverell had dealt in stolen opium.
She caught herself. After the callous way Papa had tried to deny her the man she loved, she shouldn’t leap to his defense. He had treated her like a choice piece of property, rather than a cherished daughter. She didn’t trust Ravi’s judgment, yet how well did she really know her father, the businessman?
Swallowing her uncertainty, she struck out toward the elms. Now, more than ever, she needed to talk to Kent. She needed to reassure herself that the closeness of last night still existed, that their bond had been no insubstantial dream. Dreamspinner. The pet name her father had once called her slipped into her mind. But no longer did she spin girlish fancies; now she ached with a woman’s longing, a woman’s need for love and companionship.
As she emerged from the trees, the dusty heat of the morning enveloped her. She veered to the left, where a water meadow stretched toward the river. The mauve-pink grass heads blended with brick red sorrel blooms and purple thistle. Against the cloudless sky, a hawk sailed, wings spread.
Lifting a hand to shade her eyes, Juliet peered ahead, but a stand of chestnut trees hid the bend in the river. She kept walking until she reached the bank, where she picked a sprig of water mint and idly chewed it, the taste sharp and refreshing. The beauty of the undergrowth called to her, the pink and white blossoms of bramble, the red brown buds of a figwort, the feathery white flowers of meadowsweet. Yet she pressed onward, her steps quick, the need in her heart out weighing scientific curiosity.
Rounding the curve in the river, she came upon the bridge that spanned the flowing water. Kent stood in the middle of the small structure, his broad back to her, his elbows planted on the stone arch as he plied a fishing rod. The breeze fingered his black hair and rippled the white shirt against his powerful shoulders
A storm of longing drenched her. How well she recalled the feel of those naked muscles beneath her fingertips. As her husband straightened to recast the fishing line, he caught sight of her. He turned to watch her approach, but with the sun dazzling her eyes, Juliet couldn’t discern his expression. Driven by doubts and dreams, she walked toward him until her feet met the stone pavings of the bridge.
“Good morning, Kent.” Before her courage withered, she added in a rush, “Ravi said you wanted to be left alone. I wondered if that order included me.”
A swallow swooped past in a flurry of small brown wings. Beneath the bridge, water gurgled over the rocky bed.
Propping his fishing rod against the rail, Kent closed the few feet between them and extended a hand. “Of course not,” he said, his tone smooth. “Ravi should have known that.”
But she had caught his hesitation; it weighed her with indecision. Why did she so often sense he withheld a part of himself? Hadn’t last night altered him in the same magical way she felt altered?
As he drew her up the gentle slope of the bridge, his palm, rough and warm, held hers. Sharp and sweet rose the memory of him caressing her, his fingers gliding with the sureness of expertise, coaxing a response until her body bloomed with pleasure. She longed for him to draw her into his arms, but to her disappointment, he loosened her hand and crouched to open a hamper.
“Would you care for some refreshment?” he asked, glancing up. “I’m afraid the tea is cold, but the oat cakes are fresh.”
“Oat cakes?”
“A Hampshire specialty. Try one.”
He handed her a flat, currant studded biscuit, then poured her a mug of tea from a pottery jar. He seemed sent on keeping the mood impersonal, a situation that perplexed Juliet.
“Ravi called me memsahjb,” she said. “What does that mean?”
“‘The master’s woman.’” His gaze penetrated hers. “In India, it’s a title of respect. He’s accepted you as my wife.”
“I wonder. Whenever he looks at me, I get the impression he’s not seeing me... he’s seeing a Carleton.”
“Put him out of your mind,” Kent said, an offhand edge to his voice. “You’re a Deverell now.”
As if to close the topic, he picked up his fishing rod and cast the fly in a smooth arc upon the water. Juliet sipped the tea to ease the dryness in her throat; she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that she intruded upon his privacy.
Yet she had no intention of leaving.
Leaning on the stone ledge, she nibbled at the crusty oat cake and watched as the current carried the iridescent green hookfly on a slow drift. A movement near the bank caught her eye. A fin flashed silver as a fish rose in the clear sunlit river and sucked in a live fly buzzing along the surface.
“There’s one,” she said.
“I see him.” Kent reeled in his empty line. “That trout has been eluding me half the morning.”
As he recast, she studied his profile, the planes of his face strong in the sunshine. The striking cheekbones and firm jaw looked so familiar, yet so foreign. She yearned to know every facet of his life, to explore his mind as she had explored his body. Could two people bare their souls as completely as they bared their bodies?
She crumbled the remains of the oat cake. “Are there trout streams close to the castle?”
“Radcliffe is on the Avon.”
“Is that where you usually fish?”
“Yes.”
He kept his gaze on the river. Despite his reticence she kept on. “How long have you been out here this morning?”
“Hours. I’m a farmer... I always get up before sun rise.”
“You should have awakened me. I’d have come with you.”
He looked at her. “I couldn’t bear to disturb you when you were sleeping so peacefully.”
His smile bore a trace of the tenderness that had enthralled her last night, the tenderness that nourished her heart. Did he truly care for her beneath that mask of reserve?
Her fingers tensed around the mug of tea. “Do you fish much?”
“Not as often as I’d like. Gives me a chance to be alone with my thoughts.”
“I can understand the need to be alone. Except...”
“Except?”
She took a deep breath of country air. “Why this morning after the closeness we shared last night?”
A neutral expression came over his face and he turned back to the river. “No particular reason. It’s peaceful, that’s all.”
Dear God, was he already having misgivings about their impulsive marriage? She had to know. “Kent, why did you marry me?”
His dark eyes widened slightly; then he cocked his head in a watchful pose. “What do you mean?”
“You said you needed me, that you wanted me—”
“I do. Now more than ever.”
His answer was too swift, too sterile, and he fixed his gaze on the river. Feeling as aimless as the hookfly, Juliet cast about for the right words.
“Last night,” she said slowly, “I felt closer to you than I ever have to any other person. You seemed to feel that closeness, too... you called me ‘darling.’” Her voice went husky at the memory. “Yet today I have the impression you’re unwilling to share all of yourself with me.”
He shot her a glance, quick and unsmiling. “Because I came fishing? I assumed you needed your rest.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“Marriage shouldn’t de
ny us separate interests, individual pursuits. It isn’t all moonlight and orchids.”
“Marriage isn’t all physical love, either. What if…” She paused, sickened by a fear she had never imagined in her girlish dreams. “What if someday your passion for me dies? What will be left for us then?”
His gaze jerked from the fishing rod to her. “I’ll never stop wanting you, Juliet. You can be certain of that.”
An unbearable longing beat in her throat. “But will you ever love me?” she whispered.
His eyes held hers as water burbled over the rocks and a squirrel chattered. Abruptly his free arm shot out to settle her snugly against the hard length of his body.
“Juliet... Juliet.” He spoke over her head, his voice low and grating. “I don’t know if I can ever love you the way you want me to. I thought you understood that when you agreed to marry me.”
The heaviness to his voice burrowed into her heart. Dear God, how could she have forgotten that he’d once suffered the loss of an adored wife? She would simply have to work harder at healing his wounded heart.
Drawing back slightly, she touched his cheek. “I’m glad you’ve been so candid. I’d rather have that than a thousand false pledges of love.”
His face tensed beneath her fingers and his gaze slid away to stare moodily at the river. “Maybe our life together won’t always be easy, but I’ll do my best to make you happy.”
“You have,” she said softly. “Believe me, you have.”
“You’ll have the freedom to pursue your botany,” he went on, as if trying to convince himself. “We’ll build a life together... you’ll bear our children.”
Joy warmed her as she imagined cradling their baby, a son with black hair and midnight eyes. His heir. “Yes,” she breathed. “I want children so much.”
His lips touched her brow. “Don’t ever leave me, Juliet.”
The harsh entreaty mystified her... until she realized he must be thinking of Emily again. She rubbed her cheek against his smooth linen shirt and cherished the hard knit muscles beneath. “I’ll be with you forever.”
Taking her chin, he tilted her face to the bright heat of the sun. His thumb caressed her lower lip; the rasp of his callused skin brought her skin to life. “You smell of mint,” he murmured.
Then his mouth met hers and all rational thought melted under the heavy stroke of his tongue and the bruising urgency of his kiss. Her heart seemed to pound deeper and deeper within her body. Eager and willing, she arched her back and lifted onto her tiptoes. Kent pulled abruptly away. “Good God!”
He seized the fishing rod with both hands. Swaying, Juliet steadied herself on the stone rail and peered down at the river. A loud splashing at the end of the line told her the trout was hooked. The fish shook its head from side to side and dove into the weeds.
“What’s it doing?” she asked.
“Trying to dislodge the fly.” He shot her a dazzling grin. “You must be good luck.”
He focused his attention on reeling in the fish. Sunlight illuminated the absorption on his face. Exasperated yet entranced, Juliet contented herself with watching the play of muscles in his arms and chest until at last the brown trout lay wriggling and gasping soundlessly on the stones of the bridge.
With all the pride of a true angler, Kent crouched down and regarded his catch. “Ah, now there’s a beauty.”
“Poor thing,” Juliet couldn’t help saying.
He grinned up at her. “I seem to recall you ate trout for supper last night, Duchess, without the slightest qualm.
“I didn’t have to watch it flopping about first.”
“Well.” Reaching inside the mouth, Kent extracted the hook. “We’ll fix that, then.”
Picking up the slippery fish, he flung it over the rail. A loud splash sounded as the trout landed in the river. With an insulted flick of its tail, the fish ascended to the surface of the water.
“Kent!” Aghast and amused, Juliet stared at him. “Why did you do that? You spent all morning chasing that thing.”
“The thrill is over. Besides, I’ve no wish to offend my wife’s tender sensibilities.”
He winked, and the sensual slant of his mouth echoed the pleasure of the night before. Heat bathed her with the scandalous longing to lie naked beneath him, with the rough, warm stones of the bridge against her back and his lean, hard body stroking her hips and breasts.
She took a step toward him. “Make love to me, Kent.”
He went still, his lashes half lowering. “I will... tonight.”
“We’re alone now. Couldn’t we do it here... in the sunshine?”
“That’s out of the question. We’re hardly peasants to be rutting in the open countryside.”
His brusque words hurt, yet when his gaze dipped to her bosom, the heavy heat of desire spurred her to recklessness. Not giving herself a chance to think, she gripped his forearm. “Please, darling, I’m your wife. Show me the joy we shared last night.”
His muscles went rigid beneath her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “You ask the impossible.”
He turned away and began to collect his fishing gear. As sharp as the hook that he tossed into the hamper, pain pierced Juliet. Her passion drained away, leaving a hollow ache.
Slumping against the rail, she watched him; his brisk actions and inflexible features radiated disapproval. Did her impetuous outburst fail to meet his image of the demure wife?
Suddenly she could no longer bear the awkward silence. “Kent, surely you don’t condemn me for admitting a perfectly natural desire.”
Frowning, he straightened, hand on his hips. “I’m not condemning you for anything.”
His cool manner crushed her; she let her gaze follow a martin swooping along the bank. “Yes, you are,” she said. “Men don’t care for boldness in a wife. I should have learned that from my own parents’ behavior.
The liquid music of the river played into the silence. “Juliet, look at me.”
The gentle exasperation in his tone lured her eyes to his face. To her utter amazement, a smile flirted at the corners of his mouth. Coming closer, he lifted a hand to her neck and his thumb passed over the pulse beat in her throat.
“I thought scientists gathered all the facts before arriving at a conclusion,” he said, his voice a husky murmur. “Don’t try to second guess what I like in a woman. Be yourself.”
His gaze moved to her lips, her breasts, then back to her mouth. Passion burned in his eyes, a passion that made her heart clamor against her ribs. Her spirits lightened like the breeze that stirred his thick black hair.
“Then why did you refuse me?”
“Because I’ll not chance any other man seeing what’s for my eyes alone.”
His possessive words made her toes curl with pleasure. Releasing her, he bent to pick up the hamper and fishing rod, then extended a hand. “Come, Duchess, I’ve yet to show you those forget-me-nots.”
Touched that he’d recalled his promise of the previous evening, she slid her hand into his. They wandered along the bank, where sunlight filtered through the rustling leaves of chestnut and poplar and elm. Near a marshy bed of reeds stood the clump of forget-me-nots, the flowers playing host to several bumblebees. Kent picked a spray of the tiny blue stars and tucked it behind her ear. Charmed, she entwined her arm with his as they walked toward the rolling meadow. Wild roses abounded in the hedgerows and the call of a cuckoo enriched the summer air.
Her contentment held even as they spied the whitewashed walls and thatched roof of the inn. After a leisurely luncheon they started off in the landau. That day set the pattern for the ones ahead. Kent seemed determined to cater to her every whim. When she spied an early blooming bush of purple loosestrife, he stopped the carriage and fetched her a stalk. When she happened to mention her thirst, he brought forth a basket of refreshments. When she asked him questions about Radcliffe, he obliged with a humorous commentary on the fine art of farming.
He told her little about his cousin and heir,
beyond that Gordon was a scholar of philosophy who spent his days in the library, while his wife, Augusta, tended the district poor. For the first time, Juliet learned he had a sister, Rose. “We’ve never been very close,” he said, “because she’s nine years younger than me.”
“Is she married?”
He shook his head. “I’d like to see Rose settled well, but she claims to have little interest in suitors. Since she’s only eighteen, I haven’t pressed the issue.”
Juliet looked forward to having someone close to her own age at the castle. She interrogated Kent until he begged for mercy.
“I’ll say no more,” he teased. “You’re to form your own opinions of my family.”
The nights stretched into sultry hours of passion. She knew by the way he rarely lingered over supper that he was as impatient as she to shed the bonds of civility, to let loose the wild longings they held in check all day. Spending each night at a different inn, they made love with the darkness heightening their senses. She learned the texture of every part of his body; where he was hard, she was soft, and where he was rough, she was smooth. He explored her as well, bringing her to life in ways she had never before imagined, coaxing her with his mouth and hands until she whimpered and writhed in erotic abandon. She cherished the aftermath when they lay together in sated serenity, when she could fancy that their hearts and bodies and souls were joined as one.
Each morning she awoke to an empty bed. Farmer’s hours, Juliet reminded herself to counteract a nagging sense of loss. Then would come the memory that he’d never returned her whispered words of love. And next she would tell herself to cease expecting too much too soon, to disregard the aloofness that sometimes shadowed his eyes.
Still, the days and nights seemed suspended in time, idle yet exciting, each moment a jewel to be treasured. Juliet wanted the interlude to last forever. Yet she also yearned to fit into the routine of his life, to see the castle his ancestors had built, to meet the other people who mattered to him.
Three days later, she awoke to a dismal morning with a gray sky that threatened rain. Happy despite the weather, she dressed quickly and joined Kent in the small dining room for breakfast; then they went for a stroll along High Street. The town of Chipping Campden typified the other Cotswold villages they’d passed through, with cramped buildings of honey colored limestone, tall gables, and steep, tiled roofs. In the roadway, a swaybacked cob pulled a cart piled high with cabbages. The sidewalk teemed with life: housewives burdened with parcels, a boy racing after a dog, a workman trundling a wheelbarrow filled with nails.