At the King's Command

by Susan Wiggs

  “I have forgotten.”

  “You lie.”

  A lock of his hair fell over his brow, making him look more devilishly handsome than she could bear. His mouth curved in a mirthless smile. “I assure you, tupping a wench in an open field was nothing out of the ordinary for me. I’m flattered that it was for you.”

  “Do not think,” she whispered furiously, “that you can ever put me off so easily, Stephen de Lacey. I may be inexperienced in bed sport, but I am not stupid.”

  “Then why do you wish to discuss last night?”

  “It was new to me. I tend to dwell on new experiences. Like the first time I ate sturgeon eggs or drove a troika—”

  “A what?”

  “Troika. Sleds pulled by stout ponies. And do not roll your eyes like that, my lord, for I will not argue any more about my past. I merely wish to explain that I am not hesitant to try out new adventures.”

  “Aye, you made that lack of hesitation clear enough.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Only that you are a creature of the senses. I mean nothing ill by it.” He lifted his hand as if to touch her, then seemed to think better of it. “I made a mistake. There is no reason in the world for us to be intimate. Good God, what if we were to make a child?”

  “That’s no sin between man and wife.”

  “We are playacting,” he said with an infuriating excess of patience. “We have every reason to keep our urges in check. Soon the king will forget his jest, and we shall get this marriage annulled. We both agree on that, do we not?”

  “Something made us forget.” She tried to steady the catch in her voice.

  “Then we should take care not to complicate the problem. You’re a winsome female. It would be so easy to—” He clamped his mouth shut and looked away, at the women at the water’s edge gathering the lanolin foaming up from the submerged wool.

  “Easy to what?”

  A shutter seemed to drop over his eyes. “Easy to tumble you like a ha’penny whore,” he said. “You do not lack for wanton willingness.”

  Even before he finished speaking, she had her hand drawn back to slap him. But she made herself resist, made herself lower her arm. He wanted her to hate him.

  “You’re afraid,” she said, her voice soft with wonder.

  “Don’t be foolish.”

  “You are afraid,” she said, speaking now with firm conviction. “You’re beginning to care about me.”

  “I’ve not time for a woman’s fanciful notions.” He stepped back and turned sharply, stalking away to lose himself in work.

  Juliana folded her arms across her bosom. Her husband’s facade was growing thin. If she probed a little deeper into his life, into his heart, she might begin to understand.

  For today, she would not ask herself why it mattered. She merely told herself that she was tired of being married to a stranger.

  She leaned against the rough trunk of the tree and watched as a tiny girl ran up to Stephen and tugged on his hand. He turned swiftly, as if in anger, and grasped her beneath the arms. While the child shrieked with joy, Stephen swung her high in the air, up and up until her laughing face was framed against the blue summer sky.

  Ah, tonight, Juliana resolved with her heart in her throat, she would learn the secret of Stephen de Lacey.

  Eleven

  Stephen blew out his breath, long and loud, as he waited for Nance to fill a scrip in the pantry that evening. With an idle eye, he watched the self-turning spit he had fashioned after the cook’s favorite spit runner, an ill-mannered terrier, had singed its fur and refused to go near the contraption again. The new design was rotated with a turbine propelled by the force of the heat rising up the chimney.

  “You barely touched your supper, my lord,” Nance called through the open half door of the pantry, adding a twist of marchpane to the sack. “Ate no more than a Lenten eve groom. Was the fare not to your liking?”

  He picked up a bottle of cider and inspected it for impurities. Finding it clear, he handed it to Nance. “Supper was fine,” he murmured distractedly.

  “Fine, was it? Then why didn’t you eat?”

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Aye, you were.” Nance gave him a broad wink. “But for a woman’s breasts and thighs, not a capon’s.”

  “Christ,” he muttered. “Not you, too.”

  “You mean someone else noticed?”

  He rotated his shoulders, feeling the weariness there. It had been a long day of work, and a longer night lay ahead. “Juliana. There’s something about her, Nance.”

  “Something.” Her doughy face creased into a merry smile. “A caring heart, I’d call it. I was the first to have my doubts when you brought her here all lousy with vermin and needing a bath, but I’ve been wrong before.” Her chubby elbow jabbed him in the ribs. “Remember you, my lord, that scutch-brained apothecary what sold me the love philter—”

  “Nance, it’s getting late.”

  “—all in a flurry I dropped it on the ground and that fat gander ate it—”

  “Nance.”

  “Never did shed myself of that gander but with the kitchen ax.” Shaking her head, she drew up the string of the parcel and jabbed a finger at him. “Now, don’t you be getting any ideas about that ax. Is that so very awful, my lord? To find a lady who cares about you, about your—”

  “Yes,” he hurled at her. “For Christ’s sake, you of all people should know that.”

  “Sometimes I wonder, my lord. Would it be such a high catastrophe if you was to tell her—” She broke off at his murderous look and crossed herself.

  “That’s enough, Nance. Juliana must never, ever know.” He felt the burn of distrust in his throat. “I’d kill her. I’d die myself.”

  It was on nights like this, Juliana thought with a certain grim satisfaction, that Pavlo was at his best. Since coming to Lynacre, the dog had led a life of ease, but tracking was what the windhound was born to do.

  At twilight she had pleaded fatigue, retired early from the hall, and pretended to tumble into bed in an exhausted heap.

  Now she stood wide awake at the farthest end of the main garden, having dressed in a plain gown and slipped away, barefoot, with only the borzoya dog for company. Wind-torn clouds raced across the night sky, and shadows loomed in the gatehouse and walls encircling the garden.

  It felt vaguely and uncomfortably criminal, sneaking out, straying far from the hall in search of her husband. No, she told herself, watching Pavlo streaking down the length of the seemingly endless wall, nose to the ground and tail waving high. It was Stephen’s fault. Stephen’s secrets. Stephen’s lies.

  His presence was everywhere; each corner of the manor bore the stamp of his inventive mind. The park was fenced with paling and buttressed walls designed by Stephen. The turf seats built around a wych-elm tree had enchanted beds of chamomile and pennyroyal growing at their base. The trellis work was intricate, twined with climbing roses, and in the center of a long bed of herbs was an escutcheon bearing Stephen’s banner—a Lacey knot and border of the entwined initials M and S.

  For Margaret, he had fashioned a crest of flowers. For Juliana, he had made a vow to banish her from his life.

  She gave a tight smile as Pavlo paused and lifted his leg on the base of the escutcheon. Then she murmured a Russian command. The hour was late, her business pressing. Her newfound pride forbade that she allow her husband to stray even one more night.

  The dog ranged farther and farther from the manor, past knot gardens and along pebbled paths, down to where the grass grew thick and tall and the scent of lavender spiced the air.

  Impatient, Juliana began to wonder if the hound understood her goal, even though she had prompted him with one of Stephen’s neckcloths pilfered from the laundry.

  Pavlo trotted along beside a tall hedgerow of quickthorn, snuffling at broom plant and herbs. They had nearly reached the end of the vast park when the dog stopped and whined softly. Half expecting to find
the burrow of a hedgehog, Juliana went to see what he had unearthed.

  She hesitated, suddenly afraid of what she might find. Then she forced herself to part the plumes of a broom plant and saw that there was a break in the hedge. The thorny branches had been pruned to reveal a low gate, all but invisible to the casual eye. She caught her breath, then gave the gate a push. The low door swung open smoothly and quietly, as if someone kept the hinges oiled.

  Pavlo slipped through and Juliana followed, then paused to get her bearings. She had thought this section of the estate to be a thick, wild woodland. Now she realized the tangled growth concealed a strange network of passageways.

  “Sweet Saint Peter,” she whispered, slipping into Russian and pressing back against the gate. “What is this place?”

  The moon had not yet risen, so she had to rely on starlight and the keen vision of Pavlo. She was at the entrance to a maze.

  A very large maze, the hedges no less than eight feet high and pruned so thick that they were as impenetrable as brick walls. Branches formed almost solid arches overhead.

  A secret maze, she thought with a shudder. Why would Stephen keep such a thing hidden?

  Because he had something dreadful to hide? A corpse, perhaps, or a den of thieves?

  Steeling her nerves, she uttered a quiet command to Pavlo. The dog lowered his head, found the scent again, and trotted along a twisting path. Juliana took a deep breath and followed.

  A half hour later, she began to imagine herself dying here. She had followed the dog through at least three miles of twisting, curving paths, and the search had yielded nothing save more winding endless byways. She pictured her bones lying undiscovered along one of the sinister lanes, her flesh picked clean by ravens and rooks.

  She shivered and kept her gaze trained on Pavlo’s waving tail. How would she be remembered? The folk of Wiltshire would dub her that crazy gypsy who had been forced to choose between hanging and marriage to an English lord. She had never proven her identity to the satisfaction of anyone who mattered. No one save Laszlo believed she was a Romanov.

  A pity, she thought. Then she realized that, to a corpse, rank and bloodlines mattered not. Hardly a comforting thought.

  The hem of her skirt snagged on a hedge, and she yanked at it. A bit of fabric stuck fast to a thorn. “The vurma,” she whispered into the darkness. She should have been leaving a trail all along. Too much luxury was making her forget sensible Romany ways.

  Squaring her shoulders, she started off again, her footsteps quickened by anger. She began to mark her way with strands of hair and bits of thread from the weave of her torn skirt. Pavlo never faltered, never hesitated when the paths diverged.

  Her bare feet ached from hurrying over the packed earth. Just as she was about to give up and find her way back, Pavlo whined. She reached the juncture of two paths. Here, the foliage over the maze was thinner; the light shone brighter. The hedges no longer arched together, and the moon appeared fat and butter-white.

  A few steps farther, and she emerged from the maze … into an enchanted garden.

  Damn her to hell.

  From the second story, Stephen glared at the round, rising moon. Though he was not far from Lynacre Hall, he felt as if he had traveled many leagues.

  He wondered why he wanted Juliana, why her smile seemed to light up a room when she entered it, why his arms ached to hold her—and her alone. Not even for Meg had he felt this constant yearning, this unquiet emptiness in his soul that only seemed to fill when his wife was close.

  He had spent the past seven years teaching himself not to feel, and now in just a few short months Juliana had brought it all back to him—the fierce joy, the sweet anguish, the passion, and the heat.

  She made him want it again—all of it, the pain and the ecstasy, the caring and the hushed, fragile knowledge of heart-deep love.

  Stephen stared at the single flame of the candle on the windowsill and told himself he could have none of it.

  He could not have Juliana, for his life was ruled by dread. A seeping, conniving dread that had a life of its own; in seconds it could render him helpless, invading his body like quick poison.

  He lived in hell. Loving Juliana would only condemn her to the same fate.

  He returned to his vigil in the darkened room.

  Gooseflesh rose on Juliana’s arms. Wide-eyed in the darkness, she took in the shadowy profusion of herbs and flowers tumbling along winding paths. Here and there stood a bench or resting stool, all but smothered in rampant gilliflowers or snapdragons.

  Rising out of the wild splendor of the garden was a grassy mound surrounded by a menagerie of fantastical beasts: a unicorn, a griffin, and a dragon. They were covered in small-leafed ivy, and the breeze made them stir as if half-alive.

  Pavlo stood as stiff as a palace guard, the hairs at the scruff of his neck standing on end, a growl of suspicion rumbling in his throat. He took a few steps forward, then feinted nimbly back.

  At the top of the mound was a fountain embellished with four roses that spouted streams of water. The streams in turn sprayed into the open mouths of laughing frogs. Water from the basin of the fountain spilled down a conduit, and the rivulets powered a water wheel that turned slowly and soundlessly—and seemingly without purpose.

  Moving like one in a dream, Juliana climbed the mound to the fountain. She put a tentative finger into the scallop-shaped basin, then touched it to her lips. Yet even the taste of the cool, sweet water did not dispel the magic.

  Aye, it was a magical place, one she had thought to exist only in nursery tales or deep in the dreams of sleeping children. The riot of flowers, the cavorting beasts, the burbling fountain, were all too wondrous to be real.

  But they were, and she knew just where they had come from.

  “Stephen,” she whispered. She had long been aware of his genius for creating things, but his inventions at Lynacre had always been of a practical nature. In this garden lay the fruits of a whimsical imagination she hadn’t known he possessed. It was like looking through a window into his soul—and seeing the enchanted prince trapped inside his gruff exterior. What was this place?

  Pavlo gave the topiary beasts a wide berth and trotted through an arbor that led to a small, snug building. Hurrying after the dog, Juliana saw that it had chimneys, a bank of small windows on both the first and second stories. A kitchen garden grew on the south side, the rows of greens and herbs as neat as a regiment of soldiers.

  And high in one window on the second story, a single candle burned.

  She stood spellbound by the solitary flame. Suddenly she wished she had not come. She did not want to be here, did not want to know who shared the elegant little cottage with her husband.

  And then, as Juliana stood watching, the candle flickered as if disturbed by someone brushing past. For some reason, the slight change in the light awakened her Romanov soul—the place where passion dwelt deep, where rage and pride overcame fear and uncertainty.

  Damn Stephen de Lacey. And damn the woman who was fool enough to think she could dally with the husband of Juliana Romanovna.

  She touched her brooch and the small dagger slipped free, the jewel-encrusted hilt solid in her hand. She did not pause to consider why she had armed herself. Simple instinct told her not to go defenseless to her husband and his mistress.

  “His mistress.” She hissed the words into the gloom. Then, motioning for Pavlo to stay, she crept toward the house. Its hidden location made locks unnecessary, and Juliana gained entry simply by lifting the latch of the main door in the front.

  She stepped blindly into a dark room. Moon shadow created a pattern of diamonds on the floor. She paused to let her eyes adjust. A strange odor of porridge and herbs hung in the air. It was not a pleasant smell. Stephen’s mistress must be a woman of no taste at all.

  Except in her choice of lovers.

  Aye, Juliana could finally admit it to herself. Stephen was that rarity among men: one who could be both tender and masterful, shamelessly rom
antic and coldly logical. A man of common sense and airy whimsy. A man whose touch had the power to lift her into rapture.

  The remembrance of his kisses and her response to them seared her with anger. Her hand tightened around the hilt of the dagger. Her eyes picked out the way to the stairwell.

  As she moved across the hall, she had only vague impressions of her surroundings. The entire room was unusual. Tables and chairs seemed to have shorter than normal legs and backs. Ceiling beams seemed uncomfortably close to the top of her head.

  She put down the flaws to the inferiority of the unknown woman’s character and started for the stairs. They were made of solid masonry, narrow and spiraling upward.

  Her skirts brushed the stone as she moved soundlessly up and found herself in a low, vaulted corridor. A single gold filament of light glowed in an outline around one of the three doors.

  Juliana went toward it. Now she could hear sounds coming from the room. Her hair stood on end when she identified the noise: rough, ragged breaths from a man in the throes of lust.

  As her resentment burgeoned, Stephen’s hoarse sounds of passion drifted out into the passageway to torment her.

  “I am your wife, damn you,” she whispered. Still clutching the knife, she quietly pushed open the door and stepped into the room.

  And stopped as if the very hand of God had turned her to stone.

  Stephen had his back to her, and he had not heard her enter. Contrary to the lust-ridden vision she had formed in her mind, he was fully dressed and kneeling on the floor.

  Nothing could have prepared her for this.

  His shoulders shook, not with the tremors of passion, but with sobs of heart-deep grief. His head bent, he crouched beside a tester bed. His big hands clutched convulsively into the coverlet as if they would rend the fabric into shreds.