Authors: MARY JO PUTNEY
“As we surely will be,” he said, a glint of amusement in his brown eyes.
Ignoring the comment, she continued, “Between now and then, you should rest, perhaps visit the bathhouse. Hot water will help some of those bruises.” She gave him the small jar of ointment so that he could reapply it as needed.
“Very well.” Ross rose and pulled on his battered coat. “By the way, am I a prisoner?”
Juliet gave him a startled look. “Of course not.” Then she bit her lip, knowing there was no “of course” about it, not after the way she had treated him earlier. “I’ll take you to your room. Your things should be there already.”
Silently Ross followed her through the sprawling building to the suite of rooms assigned to him. Inside were his saddle and the luggage from the packhorse.
After giving directions to the men’s hammam, or bathhouse, Juliet said, “Until an hour after sunset. I shall send someone for you.”
It flashed through her mind that every other time they had stood at the entrance of a bedroom, they had been going in together, not separating. Perhaps, from the enigmatic way he regarded her, Ross was thinking along the same lines.
Abruptly Juliet turned on her heel and strode off without looking back, forcing herself to move at walking speed rather than running for her life. She turned the corner into another passage, walked the length, then turned again. The palace had many fewer inhabitants now than in its heyday, and this section was usually empty. Finally she was alone, for the first time since she had discovered Ross.
The resolve that had carried her through the last several hours crumbled away and she leaned against the wall, her knees so weak they would barely support her. Dear God, Ross had been right, it would have been infinitely easier if he had never learned who she was… and Juliet had no one to blame but herself for giving away her identity.
She clung to the wall, shaking, her cheek pressed to the rough plaster and her breath coming in shallow gasps. If only she hadn’t decided to goad him! True, she had been concerned about his injuries, as well as frustrated by his cool detachment, but the underlying reason for her appalling behavior had been anger. Once more her damnable redhead’s temper had gotten away from her, and her action had backfired, as anger so often did.
Her rage had not been for Ross himself, but rather for his presence. Juliet had spent years striving to rebuild her life, to find contentment, and in an instant her husband had shattered both. He had a whole world to wander; why the devil did he have to turn up in her own front yard?
Ross would have died if it hadn’t been for the timely appearance of Juliet and her men, so she could not truly regret this particular twist of fate. But she had still been angry, and her misdirected rage at life’s unfairness had caused her to treat him like merchandise at a slave mart. Ironically, her shocked reaction to the ugly scars of the old bullet wound had prolonged the moment and made it seem more threatening than she had intended. As a result, she had infuriated a man who was known for his easy disposition and condemned herself to what would be a deeply painful confrontation. And worst of all, by seeing and touching Ross’s beautiful, familiar body, she had reawakened feelings that she had tried to bury a dozen years before…
Juliet had hated making her debut in London society. She was too tall and gawky, her red hair was a flaming, inglorious beacon, and her background too unconventional for her to be a social success. The fact that she hadn’t wanted that kind of success did not make her humiliating failure any less painful.
Without Sara St. James, the Season would have driven Juliet mad. Lady Sara would have been popular even if she had not been a great heiress, for she was everything Juliet was not: petite, lovely in a graceful, feminine way, and possessed of a quiet charm that made everyone she met feel important and honored.
Their schoolgirl friendship could easily have foundered on the shoals of society. Instead, Sara had done everything she could to ease Juliet’s way, insisting that her friend be included in invitations and coaxing her own numerous admirers to dance with Miss Cameron. Juliet had not liked being an object of charity, but the alternative would have been far worse, and she knew that Sara was acting from genuine kindness.
Juliet had heard often about Sara’s favorite cousin, Lord Ross Carlisle, but had never met him. Then she had gone to a noisy, crowded ball at a house whose name she no longer remembered. Sara had been swept off by the attractive youth she was falling in love with. Juliet had found a quiet corner and was trying not to look as awkward and uncomfortable as she felt.
Then a young man was brought over by Juliet’s Aunt Louise, who was her sponsor and chaperone for the Season. The stranger was very tall and sinfully handsome, with butter-blond hair and an air of quiet confidence. From Aunt Louise’s fawning deference, he was also rich and wellborn.
The ballroom was so noisy that Juliet had not caught the young man’s name when he was introduced. While she did not particularly want to dance with the fellow, standing alone was worse, so she had ungraciously accepted his invitation.
He waltzed very well, but that hadn’t mollified Juliet. Doubtless he was another of Sara’s suitors and had been coerced into asking the wallflower to dance. The thought made it impossible to enjoy what would have otherwise been very pleasant.
She had answered all of his conversational attempts with a terseness just sort of incivility, until he had said, “I understand that you speak Arabic.”
That had caught her attention, and she had looked up into his face for the first time. Deciding to play a small private joke, she had replied, “Yes. Shall I say something in Arabic?”
He had indicated that he would be delighted to hear an example, so Juliet thought a moment, her long dark lashes hooding her eyes. Then she said sweetly, in classical Arabic,
“Thou art a frail, useless fellow, a chattering monkey with no spark of life’s wisdom.”
His deep brown eyes had widened. Then, with a wicked gleam, he had said in slow but fluent Arabic,
“Thou hast the tongue of an asp, daughter of the desert, but being only a frail, useless fellow, I have been vanquished by thy flaming beauty.”
Juliet had been so shocked that she had stopped stock-still in the middle of the dance floor, staring up at her partner. The distinctive contrast of blond hair and brown eyes, the knowledge of Arabic… It took only an instant for her to realize what she should have known from the beginning. “You must be Sara’s cousin Ross,” she had gasped.
He had grinned, the unexpected warmth of his eyes drawing her close rather than mocking her for her rudeness. “None other. I gather that you missed my name because of all the racket.”
“I’m afraid so. I thought you were just another fashionable popinjay,” Juliet had blurted out.
He had laughed at her unflattering frankness, so hastily she continued, “Sara told me that you have been studying oriental languages at Cambridge and that you want to travel in the Middle East and Asia.”
“Correct.” He had drawn her back into his arms so they could resume waltzing. “I have been longing to meet you, Miss Cameron, for Sara has told me of your fascinating past. Please, tell me what it was like to live in Tripoli.”
Like Sara, he had the ability to make a person feel special. As they .danced, Juliet had responded like a flower unfurling in the sun, chattering about Tripoli and Teheran and the frustrations of returning to England. They had danced three dances in a row, until Aunt Louise had hauled Juliet away and given her a lecture about forward, immodest behavior.
Juliet had not cared. For the first time in her life, she was in love—wholly, miraculously, ecstatically in love— and to her wondering amazement, Lord Ross Carlisle was also attracted to her. Her hostility toward England dissolved and she realized that her dislike had been a product of loneliness and feeling like a misfit. Now that she was happy, there was nowhere she would rather be. She had loved Ross’s confident strength, his kindness, the way he laughed at her jokes and made her feel beautiful and witty.
For the rest of the Season she and Ross had made tongues wag by spending far too much time together at social functions and taking frequent rides and drives. It was a relationship of teasing and laughter and playfulness, as natural as being with her brothers, but with the addition of sizzling physical attraction. Occasionally they found the privacy for a swift kiss, and the sweet fire of that had left Juliet trembling with confused yearning. Then had come the house party in Norfolk.
At the thought, Juliet’s fingers curled into the plaster, digging until whitewash flaked away under her nails.
A gentle touch on her elbow brought her back to the present. “Guli Sarahi, what troubles you?”
It was Saleh. With effort Juliet composed herself, then turned to face the man who had made her life at Serevan possible. “Nothing troubles me, Uncle. I was just thinking for a moment.”
The Uzbek would never have dreamed of calling her a liar, but the tilt of his grizzled brows was eloquent with disbelief. “Has the ferengi offended you?”
“No!” she said quickly. After a moment’s thought she sighed, realizing that she must tell Saleh the truth. “The ferengi, Ross Carlisle, is a great English lord. He is also, as it happens, my husband.”
“You have a husband!” Saleh sucked his breath in between his teeth as he considered her startling statement. “Has he come to steal you away from us? Though it is written that a wife should be obedient to her husband, your humble servants shall not let him take you against your will.”
“My lord has not come to take me away. It was purely the winds of chance that brought him here. He was as surprised as I, and as displeased.” Juliet gave a quick, brittle smile. “Nor would he wish to take me to his home. We have not seen each other in a dozen years. There is naught between us but a contract sworn when we were young. Too young.”
Saleh stroked his thick gray beard thoughtfully, his deep eyes penetrating. “The winds of chance are often the winds of fate, child.”
“Not this time,” she said firmly. “Come, let us go to the stables. I wish to choose a mount for my husband so he may depart on the morrow.”
For the sake of her peace of mind, he couldn’t go soon enough.
Dealing with the routine tasks of Serevan restored Juliet’s balance. She and Saleh and the village headman discussed the rebuilding of a long-ruined section of irrigation channels; she selected a horse that would be up to Ross’s weight; she talked to the kitchen about cooking a special dinner for two.
She also spoke with her men as they returned from the earlier foray. The group that had chased the Turkomans had had no success; the raiders had reached the open desert, where their horses were without peer, so her men had given up the pursuit. The search for Ross’s servants had been more successful. On being overtaken, the two had been glad to hear that their employer had survived the accident, and happy to come to a secure Persian fortress rather than risk meeting more Turkomans.
The afternoon sped by, and all too soon Juliet had to begin preparing for dinner. First she went to the women’s hammam to bathe and wash her hair. Then one maid brushed her hair while another fanned it dry.
Back in her rooms, she decided that washing her hair had been a mistake, for it had turned into a fiery, ungovernable mass with a mind of its own. Determined to subdue it, Juliet ruthlessly twisted her locks into her usual knot. Then she caught sight of herself in the long mirror. Wearing a dark Tuareg robe and with her hair skinned back, she was an androgynous figure, stark and unappealing, her eyes too large, the bones of her face too prominent.
Heaven knew that she did not want to attract Ross; not only would that be dangerous, but judging by the way he had looked at her earlier today, quite impossible. Nonetheless, she was woman enough not to want to look like a complete hag. Releasing her hair, she stared sightlessly at a wall hanging as she thought about what she might do to improve her appearance. Certainly she could dress her hair in a softer style around her face, which would draw attention away from her too-strong features. After all, she thought acidly, her flaming tresses could draw attention from almost anything.
What to wear? As Guli Sarahi, she always wore men’s clothing and owned no rich oriental women’s robes. However…
With considerable hesitation Juliet went to the small room behind her bedchamber. There she kept a battered chest that contained the relics of her European life, including two gowns. She had not opened the chest for years, but had been unable to bring herself to throw the contents away.
Even when the garments were new, they had not been fashionable. Shortly after her marriage, Juliet had delivered an impassioned diatribe on the subject of how wretched and painful corsets were, and why didn’t Europeans like women’s real shapes? Ross had assured her that he loved her real shape; then, with breathtaking simplicity, he had suggested that she have her dresses made to fit her uncorseted figure, since her waist was quite slim enough without lacing.
It had not occurred to Juliet to flout convention to such an extent, but she had seized her husband’s suggestion with enthusiasm. Though the dressmaker had been appalled, she had not wanted to lose the custom of Lady Ross Carlisle, so two gowns had been designed and made up, one for day and one for evening. Ross claimed to have liked the results, and Juliet had worn the garments when the two of them were private. She would have had more made if she had not run away. Now they were the only English dresses she owned.
Hesitantly Juliet knelt and unlatched the chest, then lifted the lid. A wave of lavender scent was released into the air and she drew her breath in sharply. She had forgotten that she had packed the clothing in lavender to protect it, and now the sweet tanginess struck her fragile emotions like a blow.
Hands trembling, Juliet folded the tissue back from the blue silk evening gown. The delicate material shimmered with subtle highlights and flowed sensuously under her hands as she lifted it from the chest. The fragrance released as the gown opened triggered a flood of memories and Juliet buried her face in the fabric, her breathing ragged. Dear God, Norfolk lavender…