At The King's Command (26 page)

Though it never should have happened, Juliana had become part of Lynacre. The imprint of her accomplishments would last long after she left. Stephen would forever remember the one brilliant summer of the gypsies, a rare time of hope and possibility—when he had dared to love again.

He tried to banish his thoughts as the gypsy camp came into view, but the panorama only inspired a fresh wave of aching memories.

He had agreed to the gypsy wedding because he had known the pagan ritual would mean nothing to a God-fearing Christian.

Instead, it had been a surprise. It had touched him in places he had never explored within himself. He remembered it as if it were yesterday—his veiled bride, unhesi
tatingly shedding a drop of blood onto a bit of bread. She had danced for him as though he were the only man alive. Something mystical had happened that night. Aye, the ritual had been pagan, but the magic had been real.

And that, he told himself, riding into the camp, was why he had agreed to the ceremony today. Because he and Oliver desperately needed the magic.

“Are you ready, Gajo?” asked Laszlo as Stephen dismounted.

“Aye.” He tossed his reins to a lad. “Should I have brought anything?”

“Nothing but your own flesh and blood.” Laszlo made a broad showman’s gesture toward the people milling about. “The Rom believe a man must acknowledge his son before the world. It is simple enough to know a child’s mother; there can be little mistaking that. But to identify the father…” Laszlo sent Stephen a sidelong glance. “Ah, that, my friend, is an act of faith.”

A sudden chill rippled through Stephen’s blood.
To identify the father…an act of faith.

“Gajo?” Laszlo interrupted his thoughts. “You look pale as a ghost.”

Stephen cleared his throat. “Let’s get on with it. Shall I—”

He never finished, for as he turned he saw the most amazing sight. Lined up at the edge of the camp were his friends and household retainers. He had not expected them.

He knew he should feel embarrassed to be seen participating in yet another Romany rite, but instead he grinned and walked over, nodding at Jonathan and Kit and Algernon.

“I should apologize,” he said to Jonathan.

Jonathan scratched his head. “Apologize?”

“I won your sympathy because you thought I was childless. You sent Kit to me for fostering to fill that void in my life.”

Jonathan’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and he gave his son an affectionate cuff on the head. “Mayhap I sent the baggage to you because he gave me a pain in the neck.”

Stephen smiled, grateful Jonathan was willing to make light of the deception. “I misled you. I am not a liar by nature, and I especially mislike lying to a friend.”

Jonathan Youngblood blew out his breath, the air lifting the prongs of his moustache. “I could not have asked for better fostering for Kit.” He whacked his son between the shoulder blades. Kit, who had been gawking at the luscious Catriona, choked and came to attention.

“Isn’t that right, Kit?” his father demanded.

“Er, yes, sir, whatever you say.”

With a snort of amused disgust, Jonathan shoved the youth toward Catriona. “You can look but don’t touch. In the eyes of a true gentleman, all females are ladies.”

“Yes, sir.” Kit stumbled off.

Stephen released a long sigh of relief. He had feared that Kit would be resentful or jealous upon learning of Oliver.

“By God’s grace, Wimberleigh,” Jonathan asked, “how the devil have you kept such a secret?”

“Aye, do tell,” Algernon said eagerly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You have us all agog.”

“The moment he was born,” Stephen said, “it was clear to me that he bore the same affliction as my first son, Richard.”

“Dickon—the one who died after serving at court,” Jonathan said gently.

“Yes.” Stephen closed his eyes as Dickon came back
like a flood of sunlight into his arms. He recalled the golden hair, the sun-washed scent, the frail body, the huge eyes far too beautiful to belong to a lad.

“A lovely boy,” said Algernon. “So like Meg, he was.”

“I could not let the same fate befall Oliver. And so—God forgive me—when the news went out that the babe had perished with his dam, I took no pains to correct it. Only Nance Harbutt and her daughter Kristine, the midwife, knew the truth. I sent Oliver to be cared for by Kristine. His existence was a secret—or so I thought.”

“Someone found out?” Jonathan beetled his thick eyebrows.

Algernon made a strange little
eep
in his throat, then studied the toe of his boot.

“King Henry found out,” Stephen said, his voice low with long-held anger. “That was why I was compelled to wed Juliana. If I refused, Henry would have summoned Oliver to court.”

“Oliver would be a tempting game piece for our king,” Jonathan said. “How did he find out?” Surely Nance—”

“It wasn’t her.” Algernon Basset spoke softly yet firmly.

With a sick twisting of his gut, Stephen stared at his neighbor. “My God, Algernon.”

Havelock raised pleading eyes to Stephen. “I’m sorry—”

“I knew you for a wag tongue.” With all the force of his sudden, hot rage, Stephen smacked his fist into the palm of his hand. “I knew you had ambitions to advance yourself at court, but I had no idea you’d stoop to using sick children as pawns.”

“I meant no ill, Stephen.” Algernon sounded desperate, his voice shaking with fear and remorse. “I had no idea about Dickon. I truly did not!”

“How did you learn about Oliver?” Stephen demanded.

Algernon shuffled his feet. Then he grasped the enameled badge that clasped his cloak at the shoulder and tore the bauble free. “’Twas the limning artist. Nicholas Hilary. The same artist remarked that he had also painted his lordship’s sons. Both of them.”

Stephen remembered. It had been a foolish risk, but the traveling artist did glorious work. He had preserved the images of Meg and Dickon like precious jewels. Several years later the artist had called at Lynacre again. Oliver had been so frail…. Stephen had hated himself for thinking it, but if he lost the boy he would have nothing to remember him by.

“I commissioned him last summer and paid him to keep silent,” he said, glowering at Algernon. “I assume he called at Hockley Hall after he finished here.”

“I employed him, as well,” said Algernon. “Found he had a taste for fortified wine. And one night he described the lad you had hired him to paint. Said the lad chattered like a magpie all through the sittings. Oliver de Lacey.” Algernon lifted miserable eyes to Stephen. “Your son. God help me, I told Lord Privy Seal that the babe your wife died birthing lives.”

Jonathan curled his fist into the lace at Algernon’s throat. He gave one tug, and Havelock’s feet nearly left the ground. “You just couldn’t leave well enough alone. You had to fly to the king with the rumor. And did it win you an invitation to court like you’d hoped?”

“No,” Algernon said miserably. “Stephen, if I had known how weak the boy was—”

“You little puff of froth,” Jonathan burst out. “I ought to show you how a
man
repays such a disloyalty.”

An ancient weariness pressed down on Stephen as he
pulled Jonathan away from the trembling earl of Havelock. “Not now. ’Tis done. You’re an unctuous little varlet, Algernon, but I cannot change what has happened. Henry’s nobles will learn of Oliver. I can only wait and see what the king will do.”

Algernon backed away. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

Stephen could summon nothing but bleak emptiness. “’Tis too soon to ask for it, Algernon. We’ll speak of it later.”

Havelock bit his lip, seeming more nervous than ever. “I must go. I’m expecting news from London.” The shadows swallowed him up.

Jonathan looked after him with eyes narrowed in speculation. “London, eh? Now what mischief is he about?”

“I
don’t want to go.”

Juliana took Oliver’s small, cold hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. “Of course you don’t.” She sank down on one knee and looked him in the eye. “The music is loud and all sorts of people are arriving. I do not blame you for being afraid.”

The pointed little chin shot up. “Afraid? Who said I was afraid?”

She shrugged and peered over his shoulder. Beyond the tent flap Stephen waited stiffly by the bonfire. How alone he looked, despite the presence of Jonathan, Kit and the people of Lynacre. Her husband’s great shoulders seemed tense with anticipation, and in the flaming glow from the fire his handsome face appeared ravaged by uncertainty.

“No,” she whispered in Oliver’s ear. “Your papa is the one who is afraid.”

He craned his neck to see Stephen. “Papa? How can Papa be afraid? He’s the biggest, strongest man here. The biggest and strongest in all of Wiltshire.”

“Yes, he is. But the biggest, strongest man in the world
can be afraid because he can love.” She lowered her gaze. “And love can hurt you, no matter how big and strong you are.”

Oliver fiddled with the laces of his new velvet doublet. “I don’t understand.”

“You will one day. For now, I want you to understand that he needs to know that you love him and you want him to be your papa.”

“Then why didn’t he just say so?”

Juliana laughed, steering Oliver out of the tent and into the firelight. Someday, this lad would comprehend male pride. And probably would possess it in excess. She took his face between her hands and turned him toward Stephen. “He is saying so right now.”

Oliver stared across the leaping fire at his father. In his curiously sage, adult fashion, he nodded and patted Juliana’s hand. Then he bit his lip. “Will it hurt?”

She shook her head and hugged him.
Not in the way you think, little one. Not in the way you think.

The pipes skirled up to a shrill note, and the bulb-nosed shawm drew out a long, spine-shivering tone.

Juliana took Oliver by the hand. As they walked toward Stephen, she suffered a moment of misgiving. Oliver was still a very sick little boy, and no Romany rite could mend that. But it was too late to turn back now. In the circle of firelight stood the gypsy tribe and the people of Lynacre. And in front of them all was Stephen—vast and vulnerable, the firelight flickering across his unsmiling face.

The ceremony was only a symbolic act, Juliana told herself as she walked toward Stephen around the climbing fire. Nothing more. The magic had to come from father and son.

She stopped before him. The music shimmered, soft and liquid like a warm rain. It seemed they stood there for the longest time, staring at each other—Oliver pressed back against her skirts, and she with her face raised to Stephen’s while tiny sparks from the hazelwood fire flew between them.

Her hands rested on Oliver’s shoulders. She felt the evenness of his breathing and gave silent thanks. His bothersome cough persisted, but he had not suffered a full-blown attack in several days.

Laszlo placed a blanket on the ground between Stephen and Oliver. He held up a hand to silence the music. In Romany, Laszlo said, “If this child be flesh of your flesh and blood of your blood, then claim him.”

Stephen knelt at the edge of the blanket. He kept his gaze fixed on Oliver.

Juliana wondered how she could ever have thought Stephen’s eyes to be cold and emotionless. They were quite beautiful now—blue as the heart of a flame and blazing with fierce love and hope.

“You are Oliver de Lacey,” he said, drawing out his dagger and pulling the blade across his palm. “You are my son. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood.” He made a fist and held it over the blanket, letting a few drops fall onto the bleached fabric.

Juliana felt Oliver’s shoulders draw tight, then relax as Stephen put away the dagger. He picked up the blanket, holding a corner in each hand.

Oliver stood like a soldier at attention. Juliana wanted to shove him forward, but she resisted the impulse. Oliver had to go to his father on his own.

“Please, son.” Stephen’s whisper was faint and racked with pain.

The gypsy musicians began to play again. The strange, sinuous song rippled up Juliana’s spine. The counterpoint of shawm and pipes, guitar and tambour, haunted the evening air, and the melody was as mysterious as the ineluctable bond between father and son.

Oliver took a step forward. Stephen caught the boy against his chest, wrapping the anointed blanket around him and holding on tight.

A cheer went up from the people. The tempo of the music rushed into a dance tune. Stephen swept Oliver up, higher and higher into the air, and whirled him around while the boy shouted with laughter.

For as long as she lived, Juliana would remember them thus, laughing into one another’s faces, whirling around and around while all the world seemed to smile at them.

And though she smiled, too, it was not without a pang of regret. In all the excitement over Oliver, Stephen had made no further mention of the annulment. Yet she knew the papers were there on his desk, waiting for a decision. And the worst of it was, she no longer knew what she wanted—a life here with Stephen, or the chance to find out who was responsible for that night in Novgorod.

Rodion grabbed Jillie around the waist and led her in a high-stepping jig. Laszlo clapped his heels together smartly and bowed to Nance Harbutt, who blushed, fanned her face with her apron and shook her head vigorously.

Laszlo shrugged and started to turn away. Nance grabbed him by the arm, pulled him back, and they joined the dancers. Those who did not partner off simply joined hands and reeled in a circle around the fire.

Juliana watched through a blur of tears. Her rising joy crested, aching and bittersweet, in her throat. She had come to love them all, to cherish both their triumphs and
their pain. And yet she stood apart, a stranger watching from afar, because long ago she had made a blood vow, and she was bound to fulfill it.

But not yet, not tonight. Tonight was not a night for revenge, but one for love and healing. She found herself facing Stephen, her breath coming quickly and her heart in her eyes. Oliver sat on his shoulders, skinny legs hooked beneath his father’s arms, hands tangled in his hair.

As Stephen bent forward in an exaggerated courtly bow, Oliver shrieked with delight. Then the three of them joined the dancing, laughing while the firelight bathed their faces.

“Shhh.” Stephen put his fingers to his lips as he settled the sleeping boy into his bed.

Juliana brushed her hand over the pale, tousled hair and bent to kiss Oliver’s brow. Sweet, sharp affection welled up in her, and she hesitated with her head bent, the night shadows hiding the emotion in her face.

Stephen kissed the boy, too; then their eyes met when he straightened. “I used to kiss him only while he slept,” he whispered.

The searing honesty of his words touched Juliana’s heart. “I think he always knew,” she said, tucking the blanket under Oliver’s chin. “But I think, too, that you and your son are strangers who must come to know each other. Day by day.”

He caught her hand in his. “Moment by moment.” He brought her hand to his lips. “It is how I came to know you, Juliana.”

I love you.
Somehow she heard the words he did not say, the question he did not ask, and she gave him the answer she knew he sought.

“Stephen, yes.”

He swept her into his arms, up and up with graceful strength. She tucked her head against his shoulder as he left the room, stepping over the sleeping Pavlo and the fantastical toys he had made for his son, forgotten now that Oliver was permitted to play with other children.

They went directly to Stephen’s chamber. She felt a warm flood of excitement flow through her. As the evening had progressed, she had sensed an inevitability about this night. They would make love; the knowledge had come to her slowly and in secret as if he had whispered his intention into her ear.

He had said nothing, but the message was there in a long, half-lidded look, in a brush of a hand on a thigh, in a private shared smile.

The one thing she had not expected was that he would carry her to his private chamber.

Embers burned low in the brazier. The subtle orange light mingled with moonglow streaming through the window. Swaying shadows from the breeze-blown trees danced across the floor and flickered upon the painted wall hangings. The bed, with its filmy summer draperies, seemed shrouded in mystery.

Stephen set her gently down. The rushes stirred softly under her bare feet. He caught her face between his hands.

“This is madness,” he said. “Tell me to stop, Juliana.”

“Tell you to stop?” she whispered, still not wholly convinced that she wasn’t dreaming. Very deliberately, she freed her hair from its coif so that it toppled down around her hips. “Now
that,
my lord, would be madness.”

His rich, alluring chuckle drifted from the darkness. Then she heard a rustling sound as he shed his doublet, letting it drop to the floor.

“You’re no help at all, Baroness.” He bent to kiss her.
First his lips brushed hers, light and delicate as a breath of wind. The graze of his lips made hers tingle, and the sensation spread downward, touching the tips of her breasts, the pit of her belly, the place between her legs.

“Please,” she said, pressing close, seeking release from the delicious ache inside her. “Oh, Stephen. Let it not be like before, that night in the field, when you made me soar and yet took none of your own pleasure.”

He laughed again, the sound oddly thrilling, for it was so rare. “I can manage that but once. You’re doomed tonight, my sweet.”

He deepened the kiss, and she felt the warmth of his tongue, evocative and tender as it slipped in and out of her mouth. She let her neck arch back while her hands ran up his chest, over the smooth fabric of his shirt. She inhaled deeply; he had a spice all his own, as intoxicating as vintage wine.

She had forgotten how clever he could be with his hands. How inventive. Now he reminded her, disengaging her sleeves, sliding his fingers up under the laces of her bodice, and pulling the garment loose with a single long tug. Within seconds, he had her skirt and petticoats drifting to the floor, and then she stood before him clad only in her shift.

He lifted his mouth from hers and touched her mouth with one finger, tracing the moist curve of her lower lip. Then he took her hand and drew her closer to the bed.

“Good God in heaven,” he whispered as she stepped into the pooling moonlight. “You
are
a witch.”

She tilted her head to one side, feeling the weight of her unbound hair and glad for its concealing length. “Why do you say that?”

He pressed one hand over her breast and cupped the
other hand behind her neck, pulling her firmly against him. “That is what you do to me, my gypsy bride, and I know of no other word for it than witchcraft.”

“Call it what you will,” she whispered and moved closer still, nearly undone by the rich sensation of his hand on her breast.

“Ah, Juliana. Do you know how hard it’s been for me to stay away from you? Knowing you were my wife and not being able to have you?”

“Yes,” she said, her fingers finding the laces of his codpiece. “I think I might have a vague idea.”

He groaned as her fingers brushed against him, loosening his trunk hose. “You know, don’t you, that this night will change everything between us.”

For the moment, she did not pause to consider what he meant. “It had better,” she said, pressing her lips to the hollow of his throat, intoxicated by the taste of him.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I have fallen in love with you, Stephen de Lacey.”

As he lifted her off the floor and spun her about, the sound that escaped him was one of mingled joy and frustration. She threw back her head and watched the play of light and shadow whirling, whirling, as enchanting as the faceted lamp chimney he had made for Oliver.

When he set her down, her back was against one of the thick bedposts, and she stood breathless, waiting, her skin on fire with wanting.

Stephen gave a secretive smile as he bent low. He kissed her earlobe and then the side of her neck. His tongue flicked out and touched the sensitive skin there, and then his teeth were nipping, nibbling, as if she were a feast and he a man on the verge of starvation.

He clasped his hands around the pillar, imprisoning her between himself and the great, waiting bed. Soft laughter vibrated in his throat as he bent lower still and took hold of the ribbons of her shift with his teeth and pulled back. The bow came loose and the shift shivered down, baring her body inch by inch until she stood in a spellbound state of helpless anticipation.

“Ah, Juliana,” he said, his voice wavering over her name. “Ah, love, you can’t know how it makes me feel to look upon you—all of you.” He brushed aside a tendril of her hair and lowered his head to kiss her breast. “Sweetheart, you come to me so clean and new, all innocent.”

“And so do you, my beloved,” she whispered. “For in truth you seem a different man of late.”