Dreamspinner (15 page)

Where had he gone?

Missing him already, she stretched, her limbs awash with luxurious laziness. The dishes had been cleared from the table, the clothing folded neatly on the chair. The forget-me-nots and orchids in the water glass reminded her of their intimate meal.

The innkeeper’s wife must have crept inside to tidy the place.

Juliet blushed. No sound had penetrated her exhausted slumber ... no clink of china, no creak of the floorboards, no click of the closing door. For the first time she had slept without a nightdress... for the first time she’d learned the wanton joy a woman experienced in the arms of the man she loved.

Swinging her naked legs over the side of the bed, she drew the counterpane around herself. Last night she hadn’t been so modest. Last night she had burned with the fever of physical need. The memory brought an echo of that exquisite ache deep within her. Now she understood why an unchaperoned girl was forbidden to visit a man. Once seduced, she’d never again be content to live without that special intimacy.

A grin shaped her lips. She liked being married... yes, she did. Her steps quick and eager, she walked to the window and peered through the opening in the curtains. Sunlight washed the yard with the hazy hues of summer and glinted off the slate roof of an outbuilding. A pair of wrens flew busily in and out of the rustling leaves of the walnut tree.
Tending their nest,
Juliet thought, just as she and Kent would build a life together.

The fanciful comparison deepened her smile. Yet, silly or not, she looked forward to sharing every part of herself with him.

Abruptly Ravi and Hatchett walked out the doors of the stone stable. Ravi spoke to the coachman, who shrugged, scratching his salt and pepper hair. With a suddenness that startled her, the Indian tilted his turbaned head and looked up at her window. Even at a distance the malevolence in those dark eyes pierced her. Though the draperies concealed her, Juliet found herself shrinking back, her happiness shriveling.

She lifted her chin. His prejudice against the Carletons shouldn’t disturb her. After all, she was a Deverell now, the Duchess of Radcliffe.

The thought infused her with trembly excitement, roused the urge to find her duke. Swiftly she drew on her undergarments, then the freshly ironed green gown, which hung from a hook near the door. After pinning up her hair, she hastened out the door.

Flashes of memory held her enthralled as she headed down the narrow staircase. Kent kissing her, Kent caressing her, Kent murmuring tender encouragement until that radiant pleasure had burst inside her.
Trust me...

She had, and he’d made her his woman. Even the odors of sour ale and lamp smoke smelled wonderful as she passed through the deserted taproom and went into the cool morning. She paused to inhale the exhilarating sweetness or the air, to relish the warmth of the sun. Alongside the country road, a blackbird tugged at a clump of chickweed, shaking loose the seeds and eating them.

Her shoes kicked up the hem of her skirt as she wandered toward the side yard. A fat bumblebee zoomed past, aiming straight at a patch of silverweed, the flowers bright yellow against the pale leaves. Rounding the corner of the inn, she saw the landau now parked outside the stable. His brawny back to her, Hatchett stood polishing one of the brass lamps.

At the opposite end of the yard, beneath the dappled shade of an oak, Ravi sat on a wrought iron bench, the breeze stirring his gray robe. His spine was straight, his attention focused on the small book in his hands.

A reluctance to confront his malice kept Juliet rooted to the spot. Like a botanist guarding a new hybrid, she held fast to her happiness. Then she buried her reluctance. She must make a place for herself in Kent’s life; she must nurture an amiable relation with his most trusted servant.

Head held high, she marched toward the Indian. He looked up, his muddy brown eyes studying her, but he made no move to rise.

She ignored the slight. “Good morning, Ravi.”

He inclined his head, but said nothing.

“Would you know where my husband went?”

“Fishing.”

She blinked at the river. “Fishing?”

“It is an amusement of his.” He paused, one dark eyebrow cocked. “His Grace did not tell you of his passion for the sport?”

His disdain conveyed the message that she knew little of her husband’s habits. Despite her determination to remain unruffled, Juliet felt embarrassment sting her cheeks.

“Which direction did he go?” she asked.

“He wishes to be left alone.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t include me in such an order.”

Ravi shrugged. “I tell you only his words, that no one must disturb him. No one.”

The firm ground of her contentment quaked beneath a shock of doubt. What if Kent truly
didn’t
want to see her? What if last night had meant no more to him than the gratification of physical desire, the securing of her as his wife? What if he’d found her too bold in comparison to his shy Emily?

Thrusting the book into a pocket of his robe, Ravi stood, his turbaned head towering over her. “Perhaps while you await the master’s return, I might fetch you some breakfast?”

Triumph gleamed in his murky eyes. A sudden fury swept her, a fury that he dared to sow mistrust in her heart. “No, thank you,” she snapped. “I intend to find my husband.”

She started toward a copse of wych elms beyond the yard, but the bite of fingers on her arm brought her to an unceremonious halt. Stunned by Ravi’s insolence, she jerked her eyes to his face and summoned all the hauteur she had seen her mother direct at a recalcitrant servant.

“Kindly remove your hand.”

He made no move to comply. “You mean to go, after what I have told you?”

“Yes. I’ll not tolerate your interference between my husband and me.” Despite a thickening in her throat, Juliet kept her voice steady.

Eyes narrowed, he regarded her; she matched him stare for stare. A grasshopper hummed into the heavy silence and a breeze struck her hot cheeks. His grip slackened and Juliet stepped away.

“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 deny 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?”