unlike Stephen de Lacey, the brooding man who had, on a cavalier impulse that he clearly regretted, married her.
She gave the earl a cautious smile. “ Enchantée , my lord.”
Algernon’s pale eyebrows lifted. Juliana was not certain what surprised him—her accent, her voice…or her smile. “And what brings you to our district?”
Juliana sent him the sly trickster’s grin she had learned from Rodion’s younger sister, Catriona. “Marriage, my lord.”
“Ah. You look to wed a sheepman, perhaps, or one of the dyers from the village?”
Though Juliana would have enjoyed cozening him awhile, Wimberleigh gave an impatient grunt. “She’s married to me, Algernon, and the tale is long in the telling, so I—”
“To you?” Algernon’s eyes bugged out. Juliana imagined she heard a clanking sound as his jaw dropped. “To you? ”
“By order of the king,” Stephen explained, his voicetight, as if each word were wrung from him. “And Algernon, I’d appreciate it most highly if you could silence yourself—”
“Silence myself? Not for a third ball, Wimberleigh,” Havelock said, grinning broadly and resting a hand on his codpiece. “A Tower warden couldn’t muzzle me.” With a guffaw of sheer delight, he jammed on his hat, spurred his mount, and galloped back the way he had come.
Wimberleigh squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He uttered a strange word that probably referred to some disgusting body function.
During the remainder of the journey, Juliana fought to remain calm and rational. She was a nobleman’s wife. His charming disposition notwithstanding, she might turn her new status to advantage. Her role as a baroness might help her bring her family’s murderers to justice.
Regrets rattled in a small, hollowed-out place inside her. She was to have married Alexei Shuisky. Her memories of the young boyar had been gilded by yearning dreams, and in her mind he had grown more handsome and engaging with the passage of time. How happy they would have been, living at one of the splendid Shuisky estates, raising their children amid beauty and splendor.
Juliana scowled at Stephen de Lacey, who sat his horse like a commoner, his broad shoulders clad in the simplest of garments, his golden hair overlong and in need of trimming. He had ruined any chance she might have had at a future in Novgorod.
Unless…Insidious as the wind through the hood of a caravan, an idea took hold. The king of England himself had claimed the power to end a marriage. It had been all the talk when Juliana first arrived in England. King Henryhad put his Spanish wife on the shelf in order to wed a dark-eyed court lady. Even the gypsies had been impressed by his boldness.
They had been even more impressed by the eventual fate of Anne Boleyn: death at the block.
As a tall, turreted gatehouse hove into view, Juliana shuddered. Englishmen who did not want to keep their wives were very dangerous indeed.
An unearthly screech sent Stephen pounding up the stairs to the second story of the manor house. He hurried along the half-open passageway that ran from gable end to gable end, ducking low beneath slanting timbers.
What the devil could be amiss? They had arrived only minutes earlier. Yet the terror in the woman’s voice indicated nothing short of murder.
He passed the gilt-framed portraits of his grandsires, his father, his mother, himself. From long habit he averted his eyes from the last painting. The portrait of Meg. Even though he did not let himself look, it touched him—a quick, searing arrow wound to the gut—then he hurried on to the chambers of his gypsy bride.
Though somewhat small of stature, she had a rather robust set of lungs. Her cries were long and harsh, probably loud enough to carry to the village beyond the river that bordered the estate.
Stephen stopped in the doorway and surveyed the scene.
Juliana stood backed up against a gargoyle-infested cupboard. The carved, leering faces with
She gave the earl a cautious smile. “ Enchantée , my lord.”
Algernon’s pale eyebrows lifted. Juliana was not certain what surprised him—her accent, her voice…or her smile. “And what brings you to our district?”
Juliana sent him the sly trickster’s grin she had learned from Rodion’s younger sister, Catriona. “Marriage, my lord.”
“Ah. You look to wed a sheepman, perhaps, or one of the dyers from the village?”
Though Juliana would have enjoyed cozening him awhile, Wimberleigh gave an impatient grunt. “She’s married to me, Algernon, and the tale is long in the telling, so I—”
“To you?” Algernon’s eyes bugged out. Juliana imagined she heard a clanking sound as his jaw dropped. “To you? ”
“By order of the king,” Stephen explained, his voicetight, as if each word were wrung from him. “And Algernon, I’d appreciate it most highly if you could silence yourself—”
“Silence myself? Not for a third ball, Wimberleigh,” Havelock said, grinning broadly and resting a hand on his codpiece. “A Tower warden couldn’t muzzle me.” With a guffaw of sheer delight, he jammed on his hat, spurred his mount, and galloped back the way he had come.
Wimberleigh squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He uttered a strange word that probably referred to some disgusting body function.
During the remainder of the journey, Juliana fought to remain calm and rational. She was a nobleman’s wife. His charming disposition notwithstanding, she might turn her new status to advantage. Her role as a baroness might help her bring her family’s murderers to justice.
Regrets rattled in a small, hollowed-out place inside her. She was to have married Alexei Shuisky. Her memories of the young boyar had been gilded by yearning dreams, and in her mind he had grown more handsome and engaging with the passage of time. How happy they would have been, living at one of the splendid Shuisky estates, raising their children amid beauty and splendor.
Juliana scowled at Stephen de Lacey, who sat his horse like a commoner, his broad shoulders clad in the simplest of garments, his golden hair overlong and in need of trimming. He had ruined any chance she might have had at a future in Novgorod.
Unless…Insidious as the wind through the hood of a caravan, an idea took hold. The king of England himself had claimed the power to end a marriage. It had been all the talk when Juliana first arrived in England. King Henryhad put his Spanish wife on the shelf in order to wed a dark-eyed court lady. Even the gypsies had been impressed by his boldness.
They had been even more impressed by the eventual fate of Anne Boleyn: death at the block.
As a tall, turreted gatehouse hove into view, Juliana shuddered. Englishmen who did not want to keep their wives were very dangerous indeed.
An unearthly screech sent Stephen pounding up the stairs to the second story of the manor house. He hurried along the half-open passageway that ran from gable end to gable end, ducking low beneath slanting timbers.
What the devil could be amiss? They had arrived only minutes earlier. Yet the terror in the woman’s voice indicated nothing short of murder.
He passed the gilt-framed portraits of his grandsires, his father, his mother, himself. From long habit he averted his eyes from the last painting. The portrait of Meg. Even though he did not let himself look, it touched him—a quick, searing arrow wound to the gut—then he hurried on to the chambers of his gypsy bride.
Though somewhat small of stature, she had a rather robust set of lungs. Her cries were long and harsh, probably loud enough to carry to the village beyond the river that bordered the estate.
Stephen stopped in the doorway and surveyed the scene.
Juliana stood backed up against a gargoyle-infested cupboard. The carved, leering faces with
Similar Books
