Free At The King's Command by Susan Wiggs Page B

swept back a glorious lock of soft hair. Pinned to her bodice was the large brooch she had brandished in front of KingHenry. She gave a faint smile. The color stood out high in her cheeks. “It appears my husband was entertaining you with his vast charm and wit.”
    Stephen hated himself for recognizing the hurt in her voice. He hated himself for caring that his words had wounded her.
    She faced him squarely, dipped her head in greeting, and said, “Le bon Dieu vous le rendra.”
    Her French was impeccable. The good Lord will repay you . He did not doubt it for a moment.
    Moving cautiously, as if navigating a snake pit, he took her hand to lead her to the table. Her easy grace surprised him. She took her place in a nobleman’s dining hall as effortlessly as if she had been doing it all her life.
    The servitors came in their usual formal parade, with river trout and salad, venison pasty and loaves of dark bread, cold blood pudding and soft new cheese. Juliana received them with unexpected poise, nodding at the spilled malmsey and whispering, “His lordship needs more wine.”
    Stephen scarcely tasted the food he ingested mechanically.
    He could not tear his attention from his wife.
    Her manners astonished him. Where had she learned to wield knife and spoon so deftly, to sip so daintily from her cup? And, Christ’s bones, to murmur such apt and discreet instructions to the servants?
    Everyone knows gypsies are great imitators. Much like a monkey… The words of Nance Harbutt echoed through his mind.
    But that wasn’t the answer. It couldn’t be.
    Stephen barely heard the bluff, easy conversation of Jonathan, barely heard Juliana’s soft replies as they discussed Kit, the weather, and her wild claims about her past. Caught in the grip of amazement, Stephen could do no more than stare at his wife.
    He had expected the crude gypsy wench to be overwhelmed by the opulence of his home, crammed with the spoils of battles fought by his ancestors, church treasures plundered by his father, and the rich yields of his own endeavors as baron of Wimberleigh.
    Instead, she seemed only mildly interested in her new surroundings. It was as if the plate tableware, the Venetian glass cups and art treasures adorning the hall, the solicitous servants, were commonplace to her. As if she had found herself in these circumstances before.
    Nonsense, Stephen told himself. Perhaps the treasures were so alien to her that she could not begin to grasp their value.
    He forced himself to attend to what Jonathan was saying. “You tell a most singular tale about your past, my lady,” said the older man.
    Juliana took a dainty bite of salad, then with a slender finger traced the rim of her glass fingerbowl. Just for a moment, sadness haunted her eyes, a melancholy so intense that Stephen’s breath caught.
    Then her eyes cleared and she gave Jonathan a serene smile. “It is no tale, my lord, but the absolute truth.”
    Stephen suppressed a snort of derision. Small wonder gypsies were outlawed. No one should be so adept at lying.
    “The unexpected marriage to Lord Wimberleigh must have given you a bit of a turn.”
    “Indeed it did,” she admitted with a pretty shrug. “I confess that I felt like the lady of Riga.”
    “Riga?”
    “A small principality to the west of Novgorod. My old nurse loved to tell the story. The lady of Riga found herself on the back of a tiger. Once mounted, she had no way to go but onward, for if she tried to get off, she would be eaten alive.”
    “So you liken marriage to Stephen to a ride upon a tiger.” Jonathan seemed to be enjoying himself enormously.
    Stephen vowed to ignore this foreign woman, ignore the garish beauty that so overpowered Meg’s demure costume. He would ignore Juliana’s captivating smile, her low-toned, beguiling speech.
    To do otherwise would be to open his heart to unspeakable pain. He endured the meal in silence, then said his farewells to Jonathan.
    “She is charming,” Jonathan said as