Embarrassed, Juliet exclaimed, "Scheherazade!" and scooped the cat up in her arms. "I'm sorry, Ross. When I'm writing, she usually sleeps sprawled here on the table. I suppose she thought I was working and wanted to join me. I don't think she intended to end up in the platter, for she never interferes when I'm eating Eastern-style."
He smiled as he observed Scheherazade's avid interest in what was on the table. "That may not have been her intention, but she's willing to be flexible." Taking a small piece of lamb, he leaned over the table to offer the tidbit to the cat, who accepted eagerly.
"You're corrupting her," Juliet said ruefully as Scheherazade struggled in her arms. "If she starts expecting to be rewarded for disrupting a meal, she'll become impossible."
The humor that had briefly illuminated Ross's face died and he leaned back in his chair. "Sorry."
Juliet bit her lip, wishing she had said nothing. Throughout the evening, Ross had maintained his distance, polite, contained, and thoroughly formidable. The back of her neck had been prickling as she waited for some kind of explosion from him. Then, when he finally relaxed a little, with a few careless, teasing words she had broken the mood.
Fortunately an interruption arrived in the form of Fatima, Juliet's favorite six-year-old. "I'm sorry, Gul-i Sarahi," the girl said as she pelted into the room. "Scheherazade ran away from me." Then the child stopped and stared, her dark eyes widening. "Gul-i Sarahi?" she said questioningly, not at all sure about this strangely dressed female.
"It is really I, Fatima," Juliet assured her. "I am wearing the costume of my people in honor of the visit of this gentleman, Lord Ross Carlisle. He is... an old friend from my native land."
The girl's gaze went to Ross. She blushed and pulled her veil across the lower part of her face so that only her bright, fascinated eyes were visible. Rather dryly Juliet observed to herself that her husband frequently had that effect on females. In this part of the world his height and golden hair made him seem more than mortal.
Untangling the feline from her Kashmir shawl, Juliet said, "Here, my dear, take Scheherazade and go back to bed."
When Fatima had collected the cat, Juliet gave her an affectionate hug and a pastry from the dessert plate. The girl paused by the door hanging and gave a polite bow, her gaze going to Ross again. Then she skipped away.
When the child was gone, Ross asked, "Is she your daughter?"
"Good heavens, no," Juliet replied, startled. "She is Saleh's youngest." Though Juliet should not have been surprised at the question, since Ross did not know what she had been doing over the last dozen years. Or not doing, in this case.
Unnerved by her train of thought, she rose from the table and removed the empty plates and remaining food. "Would you like some coffee? It is French-style rather than Turkish or Arabian."
When he nodded, she poured two cups from the pot, which had been keeping warm over a candle, then set them on the table. She glanced up at Ross, who in the lamplight was the epitome of casual English elegance. It was like the evenings at Chapelgate, where they had spent hours talking over after-dinner coffee, the conversations covering every topic imaginable.
Though Juliet knew it would be wiser not to reminisce, she found herself saying quietly, "It's strange. Dressed this way, with you across the table, I feel like Lady Ross Carlisle again."
"But you aren't Lady Ross Carlisle," he said expressionlessly. "Not anymore."
Juliet froze, all of her muscles temporarily numb. In its way, this was an even greater shock than seeing Ross lying apparently lifeless on the road. Though her final note to her husband had urged him to divorce her, she had been selfishly glad that he had not done so.
Through all the years and miles of separation, she had found secret comfort in the knowledge that they were still husband and wife, that an invisible thread of connection joined her to Ross. Losing that bond hurt more than she would have dreamed possible.
Forcing her voice to be level, she said, "So you finally got a divorce, as I suggested all of those years ago. I'm surprised that my lawyer did not inform me, but likely the letter was lost." She set the plate of pastries on the table, then sat down again, hiding her hands so that he would not see them trembling. "Have you remarried?"
"I have not divorced you. English law hasn't changed, and the only ground is still adultery." He stirred sugar into his coffee. Quite without inflection he continued, "Your progress through the Mediterranean generated a number of rumors, and if even a quarter of them were true, you were providing a positive embarrassment of riches in the way of evidence of adultery. However, obtaining a bill of divorcement is a very sordid, very public process. I did not want to subject myself or my family to that. There had been quite enough scandal about our marriage, and I was already quite enough of a laughingstock." Though Ross's voice did not lose its softness, pain and anger pulsed just below his surface composure.
For one of the very few times in her life, Juliet found herself literally speechless as an unholy mixture of shock and guilt surged through her. Taking a deep breath, she focused on what he had said earlier. "If you didn't divorce me, why did you say that I am no longer Lady Ross Carlisle? Surely it was not possible to annul the marriage."
"No, it was not. We are still legally husband and wife." His gaze was ironic, as if he could read the maelstrom of emotions that he had set off. Perhaps he could. "My brother died last autumn and left no sons, so you are now the Marchioness of Kilburn. Congratulations. If we both live long enough, you will be the Duchess of Windermere."
Curiously, her first reaction was neither relief that they were still married nor anger that he had deliberately baited her. Instead, she felt sympathy. "Ross, I'm so sorry."
Impulsively she laid her hand over his, where it rested on the table. "I know that you never wanted to be the heir."
Though his hand did not move, the tendons went rigid under her touch. Very carefully, as if Ross were a fused bomb, Juliet withdrew her own hand. "Or have you changed your mind about that? What seemed like a prison when you were twenty-one might look like a prize now that you are older. Most men would not be sorry to inherit a dukedom."
"I haven't changed my mind." He gave her a wry half-smile. "You were the only person who ever understood. When other people hear that I'm now Lord Kilburn, they react to the news with congratulations, as if surviving my brother is some great achievement on my part."
"It's ironic that now everything will come to you, even though you don't want it. But you will use the Windermere wealth and influence better than your brother would have. He had a small soul." After a fractional pause Juliet continued, "Of course, now it is much more important that you have an heir. I don't blame you for wanting to avoid the notoriety of divorce. If you want to take another wife, I swear I will never come to England or cause trouble in any way."
"You've been in the East too long, Juliet." Ross's brows arched. "While Muslims may have several wives, in England such behavior is called bigamy and it's quite illegal."
"I didn't mean that!" she said with exasperation. "You can have me declared dead. It wouldn't be hard to produce some kind of proof for the English authorities. Then you would officially be a widower and could marry again without scandal."
He regarded her thoughtfully. "My father always said that the female of the species is ruthlessly practical, and he was right. Frankly, even if I were free to remarry, I would not do so, for I have neither the stamina nor the optimism to take another wife. The ancient Windermere title and extravagant Windermere fortune can go to one of my second cousins when the time comes." He chuckled suddenly. "But thank you for making the offer. While wrong-headed, it was generous of you."
Juliet felt foolish when she realized all the implications of her impulsive suggestion, such as her own family thinking her dead. But at least Ross was amused again.
She poured more coffee for them. "What are your plans now? Are you going back to Teheran? Not Herat, I hope. Afghanistan is even more than usually dangerous just now."
"Neither." He chose a flaky cardamom-flavored pastry from the plate and took a bite. "Delicious. You really have a fine kitchen here." He finished the pastry with a second bite. "My destination is Bokhara."
She stared. "I hope you're joking. That is the most dangerous place in Asia for Europeans. If you absolutely must travel farther into Central Asia, go to Kokand or Khiva, where you have a reasonably good chance of leaving again."
"Unfortunately, only Bokhara will do." He wiped his fingers on the napkin. "This is not a pleasure trip, Juliet. Have you heard that the amir is holding a British army officer prisoner?"
"I've heard rumors to that effect, but I've also heard that the officer was executed."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I intend to learn the truth, then see if I can do something about it."
Juliet bit her lip. "It's the British government's place to act, not yours. You don't have any official status, do you?"
"None whatsoever—I am going as a private citizen."
"You're mad," she said flatly. "If you just march into the amir's palace and ask him to let the officer go, you'll end up imprisoned or dead yourself."
"You're undoubtedly right," Ross agreed. "However, I am still going to try. The officer's mother asked me to, and I found I could not refuse."
"Well, you should have," she snapped, appalled at how blithely he brushed aside the dangers. "This afternoon you said there was no point in your servants sacrificing their lives in a futile attempt to save you from the Turkomans. This is the same thing, only worse. At least the Turkomans would have only made slaves of the Persians. If you go to Bokhara, you're a dead man. The only question is whether you will be killed quickly or spend years rotting in the Black Well first. There is no point in taking that risk on behalf of a man who is already dead."
"The situations are not comparable," he said mildly. "It isn't clear if the British officer has been executed. If he is dead, perhaps I will be able to persuade the amir to release the major's body so I can return it to his family for burial."
"No doubt his family would appreciate that, but it isn't worth you risking your life."
His level gaze met hers. "Not even though the officer in question is your brother Ian?"
Juliet gasped as if she had been struck a physical blow. "Dear God, not Ian," she whispered.
Shaking, she buried her face in her hands. Perhaps this whole day was just a nightmare and she would wake in the morning to find her life at Serevan unchanged. Or better yet, the last dozen years had been a fever dream and she was still at Chapelgate, sleeping safe and warm in her husband's embrace.
"Oh, damnation," Ross said helplessly.
She heard him get up from his chair and come around the table. Gently he touched her hair, saying, "I'm sorry, Juliet. I shouldn't have told you like that."
Instinctively she turned toward him and he put his arms around her as she buried her face against his side. For a few moments, as she battled tears, she allowed herself to accept the dangerous comfort of his embrace. For so long she had hungered for a man's touch. For Ross's touch.
Finally she pulled away, though not so quickly that he would interpret her movement as rejection. "You needn't apologize," she said, her voice unsteady. "There is no way to break such news gently."
She drew the back of her hand across her eyes. "It's hard to believe Ian is gone. He was always so alive. I used to think that if anyone was going to be immortal, it would be Ian."
Ross retreated to his own chair. "While I don't want to give you false hope, there is a chance he's still alive."
"Do you honestly think so?"
He shrugged. "As I said, there is a chance. All the way from Constantinople, I've talked to anyone who claimed to have information. The results were inconclusive, mostly third- and fourth-hand reports. In Teheran I did meet a man who claimed to have witnessed the execution of a ferengi several months ago, but the description could have fitted almost any European."
"Even if that wasn't Ian, it doesn't mean my brother is still alive," she said bleakly. "He could have died in prison, or been executed since then. If by some remote chance you reach Bokhara and find Ian alive, there is no reason to suppose the amir will release him—or you."
"Nonetheless, I promised to try my best, and I will."
Remembering what else he had said, Juliet said with an edge in her voice, "This is all my mother's doing, isn't it?"
He nodded. "I met her at the British embassy in Constantinople. She had been trying unsuccessfully to persuade Sir Stratford Canning to do something through official channels."
"If Canning refused, the government is convinced Ian is dead." Juliet's mouth tightened. "Blast it, my mother had no right to ask you to risk your life on a futile mission."
"She had a feeling that Ian was alive and that we would both return safely," he explained, faint amusement in his eyes. "So who am I to argue with female intuition?"
"I sincerely hope you did not place any faith in my mother's dubious intuition," Juliet snapped. "For God's sake, Ross, give up this mad scheme! There is no virtue in noble suicide."
"The subject is not open to discussion," he said with finality. "I've been to Bokhara once and survived. Perhaps I'll be lucky again. If not"—he shrugged with a fatalism worthy of an Asiatic—"so be it."
"You've been to Bokhara already? But..."
When her voice trailed off, he said dryly, "Surprised that someone so scholarly and unadventurous would dare such a journey?"
Juliet colored, knowing that she could start a whole new argument by pursuing his remark. Perhaps that was why he had made it.
Refusing to let herself be distracted, she considered the possibilities. She would never be able to change his mind, not when he had that damned "word-of-a-gentleman" expression on his face. And though she was tempted, she really could not lock Ross up for his own good.
She muttered a Persian curse of whisker-singeing intensity. There was only one thing she could do that might increase his chances of surviving the journey. "Very well," she said with a calm implacability that was the equal of his. "If you insist on going to Bokhara, then I'm going with you."
Chapter 5
Damn and blast and damn again. Ross stared at his wife, thinking that he should have seen this coming. "Absolutely not."
She raised her brows. "I wasn't asking for your permission, Ross. I'm going and there is no way you can stop me. You may have traveled through Central Asia, but I've lived here for nine years. I know the customs and people better than you do, and have more resources at my command."
"Don't be absurd," he said forcefully. "You know that women have no status in this part of the world. On your own, you would be able to do nothing. As my companion, your presence would make the situation worse. My task will be much harder if I must worry about your safety as well as my own."
"Save your worry for yourself," Juliet retorted. "You will be in much more jeopardy than I, for I am not going as a woman."
Ross opened his mouth, then closed it again. "With your height, wearing Tuareg robes and veil, I suppose you can pass for a Targui if you don't make any major errors in behavior," he admitted reluctantly. "Though the costume is somewhat conspicuous in Central Asia, you would still be safer than if you traveled as a ferengi woman. But that is beside the point. I see no advantage in your presence, and considerable disadvantage. To use an argument that we have both overworked today, you would be going into danger for no good reason."
"They say that Bokhara is a snake den of spies and informers. If I go there as a Muslim man, I will have much more freedom of movement than you, and will be able to learn things a ferengi never could." She nibbled her lower lip as she thought. "I suppose I should go as your servant, so that I can get information to you without arousing further suspicions."
He almost choked on the last of his coffee. "You, a servant?" he said incredulously. "It is easier to believe that you can pass as a man than that you will ever do what anyone tells you to do."
Jul
iet gave an unexpected grin. "Touché. I'll admit that taking orders is not my strong point, but I am not a fool. With our lives in the balance, I will be a model of obedience."
Why did she have to have such flashes of unexpected, irresistible charm? It would be so much easier if Juliet was a harridan. But Ross never would have married her if she were.
Instead, she was merely impossible. "I don't care if you can follow orders like a trained gun dog. Under no circumstances will I take you to Bokhara as my servant."
"You are being unreasonable," she said patiently. "The men you hired in Teheran may be saints and heroes, but they have known you for only a few weeks and there is no way you can be sure of their loyalty. They certainly didn't distinguish themselves today when they abandoned you to the Turkomans. At least you can trust me not to betray you if danger threatens."
With deliberate cruelty, he said, "Trust you not to betray me? Based on your past record, I would be mad to do that."
Juliet's skin went bone white against her red hair as blood drained from her face, revealing a pale ghost of freckles across her cheekbones. "Obviously it was a mistake to entrust me with your honor," she said, her voice almost inaudible, "but you can trust me with your life, and you know it."
In spite of what he had said, Ross believed Juliet's statement. She might have betrayed her marriage vows, but she would never be cowardly or treacherous, especially not if her brother's life was at stake. And, for honor's sake if not affection, she would do nothing that might endanger her husband.
Yet accepting her proposal was unthinkable. Ross had never thought much about the afterlife, but he knew that spending several months close to his wife would be a fair approximation of hell. "I can't stop you from coming," he said wearily, "but neither can you force me to take you as my servant."
"Then I'll go instead of you," she said, undeterred by his attitude. "In fact, that's the way it should be. Ian is my brother, not yours. You have suffered quite enough because of the Camerons."
As her challenging gaze met his, the atmosphere changed, the center shifting from the mission to Bokhara to Ross and Juliet. The anger and tension that pulsed between them tonight stemmed from one raw, unresolved wound: their failed marriage. It was time to address it directly.