Read Online At The King's Command by Susan Wiggs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Wiggs
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damask, the blank-eyed poppet propped on the window seat, the mirrored candle holder Stephen himself had designed. And on a slim-legged table lay a bone hairbrush, its back etched with a scene of the Virgin guarded by a unicorn.
Fearful of the emotion building inside him, he scowled at the floor. And spied, half-hidden by the fringe of thecounterpane, a bright bit of string. Distracted by the out-of-place object, he stood and crossed the room to pick it up. “What is this?”
Nance caught her breath. “Milady was playing at Jacob’s ladder the very night—”
Stephen turned toward Nance. His icy glare stopped her cold.
Nance’s hand fluttered at her bosom. “Ah, the sweet-ling. Ever the child, she was.”
The memory stung like salt on the wound of Stephen’s guilt. He thought of his vagabond bride invading this room, sleeping in Meg’s bed, handling Meg’s things.
Like a weed, Juliana would blight the perfectly ordered chamber.
I’m sorry, Meg. Sorry for everything. The regrets poured like quicklime through him.
“…burn the clothes, of course,” Old Nance was saying, having slipped back into her matter-of-fact manner.
Stephen shook his head, drawing his mind from painful remembrances. He stalked back and forth in front of the windows. “What’s that you say?”
“The gypsy, my lord. Her clothes are no doubt infested with vermin. ’Tis best they are burnt.”
“Aye, but then she’ll have nothing to—oh.” Stephen pressed his fist on the window embrasure. “She is of a size with Meg.”
“Not quite so plump as your first wife, my lord, but I could take a tuck or two in some of the gowns. Er, that is, if you don’t mind—”
“I don’t.” He slammed the door on his memories.
“And about a lady’s maid, my lord—”
“She doesn’t need a maid, but a warden.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” Nance said. “While youwas occupied with your wife, I sent to the village for Jillie Egan, the dyer’s daughter.”
“Jillie Egan?” Stephen aimed a mocking scowl at Nance. “Oh, you are naughty, dear lady. The Egan girl’s the size of a bullock, and has a stubborn will to match.”
Nance winked broadly. “She’ll not tolerate any stomaching from the gypsy.”
Stephen strode to the door. “Do as you see fit. I’ve a pressing engagement elsewhere.”
Nance Harbutt nodded in complete understanding. “My lord, what will you tell your new wife about—”
“Nothing at all,” he cut in, his voice as sharp as a knife. “Not a blessed, solitary thing.”
Three
“I trow that particular shade of blue is called woad,” said a faintly amused voice.
“Eek!” Juliana nearly came out of her numb, chilled skin. She spun away from the polished steel mirror to face the intruder. “Dear Lord,” she whispered in rapid Russian, “my jailer is a giantess.”
Her gaze traveled from the boatlike feet clad in sturdy clogs to the ruddy face framed by coarse yellow hair. The distance was at least a score of hands—the height of a grown plow horse.
“I don’t speak Egyptian, milady.” The giantess placed her pawlike hands on her hips and leaned forward, peering frankly at Juliana. “I assumed you was trying to decide what shade of blue your lips turned from the cold bath. I’d say woad, from the mustard leaf.”
“Woad,” Juliana repeated stupidly, shaping her lips around the difficult w .
“Aye, I knows me colors. Me da is a dyer. Blue as a titbird’s throat you are, milady.”
Clutching a robe around her shivering form, Juliana blinked in astonishment. The fact was, she had turnedblue from the icy bath in the churning, spring-fed millstream. After the heartless dunking Stephen had subjected her to, she had slogged back to the house, cursing him in a patois of English, Romany, and Russian. When the ogress arrived, Juliana had been staring into the mirror and wondering if her coloring would ever return to normal.
“Who are you?” She managed to force the question past
Fearful of the emotion building inside him, he scowled at the floor. And spied, half-hidden by the fringe of thecounterpane, a bright bit of string. Distracted by the out-of-place object, he stood and crossed the room to pick it up. “What is this?”
Nance caught her breath. “Milady was playing at Jacob’s ladder the very night—”
Stephen turned toward Nance. His icy glare stopped her cold.
Nance’s hand fluttered at her bosom. “Ah, the sweet-ling. Ever the child, she was.”
The memory stung like salt on the wound of Stephen’s guilt. He thought of his vagabond bride invading this room, sleeping in Meg’s bed, handling Meg’s things.
Like a weed, Juliana would blight the perfectly ordered chamber.
I’m sorry, Meg. Sorry for everything. The regrets poured like quicklime through him.
“…burn the clothes, of course,” Old Nance was saying, having slipped back into her matter-of-fact manner.
Stephen shook his head, drawing his mind from painful remembrances. He stalked back and forth in front of the windows. “What’s that you say?”
“The gypsy, my lord. Her clothes are no doubt infested with vermin. ’Tis best they are burnt.”
“Aye, but then she’ll have nothing to—oh.” Stephen pressed his fist on the window embrasure. “She is of a size with Meg.”
“Not quite so plump as your first wife, my lord, but I could take a tuck or two in some of the gowns. Er, that is, if you don’t mind—”
“I don’t.” He slammed the door on his memories.
“And about a lady’s maid, my lord—”
“She doesn’t need a maid, but a warden.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” Nance said. “While youwas occupied with your wife, I sent to the village for Jillie Egan, the dyer’s daughter.”
“Jillie Egan?” Stephen aimed a mocking scowl at Nance. “Oh, you are naughty, dear lady. The Egan girl’s the size of a bullock, and has a stubborn will to match.”
Nance winked broadly. “She’ll not tolerate any stomaching from the gypsy.”
Stephen strode to the door. “Do as you see fit. I’ve a pressing engagement elsewhere.”
Nance Harbutt nodded in complete understanding. “My lord, what will you tell your new wife about—”
“Nothing at all,” he cut in, his voice as sharp as a knife. “Not a blessed, solitary thing.”
Three
“I trow that particular shade of blue is called woad,” said a faintly amused voice.
“Eek!” Juliana nearly came out of her numb, chilled skin. She spun away from the polished steel mirror to face the intruder. “Dear Lord,” she whispered in rapid Russian, “my jailer is a giantess.”
Her gaze traveled from the boatlike feet clad in sturdy clogs to the ruddy face framed by coarse yellow hair. The distance was at least a score of hands—the height of a grown plow horse.
“I don’t speak Egyptian, milady.” The giantess placed her pawlike hands on her hips and leaned forward, peering frankly at Juliana. “I assumed you was trying to decide what shade of blue your lips turned from the cold bath. I’d say woad, from the mustard leaf.”
“Woad,” Juliana repeated stupidly, shaping her lips around the difficult w .
“Aye, I knows me colors. Me da is a dyer. Blue as a titbird’s throat you are, milady.”
Clutching a robe around her shivering form, Juliana blinked in astonishment. The fact was, she had turnedblue from the icy bath in the churning, spring-fed millstream. After the heartless dunking Stephen had subjected her to, she had slogged back to the house, cursing him in a patois of English, Romany, and Russian. When the ogress arrived, Juliana had been staring into the mirror and wondering if her coloring would ever return to normal.
“Who are you?” She managed to force the question past
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