At The King's Command by Susan Wiggs Page B

with crates and oddly shaped parcels.
    “What is this?” Juliana asked.
    “The new shipment. His lordship’s always bringing things from London town.” Jillie sighed and propped her chin in her hand. “The world is so big,” she said wistfully. “’Twould be a rare blessing to see it. I ain’t once been out of the shire.”
    “Never?” The very thought made Juliana feel cramped and restless. “I’ll tell you about it someday.” She moved toward the door. “For now, we must receive our guest.”
     
    An hour later, she stood in an airy solar and looked through oriel windows over the apple yard, enclosed by a high brick wall and white with May blossoms. Lynacre was a strange and beautiful place. She had yet to make sense of the house, with its gable-ended great and small wings, the porches, the clusters of chimneys, the crenellated parapets. The grounds provided a puzzle of theirown. Thus far she had noticed at least three separate walled gardens, thick woods rearing almost menacingly to the west, and layer upon layer of soft green fells leading down to the river.
    She lowered herself to the window seat, drew her knees to her chest, and rested her temple against the sun-warmed leaded glass. Aye, the estate was strange and beautiful—much like its master. The thought of him reminded her of the old Russian story of Stavr, an enchanted prince who was trapped in his forest kingdom. He could only be freed by the kiss of a princess, freely given.
    “What the devil are you doing?” snapped a furious voice from the doorway.
    Juliana froze. To her mortification, she discovered that she had pressed her fingers to her lips and closed her eyes, lost in the fantasy of a magic kiss. With as much dignity as she could muster, she jumped up and shook out her skirts.
    Stephen stood there in the same trunk hose and jerkin he had worn the day before. A light golden stubble softened the hard lines of his cheeks and jaw. His pale hair looked mussed, as if long fingers had run through it. The disarray gave him a certain rakish charm that made her breath quicken and her cheeks grow warm.
    It struck Juliana, disturbingly, that he had not yet been to bed—unless it was with one of the wenches he had so pointedly mentioned last night.
    She silenced the jangle of alarm in her mind. If it was his habit to carouse each night away, that was his affair. She’d be a fool to let herself be hurt by it.
    “My dear,” he said in a gravelly voice, “you’ve not answered my question.”
    “A carter arrived with goods from London. I received them and sent the carter round to the kitchen for a meal.My lo—Stephen,” she corrected, boldly using his familiar name. She took an ivory whistle from a box and blew a high note. “What is this? For a shepherd, perhaps?” Before he could answer, she drew a light shroud from a dome-shaped cage to reveal a bright yellow canary perched inside. “And this…an addition to your dovecote?” She flipped through the stiff pages of a small, fat book, noting a few block-printed illustrations. “I do not read English well. Perhaps you could tell me what this says. And this—” She reached for a wooden box made of interlocking pieces.
    A large male hand snatched the box away. “Are you quite finished?” Stephen demanded in a low, lethal whisper.
    “These are children’s playthings,” she said, refusing to flinch. “I just wondered—”
    He paced the length of the solar, his booted feet kicking up dust from the rushes. “I’ve a fondness for invention. My own, and those created by others. You need not read any further meaning into it.”
    Perhaps the toys were gifts for the children of the nearby village. Perhaps Stephen de Lacey concealed a heart of gold behind a facade of stone.
    Prodded by a devil of mischief, she picked up a tiny reed pipe and blew, her fingers covering the holes to vary the pitch.
    “Stop that.” He stood inches away, glaring down at her.
    Juliana continued to play. She