SILK AND SECRETS by Mary Jo Putney

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, Guli 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. “Guli 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. Suddenly 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