Sara returned to Haddonfield a week before the ceremony, profoundly grateful to be back in the country. She and her betrothed had gone into society several times in the previous fortnight and the occasions had been stressful. While no one had been overtly rude, she had been aware of the whispers and curiosity, of people studying both her and her betrothed with fascinated, avid eyes.
But the effort had been successful. The talk had not blossomed into a scandal and the St. James's name was still unsullied.
Because of the circumstances surrounding Sara's broken betrothal, she had decided to marry from her family home rather than in London. After a week of frenzied preparations, her wedding day dawned, having arrived both too quickly and too slowly. Afterward, Sara remembered her wedding as a collection of kaleidoscopic fragments. She knew she must have acted normally, for no one said otherwise, but most of the day was a blank, punctuated by occasional moments of sharp clarity.
She had been awakened by Aunt Marguerite, who came in with a tray of tea and toast. As Sara stirred milk into her cup, the duchess had said briskly, "Since Maria is no longer with us, I suppose I should do all the things mothers are supposed to do. You are not a child and are both levelheaded and well-informed, but still, there is a shocking amount of ignorance about what takes place in the marriage bed."
She cocked her head to one side. "Need I explain what happens? Though I warn you, the description is quite ludicrous and far less appealing than the reality. Or if you feel that you have an adequate grasp of the basics, are there any special questions you would like to ask? You needn't be shy with me."
Sara had choked on her tea and gone into a coughing fit. After recovering, she said, "That isn't necessary, Aunt."
The duchess studied her niece's burning face, then said with distinct approval, "I see. Very good, my dear."
Knowing that her aunt undoubtedly did see, Sara had hastily risen and rung for her bath.
The next memory was of Jenny Miller. Sara had canceled the order for the elaborate dress she would have worn to marry Charles, choosing instead a simpler gown of ivory-colored silk. Privately, she made the ironic reflection that she was not entitled to pure white.
Jenny had dressed her mistress with loving skill, making sure that every glossy fold of fabric, every fall of delicate lace, was perfect. At the end, after pinning the chaplet of silk flowers in place and adjusting the veil that fell almost to Sara's heels, the girl had unashamedly wept. "You're the most beautiful bride there ever was, my lady," she whispered. "And you'll be happy. I know it."
Sara had wished she shared her maid's optimism.
During the carriage ride to the church, her father had been resigned, neither glad nor disapproving. As he assisted her out at the end, he had said softly, "Ultimately we must all work out our own fate. I wish you happy, child, and I wish your mother could have been here to see you."
If Sara had married Charles in the fashionable London church he had wanted, she would have been attended by a dozen bridesmaids chosen from both her family and his. But this wedding was to Sara's own taste rather than to please a socially conscious bridegroom, so it was held in the flower-scented parish church she loved. Marguerite was her only attendant.
The church was filled with Haddonfield tenants and the closest St. James's relatives and friends. Peregrine had invited only two guests, a quiet London businessman and a turbaned, fierce-looking Asiatic who sat in the back row and watched the proceedings with the detached curiosity that a European might have shown to the ceremonies of African pygmies.
The processional march began and Marguerite begam her majestic way down the aisle, lending her duchess's dignity to the ceremony. Then it was time for Sara.
She had been grateful for her father's arm, for being the center of attention always made her acutely conscious of her lameness. Every sight and sound was unnaturally exaggerated, even the whisper of her train as it glided over the medieval brasses embedded in the stone floor.
As she made her slow progress in step to the organ music, she noted individual faces in the crowd. Here was the steward's wife, just Sara's age and the mother of five children; there stood the head groom from the ducal stables, who had been the one who found Sara after her accident and who had wept as he carried her broken body back to the house.
Jenny Miller was in the middle of a row, standing next to Peregrine's London friend. And there were scores of others, all of them beaming with goodwill. Some must have heard of the London gossip, but the duke's daughter belonged to them, and they believed in her.
It was almost noon, and the church was flooded with light. Though the sun warmed the ancient stones and scattered jewels of colored light through the stained glass windows, Sara was ice-cold, the fingers clasping her bouquet almost numb.
Her gaze went to the men who waited at the altar. Both were dressed in formal black, tall, broad-shouldered and powerful, and she thought that there could not be two more handsome men anywhere. Ross was groomsman. He must have guessed at her nerves, for he gave her an outrageous wink.
But most of her attention was on her future husband: Mikahl, dark and exotic and mysterious, the stranger whom she was marrying. She had not seen him since her return to Haddonfield.
Her father delivered her to her future husband's side and stepped back. For a moment Sara swayed. What would the vows of eternal love and fidelity mean to a man who was not a Christian? Not enough, perhaps. She wanted to marry Mikahl more than she had ever wanted anything in her life, yet if she had been steadier on her feet, she would have turned and fled the church.
Her gaze lifted to his green eyes. Gem green, cat green, growth green, the vasty green depths of a sea deep enough to drown in. When he had taken her onto his horse at Tattersall's, he had whispered "Trust me." Now his fathomless eyes held the same message.
Trust me. She put her hand out and he took it, his powerful fingers closing over hers with a warmth that radiated all the way to her chilled bones. Oblivious to local custom, he raised her hand and kissed it with melting tenderness.
She smiled at him with sudden joy, and when he smiled back, her fears began to dissolve. They turned to face the vicar, and the ceremony began.
Scattered phrases struck her: Dearly beloved... Do you, Mikahl, take this woman... answered with a firm baritone I do. Do you, Sara Margaret Mary, take this man... To her surprise, her own voice sounded firm and confident.
With this ring I thee wed.... He'd had the ring specially made for her, and the gold band was a study in subtle curving surfaces, a Western symbol rendered in Oriental style.
The greatest reality was his hand clasping hers. Breaking Anglican church tradition, he gave her a light kiss at the end of the ceremony, then whispered, "Sweet Sara, sweet wife."
She had clung to him for a moment, grateful for his solid strength, and for the sense of caring emanating from him.
Then it was over, and she was Sara Khanauri, married past redemption. More fragmented images: walking down the aisle, receiving the good wishes of what seemed to be every person she had ever met, Aunt Marguerite crying happily, Ross enveloping her in a long hug that was both best wishes and a wordless promise of support if ever she needed it.
There had been a private wedding breakfast for family and visiting friends and an outdoor feast for everyone in the village. During the festivities, Mikahl was no more than an arm's length away until she went to change to her traveling dress. Then, at last, Sara was alone in a carriage with her new husband by her side, mildly bawdy jokes and shouts of laughter fading behind them.
Reality returned with a snap. Now the business of making a marriage must begin, and she felt suddenly shy. "I'm glad we were married at Haddonfield. It seems more real than a London society wedding. But I'm also glad that it's all over."
"An exhausting business, marriage," he observed, his eyes twinkling. "Can you imagine how much worse it must be for a Muslim, who may have up to four wives? Think about going through that three more times!"
"Th
e guest lists and seating plans would be incredibly complicated," she said with a hint of smile. "Perhaps that is why the Christian church allows only one spouse at a time?"
Peregrine studied her face, seeing the tight-strung nerves beneath her composure. Sara continually amazed him. She had been heartbreakingly beautiful when she came down the aisle toward him, a cream and gold sibyl with her soul in her eyes.
Yet she had also been terrified. Not exactly of him, he sensed, or of marriage in the conventional sense, but because he was such an unknown quantity. He couldn't blame her for being alarmed. He was not at all an admirable person. Yet here she was, her presence an act of faith.
What made Sara willing to tempt fate by marrying him? The question fascinated him, for even though she desired him, he knew that the answer was nothing as simple as lust.
His wife's eyes shied away from his intent gaze as she absently stripped off her gloves. "Where are we going?"
"I was wondering if you would ever ask," he said with amusement. "To Sulgrave, unless you have another preference."
"Were you thinking of any particular inn to stay in tonight?" she asked. "The Black Horse in Oxford is a pleasant place, and about the right distance."
He shook his head. "Not necessary. We'll be in Sulgrave tonight."
"But surely it is too far away?" she said, surprised.
"No, it isn't." He grinned. "Shall I explain, or would you rather be surprised?''
"Surprise me."
Sara's voice was calm, but the way she toyed with her new wedding ring hinted at her tightly strung nerves. Deciding that it was time to end the formality between them, Peregrine scooped her into his arms and arranged her across his lap, the shimmering folds of her gown spilling around them. "Isn't this a more comfortable way to travel?"
After a surprised inhalation of breath, she said peaceably, "It's a good thing that Jenny and Kuram are in the carriage behind. They might not approve of such a cavalier attitude to our finery, after all their efforts to make us presentable."
Her voice was light, but he felt her tension. Abandoning levity, he said quietly, "Sara, when I said that I would give you all the time you needed, I did not mean just until we were wed."
Puzzled, she studied his face. "What do you mean?"
"The ancient Hindus had a worthy custom," he answered obliquely. "Girls were married very young to men who were much older. Since rough treatment from a virtual stranger might give a maiden a distaste for marital relations, it was recommended that the couple live together chastely at first. Perhaps ten days would elapse before the first kiss, and matters would progress slowly from there. The marriage would not be consummated until the man was sure that his bride was ready."
Suddenly hilarity lit Sara's brown eyes. "There is an English saying about barn doors and stolen horses. Isn't it a bit late to apply such a custom?"
He smiled, glad that her sense of humor was returning. "The principle is valid. I pushed you too far, too fast, Sara. From now on, I will not do anything unless you are ready."
Her brow furrowed. "But won't that be...," she searched for a euphemism, "difficult for you?"
How typical of Sara to be concerned more for his welfare than for her own. "I hope that your preference will be for days rather than months," he admitted wryly, "but the future is long. It is worth giving your mind and body time to come into harmony. Do not worry about me. I will find much pleasure in anticipation."
Sara gave him a slow smile. "You really are quite a remarkable man," she said softly. "Thank you, Mikahl."
She laid her head on his shoulder and settled trustfully into his embrace. One of her hands slid under his coat and came to rest on his chest, and her other arm circled his waist. As the afternoon sun found rich highlights in the dark gold of her hair, he could actually feel the tension flowing from her body.
The tension found an immediate home in him, for Sara had been right to wonder if it would be hard for him to curb desire indefinitely. As her delectable curves nestled against him, he realized ruefully that restraint would be even harder than he had thought. But for perhaps the first time since they had met, Sara was wholly relaxed with him. That was worth any amount of temporary frustration.
He stroked the back of her neck, and she made a soft sound that was almost a purr. His wife. An amazing thought; just a few weeks ago, it had never occurred to him that he might marry. At what point had the idea of marriage gone from unthinkable to inevitable? It must have been the night he had compromised Sara, but for the life of him, he could not describe why or how his attitude had changed. No matter, he was glad of the result.
The road they traveled had a smooth surface, and in the gentle swaying of the carriage his wife slept in his arms, serenity emanating from her. As he inhaled the delicate scent of orange blossoms from her hair, Peregrine realized that he was experiencing a gentle peace different from anything he had ever known. As he slipped into a half doze, he wondered what other things he would learn from his wife.
* * *
"Wasn't the locomotive smashing, Lady Sara?" Jenny said as she unlaced her mistress's corset. "Who but the prince would have thought to hire a private carriage for just the four of us!"
"It was a wonderful idea," Sara agreed, giving a sigh of relief as the corset came off. "I can see why railroads are becoming popular—they are so swift, and for a long journey, much less tiring than a horse-drawn vehicle."
Besides hiring a luxurious private car, her clever new husband had arranged for an elegant cold supper to be served on the trip, and two carriages had been waiting in London to take the newlyweds and their servants the final leg of the journey. When Sara climbed from the carriage, Mikahl swept her into his arms and carried her, laughing, up the steps of her new home.
Sara sat down and peeled off her silk stockings, then wiggled her toes. "Is your own room suitable, Jenny? I didn't see the servants' quarters the one time I visited here."
"I only just had time to drop my bag before coming down to unpack your things, my lady, but it looked very nice. I like this house." Jenny began to pull out Sara's hairpins.
"So do I. Sulgrave was designed for comfort, not show." Sara gestured at their surroundings. "For instance, here in the master's suite—it must have been a woman who thought of building a private bath between the dressing rooms."
"That reminds me, I had best check the water for your bath," Jenny exclaimed. "And I'll take Furface away. I don't expect you want him underfoot tonight."
Sara chuckled at the grieved expression on the face of the tabby cat as Jenny scooped it up. It was the friendly stable feline Sara had met on her first visit to Sulgrave. According to her new husband, the beast had moved into the house the same day Mikahl had. Now officially christened Furface, the cat was clearly a permanent member of the household.
Finally alone, Sara absently began brushing her hair. It was both kind and wise of Mikahl to give her time to adjust to marital intimacy. If he had not, she would be wound as tight as a clock spring now. Instead she was relaxed, looking forward to being alone with him, but not fearing what he would expect of her.
After dismissing Jenny for the night, Sara took a quick bath, then donned an embroidered white nightgown and matching robe. The dainty muslin was almost as sheer as silk, and it whispered across her sensitive, anticipating skin. Even the weight of hair falling over back and shoulders stimulated her heightened senses. Her husband had tactfully disappeared to give her privacy, but now she longed for him.
Too restless to sit or lie down, she drifted around the bedroom, an airy chamber that by day commanded a spectacular view of the Downs. Now three lamps illuminated the room with a soft, romantic glow. Though Mikahl had only lived here a few weeks, he had already marked the room with his taste. On one wall hung an exquisite Oriental painting of mountains, and underfoot was the most gorgeous Chinese carpet she had ever seen, richly colored and so thick that it had the springy resilience of turf.
The bed, however, was English, a carved walnut
four-poster that was both sturdy and spacious. It was a handsome piece of furniture, and Sara ran her hand appreciatively down one polished post. A maid had turned down the woven blue counterpane to reveal fine linen sheets.
Abruptly Sara's well-being evaporated, and her fingers tightened on the bedpost. All too clearly, she remembered the moment in the garden when trust and pleasure had turned to pain and anger. She had felt betrayed, overwhelmed by his strength....
She took a deep breath and turned away. It had been an unfortunate accident stemming from her confusion and his arousal, as much her fault as his. But it was an unpleasant memory, one that she did not want to dwell on tonight.
A table between the windows held a small jade sculpture of a horse and a Chinese porcelain vase containing crimson roses. Sara had expected Sulgrave to seem a bit drab, since no redecorating had been done yet, but Mikahl had had the house filled with brilliantly colored late summer flowers to welcome her. The roses must have been cut and arranged just before they arrived, for traces of evening dew were still on them. She touched a velvety petal. Red for passion.
With uncanny timing, her husband entered the bedchamber from his own dressing room. His dark, exotic good looks were enhanced by a black velvet robe trimmed with intricate scarlet and gold embroidery. He was magnificent, like a visitor from some grander, more dramatic world. As Marguerite had said, a glorious barbarian, and the sight of him made Sara's knees weaken.
How did one proceed on one's wedding night, particularly an unconventional one? Uncertain about the etiquette, Sara restricted herself to the mild comment, "What a marvelous garment. I assume that it's from somewhere in the Middle East?"
He nodded. "It's one style of Turkish caftan. Sometimes I weary of Western clothing." He crossed the room to where she stood by the windows. "Was Jenny able to find what you needed? Though the butler you sent me is very capable, the household is not yet running smoothly."
"Everything was fine," she assured him. Then an amused smile came into her eyes. "Though I was surprised to see that the room next door is now a sitting room. Didn't it used to be the mistress's bedroom?"