Silk and Shadows (16 page)

He stilled, as if her words struck him in an unexpected way. Then he glanced at Eliza. "She's a pretty child."

"Yes, she favors her father in looks, but I'm told her disposition is more like her mother's. Charles adores her."

"Really?" Peregrine cocked his thick brows quizzically. "He doesn't strike me as the sort to be a doting father."

"You don't know him very well." Seeing that Eliza was out of bread, Sara called out to the girl, then tossed her own half loaf over so Eliza could continue playing Lady Bountiful.

"Perhaps not, but I am trying to remedy that lack. An interesting man, Sir Charles." The gray stallion shied as a duck fluttered too close, and the prince ran a calming hand down the animal's neck. "Though I've nothing very scandalous to say, I do have a favor to ask of you, Lady Sara."

When she gave him an inquiring look, he explained,

"I want to buy a country house, and my lawyer has found a possible property called Sulgrave. It is down in Surrey, and I am going to view it tomorrow. I hope to persuade you to come with me."

Sara hesitated, knowing that it was not a wise idea to be alone with the Kafir for an extended period of time because of the odd effect he had on her. After the kiss at the ball, she should have been embarrassed to see him today, but she wasn't. Instead she was pleased. Too pleased.

Peregrine turned the full force of his potent charm on her. "Please? I have no idea what an English country house needs to be suitable for entertaining."

Charles would disapprove of her jaunting off for a day with "a foreigner of dubious morals." But Charles had not been reasonable on the subject of Prince Peregrine, and she had no intention of catering to the prejudices of her betrothed. "I'll be happy to give my opinion if you want it.''

"Splendid," he said warmly. "Is ten o'clock a convenient time for me to call for you?"

"That's fine." After a moment's thought, she added, "If you're agreeable, I'd like to ride rather than go by carriage. I've just had a horse sent up from the country and tomorrow will be my first chance to take her out."

His brows drew together. "It will be a long ride for someone who has not ridden for a decade."

"True," she admitted, "but on my head be it."

He grinned. "It won't be your head aching at the end of the day, but if riding is your preference, your wish is my command."

A squeal of distress from Eliza saved Sara from having to think of a clever retort. They looked up to see that the girl had lured a swan ashore, then tried to touch it. Swans are notoriously evil-tempered, and this one had spread its wings and begun chasing Eliza, neck extended and hissing malevolently.

"Oh, dear," Sara said, half laughing, half concerned. "An angry swan is alarming even for an adult, and can be terrifying to a child. Will you rescue Eliza?"

"Of course." Peregrine handed the stallion's reins to Sara and went to the girl's aid, ducks flying in every direction as he cut through the flock. The swan swiveled its long neck and started for the intruder, then reconsidered when he clapped his hands together and barked out a sentence in a foreign language. After one last hiss, the bird hopped into the water and settled down, flicking its tail feathers angrily.

Peregrine turned to Eliza and bowed. "Having slain the dragon, have I won the princess?"

Her face was flushed, but after he spoke, she regained her lost dignity. "You have won my heart forever, brave knight." As they walked to where Lady Sara waited with the horse, Eliza asked, "What did you say to the swan?"

"That if it did not cease and desist, it would end up as the centerpiece of a banquet," he said promptly.

From the way the girl's blue eyes were shining, perhaps he had won a little of her heart. He looked away, thinking about what Lady Sara had said. If Weldon really was devoted to the child, Peregrine would have to find some way to use that against him. Lady Sara was quite right; when he wanted something, he would use whatever—or whoever—came to hand. He could think of no reason to be more merciful to Eliza Weldon than her father had been to a thousand innocents like Jenny Miller.

The next morning Sara breakfasted with her father. "I'm going riding to the country today," she said, pouring another cup of coffee, "but I should be home by late afternoon."

"Riding?" her father asked, so surprised that his newspaper drifted down into a dish of coddled eggs.

Sara stirred milk into her coffee. "Yes, I've decided that it's time I took up riding again. I've missed it."

His stern features relaxed into a half smile. "Like your mother, you have a talent for saying important things in an offhand way." His smile faded. "Are you sure this is wise?''

"Probably not," she admitted, "but I'm going to do it anyway. I've had Pansy brought to town. She's a nice, placid lady, perfect for someone who hasn't been on a horse for years."

"Are you going with Sir Charles?"

"No, Ross's friend, Prince Peregrine. He's asked me to advise him on a country house he is considering buying."

The duke frowned. "I'm not sure that I like the idea of you going riding alone with this foreigner."

Sara sighed. Except for Ross, aristocratic Englishmen really were an insular lot. "The prince is perfectly respectable," she said, though in fact she was not entirely sure of that. "Charles himself encouraged my acquaintance with him." Though not recently. She gave her father a teasing smile. "What's the point of being a duke's daughter if I don't sometimes defy convention? While I am no rebel, I am well past my salad days and have been going out unchaperoned for years."

Her father's frown deepened for a moment. Then he shrugged. "If your future husband doesn't object to the company you keep, my dear, I suppose I have no right to." Lifting his paper again, he added, "Enjoy your ride."

As she went up to dress, Sara didn't doubt that she would enjoy herself. The important thing was not to enjoy herself too much.

Promptly at ten o'clock, a footman summoned Sara. She checked her appearance in the mirror. The rust-colored habit was a decade old and rather outdated, but it still fit perfectly, and the sweeping sleeves and full skirts made her small waist appear even smaller. Would her wild Kafir prince admire her appearance?

She turned away from the mirror, telling herself that she had no business wanting to be admired by a man other than her affianced husband. Then she smiled a little at her priggishness. She was human, after all, and what normal woman did not want to see admiration in the eyes of an attractive man?

She went into the hall and down the curving stairs, her left hand holding her wide skirts and her right gliding down the polished banister. The prince waited below, his green eyes focused intently on her. Momentarily Sara faltered, painfully conscious of her limp. Then she continued her descent. He was quite aware of her weakness, so there was no point in trying to conceal it. But as she reached the marble floor and greeted him, she realized that at that moment, she would willingly trade all her practical common sense to be flawless and beautiful.

"Good morning, Your Highness," she said, offering her hand. "Do you never wear a hat?"

"As seldom as possible," he replied as he took her hand. "Except during a blizzard, hats should be worn only by lovely ladies like you. That confection on your head now, for example.'' He touched the curling plume with one finger. "Most charming."

"You are coming along very well in the art of flirtation." Then, as she tried to tug her hand free of his, she said, "Unfortunately, you have forgotten the rule about letting go of ladies' hands. Your memory seems highly selective."

He chuckled as he released her. "You have found me out, Lady Sara. As a sundial marks only the sunny hours, I prefer to remember only what suits me."

"Really?" she said, suddenly wistful. "How pleasant it must be to forget the bad times."

His humor evaporated. "It would be pleasant if it were possible," he said as he escorted her outside. "But alas, selective memory is a goal I have not yet achieved. The evil hours are always more memorable."

She glanced at his strong profile, and wondered what his evil hours had been like, for even at the prince's most playful, there was always a dark edge to him. But probably she would never know what had made him the man he was; while he had been able to read her easily from the first time they met, she still had no idea what went on in his mind.

When they reached the stable yard behind the house, Peregrine surveyed her chestnut horse, unimpressed. "For this you refused that lovely sorrel mare at Tat-tersall's?"

"You must not criticize Pansy." Sara stroked the mare's Roman nose. "While she is not showy, she has been my very dear friend for many years."

" 'Not showy' is a staggering understatement." He laced his hands together to assist Sara in mounting. "This is not a horse, it is an animated sofa, broad and soft and shapeless."

Sara had feared the moment when she first mounted again, but now laughter dissipated her tension. Clever of him to distract her. "Unkind but true. Pansy
is
as comfortable as a sofa, though she also has good stamina. That's why she is a perfect choice for someone returning to riding after years away."

For a moment longer the prince stayed by her stirrup, watching her face keenly. She liked the way he was solicitous without fussing. After she gave an infinitesimal nod to let him know that she had gotten past the worst part, he went to mount his own horse.

Sara's right leg was the bad one, and she could feel the strain in muscles and joints as she adjusted her thigh over the pommel of the sidesaddle. By the end of the day she would have shooting pains from hip to knee, but it would be worth it. Being on horseback again restored confidence that she had not even realized was gone, and she laughed with sheer exuberance.

Peregrine wheeled the gray stallion, a magnificent man on a magnificent horse. "Are you ready to brave the dangers of the London streets, Lady Sara?"

"Lead on, Your Highness," she said, saluting her companion with her riding whip.

As they trotted into the street side by side, Sara was pleased to learn that her riding skills had survived ten years of disuse. Effortless balance, the subtle control of reins and body, were still as natural as breathing. Still, it had been wise to start with dependable, placid Pansy, though she could not prevent a sigh of longing as she admired the gray stallion's silken elegance. "What have you named your horse?"

"Siva," the prince replied, slowing his mount to let a delivery cart cross in front of them.

"Sheeva?" she said experimentally, trying to get the vowels exactly as he had pronounced them. "What does that mean?"

"Siva is one of the gods of the Hindu pantheon," he said. "That aspect of the divine that rules destruction and regeneration, to be exact."

"Goodness! That is a lot of symbolism for a horse to carry," she said. As he laughed, she continued, "Though I suppose only humans worry about the weight of intangibles. Are you a Hindu? I had assumed you were Muslim."

"No, I'm neither Hindu nor Muslim. Kafiristan is an island of paganism surrounded by a sea of Islam. To a Muslin, a kafir is an unbeliever, which is where the name Kafiristan comes from."

"What do you mean by paganism?" she asked cautiously. "Or should I not ask?"

"Ancestor and nature worship," he explained. "Quite a lot of gods of all types. Wooden statues of the ancestors stand outside Kafir villages. Very colorful, not unlike the statues of war heroes that the British are so fond of putting in parks."

Sara laughed, and laughter was the theme of their ride across the river and through southern London. They had reached the rolling hills of Surrey, and subsided into amiable silence before Sara realized that she had done most of the talking, and the subject had been her life. Artful comments and questions from Peregrine had led her to talk about her childhood, her accident and slow recovery, even her relationship with Charles.

She gave her companion an exasperated glance. She had voiced thoughts that she had never before spoken aloud, but apart from the fact that she now knew that Kafirs were pagans, she knew no more about Peregrine than she had at the beginning of the ride. And now that she thought of it, she did not actually know if he subscribed to the religious beliefs of his people, for his attitude had been rather detached.

Sara sighed and rubbed her aching leg. Her companion was certainly a master of gaining information without giving anything away about himself. But while the idea that the prince knew much more about her than vice versa made Sara a little uncomfortable, there was no harm in it. Obviously he hadn't been raised in the English tradition of reserve and restraint, and he asked questions to satisfy his natural curiosity about a country and people that must seem very strange to him. And nobody had compelled her to answer; it was just that the man was diabolically easy to talk to. Perhaps it was because she knew he did not see things as an Englishman did.

As they neared their goal, Peregrine's formidable curiosity turned to the country they rode through. His gaze probed and assessed everything they passed, and he spoke only to ask Sara an occasional question.

Finally she said, "You are studying Surrey the way Wellington must have watched the field of Waterloo. Do you expect wild tribesmen to attack us?"