"Just a few weeks after you left England, Sara had a riding accident. She nearly died, and would never have walked again if she was not so indomitable. Her horse had to be destroyed. It was that pretty gray mare, Gossamer." Ross's face hardened. "I've sometimes wondered if the accident happened because she was distracted with worry about you and me. It wasn't like Sara to be careless when she was riding."
Juliet gasped at the implied accusation, wanting to refute it, but she could not, for Ross was right: it was not like Sara to be careless.
She swallowed hard. All of the years she had been thinking Sara happy, her friend had been suffering pain, probably despair and loneliness at the loss of the man she loved—and quite likely some of the blame could be laid at Juliet's door. Every action produced ripples of reaction, and Juliet would never know all of the consequences of her mad flight from England. Her voice tight, she asked, "How is Sara now?"
Ross's face eased. "She couldn't be better. She married a friend of mine and they are quite besotted with each other. Mikahl suits her much better than the vapid young fool who abandoned her."
So perhaps the ripples of consequence from Juliet's actions were not all bad. Or perhaps, she thought with the fatalism she had developed in her years in the East, she had just been a very small link in Sara's chain of fate. At least Sara was happy now.
Lost in thought, Juliet did not react quickly enough when she caught a familiar flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. In one graceful bound a sleek black cat leapt onto the table. The tablecloth skidded under the intruder's weight so that the cat slid across the surface, ending with both forepaws in the lamb platter and looking as surprised as Ross did.
Embarrassed, Juliet exclaimed, "Scheherazade!" and scooped the cat up in her arms. "I'm sorry, Ross. When I'm writing, she usually sleeps sprawled here on the table. I suppose she thought I was working and wanted to join me. I don't think she intended to end up in the platter, for she never interferes when I'm eating Eastern-style."
He smiled as he observed Scheherazade's avid interest in what was on the table. "That may not have been her intention, but she's willing to be flexible." Taking a small piece of lamb, he leaned over the table to offer the tidbit to the cat, who accepted eagerly.
"You're corrupting her," Juliet said ruefully as Scheherazade struggled in her arms. "If she starts expecting to be rewarded for disrupting a meal, 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, Gul-i 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. "Gul-i 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. 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.