Darling Jasmine. Bertrice SmallЧитать онлайн книгу.
he had not been certain he trusted her, especially after the last time. It would appear now, however, that his fears were groundless. She was whisking Jasmine’s youngsters off so that he might be alone with their mother. He didn’t know how she was going to do it, but he suspected that the children would not return to Belle Fleurs. He chuckled softly. What a holy terror Madame Skye was. He was glad to have her on his side this time.
In the morning, his arm about Jasmine, he watched as the grand old lady and the children departed Belle Fleurs. The rain had gone, and the day was bright and sunny. It was the end of February, and there was a definite hint of spring in the air. Jasmine sniffled, and he warned her softly, “Do not cry, madame, lest you distress the bairns. They are happy for this little adventure. Do not spoil it for them.”
“I have never really been parted from them,” she murmured low, attempting to disengage his arm, but he held her firmly.
“See how fine Henry, India, and Fortune look upon their ponies,” he pointed out to her. “They sit their mounts well. Was it you who taught them, madame?”
“Aye,” she said. “My father taught me when I was very small. In India women do not sit upon horses, but my mother had ridden with my father, and so he taught me. What freedom I had! I could hunt tiger and other beasts with my father and my brother, Salim. It was something my sisters were never allowed to do, if indeed they even considered such a thing.” She waved after the pony cart containing Charles Frederick and his nursemaid.
He turned her gently to reenter the château. “How many sisters did you have, madame?” he inquired. “I have five sisters, and three brothers. Two of my brothers and three of my sisters live in Scotland. The others live in Italy.”
“I was my father’s youngest child. My siblings were grown when I was born,” Jasmine told him. “I had three brothers, though two are dead, and three sisters.”
“Why did you leave India?” he asked her bluntly.
“My eldest brother, Salim, now the Mughal emperor, Jahangir, had an incestuous lust for me. He murdered my first husband, a Kashmiri prince, in order to clear his path to my bed. My father was dying and knew that my foster mother would be unable to protect me once he was gone. So he sent me secretly to England, to my grandmother de Marisco, with whom he had had a tenuous sort of contact over the years.” Jasmine laughed softly. “Before I left India my father learned that the priest who had been my tutor throughout my childhood was actually my cousin. My grandmother had sent him out to India to watch over me so she would always know if I was happy. Thank God for her!”
“And your brother never knew where you had gone?” he wondered.
“I do not believe so,” Jasmine said. “It was a very clever plot my father devised. Salim thought I had gone to Kashmir to bury Jamal’s heart in his homeland. My father did not die for two months following my departure from India. By the time Salim would have sent to my palace in the mountains it would have been late autumn, and the snows would be threatening. He could not possibly have learned that I was not in Kashmir until the following springtime, at which point I was safe in England. Salim knew little of my English mother. Even if he had unraveled the mystery of my whereabouts, what could he do?”
“Have you ever wished to return?” James Leslie said.
Jasmine thought a moment, then replied, “No. My early life in India was bound up with my father and brother, Salim, in a time when I was too innocent to understand his desires, and Jamal Khan, my first husband. My father and Jamal are gone. My brother has, hopefully, forgotten me at long last. My only regret is Rugaiya Begum, the mother who raised me. I was her only child. Now she has neither me nor the joy of my children, her grandchildren. For that alone I feel remorse. And for that reason I shall never forgive my brother Salim.”
He could see the genuine pain in her eyes as she spoke the words, and James Leslie wanted to ease her sorrow. “Let us ask your cook to pack us a basket, and we shall go for a ride, madame. ’Tis a fine day, and I am certain that you know many a pretty trail hereabouts.”
She was almost startled by his request, but January and most of February had been so wet and dreary. They had all been cooped up inside the château. Now with the children gone she was free to indulge herself in pleasure. She felt almost guilty, but then, shaking the feeling off, she replied, “Aye, ’tis a good day, my lord, for a ride!”
The cook, who thought Lord Leslie a very fine gentleman, packed the basket with a small chicken she had just roasted, a loaf of bread that had only been baked that morning, and was still warm; an earthenware dish of cold asparagus that had been marinated in white wine; a wedge of Brie cheese, two pears which she polished on her apron, and a goatskin of pale gold Archambault wine. The earl, watching her as she worked, took the finished basket from the cook and kissed her hand, bringing a flush to the good woman’s cheeks. She watched them depart her kitchens, clutching at the honored hand, and looking upon it as if it would never be the same again.
Returning to the hall he found Jasmine waiting for him. To his surprise she had changed her clothes, and was garbed like a boy in breeches, cambric shirt, and a fur-lined, sleeveless deerskin doublet with carved silver-and-horn buttons. James Leslie raised an eyebrow and suffered a moment of déjà vu. His own mother had once dressed as Jasmine was now garbed. “You ride astride,” he finally said.
“I can ride sidesaddle when the occasion calls for it,” she replied, “but I prefer riding astride as would you if you had ever tried balancing yourself in skirts upon a dancing horse, one leg thrown over the pommel of your saddle. ’Tis both uncomfortable, and discomfiting, my lord, not to mention unnatural. Surely you will not object?”
“Nay, madame,” he quickly answered, seeing the light of battle dawning in her eyes. “In fact I agree with you.”
She nodded and turned swiftly before he could see the amusement in her own glance. “Let us go then. It is fortunate you have your own mount, for I did not bring any but the coach horses with me from England. The stables at Archambault sent over a nice docile little black mare for me. She is pleasant to ride, but presents no challenges, I fear. If I had known I was to stay so long in France, I should have brought my own stallion.”
“I am reassured that you did not,” the earl said. “My own beast does not like the competition of another male animal about him.”
“Then we shall have to keep separate stables, my lord,” Jasmine said with a little laugh. “I do not intend giving up my horse for you.”
“There is plenty of time to discuss such things, madame.”
Jasmine turned, looking him straight in the eye. “There is no need for a discussion, my lord,” she said firmly, and then she stepped out into the courtyard of the château, where the horses were waiting.
James Leslie had the urge to laugh aloud, but he wisely refrained from doing so. He was very uncertain of this beautiful woman who was to be his wife, but he was prudent to keep such thoughts to himself. Lady Lindley was strong-willed and would have to be handled carefully. He mounted his stallion and looked to her. “Lead on, madame,” he said, making certain as he spoke that the hamper was firmly settled.
She led him through the gardens of the château along neatly raked gravel paths. He could see it was an orderly place, the flower beds mulched over with straw and uncluttered. The rose trees were well trimmed. A fountain tinkled merrily. A lily pond lay smooth, and uniced, in the sunlight. He could but imagine how lovely it would become in the spring and the summertime. Open on three sides, the garden was walled from the forest on the fourth. He could see a wicket gate in the stone as they approached it. Leaning down, Jasmine opened it.
“Close it behind you, my lord,” she instructed him as she rode through.
Complying with her request, he followed her into the woods along a barely discernible, narrow path that wound and wound through the leafless trees of the forest. He glanced behind him and realized he could no longer see the château. He heard the sound of a stream tumbling over rocks, and then they were upon it, the horses picking their way across the unstable streambed. At one point he