At The King's Command by Susan Wiggs Page A

impact.
    Gypsy curses streamed from Laszlo as he grappled with his opponent. He cursed the air Stephen breathed, the ground upon which he trod, and the color of his liver. He questioned the virtue of Stephen’s mother and the virility of his father. He likened Stephen himself to something stuck to a wagon axle.
    As the air turned blue with curses, Jillie sent Juliana a pleading look. With one shake of her head, Juliana held the burly maid at bay. Laszlo had suffered insult enough without his being bested by an unarmed woman.
    “Laszlo,” she said as his fists struck about Stephen’shead. She grabbed his shoulder and tried to drag him off. “Laszlo, please.”
    “What?” His glance up was his undoing. With one swift shove, Stephen pushed him off and pinned him to the floor. Under Stephen’s knee, Laszlo bucked and strained, his bearded face red with exertion.
    “I had no idea sleeping with you was so hazardous, Baroness,” Stephen said through gritted teeth. Then, to Laszlo, he added pleasantly, “I think the lady wants you to yield to me.”
    “I came here to kill you. Why should I yield?”
    “Because if you don’t, I’ll have to hurt you.”
    “Pah!” Laszlo exploded.
    “And because,” Stephen added in a voice tinged with regret, “I am her husband.”
     
    Stephen sat in a leather-slung chair in his estate office, facing the gypsy called Laszlo, who refused to sit. The robust old man peered suspiciously into the cup Stephen handed him.
    “It’s malmsey,” Stephen said. “A sweet Madeira wine. You’ll like it.”
    “Gajo witch’s brew,” muttered Laszlo, but he tipped the cup and tossed back the drink, then wiped his sleeve across his mouth.
    Stephen felt the cool prickle of tension on the back of his neck. Without either of them moving, he and Laszlo seemed to be circling one another, each gauging the other’s power and strength.
    “There is no need,” Stephen said, “to make this unnecessarily complicated.”
    The man struck his thumb into his wide silk sash. Hisdirty fingertips rested lightly on the bone hilt of a long knife. “Tell me about yourself, Gajo.”
    “My name is Stephen de Lacey.” He did not add his title, for he doubted the gypsy would be impressed. “And you are Laszlo. Tell me, do you often barge into private bedchambers like an outraged father?”
    The stranger drew himself up proudly, his chest filling the embroidered vest he wore, his hawk nose poking the air. “Only for Juliana do I act the outraged father.”
    Stephen blinked. Her father .
    Beyond his office window, the morning sun dropped behind a puff of low-hanging clouds. The room filled with shadows, and the eyes of the gypsy turned as dark as mortal sin.
    Any hope that the girl might have told the truth died a quick death. Daughter of a Russian nobleman, indeed.
    Stephen searched Laszlo’s long, spare face for a family resemblance. Instead, he saw only stark contrast. Laszlo had high, bony cheeks while the girl’s were smooth and sweetly rounded. Laszlo’s hair was coarse and, though threaded with gray, had once been pure black. Juliana’s was a sable-rich, sun-catching brown. And then there were the eyes—Juliana’s wide pools of clear green bore no likeness to Laszlo’s.
    “She must resemble her mother, then,” Stephen concluded.
    Laszlo lifted his chin, the thick pronged beard jutting forward. “She does. In every way.”
    Stephen sensed something cryptic in the statement. “So Juliana is your daughter. Why did she run away from you?” His hand curled into a fist. “Did you beat her?”
    “No!” Laszlo’s ruddy face paled a shade. “I would never lay a hand on such as her.”
    “And yet she strayed from you. I caught her stealing my horse.”
    A scowl darkened Laszlo’s brow. “Caught her, did you? Hmph. I taught her better.”
    Stephen rolled his eyes. There was simply no reasoning with this angry foreigner. In that, at least, Juliana resembled him. “How did you know to come