most of them did not appeal to him.
There were only two women he had ever been able to imagine marrying. One was his cousin Sara. When they were young, she had seemed like the other half of himself, yet she had never seen him as anything other than a brother. At the time, he had thought that was because they had grown up together, and he had accepted that she would never have romantic feelings for him.
At first Juliet had been different from Sara. Believing that she loved him, she had given herself with absolute, unquestioning trust. For Ross, their closeness had been intoxicating and deeply rewarding, exactly what he had hoped for. But after several months, everything changed. Her naturally joyous nature had dimmed and she began watching him with bleak, tragic eyes.
He had known something was wrong, but did not recognize that her love for him was dying. Or perhaps Juliet had never truly loved him: once he had been certain that she did, but after she left, he had never been wholly certain of anything again.
They had begun to have arguments, usually over the journey to the Mideast they were planning. Juliet had been anxious to leave, but Ross had delayed because his much-loved godfather was ill. She had made sharp-tongued comments about the postponement, perhaps fearing that they would never go. Then he had made the mistake of going away to visit his godfather, leaving Juliet behind because she claimed to feel unwell. When he returned, she was gone.
From the vantage of his present advanced years, it was easy to see that Juliet’s youth and inexperience had led her to confuse her discovery of passion with love. He had rushed her into marriage before she had time for doubts, but it had not taken her long to realize her mistake. Any other woman would have been content to stay with him for the sake of wealth and propriety, but not Juliet. Though tonight, with quixotic gallantry, she had denied that the failure of their marriage was his fault, he knew better. As true as a blade, and with the same ruthless honesty, she had left her husband rather than live a lie.
Over the years since, there had occasionally been women, when Ross was so hungry for physical intimacy that he could no longer deny the need. But none of the pleasant, easygoing females he had visited had ever fallen in love with him. Though he had been grateful at the time, now that fact was confirmation that there was a fundamental flaw in his nature.
He became aware that he had arrived back in his room and was now standing motionless in the middle. Setting down the lamp, he stripped off his clothes, tossing them heedlessly on the divan, then doused the light. In a curious state of numbness, he lay down on the thick cotton-filled mattress and pulled the covers over him.
It had been… interesting to discover that the desire Juliet inspired was as powerful as he remembered. More powerful, in fact; time had blurred the line between memory and dream, until tonight’s embrace had resurrected his memories with jarring vividness.
Even more interesting was the undeniable fact that she had also felt desire, though not enough to overcome her objections to him. Clearly the sentence that Juliet had written in her journal, wishing that she had never met him, had not been a momentary aberration. Yes, it would have been better for both of them if they had never met. In spite of passion, in spite of the laughter and talk and understanding that they had briefly shared so many years before, at heart they had always been strangers—and now they always would be.
A bottle of claret divided between two people would not have been excessive in England, but as Juliet untwisted the sheets from her damp body, she realized that here it had been a disastrous mistake. Not that either of them had been drunk, but, living deep in Islam, she virtually never drank, and Ross, always a light drinker, had probably not touched alcohol during his months of travel. As a result, two glasses had been
There were only two women he had ever been able to imagine marrying. One was his cousin Sara. When they were young, she had seemed like the other half of himself, yet she had never seen him as anything other than a brother. At the time, he had thought that was because they had grown up together, and he had accepted that she would never have romantic feelings for him.
At first Juliet had been different from Sara. Believing that she loved him, she had given herself with absolute, unquestioning trust. For Ross, their closeness had been intoxicating and deeply rewarding, exactly what he had hoped for. But after several months, everything changed. Her naturally joyous nature had dimmed and she began watching him with bleak, tragic eyes.
He had known something was wrong, but did not recognize that her love for him was dying. Or perhaps Juliet had never truly loved him: once he had been certain that she did, but after she left, he had never been wholly certain of anything again.
They had begun to have arguments, usually over the journey to the Mideast they were planning. Juliet had been anxious to leave, but Ross had delayed because his much-loved godfather was ill. She had made sharp-tongued comments about the postponement, perhaps fearing that they would never go. Then he had made the mistake of going away to visit his godfather, leaving Juliet behind because she claimed to feel unwell. When he returned, she was gone.
From the vantage of his present advanced years, it was easy to see that Juliet’s youth and inexperience had led her to confuse her discovery of passion with love. He had rushed her into marriage before she had time for doubts, but it had not taken her long to realize her mistake. Any other woman would have been content to stay with him for the sake of wealth and propriety, but not Juliet. Though tonight, with quixotic gallantry, she had denied that the failure of their marriage was his fault, he knew better. As true as a blade, and with the same ruthless honesty, she had left her husband rather than live a lie.
Over the years since, there had occasionally been women, when Ross was so hungry for physical intimacy that he could no longer deny the need. But none of the pleasant, easygoing females he had visited had ever fallen in love with him. Though he had been grateful at the time, now that fact was confirmation that there was a fundamental flaw in his nature.
He became aware that he had arrived back in his room and was now standing motionless in the middle. Setting down the lamp, he stripped off his clothes, tossing them heedlessly on the divan, then doused the light. In a curious state of numbness, he lay down on the thick cotton-filled mattress and pulled the covers over him.
It had been… interesting to discover that the desire Juliet inspired was as powerful as he remembered. More powerful, in fact; time had blurred the line between memory and dream, until tonight’s embrace had resurrected his memories with jarring vividness.
Even more interesting was the undeniable fact that she had also felt desire, though not enough to overcome her objections to him. Clearly the sentence that Juliet had written in her journal, wishing that she had never met him, had not been a momentary aberration. Yes, it would have been better for both of them if they had never met. In spite of passion, in spite of the laughter and talk and understanding that they had briefly shared so many years before, at heart they had always been strangers—and now they always would be.
A bottle of claret divided between two people would not have been excessive in England, but as Juliet untwisted the sheets from her damp body, she realized that here it had been a disastrous mistake. Not that either of them had been drunk, but, living deep in Islam, she virtually never drank, and Ross, always a light drinker, had probably not touched alcohol during his months of travel. As a result, two glasses had been
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