“Take your time,” he said, knowing she’d recoil if he touched her now.
Audibly she swallowed, gripping her knees. “Since that time, I cannot…tolerate…to be touched. So when you ask about the ambassador and myself—well, when you ask about that, perhaps this answer suffices.”
He gripped the tub, burning with rage toward the beast who’d abused her. God-a-mercy, it explained so much—her aloofness toward men, her startled recoil from his kisses, her skittish avoidance of all wooing. Of course, she still hadn’t answered his question. Either she was not the Spaniard’s lover—or she was, but didn’t enjoy it.
Yet somehow, despite her tragic history, she wanted him. For what other purpose would she summon him and keep him near while she bathed?
“No doubt you think me an unnatural woman.” Clearly misinterpreting his silence, she laughed without mirth. “I hardly know what the French protocol demands in these matters. Would it be courteous to tender my apologies, that I cannot requite your interest?”
Thrusting aside his fury at the monster who’d mistreated her, he crawled around the tub to see her face—proud, wary, with a wrenching vulnerability beneath the shattered mask of her detachment. Tears shimmered in her eyes, but she met his gaze defiantly.
“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of,” he said gently. “There’s nothing unnatural about protecting yourself against violence. After what you’ve described, it’s a miracle you can respond to a man’s touch…to my touch.”
A hint of rose crept into her pale skin. She stared as though she clung to his every word, as though she longed to believe him. Moving slowly so he wouldn’t startle her, Joscelin cupped her jaw.
“Let me show you,” he whispered, holding her wide gaze. “Let me show you the pleasure God fashioned you to inspire and receive.”
She didn’t withdraw, though her mouth trembled. “I—I’m not certain that I can…tolerate that.”
Yet she didn’t deny him outright. The strength of certainty swept through him, an overwhelming need to protect her. He traced her leaping pulse, the elegant sweep of her neck.
“I’ll never force you, Allegra. Only let me show you a little of what you’ve been denied all these years. We can go very slowly, and stop whenever you wish—my word on it. Only let me show you.”
Her throat rippled as she swallowed, but her eyes never wavered. “I would not wish to leave the wrong impression. I…do not believe that I could undertake—everything.”
“We can explore as little or as much as you wish,” he promised, tracing the bird’s-wing line of her collarbone. The swell of her breast called to him, the star-shaped beauty mark black against her skin. But he dared not venture a bolder caress while she wavered. God save him, he wanted her so badly he could taste it. He ached to show her how it could be between them.
But if she asked him to stop, somehow he would manage it.
For a breath, her eyes narrowed, as if with calculation. Then her lashes fell, and she became the wounded innocent once more. “You are a very persuasive man, Sir Joscelin Boleyn. Do you intend to climb into this tub with me?”
A primal triumph roared through him. He would have loved to do exactly that, but he feared moving too quickly. Glancing around for her cloak, he found the garment, rich wool lined in sable, lush beneath his fingers. Rising, he spread it open, creating a screen to make her more secure.
“Let’s wrap you in this warm cloak. Then I’ll tuck you into bed, where you’ll be comfortable. After that, if you wish me to leave, I swear I’ll do it.”
For a heart-stopping moment she hesitated, doubt flickering in her face. Bitter disappointment plummeted through him. Then she uncoiled to her feet with a predator’s springing grace and swirled the cloak around her. He caught a fleeting glimpse that seared his eyes—creamy skin glistening with water, lit gold by firelight; pouting breasts crowned with pale rose; sinuous thighs that embraced her secrets.
Then the cloak enveloped her. Forcing himself to go slowly despite the heavy throb of desire, he swept her into his arms.
She lay stiff as he carried her to the bed, clearly on the brink of refusal. He knew this would be the most challenging seduction he’d ever undertaken, with the woman he wanted the most.
God-a-mercy, Allegra Grimaldi was worth his best effort—worthy of a king or a great lord, not a penniless mongrel like himself. Vowing to do everything in a mortal man’s power to bring her pleasure, he laid her on the bed.
Chapter Eleven
Poised to roll away, Allegra stared up at the man looming over her. With the fire behind him, he stood like Vulcan, the Roman god of the forge. The flames burnished his skin to bronze. His shirt was rolled up around forearms bulging with muscle and furred with tawny hair. He was everything dangerous, everything masculine, everything she’d learned to fear.
She clutched the cloak around her and stared up at him, trying to read his eyes. A man’s passion smoldered there, but he was wary too. God knew he had to suspect her motives. She’d been nerving herself all day to seduce him, to satisfy the scheming Boleyns, to throw Joscelin himself off his guard. Now, she realized with a thrill that made her blood sing, she wanted him for his own sake. She, Allegra Grimaldi, the Devil’s Mistress, burned with fever to know a man’s touch.
Softly she laughed, in wonder and triumph. How could it be possible?
Joscelin hunkered beside the bed and leaned over her, the tang of citrus and steel bracing as a sea breeze. He cradled her head in a tender hand—a swordsman’s hand that could kill, just as she had killed. The work-hardened grip of a commoner, yet he touched her more gently than anyone ever had. She closed her eyes, and his lips met hers. Whiskers rasped against her skin as his tongue began the bold dance she was learning to partner, the give-and-take of passion. Tasting his cider-sweet breath, she slid her arms around his neck. The cloak parted and hung loose from her shoulders.
He eased her back against the mattress—a pallet of coarse-woven linen, yet she felt safer here than she’d ever felt cushioned in velvet in Casimiro’s bed. He rubbed his beard against her throat, thumbs kneading the tender hollow where her neck met her shoulders. She’d learned how to squeeze there, how the right pressure on the nerve centers could set an enemy on fire with agony. But no one had ever shown her that a gliding touch in the same place could make a woman tremble with pleasure.
His breath scorched the hollow of her throat…that place where a stiletto could slide in to kill. He was gentle—so gentle she did not recoil when his warm hands opened her cloak. Cool air brushed her skin as she stared up at him, her very soul exposed.
No man had seen her naked, except one. She’d never known a man’s heavy-lidded gaze could make her breasts swell with longing, like ripe fruits bursting to be plucked. She’d never known a woman’s secrets, the way her nipples could tighten like harvest grapes on the vine, the way they tingled and twinged when he stroked them, jutting high to ask for more, until all the blood in her body seemed to rush there. A broken moan of pleasure spilled from her lips.
“Tell me if I should stop, sweetheart,” he whispered, kissing the star-shaped witch’s mark she’d always hated. The Devil’s mark, the inquisitors had called it.
“You shouldn’t stop.” She arched into his touch, every nerve in her body alive with frissons of pleasure. “Not yet.”
A groan of masculine satisfaction vibrated against her skin as his warm mouth closed over one tingling peak. Darts of sensation arrowed through her, straight to the nerve center between her thighs. She gripped his head to hold him, hearing her own unsteady breath. His tongue swirled around her, wickedly skilled, heating her body like a fever. She pressed her thighs together and marveled at the unfamiliar ache. So this was what women whispered about, with blushes and knowing smiles. This was the enigma she’d never understood. Now, finally, she would know it.
Bold now, she pressed against him and pulled him closer. Too vulnerable, the trained assassin whispered. Where is your stiletto? Are you still prepared use it?
“No,” she whispered. “I don’t want to stop yet.”
“God-a-mercy, Allegra!” He laughed. “Stopping now would be the death of me.”
So deep had she sunk under his spell that, when a stair groaned outside her door, she almost missed the warning. Yet caution plucked at her nerves, to hear a stealthy approach at this hour. She hissed in warning and gripped his shoulders. Joscelin tensed, head coming up sharply, already reaching for the broadsword at his belt.
Allegra dragged her cloak around herself and looked toward her folded garments. She’d concealed her stiletto there, then foolishly gone beyond its reach.
“Let me up!” she whispered. “And, whoever it is, say nothing—”
Wood creaked as her door swung open. A breath of frigid air knifed into the chamber. A blade-slim shadow swept across the threshold, hooded and cloaked in darkness. With a curse, Joscelin sprang to his feet, sword flashing free in his fist. Allegra uncoiled to her knees on the bed, already calculating. Three steps for my stiletto, then another four to the door—
When the intruder swept back his hood, the breath rushed from her lungs. Shadows pooled in his hollow cheeks and danced in his burning eyes as Fausto Mephisto made the Sign of the Cross.
“God be praised, I have arrived in time, Contessa, to save you from falling into sin with this heretic.”
“Oh, priest, it’s only you.” From the bed behind him, Allegra sighed, a world-weary breath that betrayed nothing of alarm. “Pray do not be more dramatic than you must. If you truly wish to save me from falling into sin, the first thing you should do is relieve me of your Spanish master’s protection.”
Her cool amusement struck Joscelin as he crouched between them, sword slanted before him in a defensive stance—ready to leap to her protection, though she hardly seemed to need it. A moment ago he would have sworn to her innocence, called her an unwilling pawn in the play of great men. Now a sudden qualm of doubt assailed him. He’d never been certain what she was, had he?
“I’m commanded to ward you,” the Spaniard said. “In God’s name, I do not take my oath lightly.”
“If you would ward my virtue, you’ve arrived nine years too late.” She gave a brittle laugh. “I could have used your assistance the day I met Casimiro Grimaldi in my mother’s perfume shop. But I can hardly pretend at virtue now, since Don Maximo is my protector in this dismal country. You know he does not keep me for charity.”
Joscelin risked a backward glance as she rose, holding her cloak closed with a careless hand. The garment gaped at her shoulders, revealing an expanse of white skin under tumbled black curls. One long leg slid from the cloak as she prowled to the fire, where her garments lay. Every decadent inch of her crooned the allure of a fallen woman, and uncertainty gnawed at him.
Was this the real Allegra Grimaldi, and the wounded widow just a mask?
As if drawn by her sensual pull, Fausto stared after her. God-a-mercy, the priest’s fixation was unsavory—to say nothing of unseemly in a man of God.
Her ancient Spanish maid scurried in, wheezing beneath the weight of bulging panniers, and the strung bow of tension in the chamber snapped. His chevalier’s instincts stirring, Joscelin sheathed his sword and relieved the old woman of her burdens. The crone’s face folded into a thousand wrinkles as she bobbed a curtsey.
Allegra swept up her gown and spoke with cool authority. “You’ll all have to sleep below, in the common room, the stable—Santa Maria, in Hell itself, I hardly care which. There is barely room for Lady Carey and myself to share this bed.”
“Forgive me,” the priest said. Joscelin trained a wary eye on him, as he would watch a growling dog that had slipped its leash. “I must wonder, Contessa, at Sir Joscelin’s presence in your chamber at this hour, while you are in such…disarray? I fear Don Maximo will be dismayed.”
“Priest, my affairs are none of your bloody business.” Joscelin swung the loaded panniers aside and stayed between Allegra and the Spaniard. “The signora’s under no obligation to answer you.”
“Nay…not me.” Fausto bared his yellow teeth in a smile. “But we all must answer to God, monsieur, on pain of our immortal souls.”
“La!” Allegra gave a careless laugh. “Is it time for the Mass already? I vow your preaching grows tiresome as any sermon.”
“You are irreverent!” The priest’s gaze snapped back to her, and he coiled in his black robes like a malevolent serpent. “One day, woman, I swear your soul will burn in Hell.”
“That’s enough!” Joscelin said, uneasy at the animosity crackling between the two. “You’re not her confessor, priest—unless I’m much mistaken.”
The priest’s virulent gaze fixed on him. “Have a care for your own soul, monsieur, unless you too would burn. For God loathes a heretic, and their place in Hell is certain.”
“Save your breath, Fausto. He’s a confirmed Lutheran and quite indifferent to your threats,” Allegra said, imperious as the queen herself. “Will you go below, Sir Joscelin, and ask the goodwife to draw hot water for your sister? No doubt she’ll welcome a bath.”
Annoyance rippled through Joscelin to be dismissed like a bloody page, even as he itched with suspicion. Suddenly the lady seemed eager to be rid of him—as though they’d shared nothing, meant nothing to each other. As though she’d never trusted him with her secrets and never would. Was it warning or indifference he read in her shuttered gaze?
He jerked a short bow. “As my lady commands.”
As he strode past the priest, he glared at the fellow. Of all the blasted inconvenient times to be interrupted. No hope of continuing his dalliance tonight, with the tramp of booted feet and the rumble of male voices rising from the common room.
In the corridor, he pulled the door closed, but had to pause to adjust his codpiece. Bloody damn priest and his bloody damn timing—
From the chamber came Fausto’s low murmur. Gripped by an instinct he couldn’t explain, Joscelin strained to hear.
“…lengthy absence from the party caused me great concern. At times, I cannot help but wonder, Contessa, if you’re clear in your mind about whom you serve.”
“Grazie for your kind concern, although it is entirely unwarranted.” Her icy voice would give any man frostbite. “Never fear, Fausto. My loyalty to Don Maximo is absolute. If you wish to enter his confidence, you must ask him about his tactics. Be assured that I serve his bidding—in all things.”
To Joscelin’s ear, her tone rang with conviction. Gone was the yielding lover who’d been sighing in his arms a moment ago. His head spun to think how quickly that woman had vanished.
Mon Dieu, she’s playing me for a fool! She does the Spaniard’s bidding, and pretends to passion in my arms.
But, damnation, he couldn’t be certain. She was a changeling, sparking with fire one moment and frigid the next. How would he ever manage to discern the truth of her, through the flashing mirrors and masks of her deceptions?
The sparkling jewel of a manor George Boleyn had won at cards nestled in a valley of snow, flawless as slate-blue velvet. The ocher brick house stood like an enchanted castle guarded by a gnarled wood, its corners topped by green witch’s cap turrets. Firelight arrowed through the slender lancet windows like copper spears.
Allegra had spent the day’s travel avoiding Joscelin’s searching looks. His nearness made her blood heat, her skin tingle, her woman’s place ache with the heavy throb of desire. Last night he’d made her wanton, undone nine years of dread and caution, taught her with lips and hands and whispers why women went giddy and breathless in a lover’s presence.
Corpus Christi, she’d been an eager pupil. But she must be clever and cunning now, to keep this dangerous secret from Maximo.
Filling her lungs with crisp air, she willed the jangling tension to flow from her body. Behind the manor, the sun was sinking in a pile of rose and saffron clouds. Twilight deepened in the orchard, shading to purple in the wild wood beyond.
Deep in the forest, a twig snapped. Allegr
a peered into the gloom, her skin prickling under the weight of unseen eyes. A startled animal, or at worst a poacher, surprised to find the quiet manor blazing with light.
Still, her neck crawled with a sudden sense of menace.
“Buona sera?” she called. “Is someone there?”
Her words echoed through the trees like a fairy’s whisper. She stood perfectly still, letting her pupils dilate to pierce the gloom. She glimpsed no flicker of movement, but unease made her shoulders twitch.
Better to go inside now. Cautious as a stalking cat, silent as the Hand of God himself, she slipped through the orchard. Indeed, she had much to accomplish and must set her wits to it. She must reassure Lady Carey that she did the Boleyns’ bidding yet pretend to Fausto that she served the don. She must advance her seduction yet make Joscelin think he pursued her. And the clock of her time was winding down, unstoppable as the march of death.
Gesù pity me—only eight days until Twelfth Night. Let me not fail my family now.
Behind her, footsteps crunched in the snow—too close. Allegra whirled to face the threat, her stiletto flashing free in her fist.
“Peace, Countess.” A cloud of damask rose enveloped her as Lady Carey strolled toward her. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Merciful Heavens, you’re very fierce!”
Allegra released a ragged breath, relief flooding through her, and tucked her stiletto away. “Darkness is falling, my lady. Neither of us should be walking outside the walls. Are they serving supper?”
“Hardly.” The blonde brushed snow from her cloak. “I fear we have thrown the entire household into chaos. The bedchambers are musty as caves, and the larder so empty it echoes. I can’t imagine what Henry will think.”
“Then it’s fortunate we’ve preceded him. I don’t believe His Majesty would tolerate such a shabby welcome.” Allegra suffered the other woman to loop an arm through hers, and they walked toward the drawbridge.
Beneath her lashes, she scanned the trees in search of her hidden watcher. Yet even her eyes could no longer pierce the darkness.
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