“In that case, it’s a wonder you aren’t always on your knees.” His tone made her tingle. She knew he wasn’t thinking of her kneeling at prayer. Beneath the blankets her body yearned toward him, already aching for more of him.
When he rolled to his feet, warring urges tugged at her, a sense of unease mingling with hunger. He stalked across the floor like a predator, muscle rippling down his back and buttocks. How would it feel to clutch his derriere in both hands, pulling all that strength and heat down on her?
Burning for him, she pushed up to sit and gathered the blankets to her breasts. Whatever they’d shared, she wouldn’t lie defenseless in bed, when her companion did not. Her stiletto lay concealed in her robe, tossed across the bed—in easy reach, if she needed it.
Santa Maria, she was probably the only woman in England who went armed to a lover’s bed. How weary she’d become of an assassin’s caution. Could she ever cease being the Hand of God’s apprentice and become just a woman in love?
Pensive, she fingered the heavy cross that lay between her breasts. Joscelin had asked her if she thought it a sin—that miracle of joy, freely given and received. She owed him an answer, no matter what happened.
“I don’t think it’s a sin, to share what we did, no matter what the priests say,” she said. “When one person cherishes another, when two children of God give and receive pleasure in equal measure, how can that be wrong?”
“Don’t you think God forbids it?” He padded toward her, the brazier’s light burning in his hair, silhouetting the hardened planes of his warrior’s body. “Catholics are known to be unyielding in this matter. The Church condemns all pleasures of the flesh, except for the purpose of procreation in wedlock.”
She tightened her grip on the cross, feeling the ridges of scar tissue on her palms. She’d pondered God’s wishes at length—anything to divert herself from the burning agony of her flesh, during those endless nights in her prison cell after a session with the questioner.
“I don’t think God would condemn an act of love.” She pushed away the dark memories that crowded her. “I believe the Church is guided by mortal men who are fallible, of limited vision, and sometimes misled.”
“Why, Allegra, now you show Lutheran leanings.” He stopped in surprise to stare, his face alight with interest. “I’ve thought the same—many times.”
“I am no Martin Luther, raging to turn others to my view. Don’t you see, I have to believe it’s the Church, not God, who burned my mother at the stake? I have to believe it’s the Church, not God, who wrung the screams from me and ignored my pleas for mercy.”
She drew a shaking breath. “For if God would do these things to my mother, the most gentle and loving Christian soul—if God would do these things to me, who started this business as an innocent child, mourning her mother from a monster’s bed—if God would do these things, then why should I care what He wants?”
Now indeed she stood exposed, revealed by these fears she’d never confided to another mortal soul, the fears she’d only whispered to her pillow in the darkness. She steeled herself to meet his gaze, but his eyes were open windows—no condemnation, no rush to judgment, no righteous wrath to hear God maligned.
“God loves you, Allegra,” he said, with the strength of conviction. “He loves all of us, no matter what our failings. Whatever evils are committed in His name, we’re all worthy of receiving His grace.”
This man could never hide what he felt, and now his soul stood revealed—sober, steady, gentle but strong, fired by honesty and shining with honor. A poignant pain plucked at her heart.
Tossing back her tangled hair, she reached for her robe—the armor of concealment, and her hidden weapon.
“Dawn will come soon.” She slipped into the garment. “I must be well away by then—sleeping like a babe in my own bed, with the door bolted between us.”
“Mon Dieu, will you leave already? The night hasn’t fled yet.” Joscelin approached, but she crawled across the bed and stood.
I should never have come. Alarmed, she felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. She—who must remain strong and certain now of all times, an arrow fixed unwavering on her target—she’d lowered her defenses to him, the Boleyn she’d been ordered to betray. He had weakened her resolve to do what she must, even to destroy him, if her family required the sacrifice.
“Return to your bed, signor.” Avoiding his gaze, she hurried to the connecting door. “Uncover the spy-holes after I leave, unless you want to be questioned in the morning.”
“Wait, damn it!” Naked and furious as a wrathful angel, he stood braced before the brazier, hands planted on his hips. The light caressed the sloping muscle of his shoulders, the bulging biceps of a fighting man, the sinewed hips she’d straddled—
“We need to talk, Allegra. But I can see there’s no point trying to do it now. I must ride to the village today, hire additional staff for this thrice-damned visit. Will you ride with me?”
“Perhaps, but I can’t promise it.” She needed to think, and his presence confused her. She needed to keep him close, cozen everyone into complacency, deceive them all. But if she wanted to protect Joscelin, she must put distance between them. Would he be safer in her shadow, where she could ward him, or a hundred miles away?
Whatever she decided, she must act quickly. Only seven days remained to Twelfth Night.
Chapter Fourteen
Allegra closed the door on the searing image of a naked Joscelin, bold and unabashed, his quiet strength shouting from every magnificent inch of him. She bolted the portal, though she knew he would respect her privacy and need for solitude, even without the lock.
If ever I could trust any man, he would be the one.
Shivering in the darkness, breath frosting on the air, Allegra crawled beneath her blankets and reached for her mirror.
Santa Maria, could she possibly be this woman? Skin flushed with emotion, eyes heavy-lidded with passion, lips swollen from a man’s kisses? Thank God and all the saints that Maximo was far away. One look at her face, and he would know all her secrets in a heartbeat.
The rapid tattoo of hooves echoed in the courtyard—the swift four-beat gait of a galloping horse. Allegra sprang to her feet and hurried to the window, then scratched with her sleeve to clear the ice away. Overhead, the moon waxed toward full, the silver crescent hanging over the dark orchard like an Ottoman scimitar. By its pale light, she could barely discern a cloaked rider, crouched low in the saddle, thundering over the drawbridge toward the manor.
Too dark to pick out details, and her window afforded no view of the stables or the door. But no man galloped on icy roads at this hour without urgent business. He must be a messenger from court. But who had sent him?
When someone rapped on the outer door, Allegra was prepared. She waited a few breaths, like someone startled awake from slumber. Then she tiptoed through the darkened chamber and unbolted the door.
Through the slender opening, a thin spear of candlelight streamed in. Frey Fausto stood with a cloak hastily thrown over his shirt and hose. Her heart thudded against her ribs, fired by the certain knowledge that only one man could bring him to her chamber at this unholy hour. Swiftly she glanced past him, but he stood alone.
Still, the shadows could hide anyone. And she was sharply aware that a certain pair of Boleyn ears might also have heard the galloping horse and this dead-of-night intrusion. She suffered a brief internal struggle—reluctant to allow the priest into her chamber, but knowing she could not discuss their business in the corridor.
“Am I never to have a moment’s peace, Fausto? What is so dire that it can’t wait for morning?”
In the candlelight, his eyes were pools of darkness, his cheeks hollow and gaunt. “You can rest when you’re in your coffin. While you draw breath, you are his creature, as I am.”
There was no point trading barbs with the man in the corridor. Easing a hand into the placket of her robe, she stepped back unwillingly and gestured him in.
; The priest slipped inside. “A missive from His Excellency. The courier foundered three horses to bring it here.”
Swallowing down her dread, she kept her face impassive. “Corpus Christi, I suppose it must be urgent. Where’s the parchment?”
His gaze flickered to the connecting door, closed and bolted, then searched her rumpled bed, as if he expected to find Joscelin there. Coldly, she waited. At last he produced a rolled parchment, the broken seal still dangling.
“Unfortunate news, Contessa. Read it for yourself.”
Don Maximo’s slashing script leaped out at her. She was familiar with the codes he used to communicate with his retainers, and her mind scrambled to decipher the innocuous Latin prayer.
My pet,
H. has ordered C. to commence the trial on Twelfth Night. C. has begun to prepare. No further delay is possible. Conclude your business and return at once.
M.
A sick sense of dismay rolled over her. To hide it, she strode to the window and peered out. In the east, the sky paled to pearl and silver. In the west, the moon was sinking beneath the dark horizon.
“Have you parchment and ink, Contessa? You should draft a few lines to Lady Carey, give some excuse for our hasty departure.”
“Very well,” she said, without turning.
“And what shall we do with Sir Joscelin?” he whispered, barely audible, his reflection floating in a sea of darkness.
With Joscelin’s name, the choppy sea of panic receded. She had run out of time, for everything. Campeggio had moved too quickly, and Maximo wanted the threat of Anne Boleyn removed, once and for all. If she did nothing, Joscelin’s downfall was a certainty.
After last night, she doubted very much that he would be dissuaded by any conventional excuse she entrusted to writing. She must take some dramatic measure to ensure he did not follow her straight back to Maximo’s deadly reach. Somehow, she must make certain Joscelin’s faith in her was shattered.
The strategy crystallized in her mind. Santo Spirito, she must hurry, for the manor would be stirring, and Joscelin too—unless she guaranteed that he wouldn’t.
When she turned to the priest, she showed nothing but cool composure. “Hurry to the stable and saddle my mare, for we can’t risk waking some tattling groom. I’ll gather a few essential items. The rest can be sent back with Beatriz, as she won’t be able to match my speed. I’ll write a few lines now for Lady Carey.”
“And what of Sir Joscelin?” His eyes never swerved from her features—as if he wouldn’t risk missing a single clue.
“Never mind him,” she said crisply, sorting through the limited selection of potions she had brought to Belhaven. “I shall deal with Sir Joscelin Boleyn.”
Joscelin struggled like a drowning man to surface from an ocean of sleep. Surely it was past time to waken. The sun was streaming through his window, which—he seemed to recall—faced west. He forced his eyes open, squinting into the light. God-a-mercy, his head pounded like a war-drum, his mouth tasted like a sewer, and his stomach pitched and heaved.
Had he drunk too much last night? Hell, he’d barely touched his claret. He’d wanted his mind to be clear as a virgin’s conscience if he managed to get Allegra Grimaldi into his bed. He’d awakened, hadn’t he, when a servant brought his morning ale? Oui, he’d downed the tankard. Then the floor had tilted sideways as he fell across the bed.
The distant pounding on his door continued—as it had done for some time, he realized. Thickly he groaned and rolled over, groping for the dagger beneath his pillow. The world reeled around him as the door swung open.
“Merciful God,” Mary said, as he struggled to lift his head. Across the heaving floor, her willowy frame was blurred. “Do you intend to disport the night away, as you’ve done all day?”
“Disport?” His voice rusty with disuse, Joscelin reached for the tankard, but knocked it sprawling. As it rolled across the floor, a whiff of sweetness tickled his nostrils. His stomach heaved again, and he fell back, determined not to disgrace himself before his sister’s dismayed gaze.
Mary hurried to his side, her concerned features swimming into view. “Mon cher, are you ill? Is the countess also stricken?”
“Allegra.” With monumental effort, Joscelin levered himself up. A seasick glance around his chamber did nothing to resolve his confusion, but he eyed the amber light of sunset streaming across his legs. Somehow, Mon Dieu, he’d slept the day away, done nothing to prepare for the king’s arrival. When he turned his face into the pillow, he caught the haunting sweetness of jasmine.
A dark foreboding swamped his senses. Joscelin grasped his sister’s arm and held her steady as the room swayed around them. “She isn’t here, Mary. Hasn’t she spent the day with you?”
“I haven’t seen her.” Amusement gleamed in Mary’s sky blue eyes as they flickered over the rumpled bed. “She sent down a message before breakfast, informing me that the two of you were entertaining yourselves and weren’t to be disturbed. But I grew concerned when the servant who brought your dinner tray reported that you wouldn’t open the door. He was reluctant to intrude. Of course, I had no such scruples.”
“Merde,” Joscelin groaned. Premonitions of disaster sprouted like mushrooms in his brain. He wrapped the blanket around his waist and lurched to his feet, ignoring his sister’s exclamation. Gritting his teeth against a pounding head, he staggered to the connecting door and flung it open.
Allegra’s empty chamber gaped at him. Her small chest of belongings stood near the door, locked and tidy, but somehow he knew she was gone. The air no longer tingled with her incandescent presence.
Behind him, Mary said, “I take it you didn’t spend the day in idle loveplay with the countess after all.”
Joscelin kneaded his hammering temples. “I suspect if you check the stables, you’ll find her horse missing. Where’s that damned Spaniard?”
“Gone all day on an errand. Somehow I gather he’s not likely to return?”
“Oui.” Grimly he paced the chamber, looking for God knew what. Except for the tumbled bedclothes—cold to the touch—and the locked chest, the chamber bore no sign of occupancy.
“That Spanish maid is still below,” his sister said, “but the creature is mute, and probably a halfwit besides. Shall I summon her?”
“Merde!” He struck the chest with a frustrated fist. Why the Devil had she fled like a thief in the night? Why had she lied to Mary, why orchestrate this elaborate deception to cover her departure? Obviously, she still didn’t trust him.
Slowly the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Someone had mixed a sleeping potion into his morning ale, to ensure he slept the day away. And the culprit’s identity was no great mystery.
The bitter taste of betrayal flooded his mouth. He gave the chest a half-hearted tug, certain it was locked. To his surprise, it sprang open. There, against a swath of blood crimson velvet, a sheet of parchment lay folded, with his name inscribed in a graceful feminine script.
His heart quickened. She dosed you with a sleeping draught and fled, he reminded himself, and broke the seal. No good will come of this.
His eyes swept the brief lines.
Sir,
By the time you read this missive, I shall be gone, for I have achieved my purpose. Your esteemed father, Lord Rochford, procured my services to seduce you. I believe his objective was to cozen you—like a child given sweets—for your upcoming wedding with Mistress Catherine Carew. Lady Carey stood party to the plan and can confirm my role. Ask her, if you think I lie.
Now that my business is concluded, I return to court to collect my payment. I urge you to remain here and attend your own business, or risk the ire of Henry Tudor and your father’s displeasure. Keep your distance from me, for I remind you of my strong attachment to another, wealthier, more powerful man, whom I love as I never could love you. I would not wish to prick his pride by my brief liaison with a common man.
Let me close with words of gratitude. I never earned an easier purse than the on
e your father gave me for a night in your bed. Otherwise, of course, the encounter was unremarkable.
A.
He stared down at the bold initial she had signed with a flourish. Through the numbness of denial, the acid knowledge of her treachery seeped through him. Mon Dieu, she’d warned him of her duplicity a hundred times! Didn’t she stand accused of the most heinous crimes? Didn’t she parade herself openly as another man’s mistress? She’d but spelled it out for him. Yet, besotted fool that he was, he’d clung to his stubborn faith in her.
Yet in the end, like his accursed fiancée, she’d lied to him and abandoned him. Nay, she’d done the deed even more thoroughly than Gabrielle, for Allegra had allied with his own father and sister to betray him.
Three times betrayed with a single act, he marveled, crushing the fragile parchment. Truly, Allegra Grimaldi was a master at deception.
When Allegra thundered into Richmond on New Year’s Eve astride her exhausted mare, the sun was sinking behind the walls. Crimson light speared across the sky and bathed the bricks in blood. The light glittered on the jagged ranks of icicles, jutting like bared teeth from the heights. Somewhere in the walls, the muted din of music rose raw and unholy, like a witches’ sabbat.
With many courtiers swarming eagerly to Westminster, where Campeggio would try the king’s marriage, Richmond Palace seemed oddly deserted. Her mare’s hooves raised hollow-sounding echoes as they clattered into the yard.
Two days at a punishing pace stood between her and the crushing rage of Joscelin Boleyn. She quailed to imagine what he must have said and done when he found her note. The sting of his lacerated pride would have been the least of it. He would never understand that she’d tried to protect him. Someday he would go to his grave in bitter enmity, believing she’d betrayed him.
But that was the price she must pay for her weakness, for developing a sentimental tendre for the man like a half-witted milkmaid. She prayed his pride would bar him from chasing after the woman who’d spurned him. If his rage overwhelmed his Gallic pride, he might still come pounding after her, fueled by the fire of vengeance. Santa Maria, if he wanted revenge—given what he knew of her past—he could utterly destroy her.
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