“In exchange for what?” Though she already knew, since his goal was to make her suffer.
“Here is my list of conditions. First, your father remains in my keeping as surety for your conduct—held in a new location, which I fear must be Spain.” Maximo paused. “Second, in exchange for your sisters’ freedom, I shall retain your services.”
“You can’t possibly want to keep me now!” She scrambled to find the trap. “I’m nothing but a danger for you. Why would you spare my life?”
“I’m not proposing a return to the status quo, Allegra. You have not yet heard my third condition. In exchange for my clemency, you’ll offer me something as well.”
Abruptly she understood him. Her stomach lurched. “You—you want me to become your mistress. In truth, as well as appearance?”
Behind her, low and furious, a French curse erupted. Still trapped by the don’s lackeys, one of her sisters had begun weeping—softly, helplessly, as though her heart was breaking.
“These matters should be discussed in private, Your Excellency,” she said. “Do I understand that my sisters are free to leave?”
Briefly forgotten, the Lord Constable bulled forward. “With all respect to the Spanish Ambassador, these prisoners are my responsibility. I have no instructions—”
“You have instructions to transport the prisoners to the Infanta Juana,” Don Maximo said. “If this woman agrees to my proposal, you’ll escort them through the Traitor’s Gate to the skiff that awaits me, and consider your duty discharged.”
“They can’t be remanded into Spanish custody.” Allegra thought of the swift carriage they’d stationed nearby, to transport them to Dover.
“Then they can flag their own wherry, or swim. Witches are said to float, are they not?” The don shrugged. “Once they leave my jurisdiction, I can’t be responsible for their safety.”
“They aren’t witches! And they can’t simply be set adrift on the Thames.” Allegra chafed as the precious seconds ticked past. Surely if their prisoners did not soon emerge, some emissary from the Spanish ship would demand to know what was keeping them. Briefly she struggled with the cold dread that swamped her.
At least if the don kept her, she would not burn—at least not yet. She’d promised God she could bear anything but that.
“If I remain behind,” she said, “Sir Joscelin must take my sisters to freedom.”
“Mon Dieu, Allegra!” He strode forward, her gallant angel, his bronze eyes blazing with fury. “I knew you’d want to sacrifice yourself as some sort of penance for your so-called sins. I won’t allow it.”
Trapped in his fiery gaze, she felt her heart convulse. He’d given up everything for her, even his father’s regard, and this despite his loathing for witchcraft. How could he not hate her? It was time to set him free, no matter what the cost.
“There’s no time for this, Joscelin.” She gripped his arm, yearning to shelter in his strong embrace. Beneath her hand, the tendons of his arm stood out like steel. “I…value your chivalry more than I can ever express. But my sisters need your protection now. Look at them, Joscelin! No more than ten years old, strangers in a foreign land, and soon to lose my father’s protection. They can’t remain here any longer, nor can they leave alone. You’re the only one I trust to keep them safe!”
“I’ll take them to the carriage and see them launched. The driver can take them as we planned, which will be safer than waiting here. But, Mon Dieu, I won’t leave you behind! I knew you were planning some Devil’s bargain—”
“Can’t you see, I have to know they’re safe? I have to know you’ve survived this. If you’ve gone against your father, you can’t remain in England. And I can’t go forward, not knowing, fearing the worst…”
Her voice had risen, and Alessandro intervened.
“She will not be left alone, Sir Joscelin Boleyn. I am her father, am I not? Is it not my duty to protect her?” Dignity resonated from every line of his stately bearing. “Despite this affliction with which God sees fit to test me, I am not unable to protect my daughter’s interests.”
He wanted them to seize the chance, she knew, to give the girls their freedom. As for his eldest daughter, he would expect her to fend for herself. If his girls were safe, Alessandro’s own welfare would matter little to him. He would sacrifice himself to save them, just as she would.
“I won’t leave you.” Stubborn, Joscelin folded his brawny arms across his chest. “The don wants vengeance against me too. Isn’t that right, Your Excellency? Let Allegra go, along with the children, and I’ll stay behind.”
“No!” Horrified, aware of time slipping away, she strove desperately for the languid air that would turn him against her. “You are gallant as ever, signor, but your worries are misplaced. I’m certain Don Maximo and I shall find a suitable…arrangement.”
Joscelin’s fists knotted at his sides. His keen eyes searched her face, and she struggled to hide the fear and despair that gripped her. Had he learned, at the end, to see past her masks?
When his face hardened, she knew he hadn’t. Her heart twisted with regret. So this was how they finished, this choice he must see as her final betrayal. She knew what he would say and braced for it.
“If that’s the way it is, I’ll escort your sisters to safety.” Cold as his own father, he made her an elegant bow. “I don’t doubt you’re capable of advancing your own interests…as always.”
His gaze measured Maximo, who still lounged on the bed as if waiting for Allegra to join him. Then, squaring his shoulders, Joscelin beckoned to the children. “Come, little ones, let’s go for a walk, oui? Bring your warm cloaks with you.” He turned to the Constable. “Lord Kingston, perhaps you’ll join us on our promenade? Your presence at the gate will be of great assistance.”
“Take the queen’s men as well,” Alessandro told him. “They won’t be needed here.”
“Regrettably,” the don said, “I can’t release the queen’s guard from their current duties. I must have some care for my own safety, mustn’t I, against these two hardened killers?”
Her father inclined his lordly head. “A compromise then, for you can’t expect my daughter to discuss your proposal in their presence. Let them wait outside this cell, and you’ll be assured of protection.”
“Perhaps that arrangement will be suitable.” The don’s eyes hooded. “They’ll stand on the landing, but the door won’t be bolted.”
In strained silence, the arrangements were made. Alessandro Borgia permitted no emotional farewells. Allegra embraced her sisters once, her heart breaking. She felt the dampness of their tears on her cheeks and struggled for composure as she soothed them. At last, she let them go.
As he ushered his precious charges from the cell, Joscelin turned back, looking hard at her, brow furrowed as if he still searched for clues. “Allegra—are you certain?”
“Believe me, I’m certain.” Her chest ached with unshed tears, and her voice was throaty. This was goodbye then. They would not meet again. “May God go with you, Sir Joscelin Boleyn. You will have my gratitude forever…for everything we’ve shared. Arrivederci.”
Still he studied her, framed in the doorway, until she whispered, “Go.”
“As you wish.” Curtly, he nodded. “Au revoir.”
No more than that, and he backed out. She heard his muttered exchange with the guards outside, the anxious clamor of her sisters’ questions. Her entire being ached to run after them, longing for the life and love and freedom she’d turned away.
Don Maximo’s voice was rich with irony. “Alone at last. The Hand of God, his worthy successor, and I.”
Slowly she turned toward him, eyes passing over her father. She knew Alessandro Borgia—as well as she knew the nemesis who watched her. As well as she knew Joscelin. If she knew nothing else in this life, she knew these three men—just as they knew her.
Her father had devised a plan, and somehow she must discern it. Whatever happened must be lightning-swift. For the don could not be all
owed to summon help, or all her desperate efforts would come to ruin.
Indolent, she approached the bed, pretending she wore one of her dazzling court gowns instead of sober gray damask. “Will you take a cup of wine, Your Excellency?”
The don snorted. “Pardon me if I decline your hospitality. And pray do not come closer with your hidden knives and veiled animosity. Or at least, I should say—don’t come closer just yet.”
His intimate smile made her shudder.
“Why, Excellency, don’t you trust me?” Reading the alertness that fired him, she stopped—still too far to lunge at him, without causing a deadly outcry.
“Mia figlia, do not press him.” Gnarled hands fumbled to brace on the chair as her father rose. “Before any decisions are made, you should hear what the don has to say in private. I’ll wait near the window, si?”
Was he signaling her to employ her feminine wiles? How greatly had he been crippled by years of captivity in this land of perpetual chill? Helplessly she watched as he groped toward the window. His halting progress put him behind the don, though still unarmed, and well beyond range.
She moved the other way, forcing Maximo to divide his attention between them. The don’s gaze followed her, clearly viewing her as the greater threat.
“Don’t come closer just yet.” He rested a hand on his poniard. “Leave your stiletto, if you’ll be so kind, on the table there.”
Well, she hadn’t expected to keep it. Perhaps she could still reach it at the end, to do what she must.
Disarmed, she approached him and raised a hand to stroke the bedstead, a languid slide of her pale fingers. Just a glimmer of allure to divert his attention from something she wished him not to notice.
“Your father is wise, Allegra. You should heed his counsel, like a proper daughter—even if you are nothing like.” The don swung his legs to the floor and sat. The dew of perspiration glittered at his temples. Clearly, even this slight movement taxed his strength.
“I am nothing if not obedient, Your Excellency, as you should be the first to attest.” She did not glance toward her father, who stood near the window, leaning for support against his blind man’s staff. Still, the don stood beyond his range.
“Let us discuss the terms of your proposal, Don Maximo. My sisters—allowed to live free, wherever they wish, without Spanish harassment. My father—transported to Spain where, I presume, his lodging will be more comfortable than here.”
She swallowed hard against the nausea that churned her belly. Even this fate must be better than burning. “Myself in your bed, warm and willing—your whore in truth, as well as name. Is this what you desire?”
In the charged silence, his breath hitched. “I wouldn’t have stated the matter quite so bluntly…but yes, you have grasped my meaning. As a token of my generosity, I’m prepared to add even another incentive.” He paused. “Spend this night in my bed demonstrating your compliance…in every particular…and I’ll allow your lover to return to France.”
“And what of your long-sought vengeance?” Heat flooded her face to hear Joscelin named her lover in her pious father’s presence. “Are you content to let your brother’s death go unavenged?”
“Oh, it shall not go unavenged.” The don stood. “Obviously, your half-Boleyn fancies himself in love with you. His devotion has cost him both his father’s regard and his future. Now he must watch as the brother he detests reaps the rewards meant for him. The gallant fool must live with the knowledge that, night after night, the woman he loves shares another man’s bed.”
The woman he loves. There he was mistaken, for Joscelin could never love a woman with her unsavory history. But she mustn’t allow the don to divert her. She must demand every particle of his attention, to give her father his chance.
“I stand corrected, Excellency. You’ll have your revenge against Joscelin, in full measure.” She drew off her hood and dropped it on the bed. Making every breath a seduction, she stroked the fabric, then pulled the pins from her hair. Heavy and free, it tumbled down around her shoulders.
“But what of your vengeance against me?” Her voice thickened. “You want to see me burn for Innocenzo, don’t you? Will you suffer me to live?”
Innocenzo’s name ignited him like a spark in tinder.
“Take care, Allegra.” Breath hissed through his teeth. “You can still burn in Hell for your sins. Ah, but this is no honeyed love-talk, such as I would wish between us. Shall I say rather that you’ll burn in my arms, consumed by fire of a different sort?”
A shudder of loathing gripped her. Beneath her mantle, perspiration slicked her back and trickled between her breasts. She unfastened the mantle and let it fall, where it couldn’t tangle around her feet.
“What would you have me do?” Even her voice she used to tempt him. “Should we seal our accord as lovers do, with a kiss?”
“Appealing as your offer may be, that would require a measure of trust between us. You realize, of course, that if any harm befalls me, neither your sisters nor your father will escape London alive. The cardinal will burn all of them for witches if he can.”
“I know.” She felt sick with nerves. To think of them burning… “How shall we proceed, if I can’t approach you? I’ll swear not to assault you, on any holy relic you like. Just let them go—”
“Will you swear on your mother’s soul?” Don Maximo’s eyes turned black with intent. “Will you swear in Ilaria Borgia’s name not to raise your hand against me, nor your assassin’s tools, nor any of your devilish potions?”
She could always lie. Corpus Christi, she’d done it before. But Joscelin would not have liked it. For his sake, she’d become a different woman.
“I swear on my mother’s soul. No harm shall come to you from my hand.”
Satisfaction flickered in his features as he stalked toward her, certain at last of victory. She stiffened when his arm slid around her waist and fought a desperate battle not to cringe. The stench of ambergris swam in her head—the don’s fragrance, Casimiro’s fragrance, the scent of rape and violence.
“Mi alma,” he whispered, “I have waited long for you.”
She glimpsed a blur of motion from Alessandro Borgia’s silent rush—the man who used other senses in the absence of sight, and knew every inch of his prison. When her face changed, Don Maximo saw it, his eyes flashing with recognition. Swift as running water, the don twisted.
She ducked as Alessandro’s staff whistled through the air and crashed against the side of Maximo’s head. Groaning, the don sagged in her arms, staring up at her with the eyes of a man betrayed. She struggled to support his weight as he tried to get his legs beneath him. Behind him, her father towered like a Biblical patriarch, his staff swinging back for another blow.
“Gesù, Father! Don’t kill him. I swore to him—”
Relentless, her father swung, but his second blow glanced off when he misjudged his mark. Their locked bodies staggered together, hers and Maximo’s, in an obscene parody of dancing.
Alessandro’s patrician features were hewn with the lines she knew so well, a blend of ruthlessness and compassion toward his victim. His conscience was blind as his eyes, unable to discern between darkness and light.
Casting his staff aside, her father slipped a stiletto from his vesta.
“No, Father!” Desperately, she dragged the don away. From the corridor, a man shouted. Booted footsteps pounded toward them.
“Benedicite.” Alessandro murmured the ancient blessing and thrust the knife home, a sharp upward stab.
A short, terrible scream burst from Maximo’s lungs. In her arms, his body went rigid. Though she strained to hold him, he collapsed at her feet, and stared up at her with dimming eyes.
Appalled, she fell to her knees beside him. Her father raised his stiletto, blood dripping like rubies to splash the floor.
“Don’t, Father! Don’t kill him—”
Then the door flew open, and the queen’s men stared at the incriminating scene: the Spanish Ambassador
lying stricken on the floor, a pool of crimson spreading beneath him as Allegra crouched over him. Her father whirled to face them, black robes swirling, stiletto poised as he listened. Faces hardening with intent, the guards hoisted their pikes.
There could be no contest, she realized in despair. Even Europe’s most feared assassin could not hope to prevail, blind and barely armed, against trained soldiers wielding pikes that could slay from six feet away.
“Santa Maria, this is useless!” She prayed for the strength to do what she must, for both of them. “Give me the knife, Father. At least we shall not burn.”
“No, mia figlia,” her father said gently, and tucked the knife away. His gnarled hands groped for his staff and slanted it crosswise in a defensive stance. “The don was an evil man. Now I fight for your sake and your sisters. Flee if you can.”
“Do you think I deserve to live? Must more men die on my account?” Anguished, she knelt beside the don and pressed her wadded cloak against his wound. Guided by her voice, Alessandro Borgia stepped clear, giving himself room, spinning the sturdy staff between his hands. The guardsmen fanned out to flank him.
“Arrêtez!” a voice bellowed. All action froze as a familiar form filled the doorway. He stood braced, crimson cloak flaring around him, his broadsword gripped in readiness.
“Joscelin,” she whispered, one hand rising to her throat. A heady blend of relief and horror flooded through her. Somehow she’d known—known he wouldn’t leave her. God and Mary, she must make him leave her—
Scarred and weathered, the elder guard spoke. “I advise you to stand down, my lord. You’re under no confinement, but these Venetians have killed the Queen’s Ambassador. We’ve signaled the don’s ship for reinforcements.”
“In point of fact,” Don Maximo murmured, “I am not yet dead.”
But she saw his pallor, white against the spreading blood, her nemesis, her tormentor, her unlikely savior. She could not even begin to untangle her feelings. Already the cloak against his wound was soaked, his life spilling out between her fingers.
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