She wondered if he too sensed the potent magick simmering between them. Goddess knew he showed only seething impatience as they followed the demure Lady Jane through the Presence Chamber. Here they paused as mortal custom demanded to bow before the empty throne, under the sly and speculative gazes of the lingering courtiers.
He leaned close as he raised her up, voice low and intimate. “Satisfied with your work tonight, are you, my lady? You’ve managed to beguile both this most Catholic Queen and her heretic sister—which is no small feat. Are none of us poor mortals immune to your charms?”
Rhiannon knew she should guard her tongue, as she must beguile him too before Mary would sign the treaty. Yet his clear disapproval made her crackle with annoyance.
“No decent, warm-blooded woman could be satisfied with her entire escort slaughtered to a man, merely because they believed in me and followed me.”
Thankfully, Ansgar lived. He was coming to court as soon as he regained his strength. But she had no intention of betraying that knowledge to Beltran.
“Thou seem to believe I act merely for mine own amusement, sir. I hardly know what else I may do to convince thee.”
She could do what she’d done before he arrived, and lower the magickal veil that disguised her from mortal eyes. But then he’d be crying witch again.
His hand tightened beneath her elbow—an unsettling touch, oddly intimate since he’d stripped off his gauntlets—his sword-toughened palm warm with the divine fire coursing through his blood. Her skin tingled and the fine hairs on her arm lifted beneath the current of energy that surged between them.
Sweet with hippocras, his warm breath tickled her ear. “I don’t know what to believe anymore, Rhiannon. Half this court fancies the Blessed Virgin appeared here tonight, fair and shining with silver light. If you don’t come from God, you must come from the Devil. You’ve woven your spell over all of us.”
At the head of the oak-paneled stair, with Linnet and Jane Dormer descending before them, she paused to glance up at him. Behind them a quartet of guards, bristling with halberds in the Queen’s blue-and-green livery, shouldered past in a fast-moving block. Beltran backed her up against the wall to let them pass, while the ladies moved onward, unaware.
The movement brought him far too close, his broad chest and shoulders filling her vision. She backed away by instinct, almost stumbling into a page’s alcove. She glimpsed whitewashed walls and a trestle table, benches empty, as her spine brushed the wall.
Still he loomed over her. Suddenly her heart was fluttering in her throat, breath quick and shallow. Heat coursed through her as she tipped back her head to look up into the burning cobalt fire of his gaze. Imposed like a bright shadow over his rugged features, the cold beauty of his angel stared down on her, a banner of golden hair streaming in the celestial wind.
Aye, he saw her, no doubt of it. Even while Beltran himself remained in stubborn denial of the supernatural Being that shared his flesh.
Yet the hard body against hers was mortal, taut with muscle, powerful heart thudding against her palm. Through the open door behind him, the world tramped past, while he stood so close his codpiece nudged her belly. And her own blood caught fire, the soft folds of her woman’s place swelling like a ripe peach, tantalizingly bare beneath her skirts.
He need only gather those layers of damask and muslin, lift the whalebone cage of her farthingale, skim his calloused fingers past the garters that bound her stockings to her thighs, to find bare skin and heat and the dampness of arousal collecting like dew in her womb.
Now she was blushing, on fire with the secret, lips parted as she stared breathless into his gaze.
“Damn,” he said roughly, one hand rising to capture her jaw. His thumb brushed the tender curve of her lower lip. Possessed by the imp of mischief, she let her tongue flicker out to taste him—salt mingled with sugar from the wafers they’d nibbled. His breath rasped, a harsh catch that made her flush with sudden knowledge of her own feminine power.
“Rhiannon, this is madness.” His thumb stroked her lip. “Wherever we’re lodged tonight, I need to see you.”
“Oh, but why?” That playful spirit still seized her. Her lips curved in a teasing smile.
“You know why, God help us.” His eyes were hooded, watching her parted lips. A breath and he’d be close enough to kiss.
His invocation made her shudder, breaking the spell of madness that held her. Morrigan’s curse echoed in her head.
If you couple with a mortal man, you’ll become one of them forever.
“Dear Lady!” she cried softly. Her grip tightened on his doublet, holding them apart. “I can’t. What shall come of this lunacy between us?”
“The Devil if I know,” he muttered, bending toward her.
She could taste the wine-scented sweetness of his breath. A powerful lassitude swept over her, making her knees weaken. Helpless as a floating leaf in the rising tide of passion, she leaned toward him. Her eyelids fluttered closed.
The shock of his mouth on hers made her gasp, a man’s hard driving hunger spiced with the sweet bite of hippocras. She clung to his broad shoulders for purchase as the world shifted around her, felt powerful muscle flex under her desperate grip. When her mouth opened beneath the fierce possession of his kiss as though he had every right to claim her, a low groan rumbled through him.
“My God, Rhiannon...”
Beyond words, she moaned softly in reply.
His arms swept around her and dragged her hard against his body, overwhelming her with the searing heat of the divine Presence that crackled like brushfire within him. The dizzying spice of frankincense rose from his travel-stained doublet and made her head spin. Yet she met him kiss for kiss, the slow burn of passion building like magick between them. The deep pulse of pleasure made her arch against the hot bulge of aroused male flesh that jutted against her belly, barely contained by his codpiece.
When his big hands gripped her buttocks and snugged her closer, she surrendered to the sweet ache between her thighs and undulated slowly against him.
Beneath the noisy bustle of the staircase and the muted din of the great hall, she barely heard the coarse comment as someone stumbled past. But she felt Beltran stiffen, heard the low curse that exploded from him. Dragged back to awareness of their surroundings—hardly private for a tryst—she caught the tail end of the ugly exchange.
“...so much for chastity! They’re supposed to be fighting priests. His blade will be swiving that sweet sheath tonight.”
In a blur of motion, Beltran released her and spun toward the offending voice. Rhiannon blurted a protest, hand flying to her tingling lips, fearful any moment she’d see the great sword of Judgment flashing down. Was it only she who heard the lion’s roar of rage blasting forth from his angel, felt the floor tremble beneath her feet?
Beltran’s fist shot outward and cracked into a man’s sneering face. Here and there along the stair, scattered cries rose as the gold-clad gallant reeled back, sprawling on his rump across the stairs.
“Merciful Goddess!” Seeing Beltran tower over the luckless lad, Rhiannon leaped forward and seized his arm. Tendons stood taut beneath her grip, but he contained himself and stood glaring down on the fellow.
The gallant pressed a handkerchief against his bleeding nose and glared back. A torrent of heated words in a foreign tongue spilled out.
“Hell.” Beltran heaved a sigh and dragged a hand roughly
through his hair. “One of the Queen’s Spaniards.”
Rhiannon eyed the astonished spectators ranked on the stairs—a gaping Linnet and Jane Dormer among them. “I fear thou may have a greater problem.”
Halfway down the stair, arrested in midconversation, an authoritative figure with a flowing russet beard stood riveted, bright in crimson robes and cap. A gold cross swung from his belt that made her avert her burning eyes.
Beltran followed her gaze and bit out an oath that had no business on the lips of a Church enforcer. Then his shoulders straightened as he made a leg. “Benedicite, my lord Archbishop.”
Chapter Eleven
At dawn, Beltran threw down his quill and rolled the kinks out of his knotted shoulders. Sometime during his interminable session in the confessional with the Archbishop, a band of pain had clamped down around his brow.
Healthy as a horse under most circumstances, he rarely suffered headaches or any physical malady. He’d always boasted a robust constitution and miraculous rate of healing from his rare battle wounds.
But if anything could give a man the megrims, last night would do it. Groaning, he rose and swung his arms vigorously across his chest.
The chambers assigned him were comfortable, the dayroom furnished in the somber splendor of Spain, but cold as a damn tomb. He hadn’t paused to build a fire before penning this explanatory epistle to his mentor Cardinal Calvino. He needed to dispatch it quickly, before the news of last night’s spectacle reached Rome through other means.
Now the rising sun, streaming between the curtains, scalded his tired eyes like fire.
Grimly enduring this added penance, he sanded the parchment, then pressed his signet ring into the soft wax. Let it go to Rome with his report on the Inquisition’s progress in England before he dove into the rest of his work.
A courteous missive to the infamous Bishop Bonner was the next order of business.
A soft scuff made him swing toward the interior door. Ever since he’d stormed irritably back after Matins, feeling somehow less eased by the rite of Confession than usual, he’d been trying to forget two bedchambers shared this dayroom. The damn Chamberlain had assigned Rhiannon the other.
He couldn’t seem to rid his mind of her tempting nearness. She flickered and danced in his mind like a lit candle, beckoning him with her glowing light—the promise of warmth and life and grace he’d never found in the cold comfort of his religion, or in the harsh exigencies of its discipline.
Even now, the only constraint holding him on this side of that door was the knowledge Rhiannon wasn’t alone. Her mysterious companion, that demure dark-haired beauty from God knew where, shared her chamber and her bed.
He could imagine the disturbance he’d cause if he strode through those doors, randy as a stallion in mating season, and flung back the curtains. Deep in the feather-tick the two girls would cower, screaming until the servants came running. Then would Beltran have a greater scandal to contend with.
Whatever’s left of my name after last night would be shredded. The Blades would throw me out of their sainted order. And the prospect should alarm me, damn it.
It was growing harder to pretend the fire of faith that once burned in his belly hadn’t guttered and dimmed. Where the hot ember of devotion should glow, his heart and soul stood cold as an unlit forge.
God has betrayed you, Vengeance. He lost all claim to your devotion when He cast you out.
This bleak shell of service to a distant and unfeeling Master was what God had left him instead of—
A tentative knock jerked him awake. The fog of half-recalled dreams rolled back.
If he loved his soul, he should pretend he’d never heard that sound. The thought of Rhiannon le Fay tightened his groin, set his heart hammering like a schoolboy.
“Enter,” he called gruffly, running a hand over his bristling jaw. After the night he’d had, he must look like a pirate.
Light as a wood-sprite or the spirit of spring, she slipped into the dayroom. A shaft of sunlight bathed her in radiant light.
Hungrily his eyes devoured her—silver hair twisted into a chignon at her nape, dainty frame encased in blush-rose velvet, the tiny waist he could span with his hands, the sweet curve of her breasts like ripe peaches against the fabric. The gown brought color to her creamy cheeks and deepened her bewitching eyes to emerald.
Yet his keen eyes didn’t miss her pallor or the violet shadows beneath her eyes. The strain of her mission, the hostile scrutiny of this Catholic court, was already taking its toll.
Beneath his regard, her lashes dropped. She dipped into a small curtsey.
“I know thou slept but poorly, for I heard thee pacing to and fro. Is there any use to bid thee good morrow?”
“I find little that’s good about it.” Abruptly he turned away from this new temptation. He wanted to stride across the chamber and crush her in his arms, pluck the pins from her hair until it tumbled in gilded ringlets around her shoulders. He wanted to haul her against his throbbing length as he’d done last night and kiss her until she turned wanton.
Instead he gathered his correspondence for the courier. “I’m busy. What do you want here?”
“I regret disturbing thy crowded schedule.” Her edged tone told him she resented his brusque dismissal—unsuited to her royal dignity. Yet she clung to her temper. “But we’ve much to discuss, my lord. Thy Queen has commanded it.”
“Not my Queen, and I’m not hers to command.” Impatient, he tossed down the documents and strode to the window. In the cobbled courtyard, a cluster of mounted nobles gathered. Off for a morning jaunt, he supposed, with nothing better to occupy them.
Her skirts rustled as she swept after him, quick steps betraying her agitation. “Would thy Church have thee yield, and leave me unopposed to court the Queen’s favor?”
Aye, there’s the rub—and she’s clever enough to know it. Acknowledging her thrust, he barked a laugh and gripped the lintel, shoulders bunching beneath his doublet. The hellish pain in his head gave another nasty throb. Behind him, her steps halted.
Senses heightened by her nearness, he heard her quickened breath—a tribute to the awareness thrumming between them. The haunting sweetness of violets teased his nose. He’d never smell that fragrance again without thinking of her.
Lightly, her hand touched his shoulder. “Thou art in pain. Let me ease thy suffering.”
“More of your magick? I think not.” He pivoted to confront her, hooking his hands in his belt to keep his resolve. Otherwise he’d close his hands around her waist, slender and pliant as a sapling birch, and drag her into his arms.
Her upturned face chided him, ash-dark brows winging up. “Art thou afraid of me, Vengeance?”
That tore it. With a growl, he caught her waist, pulled her hard up against the throbbing length that pressed behind his codpiece. “Is this what you want, princess? Shall we resume where we left off last night?”
A gasp slipped past her parted lips. Yet she flung back her haughty head, eyes blazing green fire. “A bit importunate for a Church enforcer, but this will do.”
Butterfly-light, her fingers grazed his temples, then cupped his head with both hands. Mesmerized, he stared into her determined gaze. I wanted her wanton...
The rising sun st
reamed through the window around them. The light tricked his eyes, lit her skin with an alabaster glow, until her radiant beauty shone like moonlight. Her touch made him tingle, sent shivers sparking over his skin. All the blood rushed to his groin.
God’s fury, he wanted to tear aside the thrice-be-damned codpiece between them. Wanted to gather her skirts above her waist to expose her pouting mound of Venus...wanted to make her moan for him, drench his fingers in her salty cream...wanted to sheathe his aching length in her heat. He burned to tug down her bodice, bare her succulent little breasts, suckle her impudent nipples until she writhed against him.
As though she could read the dangerous images smoldering in his eyes, she jerked her hands away. The glow behind her elfin features flickered wildly. A rosy blush suffused her; she moistened her pink lips.
Gradually, as that otherworldly glow faded, the abominable hammering in his skull receded.
“I’ll be damned,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know whether you’ve healed me or merely distracted me.”
She gazed into his eyes, her lips parted. “I healed thee, Beltran. When wilt thou open thine eyes?”
He shook his head. “Either way, I’m not complaining. Kiss me, Rhiannon.”
A frown flickered between her brows. She stirred against him, small hands rising to grip his biceps. “My lord, we can’t do this.”
Modest as a damn virgin once more, something like fear mingled with arousal in her eyes. Well, no doubt that was for the best.
Beltran dragged in a breath and ordered his hands to release her. They obeyed him, but one rose to cup her cheek. Her silken skin was warm beneath his calloused palm.
For a heartbeat, her face turned into his touch, lids fluttering closed. Her lips brushed his palm.
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