The Devil's Mistress

by Laura Navarre

  Did I merely dream of a man like you…a man with eyes of fire, strong and steadfast as steel? Or did my soul know yours in some past life—the man who would save me, protect me from myself and all my enemies?

  But that was sheer folly. No man was ever to be trusted—no more than she could be trusted herself.

  “Pardonnez,” he said harshly. “My sister takes wine from her servant’s hand alone.”

  This was a new development! Mistress Anne herself looked surprised to hear it. But the words struck Allegra like a dash of icy water, and her scattered wits reassembled.

  Deliberately, she released the goblet. It slipped from her fingers to roll on the floor. The bitter juice of bryony and wine spread across the flagstones in a garnet pool. If her target had swallowed even a mouthful, she would have suffered nausea and flux…but not death.

  For it was no nightshade Allegra had poured in the lady’s cup. She’d merely poured a warning, unpleasant but hardly fatal—a caution against Spanish malice. Still, that would not save Allegra if her bearing roused suspicion now. They would say she’d tried to kill the lady and bungled it.

  “I do beg your pardon. I sought only to assist Mistress Anne. You startled me, my lord.”

  Though she knew well enough he was no lord. The cut of his cloth was too sober, his hand too callused where he gripped her wrist. His broadsword was plain dull steel, its hilt wrapped with leather and stained with use. But she spied his sole adornment—the silver B that dangled from a cord at his throat. And all at once, she knew him.

  “Another Boleyn, is it?” Pinning a bright smile to her lips, she turned toward Mistress Anne—who was gaping at the strange tableau, as they all were. Any hope for subterfuge this night was shattered beyond repair.

  But Anne Boleyn had not risen on the strength of charm and sensuality alone. A well-honed intellect lurked behind those black eyes, framed to advantage in a mask flashing with brilliants. In an instant she recovered, tilting back her head with a graceful laugh.

  “So he claims, though I for one can scarcely comprehend it. My father, Thomas Boleyn—and a barefooted farm girl? ’Tis hardly a connection I would scramble to embrace.”

  A spasm of anger knotted the newcomer’s jaw as he clenched his teeth over a sharp retort. But he kept his countenance, no less proud than his upstart sister. Allegra felt an unwilling pang of sympathy for this Boleyn male—even while he gripped her wrist and stared as though his eyes would burn her.

  “What, no volley of heated words fired off in your mother’s defense?” Mistress Anne lifted an elegant brow. “Why, Joscelin, I profess myself surprised! Did you learn the art of discretion from the French?”

  “Leave it,” the man gritted, with iron restraint. “It’s my sworn duty to protect you, sister. I have only your welfare at heart, and I’m sorry you do not care for it.”

  “In that case, you are overzealous. Be assured, brother, that I’m well able to advance my own interests at this court.”

  Forcing herself to calm, Allegra found the hovering servant gaping witless at the spectacle. Her discarded cup dangled in his grip. “You there!” She assumed the easy command of a countess. “Wine for our Queen of Beauty. But find a clean goblet, one that hasn’t been rolling on the floor.”

  The lad scrambled to obey. Mistress Anne accepted the offering and drank, lifting her eyes to Heaven as if to say, “There, do you see how simple?”

  But Allegra knew the Boleyn male had not forgotten the other cup, now borne away by the slow-witted servant, or the pool of wine at her feet. She turned her wrist in his grip and tugged lightly, but he held her—a confinement she could have broken, but not without revealing more of herself than she wished.

  Instead, she merely arched her brows. “My lord, you are bruising my arm.”

  To her relief, he released her at once, though the imprint of his grip still tingled.

  For reasons she could not pin down, his gaze unsettled her. She could drown in those uncanny eyes—forest green shot with amber, clear as an angel’s conscience—looking straight through her, as though he could see no one else. He filled the space beside her, broad chest and shoulders narrowing to a horseman’s lean hips.

  Her gaze skimmed his belted sword, the corded sinew of legs beneath his hose, his well-worn boots braced apart. But she flinched from the leather codpiece bulging between his thighs.

  All men were dangerous, but this one vibrated with impulse barely held in check, like a stallion half-broken to the saddle. For the moment, she must coax him to the bit.

  “Signora Grimaldi, I am told?” His voice rumbled from that cavernous chest, husky with a Frenchman’s accent.

  “Alas, I am unmasked.” Who the Devil was he? She’d counted on discretion to disguise her. For this night, Anne Boleyn had eluded Spanish malice. A subtle tension eased from Allegra’s shoulders as she deferred her mission.

  “I fear you have the advantage of me?” She dipped into a little curtsey, arranging her face in polite inquiry.

  “Somehow I doubt that,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving her. A little tremor rippled through her. “Sir Joscelin Henri Boleyn, at my lady’s service.”

  Now I doubt that, my proud monsieur. If you serve your sister, you will never serve Spain.

  Gravely she inclined her head, playing for time. She’d studied the English peerage and knew the Boleyns’ antecedents. Proud Anne flaunted her French fashions and graces at every turn. Sir Joscelin must be some indigent bastard, newly come to court. Had he been there long, Allegra could not have failed to notice a man of his size and…physical impact.

  Tucking his name away for later scrutiny, she glanced at Mistress Anne. Already the lady turned aside to quip with her courtiers.

  “It appears I’ve interrupted a family reunion.” Allegra seized her moment to end this disastrous encounter. “I’ll bid you adieu, Sir Joscelin.”

  When she spoke his name, his eyes deepened to molten gold. Her heart gave a skip, as the words died on her tongue.

  “Family reunion?” A sardonic smile tugged at his lips. “I assure you, my sister welcomes the interruption. She’s full weary of hearing that she must be better guarded.”

  A fresh tremor of alarm swept through her. As the musicians slid into the steady thrum of a passamezzo, Sir Joscelin Boleyn claimed her hand.

  Allegra had never welcomed a man’s touch—her husband had cured her forever of that. Yet now a flicker of heat danced over her skin, pleasant against the December chill. Bracing as his distinctive fragrance—the spicy pine of outdoors, cut by the sharp tang of citrus.

  “If you wish to ingratiate yourself with my sister, she’s grateful to be spared my presence. Believe me.” His eyes challenged her—as if he knew she didn’t give a damn for Boleyn favor. “I would speak with you, signora…and you’re a compelling dancer.”

  So he must have been watching, even before she’d approached his sister. Every instinct she possessed whispered jeopardy.

  “I fear I cannot remain, sir. By now I am missed by the queen—”

  His fingers tightened, and a spear of unease lanced through her. He spoke softly, so only she could hear. “Either we speak privately, Signora Grimaldi, or we speak here…among these others.”

  Trepidation tightened her chest, the sense of certain danger bumping up against an odd elation. Somehow, through no device she could determine, he suspected her.

  Yielding to expedience and an unnerving sense of fate, she lowered her lashes.

  “Very well, Sir Joscelin. One dance, as you insist upon it.”

  Triumph hummed through Joscelin’s blood as he led Allegra Grimaldi into the dance. He’d charged through the hall to contain her like an avenging angel, drawn to the air of danger that lingered around her voluptuous form like the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. Now he drank in her scent until his head swam, an aroma as exotic and sophisticated as the lady who wore it.

  Another man’s mistress. The role implied corruption, decadence…yet what he saw simme
ring in her eyes was knife-sharp purpose, tempered with despair. He didn’t know what she was about, but if she presented a threat to Boleyn interests, it was his duty to draw her sting. Duty—nothing more.

  He guided her into the passamezzo, a graceful line dance, not overly energetic, perfect for the tête-à-tête he intended. Her hands lay in his as she glided through the measures, a ruby winking on her finger.

  Against her wrist he discerned the pale patch of scar tissue. She’d been burned once, and badly. At the thought of this exquisite beauty in pain, a peculiar tension gripped his chest…as if he wanted to protect her.

  Beneath the music, Allegra Grimaldi leaned toward him. “Pray do not keep me in suspense, Sir Joscelin. If you’ve something to say to me, I am listening.”

  Her sultry Italian voice caressed him, crackling down his spine. Mocking him, though she must be wary after the way he’d confronted her. She was not easily intimidated, or else she was well-practiced in hiding her fear.

  “As you say your time is precious, signora, I’ll come direct to the point.” He made his voice unyielding, to show her no quarter. “Tell me why you approached my sister.”

  Through the eyeholes of her mask, her long-lidded gaze observed him. “You have already put a name to my intent. I wished to ingratiate myself with her—the woman who would be queen. In that sense, my purpose is no different than any courtier’s.”

  “Come now, you’re no Boleyn sycophant, idling about to curry favor.” Mon Dieu, she would not slip his net so easily. “New come to court I may be, but even I know that much. You support the queen’s cause, oui? You’re attached to the Spanish Ambassador’s suite.”

  He said it deliberately, to test the waters, expecting a kept woman’s languid assent, perhaps a complacent smile. Instead she recoiled, her features tightening.

  “Attached.” Her carmine lips smiled but her eyes were veiled. “I believe you might say so. I cannot discern why you feel that prevents me from seeking your sister’s favor, the way the wind blows at this court.”

  “Where is monsieur the ambassador tonight?” He watched for another flicker of that unusual response. “I am eager to make his acquaintance.”

  “Are you?” She slipped one hand free as the dance required, pivoting to watch him over a supple shoulder. Behind the mask, her alabaster features were inscrutable, but her tone was brittle. “Are you so certain?”

  A subtle warning underlay her words. His skin tingled with the lightning charge of danger. Then her lips curved in a polite smile, and the moment was gone.

  “Do you move in diplomatic circles, signor?”

  “I’ve had the honor to represent English interests at the French court.” Not allowing her to evade him, Joscelin caught her, drew her close.

  Despite his fierce focus on nosing out the danger she posed to his sister, he was damnably distracted by the press of her lush breasts against her bodice. At her throat hung an antique cross, the sort with a compartment for some holy relic—an odd choice of adornment for her serpent’s disguise. Another seeming contradiction, one more enigma to unravel.

  He cleared his throat and asked again. “Where is your ambassador?”

  “Attending Queen Katherine at her devotions.” She glided away as the dance required, her tone gone colorless. “I too must return there, for it would not do to be missed.”

  Her eyes were shuttered, as though she loathed her lover. But how likely was that? A woman who looked like this one could have her choice of any protector at court, even the king himself.

  “I see I’ve done nothing to allay your suspicions, Sir Joscelin. Let us embark upon a moment of directness. Of what dastardly deed do you suspect me?”

  God-a-mercy! Whatever mischief she was about, the lady was bold enough with it. Her chiseled jaw betrayed fragility and determination. The haughty tilt of her head signaled aloofness and pride. But her ripe mouth would make any man living think of bedsport.

  Yet shadows haunted her twilight eyes. Sorrow, desperation, a fine-honed strength burned there—and a wrenching grief that tugged at him.

  “I suspect you’re a dangerous woman, Allegra Grimaldi.” He drew her close…only because the dance required it, of course. “My instincts tell me you’re a threat to my sister, oui? Though for now I cannot prove it. Yet already I have evidence of your effect upon men.”

  A spark of awareness kindled in her amethyst gaze—a flicker of heat that told him she too felt the tug of attraction. Then the mask of caution dropped over her sculpted features. Her lashes swept down as she drew away, demure as a Madonna sheathed in a siren’s flesh.

  “I do not wish you ill, Sir Joscelin Boleyn,” she whispered, so low he could barely hear her. “If you value your welfare, find a safer woman to admire. Any other woman in London would do.”

  Arrested, he stared at her, gritting his teeth as his cock swelled in his codpiece. Mon Dieu, he wanted her…pinnacle of madness though it no doubt was.

  “Are you warning me away, signora?”

  “If you like.” Her eyes lifted to his, something like regret darkening their depths as she slid her hands from his. “Maximo Montoya has no particular reason to know you exist, and you would be wise to keep it thus. If you would prosper at this court, stay away from him.”

  He started to retort, but a light hand touched his shoulder. Swallowing the questions that tumbled to his lips, he swung around.

  A slight dark-skinned man, sober in black doublet and hose, stood quietly behind him—too close for comfort. Briefly Joscelin thought this stealthy figure was the Spanish Ambassador. The red heat of battle flooded his limbs.

  But nay, the lad was only a callow youth, with no sign of wealth or eminence about him. Though he burned with the conviction of adolescence—the fierce need to be taken seriously, and to prove his worth. Joscelin knew the feeling and gave him the courtesy of a bow.

  Somberly, the young man inclined his body, limp black hair falling over his face. “Signor, I am Frey Fausto Mephisto, clerk and confessor to the Spanish Ambassador. I crave indulgence for the interruption.”

  With brusque courtesy, Joscelin nodded. “I am Sir Jos—”

  “What is it, Fausto?” Smoothly Allegra slipped between them, preventing his introduction so gracefully that it seemed no intrusion.

  Shooting her a thoughtful look, Joscelin saw composure stamped on her elegant profile. Yet her shoulders were rigid with a tension that betrayed her unease.

  “Contessa Grimaldi.” Fausto’s deep-set eyes smoldered as they fixed upon her. Perhaps he too was dazzled by her. “Don Maximo is preparing to retire for the evening, si? He wished me to express his…concern…for your absence.”

  The implication slammed into Joscelin like a bolt of lightning, burning away the sensual haze of the Devil’s Mistress. What better evidence of her wickedness than this, to see a servant of God scrambling to arrange her liaisons?

  Surely he could not be dismayed to hear George’s easy slander of the lady confirmed—a lady he’d known for barely five minutes?

  Her long throat rippled as she swallowed. Hardly the reaction of a woman eager to rush off for a rendezvous.

  “But of course,” she said easily, making him doubt his instincts. She slanted him a sidelong glance. “My thanks for the passamezzo…and farewell.”

  Joscelin knew he dared not yield to this idée fixe, this fascination she’d cast over him like a net. If this woman—the Spanish Ambassador’s mistress, of all possible follies—distracted him from the family cause at this critical juncture, his father would not be pleased. Still, he felt determined to wring some acknowledgement from her of the sexual tension arcing between them.

  Why deny it? He simmered with the urge to stake his claim, here before the dispassionate gaze of her lover’s minion.

  Bowing over her hand, he spoke against her jasmine-scented wrist. “Farewell, but not adieu. I promise you, signora, we’ll meet again.”

  Beneath his lips, her pulse leaped. Nay, she was not indifferent. But be
fore the priest’s burning gaze, her countenance never flickered.

  “Remember what I told you,” she said softly, sliding her hand from Joscelin’s and turning away.

  Sir Joscelin Boleyn stood alone in the great hall, with a double line of dancers parting and flowing around him, and stared after the Devil’s Mistress. Her head held high, Allegra Grimaldi glided after the Spanish priest, who walked like the piper leading the rats to their doom.

  God help him, besotted fool that he was, but Joscelin ached to follow her—straight to Hell.

  Chapter Three

  The bells in the king’s chapel were tolling as Allegra hurried late to Mass, down the drafty corridor of this cold English palace, through bars of pallid daylight that barely lit her path. As usual, she’d slept poorly, tossing in her narrow bed. How not, when that witch of a serving-maid shared her chamber, so Allegra was under Maximo’s scrutiny even while she slept?

  Even then she must mask her thoughts.

  Today she had ample cause for unease. The don’s ultimatum, her botched attempt to warn Mistress Anne, then the unsettling encounter with that stern flame-haired giant, Sir Joscelin Boleyn. Santo Spirito, his bronze-tinged eyes had burned like a vengeful angel’s.

  Yet strength and certainty had radiated from his touch, warming her all the way through, like the thermal baths of her Italian childhood.

  God love her, she was a fool! Surely she knew better than any woman alive that no man was to be trusted.

  Thomas Boleyn’s bastard had stared because he doubted her, and rightly so. Now she must ensure her conduct was beyond reproach, until his suspicions were allayed. Somehow, she must craft some tale that would cozen Maximo into waiting before they moved against Anne Boleyn again.

  If only she had not sparked the ambassador’s interest by her late return. He’d allowed her to slip past without reproach, but the sharp discerning look that probed her features had sent ice cascading down her spine.

  In the lifetime she’d endured since Casimiro Grimaldi met his violent end and she was arrested for his murder, Maximo Montoya was the only man living she had never been able to deceive.