Her breath snared in her lungs when Joscelin shouldered into the chamber. After his sterling performance at the tourney, the lords and ladies beamed at him like a favored son, raising a chorus of hearty accolades for his victories.
Despairing, she drank in the sight of him. His powerful chest and shoulders strained the plain doublet, and white teeth flashed in his sun-browned features as he cheerfully returned the compliments. Her unruly heart swelled against her lungs until it ached.
Was it stubborn pride she felt, that he’d tossed half-a-dozen men on their rumps and won glory in her dubious honor? Was it admiration, that he’d managed to earn recognition in this venal court despite his modest fortune? Aye, they all knew him now, for better or worse. If he fell into ruin, he would not do so in obscurity.
“My dear Allegra,” Don Maximo said, and she remembered suddenly to manage her face. “After your encounters with the man, one does begin to wonder whether you harbor some…untoward sentiment for Lord Rochford’s mongrel son.”
“I harbor no untoward sentiment for any man.” She pivoted away from the lodestone of Sir Joscelin’s dangerous presence. “As you well know, I do not swoon into ardor like a lovesick maid.”
“I suppose I must rest content with that…so long as you recall your duty.”
“I always recall my duty.” She spoke swiftly, to divert him. “I cannot help noticing the king seems out of sorts tonight. Have you managed to discern why?”
“Oh, he is vexed with Katherine.” Don Maximo shrugged, as if Henry Tudor in a rage were a trifling matter. “He wished to teach her a lesson and send her packing, it seems.”
“Indeed?” Her chest constricted with terrible anxiety. Santa Maria, she must betray nothing.
“Alas, I have persuaded our cardinal that he requires Katherine’s presence for the marriage trial.” Angelic as a choirboy, the don smiled. “Campeggio does not forget that the pope’s safety depends upon Spanish tolerance.”
“Quite so.” Damn the man, he must say more than that!
“Blessed by the Savior’s wisdom, His Eminence has persuaded Henry to abandon his scheme to exile the queen.”
“Bene—that is very well.” Her stomach sinking, Allegra pinned on a bright smile. Somehow she must conceal her horror at this unholy alliance. If Campeggio and Don Maximo resolved to work in concert, she could never elude them both.
The don was watching her too sharply. Perhaps he marked the pulse leaping at her throat, above her low-necked gown. Perhaps he felt the tremor in her fingers. Perhaps any one of a dozen clues betrayed her.
“In fact, my pet, it seems someone close to the throne has dropped the notion in Henry’s ear to exile me along with her. Have you ever heard such infamy?”
“Spain has many enemies at this court.” So much for Mary Carey’s plan. Allegra spared a mordant smile for her childish disappointment. Had she truly expected an outcome that ran counter to the don’s wishes? The Boleyns were fools if they thought to circumvent him.
“My dear Allegra, your hands are ice.” Amusement flickered in his features as the don drew her fingers to his lips.
Distressed, she looked away—and locked eyes with Sir Joscelin. He towered beyond the dancers, close enough to hail if she dared, eyes fierce as he watched her yield to another man. For a heartbeat she stared back at him, trapped in her enemy’s embrace.
How would she manage to dance among these tangled schemes—hers, the don’s, the Boleyn plan?
When the music ended, she sank into her curtsey, concealing everything she felt behind her Spanish hood.
Slippery as a serpent, Fausto slid through the throng and whispered to the don. Smiling, Don Maximo turned toward her.
“Certain dispatches have arrived from Spain that I have long awaited. It seems, my Allegra, that you have won a brief reprieve. I trust you’ll use it wisely.”
“I’m devastated to be deprived of your company,” she said aridly, sliding free of him. “But rest assured, the time shall not be wasted.”
Softly he laughed. “Pray do not linger overlong, my treasure. You know how I worry when you come late to bed.”
Shivering, she slipped away from him—away from the brooding king and the thoughtful scrutiny of Thomas Boleyn, Lord Rochford. Away from Mary Carey’s serene sky blue eyes…and the heat of Joscelin’s.
Allegra retreated to the mullioned windows and stared blindly into a night blanched by moonlight. Sharp as a honed stiletto, star fire glittered against the frosty ground.
Only ten days left to Twelfth Night. Henry would send the don nowhere now.
The overblown sweetness of damask rose flooded her nostrils.
“The maze,” Lady Carey whispered, beneath the laughter that eddied around them. “At its heart, he awaits you.”
Allegra stiffened. What use to pursue the infernal plan now, when the don had already thwarted them?
But the lady had gone, gliding away on the arm of her fashionable brother George, as if they’d never spoken. All the saints be praised that Don Maximo had already left and taken his slinking spy Fausto with him.
Caution tingled along her skin as she slipped through the crowd, unhurried and composed. Only to warn him away, and for no other reason—anything more is madness.
With a backward glance, she hurried along the torch-lit corridor. She needed a cloak for the winter-cold garden, but dared not return to her chamber for it. The roar of revelry faded as she wound an indirect route through the corridors, the better to confuse pursuit. When she felt certain she’d not been followed, she found a servants’ gate and escaped into the night.
The fierce English cold snatched her breath away, stabbing like knives through her sable-lined sleeves, raising gooseflesh along her exposed bosom. Overhead the star-bright heavens burned, painfully clear, around a sickle moon like a Turkish dagger. Snow crunched beneath her shoes as she clung to the shadows, slipping along the high hedge until she found the maze.
Here she paused, listening, but heard nothing beyond the thin whisper of her own heartbeat. Glancing behind her, she plunged into the maze.
Straining to pierce the darkness, she paused to listen for any murmur of voices, any crunch of footsteps in pursuit. If anyone came upon her prowling the grounds at this hour, she’d simply say a certain root must be dug by moonlight for a healing potion.
In the maze’s guarded heart, a gazebo thrust its sword-sharp roof toward Heaven, but the structure was empty. Struggling against relief and disappointment, she threaded her fingers through the trellis and stared into the night.
God save her, what was she doing trysting with a man by moonlight, like a greensick maid?
A sudden hush fell over the maze, as if the night held its breath. A familiar fragrance teased her nostrils: the clean odor of mint, cut by the bracing tang of citrus. Ice crackled under a footfall behind her.
She kept her countenance and did not turn. But her skin tingled from head to foot, as the floor moaned like an enraptured lover beneath a man’s weight.
“Signora,” he whispered. “You’re a woman who keeps her promises.”
“I keep them when it suits my purpose, but don’t misinterpret my presence. I came to speak with you, nothing more.” Her accent was too pronounced—a certain sign of nerves. “I’m afraid I cannot tarry.”
“You mustn’t be concerned for your reputation. I’ve ensured we may be private, oui?” A fur-lined cloak, warm from his body, settled around her shoulders. “Mary is watching for us. She’ll signal if anyone approaches.”
Now she must say the words that would drive him away. Yet she could not seem to force them past her lips.
“You were impressive in battle, Sir Joscelin. Even, I might say, stupendissimo. The king is most fortunate that you withdrew before he faced you.”
“I fought for a worthy cause.” His warm breath brushed her nape. “Will you not even look at me—your champion in battle?”
Instead she slipped away, raising the barrier of distance. Only then did she
turn to face him. He stood where she’d left him, surely sensing how easily she’d startle into flight. Wind ruffled the thick curls that tumbled around his shoulders, lush enough to tempt any woman’s touch. But a spear of moonlight lanced through the trellis to gleam against the silver B at his throat.
He could mean nothing to her but danger, yet his eyes devoured her like a starving man at a banquet. Surely she was seemly, only a sliver of blood-red skirts and the merest swell of bosom peeping beneath the cloak. Yet her flesh heated under his smoky gaze as though he touched her—she, who’d always loathed a man’s touch.
“You were gallant to fight in my name today,” she said. “Gallant, but foolish. The don has already remarked on your attentions, and he is a dangerous man to anger. Therefore, I came to tell you—we cannot meet again.”
“Don’t speak to me of your damned ambassador,” he said roughly, clenching his sheathed sword. “The one they call the Spanish Devil. I watched you with him tonight, curse it. You can’t bear his touch, n’est-ce pas? These English are blind men if they can’t see it.”
With a pang, she thought of Alessandro Borgia’s white-filmed eyes. Though her father was now fully blind, there was little he did not perceive.
She knew that she must dissemble, wound him with a woman’s cutting laughter. She must fill the air between them with the lies that would deter him. But an aversion to deceiving him throttled her like an assassin’s garrote.
“Santa Maria,” she sighed. “What does it matter if I can’t abide him? You know I am sworn to his service.”
“Are you sworn to his bed?” He strode forward, blocking her escape. “He can’t compel you! God-a-mercy, what kind of man forces himself on a woman who despises him?”
“Do you think he cares for that?” she said bitterly. “Indeed, he probably prefers it.”
“Tell me what hold he has over you.” He reached for her and she flinched, braced by instinct for a man’s rough blow. But his large hands were gentle as they closed around her shoulders—so gentle she didn’t twist away. “Whatever it is, Allegra…I may address you so, oui? Whatever he’s threatened you with—”
“I don’t care to speak of him! I can’t afford to antagonize him, nor to rouse his suspicion—now of all moments. So this is how it ends. Arrivederci.”
“Does it end?” His voice deepened, drawing her in, even as his hands eased her closer. The shocking width of his chest seared her palms through his shirt and doublet. She felt the rapid thunder of his heart, the strength and heat of his nearness.
Dear God, she’d dreamed of a man like this, tender and honest and strong enough to keep the whole world at bay. Indulging this single moment of weakness, she splayed her fingers over his chest.
All that vitality and charisma, fueled by the sudden violence he’d unleashed on the tourney field. Yet he could perish as easily as any man, slain by a drop of nightshade mixed with his morning ale, or by the headman’s axe for treason. She would not be responsible for a good man’s passing—or she might as well swallow the poison herself.
Any way she looked, she saw nothing but ruin for Joscelin.
“For pity’s sake,” she cried. “For your own sake, I pray you—stay away from me.”
Frustration resonated through his taut frame like a plucked bowstring. “I can’t believe you desire that.”
“Believe it! And be grateful you have no notion what a woman like me desires.”
He towered over her, a handspan away, his square jaw set with the stubbornness she was coming to recognize. But all the strength ran out of her limbs when amber heat pooled in his eyes.
“What can I say that will convince you?” she asked. Tension thrummed between them—not the prelude to violence she knew so well, but the promise of something else. Still, she feared it.
“Say? There’s nothing.” He came closer. “Your body speaks its own language, Allegra. You can’t lie to me.”
“I can lie to any man living, signor,” she whispered, her throat aching. “I can make a man believe high noon is midnight, for I’ve learned well how to deceive.”
Now she should panic, as his arms enclosed her, yet she only clutched his powerful shoulders. She should do or say anything to escape. But she could only stare, wild-eyed, as his head bent toward her. A shuddering breath spilled from her when their lips met.
Casimiro had not cared for kisses, all the saints be praised for it, so she barely knew what to dread. Braced for some new violence, she hardly breathed as his lips eased across hers, whiskers rasping against her cheek, his minty breath on her tongue. He held her steady as his mouth explored hers—nothing but gentle, no pain or depravity to brace against.
Under the tender touch, a flicker of heat ignited in her belly. Her breath exploded in a trembling rush as she twisted free.
“Don’t you understand?” She stared up at him, horrified to hear her voice fracture. “I can’t bear to be touched.”
“Hush.” Moving slowly to avoid startling her, he massaged her nape with a callused hand. When he kissed her brow, gentle as the brother she’d never had, her eyes closed against the sudden sting of tears. “You must know I’d never harm you, Allegra. My life on it. I’d never force you into anything.”
Poor gallant fool, are you not afraid I will harm you?
Dragging her wits together, she backed away. God be thanked, he let her go, though his face twisted with regret.
“We must carry on as though this moment never happened. Here are the unpleasant truths of our relations, Sir Joscelin. You are a Boleyn, determined to see your sister on the English throne, whatever the cost. While I serve Spain, and the Spanish Queen you would depose.”
Joscelin frowned. “I’m half Boleyn—and sometimes I fear it’s not my better half. Certainement, I don’t approve Anne’s course, though I know better than to tell her so.”
“Yet you will spend yourself for it,” she said. “While I am sworn to the opposite course—to see the queen upheld, and your sister cast down. Our aims must always be at odds.”
“Merde!” His fists knotted. “If I thought you served the Spaniard from love of gold, or power, or lust—if only I thought that, I’d leave you to him.”
“If you fancy I’m some tragic victim, I fear you’ve deceived yourself.” She forced the lie out, and loathed it. “Hear me now, and know the truth. Behind this face and form that lure you, I belong to another man, bought and paid for. Though he’s corrupt and cunning as a serpent—”
“Do you think me an idiot? Every word you speak, every shadow that darkens your eyes, every flicker of your face weeps heartbreak and tragedy. Damnation!” Roughly he scrubbed a hand over his face, conflict raging in his eyes. “I can no longer keep silent. I heard you with the cardinal, in the chapel yesterday.”
Numb with disbelief, she absorbed the blow. The knowledge seeped through her like a slow poison. So he’d lurked in the shadows, a skulking eavesdropper, no better than his fellows. He’d heard every word of her anguish, remained silent while Campeggio voiced his ugly threats. And later on the river, when she’d told him of her husband, Joscelin had never betrayed a word of what he knew.
Yet she’d thought him as candid as a child, incapable of deception or trickery? She’d been naïve enough to trust the shining veneer of a knight’s integrity? Why, he was no more trustworthy than any man, no more honorable or good-hearted than all those others who’d failed her.
“No doubt, like a dutiful son,” she said, “you rushed to pour the tale of my torment into your father’s eager ears.”
The shame that flashed across his candid features shouted his guilt more clearly than a confession. Struggling against the sting of disillusionment, she let his cloak fall. It pooled at her feet, leaving her unprotected as the cold struck through her.
“I don’t deny it. It’s a wretched poor excuse, but I’ve done much to win my father’s regard—even schemed against a grieving woman.” Harsh with frustration, his voice rang out. “I should have driven him away from
you. As God is my witness, I should have aided you! Mon Dieu, there’s no excuse for my failure.”
Somehow, God help her, she must absorb the blow of this betrayal. Though how can it be betrayal from a man you barely know? She must consider the implications, the safety of those whose fate rested in her hands.
“No doubt if the Boleyns know my history,” she said, “the king must soon hear it. I cannot doubt Campeggio will betray me himself, given but a moment of the king’s regard. So much the worse if—well, I must simply prepare for it.”
“Allegra.” He advanced, but she circled away. “What can I do to make amends?”
“I hardly know.” She uttered a sharp laugh, the blade of his deception twisting in her heart. “Between the atrocities Campeggio accused me of and the confession you had from my lips, you must believe you know all my secrets.”
“I will tell no other.” Sincerity blazed from his eyes—but she knew better than to trust that now. “My father is ever one to hoard his advantage. Certainement, he won’t spill your secrets to the king or any other without cause.”
“Gesù! Do you think I will never give him cause? If you believe you know the worst of my secrets, I fear you are due for a shock.”
“But why do you malign yourself this way? I can’t understand you!” Pushing a hand through his hair, he came toward her—and again pulled short when she retreated. “Blast it! Do you want me to distrust you?”
“Now you begin to understand,” she whispered. “Perhaps now you will heed my warnings and keep your distance. Believe me, it’s all the better for you.” She drew an unsteady breath. “You’re no better than the rest of them, a schemer and a hypocrite, and I have enough of those in my life. I’ll have nothing to do with another.”
In the silence that followed her words—honed and hurled for maximum effect, as only she could do it—she pivoted in a swirl of blood-crimson skirts and fled. She fled before she wavered, and wept for the acid regret that burned her.
Chapter Eight
Tingling with unease, Joscelin paused outside the Spanish Ambassador’s chamber as the pearly light of dawn leaked down the corridor. He stared at the door, fingers crushing the precious parchment with its royal seal. So far, his plan proceeded…despite that chilling bit of ugliness in Henry Tudor’s privy chamber.
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