Emblazoned on her vision was Sir Joscelin’s striking image astride his stallion with its flaming coat. The man’s shoulders were unsettlingly broad beneath his leather jerkin, his crimson doublet bold against the snow. The sinewed bulge of his thighs drew her, booted legs gripping his saddle—intimate as if he rode a woman.
Santo Spirito, I am mad! Flustered, she glanced behind her. “Are you keeping well, Frey Fausto?”
In truth, she hardly cared if the sharp-eyed priest dropped from the saddle. She wished him back in Richmond, in Spain, or in Hell itself—wherever they would deign to receive him. Like many clergy, Fausto Mephisto rode a mule for humility, disdaining a proper horse. Unfortunately, his piety slowed their pace to half—now of all times, when she chafed to return to court and waited on tenterhooks for her father’s reply.
“God has granted me good health.” Fausto’s coal-dark eyes burned into her.
Beside him, Lady Carey met Allegra’s gaze and arched her brows, obviously urging her toward the accord she thought they’d reached. As far as Lady Carey knew, Allegra still planned to seduce the woman’s brother.
Uneasy before Fausto and her Spanish maid, Allegra smiled blandly and turned away. Lady Carey broke into a stream of artless chatter about her family home at Hever—clearly directed toward Fausto, a convenient cover for Allegra to ply her wiles.
Joscelin’s eyes met hers, sending a charge of awareness sizzling through her. “It seems I’m always craving your pardon for some offense. I should never have eavesdropped on your words with the cardinal, and never told my father.”
So he was sorry now, was he? Little good it did her.
She angled her plumed hat to conceal her face. If she resolved to seduce him, she must at least pretend to forgive him. Indeed, if she wished to return quickly, she should tumble into Joscelin’s bed that very night and have done with the matter.
Always, the notion of bedding a man made her cringe. Now, a disconcerting tide of heat tingled through her. She could not seem to forget the leashed strength of his arms around her, the coaxing play of his mouth on hers, so different from anything she’d ever known. Santa Maria, there seemed to be not enough air in the whole world to fill her lungs.
“My stallion fancies that black beauty you’re riding,” he said. “Andalusian, isn’t she?”
“I see you know your horseflesh.” If she could not resolve to seduce him, she had better remind him to keep away. “The mare is a gift from Don Maximo, to present a suitable appearance when we follow the royal progress. Her name is Electra.”
“Ah, the Greek legend, oui? The woman who avenged her loved ones and paid the price?”
Behind them, Mary’s cheerful voice piped on.
“His Excellency chose the name.” Damn the man, would he not heed one of her warnings?
“Are you surprised to find I’m not entirely the French barbarian that I appear?” He reined closer, teeth flashing white in his beard. “I’m not offended if you confess it. You may find there’s more to this Boleyn than meets the eye.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” As he towered over her, she tilted back to meet his gaze.
The halo of sunlight—bright as redemption—flamed in his burnished hair. Everything about the man was larger than life, overwhelming his mediocre surroundings, tempting her to fling away caution with both hands. As if he could protect her.
“Why did you petition the king for my presence?” She pitched her voice below Lady Carey’s babble. Bless her, the woman had progressed to a lengthy description of her two charming babes…a matter which could interest Fausto not at all.
“Because I wanted to see more of you.” His words sparked lightning down her spine. “Do you expect me to deny it? Mon Dieu, my head has been spinning like a child’s toy since the night I met you. For the life of me, I can’t decide whether you’re an unprincipled seductress who seeks naught but her own privilege—or a desperate innocent, trapped by circumstance.”
“You know well enough what I am.” Fear gave an edge to her voice. “For your own stubborn reasons, you simply refuse to acknowledge the evidence. Perhaps your pride can’t bear the thought of lusting after another man’s mistress.”
“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t define yourself by your relations with him. Be warned, signora, I don’t intend to spend this entire journey talking about your bloody ambassador.”
Nay, you intend to spend those hours in my bed. But she dared not say that and couldn’t decide whether to encourage or refuse him. May I not take a lover, for only these few days? With the right bedmate, many women claim to enjoy it.
She prodded her mare to a trot, putting more distance between them and Fausto’s straining ears. “Tell me this, Sir Joscelin. Your sister rides with us, which she would never have done without your father’s support. Why does your powerful family throw itself behind your liaison?”
“My father never misses an opportunity to curry royal favor, which is why I’m dispatched on this mission.” He matched his stallion to her pace. “As for Mary, she bears me company for affection’s sake. Surely you know she was once Henry’s mistress. So she stands in his good graces, and I asked her for the favor.”
Could he truly be naïve enough to believe it was only that? Or did he think she was that naïve herself? She saw no shadow of deception in his gaze. But his jaw clenched as he stared forward, apparently steeling himself to say more.
“I don’t deny my father sees the advantage in luring you away from Spain. In the height of passion, he thinks you may divulge something of use to him. Zut! This can hardly surprise you.”
“Nor does it,” she murmured. So you are not a complete fool in the matter of your family. “You know what he expects…but will you do it?”
“To be honest, I doubt you’ll tell me anything you don’t wish to reveal.” His voice deepened, curling her toes in her boots. “Though I’d like to think I’ll make you forget yourself. Do you think that’s possible?”
“I make certain never to forget myself.” She struggled to command her voice. “No matter whose bed I may occupy. How many times must I warn you away?”
“What I’m wondering is why you’d wish to warn me at all. Why warn me if you’re bidden to lure me? Isn’t that why the don allowed you to leave?”
Nay, the man was no fool, and she would do well to recall it! Allegra shifted the attack. “And what does Mistress Carew suppose about this little rendezvous? I understand you plan to marry her.”
Somehow she still hoped for his denial, but his pause sent her hopes plummeting. So it is true after all. Gesù, what did I expect?
“I do plan to marry,” he said. “I’ll not deny it. Indeed, I’m no longer of an age to avoid it. The match will be made for the conventional reasons, for political and financial advantage.”
“I hardly supposed it would be a love match.” She glanced away. Why should it matter to her whom he married, or why? “Should you not remain at court to negotiate the marriage settlements? Rather than gallivant around the countryside with another man’s mistress—”
“Merde!” The obscenity exploded between his teeth. His stallion flung back his head with a neigh of protest. Joscelin controlled the steed, bringing him prancing alongside her. Fear lodged in her throat when his hand fisted around her reins, pulling their horses close.
If she had made Casimiro Grimaldi this angry, he would have struck her with that fist.
Instinctively, she leaned away. Conflicting needs clashed within her: the old impulse to flinch from a man’s brutal rage set against the urge to draw her stiletto and slice her attacker to ribbons. His golden eyes, incandescent with anger, met hers.
“God-a-mercy, I am not about to strike you, Allegra! God smite me dead if I ever raise my hand against you or any woman.”
Although she possessed no reason on earth to believe him, she read the ring of conviction and the honest chagrin in his features.
“Unhand me, per favore.” Unsteady, she eyed his gloved fist. Beneath
her, Electra shied at the tension that charged the air.
“Ride with me.” He steadied the horses. “A good gallop, to clear the air and put some breathing space between us and your zealous minders.”
“I confess that sounds appealing, but it can hardly be prudent. Should we abandon Lady Carey on the road?”
“She has a dozen of my father’s finest swords to escort her in broad daylight. As well as her maid, yours, and that fanatical priest for chaperones. Henry Tudor brags on the safety of his roads, oui? I’d never leave her otherwise.”
Allegra knew she should summon a brisk refusal—for his sake. Her gaze snagged on the corded muscles beneath his studded jerkin, the leather codpiece that bulged between his thighs.
“Very well, but we must keep to the road.” Still winded, she tugged at her captured reins. “It would never do to lose ourselves.”
“Wouldn’t it?” Slowly, he let her reins slide through his fingers.
Anticipation sparked in her blood as she spurred the mare to a gallop. Behind her, Joscelin shouted a few words of explanation to their party and thundered after. The stinging wind whipped her cheeks and tore at her skirts as she crouched in the saddle, the snowy landscape blurring around her. The mare surged beneath her, carrying her away from her jailers.
Free of them all, for a few precious moments. If only I need never stop. She urged the mare on, the rumble of hooves filling her ears, Joscelin riding at her heels.
Too soon, her horse began to lag, the smooth strides slowing, so Allegra reluctantly eased her to a walk. Barely winded, the stallion pulled up alongside, perspiration shining on his burnished hide. Green as spring grass, his rider’s eyes flashed.
“Well done!” His praise warmed her. “Mon Dieu, Allegra, you ride as though the Devil dogged your heels.”
He does, but I cannot outrun him. She touched her windblown hair and realized she’d lost her stylish hat. Curls tumbled from her chignon and her face tingled from cold and exertion. “My congratulations, signor, for managing to keep the pace. Not many men do, when I ride.”
“Rest assured, you’ll not lose me—no matter how swiftly you run.” Miraculously, he’d managed to snare her errant hat. Smiling, he leaned close to settle it on her windblown curls. Another ripple of that edgy awareness swept through her, and her voice sounded breathless when she thanked him.
“We’ll walk the horses for a bit, oui?” he asked. “Until your mare regains her wind.”
While her horse’s breathing slowed, Allegra glanced cautiously over her shoulder. A swell in the land concealed the road behind them. Now their path wound through scattered groves of oaks and beeches, their limbs stripped bare by winter.
They had quite lost their party. Indeed, they’d left the prosperous farmsteads behind as well, and this stretch of land appeared unpeopled. For a rare moment, it seemed, she rode without surveillance.
Joscelin rose in his stirrups to survey the horizon, frowning at the pewter-colored storm clouds that massed in the north. “The weather’s turning. I rode this way a few days ago, coming with the cardinal from Dover. There’s a decent inn just beyond that rise—do you see that smudge of smoke? We’ll shelter there until the weather blows past.”
“I suppose it would be wise.” She stifled a pang of disappointment. So ended her bid for freedom. “When will the others reach us?”
“We’ve come well ahead, and that priest’s mule is unlikely to run. Nor is Mary the most intrepid rider, I must admit. They may seek shelter in that hamlet we passed, until this blows past us. No doubt we’ll be reunited by suppertime.”
The first thick flakes were swirling through the air as they trotted into the tidy courtyard. She surveyed the snug two-storied inn, its whitewashed walls crossed by sturdy timbers. Cheerful firelight danced in the mullioned windows and spilled through the door. Flinging it wide, the innkeeper shouted words of welcome.
Shortly, Allegra was curled in a chair in the common room, thawing her numbed hands while the innkeeper’s fresh-faced wife bustled around her, bringing a mug of hot cider to heat her blood. Though the place was dark and close compared to the Venetian villas of her childhood, she was chilled enough to welcome any hospitality. After stabling their horses, Joscelin joined her, stamping his snow-caked feet and striding to her side.
“It’s good we took shelter here.” He tossed his heavy cloak over a chair and swiftly assessed her comfort. “That snow is falling faster, and the wind’s starting to howl, but we’re snug enough here. We’ll linger over a hot meal until the worst of it passes, oui?”
Nodding, she wrapped her hands around the mug and inhaled the sweet spice of cloves and cinnamon. If she did intend to seduce him, the Devil had just dropped the perfect opportunity in her lap. This inn sheltered no other guests—no idle tongues to carry tales—just an elderly merchant dozing into his ale in the corner.
No matter. Even if we’re trapped here for a sennight, I can’t think of bedding him. Yet the memory of her husband, red-faced and shouting, had worn thin over time. Casimiro Grimaldi was three years in his grave and had lost his power to terrify her.
It was pleasant to leave her comfort in Joscelin’s capable hands, to warm herself while he commanded bowls of steaming mutton stew, fresh brown bread and a wheel of golden cheese, washed down with more of the excellent cider. The ride had sharpened her appetite, and Joscelin consumed two bowls of the hearty fare to her one. A crusty apple tart, sprinkled with brown sugar, filled her stomach to groaning.
Her companion dined with manners that would not be amiss in a Medici palazzo. And he was solicitous about her comfort, though his brows hoisted when he caught her glance.
“You’re an enigma to me, Sir Joscelin.” She settled back with her cider. “As fine a Boleyn as any of them, I’m certain. Yet you seem almost outcast from your clan, tolerated only for your father’s sake. Is it only your lack of wealth they hold against you?”
“That, and my mother’s lack of pedigree.” He shrugged, the silver B glinting against his bronzed throat. “You already know my mother was a farm lass, common born. Her liaison with my father was brief—a fleeting passion—and he was reluctant to acknowledge me.”
“That must have been difficult for you.” Still probing for weakness, was she? She could not even trust herself to voice honest sympathy.
“Au contraire—I was fortunate.” He propped his elbows on his knees. “My grandfather scraped together enough for my education. Since my mother was his only child, he expected me to inherit. When he took a younger wife who bore him a son, my mother was long dead, and my place was lost.”
His hands clenched around his mug, and her instincts stirred. Here loomed the great injustice that overshadowed his life.
When the silence stretched, she spoke to encourage him. “That must have been a blow, to see your life suddenly wrenched from the path you’d chosen. How old were you when you lost your place?”
“Eight-and-ten.” His eyes hooded. “Two days from marrying my childhood sweetheart. Oui, it came as a blow.”
“The marriage could not go forward?”
“I was willing—more than willing. Even if we had to live poor as church mice, with me working my cousin’s land for a living. But Gabrielle did not care for such a lifestyle. So she married a man who could offer her the security and holdings I could not.”
Allegra felt a surge of contempt for that foolish young woman who could not see past his financial constraints to the honorable, honest and determined man before her. “So you lost your bride as well as your inheritance. Was that when you joined the court?”
“I wrote to my father, offered to work for him here in England, even if only as a reeve on his estates. After all, I’d finished my university education, had a good head for figures, spoke several languages.” Joscelin tossed back his cider, and beckoned the innkeeper for more. “But Lord Rochford is a cautious man—wanted to see what manner of asset I’d be, before he brought me into the sphere of his interests.”
&nbs
p; “Surely he was quick to see your advantages? Lord Rochford does not strike me as a foolish man.”
“He decided to take a chance on me—despite his lady wife’s misgivings, of which she made certain I heard,” he said dryly. “Perhaps he was foolish for that. But I won my chance in a lowly post, as guard and courier to the English Ambassador in Paris. With time and effort, I improved my prospects.”
“A self-made man.” She nodded her approval, impressed all the more for his self-effacing manner. Most men would have bragged of it. “That would not have been easy under the best circumstances, for a man without wealth or title at court. Obviously you could rely only on your own hard work, yet you made yourself indispensable to your ambassador.”
“I had to earn my bread somehow.” His tone turned wistful. “But, more than anything, I wished to earn my father’s regard. I saw him only once in my youth, when he came to look me over. My mother’s family scratched in the dirt for a living, oui? So I knew nothing else. I thought him quite the most splendid and noble figure I’d ever seen.”
“When did you win your knighthood? Surely that impressed him.”
“I applied myself to a soldier’s training, since the Sancerres have always taken the field when summoned.” Idly he rubbed the worn leather of his sword-hilt. “When the French King Francois captured Milan, he was ambushed by Spanish troops. I was part of the force that rescued him.”
“Nay, do not be so self-effacing! You led that force, unless I am much mistaken, against overwhelming numbers. It must have been an act of surpassing courage.” She leaned forward to touch his sleeve and stopped herself barely in time. What was she thinking, to touch a man of her own volition?
“I did what was necessary, what any man in my place would have done. Indeed, I was astonished to be knighted for it.” He glanced away as though her praise disconcerted him.
Poor man, no doubt he was unaccustomed to hearing words of appreciation from his self-absorbed kin. Allegra could not mistake the man before her for anything but what he was: a plain-spoken gentleman of humble origins, who had worked harder for what he held than almost anyone she knew, a good man and an honest one. She could not doubt that now. Though like all men, he possessed a blind spot—his admiration for the cunning and ambitious Lord Rochford.
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