Aye, his father will be the ruin of him. For he idolizes the man and does not see what he is.
Joscelin thrust to his feet and strode to the window, scraped frost from the tiny panes to peer out. “Merde! This storm’s growing worse.”
Frowning, he went to consult with the innkeeper. “We’d best spend the night here and press on to the manor tomorrow. They have a little chamber upstairs that should suit you, and the goodwife will maid you.”
“Indeed, I can manage without a maid.” To be rid of spying Beatriz for even one night, she’d be willing to sleep in a horse stall. She strove for nonchalance, yet warmth rose to her cheeks. “But what of yourself? Is there no chamber for you?”
“I’ll sleep here before the fire. Mon Dieu, I’ve slept in worse places.” His tone deepened, making her stomach flutter. “Unless you’re offering to share your chamber?”
“La, sir!” She mimicked a courtier’s flippancy. How boldly he exposed the seething undercurrents between them, on this journey he’d arranged for the sole purpose of sharing her bed. “I fear you’re a very great scoundrel. I shall keep my own chamber, and be well satisfied.”
“As you wish.” The husky velvet of his tone sent a shiver dancing across her skin. “In future, when you seek satisfaction, I hope to change your mind.”
God save us both from the future. The winter wind stretched its fingers around the windows and crept beneath the doors. She hugged herself and shuddered.
Keenly, he eyed her. “What is it?”
“Why, ’tis nothing but this English winter. When do you fancy the manor will be ready for the king?”
“A few days, though Henry won’t mind if we linger. We’re to send a courier when the place is ready.”
“Santa Maria, we cannot linger.” Urgency plucked at her nerves. “I must return to court as soon as possible. I’m…expecting an important message and cannot be delayed.”
And God preserve her if it did not come. If she could not find her father, she dared not trigger her desperate scheme. As far as Don Maximo was concerned, she was using this stolen time to lure Joscelin to his doom. She must fall back and evade him, to position him where his fall would come hardest.
Joscelin heaved another stick of kindling on the fire, muscles flexing beneath his jerkin. When he raked back his hair, his brow was furrowed. “There’s—something I should tell you. Something that occurred when I spoke with the king, and you should know it.”
“By all means, tell me. Like any proper courtier, I’m ever starving for a morsel of gossip.”
“I couldn’t pick my moment with the king.” Uneasily, he shifted. “I had to arrange this journey with his functionaries hovering about—including that Cardinal Campeggio.”
“My condolences to you.” She laughed to conceal her alarm. “I suppose you were half-fainting from the stench.”
“It’s a grave matter.” He hunkered on his heels before her. “I know the man hates you. You’re the one who escaped him, the one who got away.”
Tension churning in her belly, she nodded.
“So.” He heaved a breath. “Campeggio told the king you were taken up for witchcraft—that the charges were never dropped.”
“Ribaldo! Damn the man.” The curse slipped out before she could contain it. Plague take Lorenzo Campeggio for the malicious snake he was! She jumped to her feet and swept past Joscelin to the window.
Panic plucked at her nerves as she peered out, her mind teeming with memories that still gave her nightmares—the flare of torches in the night, the tramp of booted feet on the stairs, the hard hands that pulled her forth in her nightgown, the cobblestones bruising her bare feet.
Forcibly, she quashed the images, steadied her ragged breathing. This was England, not Genoa. Peer though she might, she could see nothing beyond a swirl of white snow scouring the glass. Straining, she listened for the bark of soldiers’ orders, the mob’s angry mutter, but heard nothing beyond the wind howling around the eaves.
She could not shout her questions across the common room, even though they seemed now to be alone. Spinning away from the window, she paced before the fire, head bowed to avert Joscelin’s probing gaze.
If they interrogate me again—nay, I must be calm. If I lose my wits, I am truly lost. They are my only ally now.
“How, pray tell,” she said, “did the king respond to this revelation? He cannot have ordered my arrest, or I would now be riding across the countryside with you.”
“I told him the charges were old and unproven. I spoke of his reputation for mercy and fairness, recalled you’re a foreigner attached to a diplomat’s suite. I argued you weren’t under English jurisdiction, oui? I said all I knew of jurisprudence and due process. In short, I did everything I could to give him pause.”
“That was good of you.” Despite the gnawing worry, her voice softened. “You’re a good man, Sir Joscelin.”
In her heart, she crouched like a hunted animal in the cave of fear, prepared to fight tooth and nail for every breath of life. Yet she couldn’t overlook the concern written on his features, nor the unfamiliar sense of gratitude stealing through her. How long had it been since anyone troubled to defend her against anything? Who else would risk a king’s wrath for her sake—a king whose happiness rode on Campeggio’s good will?
“Any man would have said what I did, oui? It was no more than the truth.” Joscelin’s eyes creased as he smiled. “Fortunately, Henry was preparing to hunt and wished not to trouble his brain with the long-ago doings of a Venetian on foreign soil. He agreed that nothing could be proven.”
“And what did His Eminence the cardinal say to that?” She stared up at him, knowing there must be more. “I cannot believe he merely shrugged and returned to his business.”
“Nor did he.” He caught her cold hands in his warm callused grip. “The man’s slippery as an eel! Campeggio agreed that nothing was proven and urged the matter be examined more closely. He said evidence should be sought.”
She thought she’d steeled herself for anything, yet her stomach pitched. For a heartbeat, the world darkened around her. The cardinal had been “seeking evidence” when he imprisoned and tortured her three years ago. If this were Genoa, they would be applying the hot irons to her flesh already—
“Steady, Allegra. Mon Dieu, don’t look like that!” Joscelin gripped her elbows, holding her erect as she swayed. “Here, sit down and take this cider—no, something stronger.”
“Nay, I am well.” She lied from habit, but could not release her desperate grip on his jerkin. She could only tremble while his powerful arms closed around her and gathered her against his chest.
He stood like an unbreachable wall between her and all her enemies—though she knew this was a dangerous illusion. Still, she allowed herself to lean into him, her cheek resting against his studded jerkin.
“Damn the man,” she whispered. “He cannot do this to me again, if for no other reason than Don Maximo will never allow it. With the weight of Spain set against him, Campeggio can hardly hope to withstand—”
“You needn’t rely on the flimsy shield of Spanish protection.” His voice rumbled against her ear, hands soothing as they stroked her back. “You have the Boleyns behind you now. They are the most powerful family in England, after the Tudors themselves.”
Wryly she noted he said they and not we when he spoke of his kin. But she dared not assume any Boleyn would support her when the tide turned against her.
She filled her lungs with his bracing fragrance, steel cut with citrus, and the worst of the swirling terror receded. “So the cardinal urged that evidence be sought. What did the king say to that?”
Tension thrummed through him like a plucked bowstring. “He agreed the matter should be examined further. But he tossed the words off so carelessly, as he flung off his barber’s linen and called for his hunting sword. Zut, he wished not to be bothered. I’m a newcomer to this court, but even I know nothing is done without Henry’s weight behind it.”
&
nbsp; “That is true enough, now that Chancellor Wolsey is being edged out.” She held her breath, knowing there must be still more, and that she must hear it. “Who is charged, then, with pursuing the matter?”
“Ah…” Unease invaded his voice. “As he went striding off, the king said over his shoulder that we should look into it. Meaning the Boleyns.”
The words seeped through her like the touch of a scalding iron—at first a blessed numbness, then a surge of raw panic. Allegra recoiled and backed away, almost stumbling over her own skirts, until the fire’s heat licked her spine. Thankfully he didn’t pursue her—merely stood staring after her, dismay stamped on his face. So this was what he had not wished to tell her.
“The Boleyns!” Wildly, she stared up at him. “So your own clan is charged to seek evidence against me? No doubt, if you do not find it, this evidence should be fabricated. Is that not the course such matters always take?”
“Mon Dieu! My father would never stoop so low. Why should he, when you pose him no danger?”
“You do not know this court,” she whispered, cold and shaking with dread. “I can be used to discredit Queen Katherine. How will it go for her, if one of her own ladies should be proven a witch? Can’t you see, they’ll try to prove she knew of it and did nothing, if they can’t prove she’s a witch herself?”
“Allegra, I understand your alarm, but it’s baseless. Katherine is pious as a lifelong nun, with her fasts and her hair shirt and her mumbling over the Romish Mass. There can be no evidence of witchcraft—”
“No evidence?” She stared in disbelief. “Do you fancy there is ever any evidence, when a woman’s enemies drag her screaming before the witch-pricker to be tortured?”
An unexpected shadow darkened his face. For the first time, his gaze shifted.
“I know innocent women have fallen prey to baseless slander.” His gaze roamed restlessly around the room—anywhere but at her face. “Certainement, I don’t believe every poor stammering grand-dame is guilty of worshipping the Devil. But I do believe there are true witches at loose in this world…women, and men too, who make a pact with evil and gain unholy power over life and death.”
If he truly believes that, there will be no saving me. She knew it was futile to argue logic against superstition, but could not bear the notion that he would think of her as evil.
“Perhaps ignorant peasants believe this to be so, Joscelin. Forgive me, for I never meant to insult your upbringing. But educated people know better. ’Tis naught but a weapon men wield against women, and women against women too—”
“There are forces of darkness that walk this earth in human form.” His tone hardened with a stubbornness she knew, with a sinking heart, she could not dissuade. “And education is not needed to recognize them. I know this to be true. I’ve seen it firsthand.”
“Coincidence, lies, superstition! My mother was guilty of nothing when she died screaming in the fire, I promise you that. It’s naught but a convenient fiction—”
“No.” His hand slashed between them, cutting her short. “Merde! God assoil her poor soul, your mother may have burned for nothing. I’ll believe it, if you say so. But mine was murdered by a witch’s curse. Healthy and singing as she worked one day, raving with delirium the next—by nightfall lying cold in her grave. Don’t tell me witchcraft is a foolish fiction when she died for it!”
A shocked silence fell between them. As his voice rang from the walls, she realized they were shouting loudly enough that the innkeeper cowering in the kitchen must hear them, and probably the halfwit boy who tended the horses too.
Foolish to shout, when she knew she could not persuade him. What could anyone say, twenty years later, to justify his mother’s death?
The strength spilled from her limbs as a dark tide of helplessness sucked at her. What was she doing in this savage place, marooned with a Boleyn in a raging storm, half a day’s ride from the place where her father’s message must come?
Abruptly, she dragged her cloak from the chair where she had flung it. Leaving Joscelin staring, as if he too were shocked by what had passed between them, she fumbled the cloak around her shoulders and stumbled to the door. She wrenched it open with a force that nearly tore it from its hinges and ran blindly into the storm.
Snow and wind buffeted her body, making her stagger. Talons of ice raked her exposed face and tore her hair from its chignon. Though she could barely see through the snow that clung to her lashes, she lurched toward the stable and clutched her cloak in fingers that ached with cold. Already the landscape was gray and shadowy, blurred with twilight. A few more minutes and she would be blinded entirely.
When she stumbled through the stable door, she gasped with relief as the solid walls sheltered her. She forced the door closed—
Black and massive, a bearlike form loomed on the threshold and blocked the door open. Disoriented by the howling storm, unnerved by the chilling knowledge that the witch-hunters were after her again, Allegra cried out to God for mercy.
Chapter Ten
The bear lurched into the stable and reached for her with claws edged in ice. In the stalls behind her, horses stamped and whinnied in alarm. Scrambling away from the danger, Allegra reached for her stiletto.
“Nom de Dieu, Allegra!” His voice stopped her where she stood. “Do you think I would ever harm you?”
Relief washed through her as she recognized Joscelin through the ice that clung to his hair and cloak. Then the heat of shame stung her cheeks. What kind of assassin was she, to be so easily undone by a storm that she could not even draw her blade?
Pressing a hand to the wall, she regained her composure while Joscelin wrestled the door closed behind them. The solid wood muted the storm as he scrabbled in the darkness, flint striking steel. A seed of light bloomed in the swinging lantern. The dim light spilled over the stalls, glinting gold on the hay strewn over the floor, shining in the horses’ eyes as they quieted.
He is the enemy, never forget it, charged to find the evidence they’ll use to burn you. Yet her wits were still clouded with panic, and she fumbled to make the connections that usually fell into place without effort.
God save her, his eyes were pools of light—clear as an innocent conscience. When their gazes locked, the connection between them pulled her toward him, steady as linked hands guiding her through the darkness. His strong hands gripped her, holding her up when her knees threatened to buckle.
“Do you not see how hopeless a case this is?” she whispered. “For the love of God, Joscelin. I’m begging you to let me go.”
Beneath the rustle and thump of hooves, his voice too was hushed. “Where in blazes do you think you’ll go? You’d not make it half a mile in this weather.”
“Santa Maria, I’d go anywhere, take any road. How I long to go home…” She choked off the desperate torrent of words, and drew a steadying breath. “I’ll return to Richmond, of course. The queen requires her ladies now more than ever, and this weather brings a steady onslaught of chills and catarrhs. I should not have left my apothecary.” Putting steel in her spine, she straightened her shoulders. “I’ve quite recovered my senses. You may release me now.”
“Never will I,” he said gruffly, pulling her against him. “My life on it, though it damns us both.”
Without decorum his mouth claimed hers, stealing her breath, wet heat and the silken rasp of whiskers against her skin. Tasting of cinnamon and apples, his tongue stroked her, sparking to life sensations she hadn’t known she could feel. Head to heels, her body tingled as he pressed her against him, melding them from lips to thighs. Her leg slipped between his, hip snugged against the hard bulge of his codpiece.
God save her, that should alarm her to witlessness, if nothing else did. Her nipples tightened and rubbed against her chemise, though her body was burning with fever.
Her world spinning, Allegra clutched his shoulders and held on. Above his studded jerkin, her fingers grazed his neck. Tentative, ready to retreat at any moment, her tongue touc
hed his. A groan rumbled from his chest.
Corpus Christi, was this what the poets raved about, and she’d never known it? She drank his kisses like wine, sipping at his tart heat, thirsty for the taste of him. Not so difficult a brew to swallow, this tincture of loveplay.
“Madness.” She wrenched free and bowed her head against his chest. “You’re a Boleyn, of all men living! By your own confession, I never dare trust you.”
“Trust me, if you trust any man living.” His hand eased away her tension, stroked her spine, fitted her against his hard length.
“But I don’t trust any man living.” She rested her cheek against his jerkin. He kneaded the taut column of her nape, fingers rough from rein and sword. A soldier’s hands, a laborer’s hands, as unlike the perfumed silk of Don Maximo’s knowing fingers as dawn from midnight.
“Trust me, and I swear you’ll never come to grief.”
“I was born for grief.” With a shaky laugh, she straightened, touched the hard rasp of his jaw with wondering fingers. “I can never escape it. You too will founder, I warn you, if you persist in this addlebrained pursuit.”
“God-a-mercy, do you think it’s an idle fancy?” He dropped to one knee before her, gripping her cold fingers. “Can’t you see that I want to help you? I can help you, Allegra. You can still escape him.”
“That I will never do…until he is dead, or I am.” She stared down at his bent head, her eyes swimming with foolish tears. “Don Maximo is my punishment from God, my penance for all my sins.”
“Damnation, you can’t believe that. I don’t believe you to be so wicked. You’re not a witch or the Devil’s Mistress, no matter what they say.” Tenderly he opened her hands—and froze.
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