Cold realization shafted through her as she saw what he did: the heavy ridges of white scar tissue that cushioned her palms and fingers. She had diligently rubbed oils into the damaged flesh, slept for months with her palms gloved and coated in honey to soften them. Yet all for naught. She would bear the scars until she died, the silent testimony of a woman who had fallen under Church suspicion.
“Christ,” he said. “What have they done to you?”
“Nothing.” Glancing away, she fisted her hands—the old impulse, to hide her secrets. “This is a mere souvenir of the cardinal’s tender attentions, a small keepsake from our encounter in Genoa.”
“But how?” Gently, his fingers eased hers apart.
“Why, it was his notion for me to clasp burning coals while I made my confession. Or else to stand barefoot upon them.” She struggled to keep her voice flippant, skipping over the horrors that could still wrench her screaming from sleep. “He said that if I spoke the truth, God would protect me from burning.”
“The bloody bastard.” He pressed his lips against her scarred palms. “Brute torture of a helpless woman. He calls himself a man of God, and the Church condones it?”
“Oh, more than condones it. I believe his superiors commended his vigor. After my husband’s passing, I was considered quite a notorious witch.” Despite her best efforts, her voice wavered. “And utterly unrepentant, to the cardinal’s great frustration.”
“Your ambassador.” She felt him struggling with it. “He saved you from this?”
“He discovered me in prison.” Again, she must circle the truth. “He was searching for someone with my…talents, for I was reckoned a skilled apothecary.”
A poisoner and assassin is what he sought, the Hand of God’s last apprentice. But that was a secret she could never tell, not when he already suspected her of seeking to poison his sister.
“Maximo and I managed to negotiate an agreement.” She forced a shrug. “The don bribed the constable to allow my escape, booked our passage on a ship to England, paid for a doctor to tend my—my injuries.”
“Then it’s gratitude that binds you to him. He saved you from a wretched death.” He kissed the pulse that throbbed against her wrist, tendrils of sensation raising the fine hairs along her forearm.
“Nay…not gratitude.” For a heartbeat, she hovered before the brink—thinking of her father, her sisters, the threats that held her. But those secrets were too precious to risk, the dearest ones she guarded. She would not jeopardize them, no matter what folly tempted her.
“You’re ever a creature of mystery, oui?” Now he spanned her waist, gripped tight by the rigid press of her stomacher. “After what you’ve suffered, I can hardly blame you for keeping secrets. I swear you startle faster than a deer in hunting season. Yet I’ll win your trust somehow. You must tell me how best to…persuade you.”
His head lifted, sun-gold fires burning in his gaze. Above his hands, her breasts swelled and tingled beneath her bodice.
Why not let him have you? the voice of cunning whispered. ’Twould please the Boleyns to purge his passion. And as for Maximo—
“Ah, I’m a monster!” Joscelin smiled ruefully. “Fondling you like a horse-boy in a reeking stable, and it’s cold as the Devil’s breath to boot. Let me take you inside.”
Allegra’s instincts still clamored for flight, but where under Heaven could she go? She could hardly make her way back to Richmond in this weather, nor remain shivering in the stable until dawn. She was still calculating when he hoisted her into his arms, feet dangling in tangled skirts as he blew out the lantern.
“This is quite unnecessary.” She distrusted this perilous impulse to feel safe in his arms. “I’m entirely capable of returning on my own feet.”
“I suspect there’s very little you’re not capable of.” His voice warmed. “Humor me this once.”
He swung open the door, and the sharp claws of cold raked her skin. Shivering, Allegra huddled against his chest as he kicked the door closed and forged across the yard, plowing through snow to his knees. The cherry glow of firelight through the mullioned windows was a beacon in the darkness.
The goodwife met them on the threshold, exclaiming over their absence and the worsening weather. Calmly Joscelin reassured her they’d taken no harm, commanded a fire laid and various comforts sent to the lady’s chamber. As he strode across the common room, Allegra realized where he meant to take her.
Her private demons reared up. Fear clutched her chest like a frantic fist.
As his foot hit the stair, she used his shifting balance to her advantage and twisted lithely free of his surprised arms. Like a cat, she landed on her feet—though she remembered to stumble a bit, not to seem too adept at escape.
“Why, signor.” Lightly she stepped out of reach. “If you were a lecherous man, I would now have to question your intentions.”
“Damnation—I’m no lecher!” His voice stung with wounded pride. “I meant to ensure your comfort. No woman has cause to fear coercion from me.”
“Why, that is well.” She barely knew what she said, but she could never tolerate another man in her bed, even this one with his apparent decency—especially this one. Had Henry Tudor not charged him to find the evidence they would use to burn her? Just as her mother had burned.
His gaze probed her features, as if he would read her secrets. She raised the courtier’s polished mask between them and edged her words in scorn.
“Santa Maria, we’ve been riding or crouched before that smoky fire for hours. I can’t bear the abominable stench of my own skin another instant! Is there no prospect of persuading that woman to draw a proper bath?”
Though she busied herself brushing snow from her mantle, she was keenly aware they stood alone, forced into close quarters by the stair. She’d placed herself two steps above him, putting his face level with hers.
Not easy to seem scornful when he inclined stiffly in a bow…the gentleman even now, after she’d impugned his honor. “I’ll ask the goodwife for hot water and help her draw it myself, if help is needed. Since you wish for no escort, you’ll find your chamber above.”
“Grazie.” She dipped into a curtsey, armored with all the deliberate disdain of a Grimaldi contessa for a lesser man. Then she swept upstairs, dropping her damp cloak to the floor for him to manage. If it took the manner of a spoiled and petulant noblewoman to keep him at arms’ length—why, she could play that part.
Still, her stomach fluttered at her narrow escape. Had she not protested, they might even now be sprawled in her bed. How would he have undressed her? She’d heard that some men liked to linger over the act. Would he peel away one garment at a time with those strong caressing hands, murmuring words of reassurance between kisses? Or would he watch her disrobe before the fire, with that sensual shimmer in his eyes?
Casimiro had been so rough that he tore her clothes. But she would not think of him.
God save me, what am I doing? As if her husband’s ghost pursued her, she fled into her chamber and bolted the door.
Lady Carey would expect her to seize this moment for his seduction. Tonight might well be Allegra’s only opportunity to act without Spanish scrutiny. Whatever I intend—and I know what that is, when the Boleyns are watching—it must be done tonight.
For only nine days remained until Twelfth Night.
Joscelin hesitated outside her closed door, listening to the faint sound of splashing within. The lady was lingering over her bath, and his blood heated to imagine her naked—or nearly so—only heartbeats away. He’d approached her dangerous orbit only to return her cloak, brushed clean and dry since she’d dropped it so imperiously at his feet.
Now here he stood, lurking outside her chamber like the lecher she thought him. Grimacing at the unappealing image, he pulled himself together and knocked. Inside, the splash of water stilled.
“Who goes?” Allegra’s chilly voice would freeze any man in his boots. But this was a public inn, even if no other guests sheltered he
re. He’d hardly expect her to croon out a welcome to any random caller.
“It’s Joscelin,” he said gruffly. “I’m for bed, signora—for my bed.” Damnation, he sounded like a bloody idiot. “I have your cloak here.”
A pause ensued. He imagined her rising from her bath like Venus rising from the sea, supple curves limned against the flames. Mon Dieu, didn’t he have the sense to keep away from her, with this witch’s brew of passion seething between them? One moment her violet eyes had flashed disdain, while she brushed him from her sleeve like an insect. The next she’d met him kiss for kiss, her lush body pressed against him until his cock swelled against his codpiece—
“You had better not leave my garment on the stair, Sir Joscelin, unless you wish to tempt some thief to rashness.” Her husky voice set him throbbing again. “Bring it in.”
Certainement, that was a foolish notion. But tonight she played the princess, cold and haughty. Next she’d probably demand a cake of Castilian soap or some such fribble—a luxury he was scarcely equipped to supply. But he couldn’t resist her pull, even if the Spanish Ambassador was holding a blade to his throat. Joscelin steeled himself and pushed inside, his gaze nailed to the floor for decorum.
“Santa Maria, come inside! And, I pray you, close the door. There’s a wicked draft, and a lady’s modesty to protect.” Cool amusement seasoned her tone. “I assure you, Joscelin, I won’t bite you…unless you provoke me.”
Merde, would she toy with him—a woman’s game of flirtation, retreat and advance? If so, by God, he was her equal in that role. Pulling the door closed behind him, he consigned decorum to the Devil. Anger blazed through him as he glared straight across the chamber at the hip bath before the fire and the goddess who lounged in it.
Earlier he’d examined the place to ensure it would suit her dignity, a snug cubby with a sound roof tucked under slanting eaves, a bow window with a cushioned seat, clean wool and linen on the bed, a good draw to the chimney. Now, he was blind to all of it—all but the impish dance of firelight over graceful shoulders; the way her skin shone like ivory damask, glittering with crystal beads of water; the artless seduction of curls pinned carelessly on her head.
The light transformed her eyes to lilac and deepened the lush pink of her mouth. For a heartbeat, her chiseled features were wary, assessing. The tub blocked her body from his gaze, thank God or damn the Devil for it.
Dieu, she wore not even a shift to her bath—indecent as that was—and he was all but raping her with his eyes. Why in blazes had she summoned him? Unless she meant to lure him after all. Clenching his fists, Joscelin dropped her cloak over a chair and kept his eyes glued to the floor.
“Will you be wanting any supper, signora?” he said curtly. “The innkeeper is asking.”
“Indeed not, for I am still groaning from our earlier repast.” Her boudoir voice stroked the words. A savage craving for her pounded through his blood, yet the hand of caution gripped him. Earlier she’d rebuffed him, no doubt of it, yet now she all but beckoned him into her arms?
“I’ll tell the innkeeper.” He jerked a nod. “Anything else you desire?”
Now the Devil had his tongue for certain, with that infernal choice of phrase. The word desire resonated in the steamy silence.
After a moment, she answered, her tone edged with wariness. “I gather there is still no sign of our errant travel companions?”
“I don’t know this English weather, but I warrant the storm’s breaking.” Giving her a wide berth, he strode to the window and peered out. Beyond a white crust of frost, the dark wall of night pressed against the glass. “It’s black as a witch’s—black as the Devil’s heart out there. I think we’re unlikely to see them tonight.”
“That is well, for I do not long for their presence, though doubtless I’m churlish to confess it.” Though he faced away from her, the heat of her gaze seared his spine. “You’ve been thoughtful of my comfort throughout this adventure. I wonder if I may beseech a greater boon…before we go to bed?”
Her voice was temptation incarnate, caressing the syllables like a lover’s kiss. He swore she was aware of it and chose her words to beguile him. He had to clear his throat before he could answer. “I’m your servant, signora. What do you require?”
The silence deepened. He heard her breath hitch, as though she braced for some challenge.
“No doubt you will think me foolish beyond measure, Sir Joscelin, but I do not care to have strangers attend my personal needs. Would you lend your assistance to wash my hair?”
His blood turned molten. More than willing for amorous play, his cock ached beneath his codpiece. Christ on the cross, had she decided she wanted him tonight? If she did, he’d be a fool to question his luck.
Yet her disdain on the stair lingered stubbornly in his brain. He’d seen genuine fear in her eyes. Beyond anything else, he wished not to frighten her—given her unfortunate history. Let her think him dull as the village idiot, but if she wanted him in her bed, she must give him some clearer sign of intent.
“I’m no lady’s maid. But I’ll attempt it, if you wish.” He stripped his voice of innuendo and pinned on a diplomat’s impassive face when he turned.
She was staring into the fire, her profile etched against the light—looking nothing like a siren bent on seduction, but fragile as a virgin on her bridal night. He could have sworn her mouth trembled before her lashes swept down. With a gesture that seemed oddly defiant, she pulled the pin from her hair.
A mane of midnight silk tumbled down around her shoulders—stealing his breath, by God. Longer than he’d imagined, a skein of lush curls spilling over the tub and pooling on the floor behind her. His mouth went dry as he imagined wrapping all that glorious hair around him and burying himself in her heat.
As he fought to rein in his desires, she swept a graceful hand toward the steaming pitcher.
“If you would be so kind,” she said. “Pour the water over my hair.”
The ravening beast in his codpiece roared for release. Somehow he restrained himself, advanced with a measured stride, dragged the leather jerkin over his head with clumsy fingers. He let it fall where it would—slowly, slowly—and rolled the linen sleeves of his worn shirt above the elbows. Whatever she intended, he didn’t want to gallop toward her and set the lady screaming.
When he knelt behind her, the musky sweetness of jasmine filled his head, rising from that splendor of sable hair. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deep.
Low and amused, her voice broke his reverie. “No doubt you’ll smell like a flower garden by the time we’ve finished. You too shall require a bath.”
“I—don’t mind it.” He felt like a tongue-tied schoolboy, awkward and stammering, as he gathered her hair. The sable tendrils spilled through his fingers as he piled them into the tub around her. Over her shoulder he glimpsed a pulse-pounding hint of her creamy breasts.
Wrenching his eyes away, he poured a slow torrent of water over her head. She seemed to relax, a sigh slipping out as a cloud of steam enveloped them.
“I blend this fragrance myself,” she murmured, sounding drowsy. “I was a perfumer first, like my mother…before I became anything else.”
And what else are you, Allegra Grimaldi? For you’re a great deal more than you claim. He burned to demand answers, but that would shatter the spell, brittle as blown glass, that encased them. Instead, he scooped up the sliver of soap—rough-milled, must be something the innkeeper had left—and lathered his hands.
When he massaged her scalp gently, she bowed her neck into his touch. Satisfaction surged through him and his brain teemed with fantasies of what else he could do to elicit more of her sensuous sighs. Zut, she had to know what havoc she was wreaking. A more clever and self-aware woman he’d never encountered. She was no virgin, no matter how…untouched, how unawakened to passion she occasionally seemed to be.
Pushing aside his doubts, he kneaded her neck and worked on her shoulders. Sinew flexed beneath her slippery skin…flawless skin,
like velvet. Her body was lithe and supple with hidden strength, unusual in a woman.
What else are you, Allegra? He recalled the businesslike way she’d wielded her sharp little knife that day with the wolf. The moment she glimpsed him, the blade had vanished somewhere in her garments, but he hadn’t forgotten it.
“If ever you tire of diplomacy,” she said, “I will give you a dazzling reference as a lady’s maid.”
He chuckled. “If I rise no farther than that, I shall greatly disappoint my father.”
Now the shade of Thomas Boleyn loomed between them, and Joscelin cursed his heedless tongue. A current of tension rippled through her shoulders.
“A bit more water, per favore,” she said coolly, “to rinse the soap away.”
He hefted the bucket and sluiced water over her head. Rivulets of soap slid down her back. Unable to prevent himself—as if she’d bewitched him—his brown soldier’s hand traced the delicate arch of her spine, one vertebra at a time. She shivered beneath his touch.
God save them both from madness.
“Damn it, Allegra, I have to know. The Spaniard—tell me truly, is he your lover?”
She hugged her knees to her chest and drew away from his touch. When she spoke, her tone was guarded. “You’ve heard the tale of how I came to marry Casimiro Grimaldi. You know that I didn’t mourn his passing.” She clasped her knees tighter. “I came a virgin to my husband’s bed. A virtuous child who wished desperately to please him…even if only for my mother’s sake.”
“How could you not have pleased him?” What he wouldn’t give to be that man, the lover to whom she gave her innocence, the strong arm she relied on for protection, the shoulder where she cried out her grief.
“You won’t be surprised to learn that Casimiro beat his wife and servants like animals, unpredictably and without cause. For this is a man’s right, is it not?” She shuddered violently, goose bumps rising on her back. “How it excited him to see a woman cower. I learned to dread his use of me—for I will not call it lovemaking. His death came as a profound relief to the entire household. But since he…died, I—I cannot…”
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