The Devil's Mistress

by Laura Navarre

  His tone set her heart racing, from more than the light exertion of mounting the stairs. Against the darkness, his stern profile glowed like Caesar’s on a Roman coin—jaw knotted with resolve, eyes gold as a cat’s in the darkness. Her body ached with wanting him.

  Santo Spirito, how did this happen? Nothing but disaster will befall him if you couple—the bastard Boleyn and the suspect witch. Maximo would use Joscelin’s passion to destroy him. And, once implicated in the nasty business, Campeggio would ensure she fell into his hands. Clammy sweat broke out against her skin, the cold encasing her like the dungeon. The white flash of pain when they used the poker—

  Her breath gone ragged, she jerked from his touch. “Grazie for your concern. But I’m quite certain the brazier in my chamber will keep me warm enough. Here is my door already—so good-night.”

  Once, he would have followed her lead. But that was before—before the intimacy of the storm-wrapped inn, the way he’d fought for control when she lured him to her bath, the way his strong arms cradled her against his chest when he taught her the meaning of passion. She could no longer pretend disinterest. His eyes narrowed as he searched her features.

  “What is it, Allegra? Why are you afraid to let me closer? We both know it would be good between us.” His words burned with erotic promise.

  She forced a chilly laugh. “Corpus Christi, the last thing I require is a man to come closer. Lest you’ve forgotten, I already have a protector.”

  His eyes darkened. “We agreed not to speak of your so-called protector. You know the Spanish sun is setting in England. Worthy and pious though she may be, Queen Katherine is all but dethroned. What do you fancy will happen to her ambassador when she’s gone?”

  “Where do you fancy she will go?” She strained to listen in the darkness. Was that the scuff of a footfall on the stair? “Katherine is kin to the Holy Roman Emperor, and the pope is Spain’s to command. She is daughter to Isabella of Castile, she can’t simply be cast aside—”

  “Merde! You think her pedigree matters to Henry now? I tell you this—I, who’ve seen them together. No force on earth or in Heaven will keep Henry out of my sister’s arms, and she will only bed him if he divorces. Anne has promised him an heir—the one treasure the king doesn’t have, the only bulwark between the Tudor dynasty and another civil war.”

  “Henry has an heir from Katherine. Do you think she’ll be overthrown for a grasping commoner? Princess Mary Tudor is a bright, healthy child—”

  “Zut! No woman has ever held the English throne successfully in her own right.” He stood his candle on the hall table outside her door. “It’s unjust, I agree, but Mary Tudor will be cast aside when her mother falls, believe me. My sister means to be queen, and she’s never been one to settle for a lesser prize.”

  Then God help us all. The Boleyns will lead this country into ruin.

  “Damn it, Allegra.” He braced his arms on either side of her, pinning her against the door. “Can’t you see it, a woman of your wit? If it’s protection you seek, for yourself or anyone else, your future lies with the Boleyns. You’re safer in my arms than you’ll ever be in his.”

  But whose arms will keep you safe, my gallant protector? Her body yearned for his, for the strength and certainty of his soldier’s arms around her. God save her, she would be the death of him.

  “Joscelin, do not ask for this,” she whispered. “’Tis too late for me. I can never be saved.”

  “But why? You bear no love for him—I don’t care what you imply to the contrary. When you mentioned your sisters, you looked terrified!”

  She battled a desperate surge of hope, more fatal to her than any other folly. If only she need not fight alone! But she dared not trust, could not make that mistake, with the precious stakes she played for.

  “Signor, you are mistaken.” Her eyes fell before his searching gaze.

  Stubborn, he forged ahead. “Is that the threat your Spaniard holds over you, to keep you complacent? I can help you ensure their safety. One word dropped in Henry’s ear—”

  “Santo Spirito, do you think it’s so simple? Why should Henry care if the Spanish scheme against a Venetian whore, for that is what they call me! If you will not heed wisdom to save your own skin—”

  “Why do you give up so easily?”

  Anger flared through her. He thought she surrendered easily? With difficulty, she clung to her temper. Another sound snatched at her attention, a scuff on the stairs that plunged down to darkness. Desperate to silence him, she caught his head in both hands and dragged his mouth down to hers.

  Though frustration beat through every sinew of his muscled frame, he took command of the kiss, the sweet spice of wine and currants flowing over her tongue. Exhilaration soared through her, and she arched into his strength and heat. He backed her against the door, that dangerous ache mounting again between her thighs.

  Still, through her swirling senses, she strained to listen. “Say nothing of Spain,” she murmured. “And follow my lead.”

  “I’d follow you to Hell and back, God help me.”

  Summoning all her will to resist the heat that spiraled through her, she pushed him away.

  “I will have none of your rude affections!” She pitched her voice to carry. “I am here to tutor your sister in Italian, nothing more.”

  Visible only to her, confusion furrowed his brow, clearly warring with his annoyance. No doubt he was weary of changing his tune to follow her measures, and who could blame him?

  “Mon Dieu! Spare me that flimsy fiction, at least. My sister cares as little for Italian as she would for ancient Hebrew.”

  “That changes nothing, Sir Joscelin. My affections are given elsewhere.” Her gaze pleaded for understanding. “I assure you, no amount of fevered wooing will sway me.”

  He stared down at her, breath still harsh with the passion between them. “You needn’t fear for your virtue. Despite the unfortunate circumstances of my birth, I’m a gentleman, oui? I must heed your wishes…if they are your wishes.”

  “Now you begin to understand.” Holding his gaze for a last charged moment, she opened the door behind her. “Buona notte, signor—good-night.”

  She closed the door between them and leaned her brow against it. Behind her, the coals of her brazier smoldered, leaking sullen light over her modest chamber. Shadows hung between her gowns in the armoire, and the darkness seemed to breathe. A man could easily hide in the spill of wine-colored curtains around her bed and window. The connecting door to the next chamber—Joscelin’s chamber—stood ajar.

  The arrangement could hardly be less secure. With a muttered curse, she closed that door and bolted it, then returned to her post.

  Pressing her ear to the wood, she caught the deep rumble of Joscelin’s voice uttering courteous words to Beatriz. Though her maid might be mute as a stone, her tongue lost years ago to the Spanish inquisitors, the woman’s eyesight was keener than an owl’s in the darkness. No telling what she might have seen or surmised as she crept up on them.

  Hastily she sat on the bed, bent to unbuckle her shoes, and betrayed nothing when Beatriz shuffled in. From the corridor, floorboards creaked under Joscelin’s heavy tread as he withdrew.

  Standing, Allegra turned her back and allowed the maid to unlace her gown. Her face safely hidden, she pondered the night’s events. Thanks to Fausto’s lack of discretion, Sir Joscelin Boleyn had been given a whiff of her secrets. Warning him away had not sufficed, and spurning his advances hardly gave him pause.

  The man is keen and determined as a hunting hound, and far too perceptive. Somehow I must throw him off the scent.

  Frustrated lust chewed at Joscelin as he hunched over his basin and splashed cold water on his face. God-a-mercy, the woman was leading him by the cock—straight to Hell, if he wasn’t mindful. Twisty as a fox, enchanting as the witch they called her, and he was well and truly ensnared. Couldn’t summon the will to spurn her, even if he found certain proof of treachery. Besides, his father had ordered him
to keep her close—and he’d welcomed that.

  Cursing himself for a fool, he scrubbed roughly at his face. He stripped away his doublet and linen shirt and sluiced an icy torrent over his torso, to cool his heated flesh.

  The creak of the outer door brought him around as he reached for the sword slung over his chair. Someone glided inside—a slender woman draped in a blush-colored robe. For a moment of sheer madness, his blood fired.

  Then the light haloed her honey-colored hair, and his breath hissed out in disappointment. Idiot! What did you think—that Allegra Grimaldi would steal in to seduce you? How many times does she need to rebuff you before the message sinks in?

  “Mary.” He laid his sword aside. “What are you doing wandering these drafty halls in your nightgown? It’ll be a miracle if we don’t all freeze in our beds by morning.”

  Mary drew the door closed behind her and lifted a finger to her lips. Curiosity stirred within him as she tiptoed to the wall between his chamber and Allegra’s and pressed her ear to the connecting door. When she turned away, a smile of satisfaction curved her lips. For an instant, despite her fair coloring, she looked very much like Anne.

  “I’ve just sent my maid to the countess,” she said. “I’m loaning her my periwinkle gown for our modest New Year’s gala, which means my maid must alter it to fit. This very instant, the witless girl is talking Allegra’s head off while she sews. So there’s no danger we’ll be overheard. You see, I too can play at intrigue.”

  A twinge of misgiving tightened Joscelin’s gut. Shaking his head, he reached for his shirt and dragged it over his naked torso, for modesty’s sake. “This is not a game, I warn you, sister. You shouldn’t be creeping around the halls.”

  “Who’s to see in this godforsaken place? Our father’s creatures know how to hold their tongues.”

  “Zut! The bloody priest—”

  “Hush.” Mary put down the candle and held her hands before the brazier. “I have a message for you from Father, who summoned me before we left court. With the storm and our attendant adventures, I couldn’t contrive a private moment on the road. Will you hear me now?”

  “A message from our father?” His sense of foreboding deepened. Through the connecting door, he could discern the cheerful prattle of Mary’s girl, woven with Allegra’s liquid murmur. Cautiously, he drew his sister away, toward the mullioned window with its rime of ice. “What is it?”

  “It’s the countess, of course. What else would it be? When you spoke with Henry, and the cardinal denounced her, our father was much inspired. The king hadn’t known—none of us knew—about the charge of witchcraft against her.”

  “Quietly.” He gripped her shoulder in warning. “These are chancy matters to speak aloud, and I hope the king orders his attendants not to spread tales! If new accusations emerge against her, even the whisper of witchcraft, she could burn for it.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that? What woman hasn’t feared that fate? But Father seems to think she’s a Spanish spy—and now she’s vulnerable, with the cardinal ready to condemn her. Our father wanted me to tell you this can serve our purpose.”

  “Damn it, she’s innocent.” Fear for Allegra gripped his heart. In light of this new threat, he knew his own superstitious qualms about her for the dangerous nonsense they were. “The king has ordered me to submit evidence of witchcraft, but I expect to find nothing. She’s no witch, Mary—no more a witch than I am.”

  “Perhaps not.” His sister leaned toward him. “But it hardly matters, does it? Father thinks this the ideal moment to discredit the Spanish before the marriage trial. Joscelin, he’s instructing you to do this, as a son serves his father. Find the evidence Campeggio needs to arrest her.”

  Horror froze the blood in his veins. He barely restrained the urge to grip Mary’s shoulders and shake her, like a hound with a witless rabbit.

  “Mon Dieu, I will not condemn an innocent woman to torment and death, solely to satisfy Anne’s ambition! Our sister must find some other way to accomplish her objective.”

  “It’s our objective, Joscelin—the goal of all Boleyns.” Her sky blue eyes searched his. “Don’t you see, we’re running out of time. Henry’s insisting the trial begin at once—just after Twelfth Night. And the countess…oh, I like her too, of course…but she’s already vulnerable, because of these old charges. Our father relies on you to use this time wisely. Find the evidence we need to clear Anne’s path to the throne.”

  “You’re telling me to fabricate false evidence.” Joscelin turned away in disgust. “I will not do it. You must have misunderstood him. He would never counsel me to such dishonor.”

  “I understood him perfectly, Joscelin. ’Tis you who see him through a halo of virtue he doesn’t possess, and never has!” Chafing her arms, his sister shivered. “He’d pile the kindling around the countess and light the fire himself, if it makes his daughter Queen of England.”

  Cursing, Joscelin paced the chamber. Dismay and loathing churned his gut. “What more does this family require? Henry’s already given a lord’s title to our father and a treasure-trove of jewels to Anne. Our own uncle is Duke of Norfolk, one of the highest nobles in the land. Can’t we be content with the favors God has given us?”

  “’Tis not the Boleyn nature to be content. We must ever grasp for the moon, with both arms outstretched.” Mary tried to tease a smile from him, but he was having none of it. Her voice softened. “I know it’s difficult. I feared this moment would come. The moment you saw our father for what he is, when your hands too must be soiled, as mine are. Merciful God, I committed adultery in the king’s bed—a mortal sin—at our father’s bidding. Refusing him is simply not an option.”

  Joscelin knotted his fists around the bedstead and shook it until the wood groaned in protest. “One of the finest families in England, wealthy and landed, strong in the reformed faith—and it comes to this? Have we no honor at all?”

  “Did you ever think we did?” Mary’s sweet face darkened. “Nay, brother. ’Tis time for you to make the choice the rest of us made long ago—whether to serve Boleyn ambition and rise to power and wealth, or keep your honor and lose everything else.”

  “I do not accept that choice! Our father is ambitious, oui, I’ve always known it. For Anne to become queen, there’s little she wouldn’t stoop to. But to condemn an innocent woman for witchcraft—condemn her to rack and fire and certain death—the father I know would never condone such evil.”

  “Then you do not know him.” Mary smiled sadly. “Sooner or later, the choice was certain to come, and now it’s upon you. Obey our father, advance our cause, earn your name and place among us—or defy him, and lose everything. Is there any choice at all?”

  As he stared at her in anguish, she finished in a whisper.

  “Joscelin, mon cher…you know which path to choose.”

  Joscelin muttered a string of curses as he tossed and twisted beneath the bedclothes. The thrice-damned blanket had frozen in an ice-patch over his face. Surely the entire household would freeze to death by dawn if they couldn’t manage to heat these rooms. Perhaps he should check on Allegra, see that her brazier had enough fuel—

  Mon Dieu, will you lie to yourself? Joscelin scrubbed ice-crystals from his beard. You’re utterly besotted with her—halfway in love with her, you idiot! And now you must betray her.

  That alone kept him in his bachelor’s bed, despite his charged awareness of the siren sleeping next door. He flopped onto his back in disgust, knotted his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

  God-a-mercy, Allegra had foreseen this entire wretched mess. She’d warned him that it would end badly—and, like a lackwit, he’d refused to listen. Now his feet were in the fire. He must obey his father, as always, or lose the recognition he had fought his whole life to gain. He must lose Allegra, or lose everything else.

  The creak of the door brought him twisting up in bed, reaching for the dagger he kept under his pillow—an old soldier’s habit that died hard. In t
he dim light of the dying coals, a supple shadow ghosted through the connecting door.

  His heart thundered with anticipation. Nom de Dieu, he’d hoped for this—but never expected it.

  Firelight gleamed on the black-and-gold brocade of her chamber robe, tangled in the raven curls that spilled down her back as she eased the door shut. His breath caught, as though she’d bewitched him already. Her guarded expression caught at him, the way she hesitated when she saw him awake, the flicker of uncertainty that drew her brows together.

  “You’re still awake, after all,” she said. “There goes my final excuse for turning back from this fool’s venture.”

  Joscelin quelled his impulse to leap from bed, stride across the floor like an eager lover and drag her into his arms. Far better if he kept his distance, while his father’s command hung over them like a prophecy of doom.

  “I can’t offer much hospitality.” He tucked the blankets around his naked hips. “They haven’t even left me a cup of mulled wine.”

  “I didn’t come for mulled wine,” she whispered, setting the blood surging straight to his groin. “Hold a moment…”

  Divided between lust and astonishment, Joscelin watched while she dragged his chair before her door and tossed his doublet over it. Next, she draped his cloak over a peg on the outside door, arranging it with care.

  “Allegra, what the Devil—?”

  “Spy holes,” she said, with the glimmer of a smile. “One in the connecting door, and another I found from the corridor. Now we may be private.”

  Joscelin groaned softly as the sultry images coursed through him. Allegra lounging in her bath, steam wreathing her supple limbs, her lush mane pooled on the floor behind her. Allegra draped only in her cloak, pink-tipped breasts peeking at him through the folds. Allegra’s lithe form arching beneath him as she drank in his kisses like wine.

  Grasping for diversion, he said, “Where is your maid?”

  “Sent away, to sleep in the great hall with the other servants.” Gold threads glittered as she glided toward him, one long leg slipping briefly into view. “For one blessed night, I’ll be free of her scrutiny, her skulking presence, her clever fingers searching my possessions. Santa Maria, to be free of that!”