“If your privacy is so precious, then why are you here?”
Two steps away she halted, caution flickering in her features. “Am I not welcome?”
“You were not expected, after the discussion we had in the corridor.” He fought the urge to spring from bed—naked as he was—and drag her into his arms. “But I would never call you unwelcome. You know me too well for that now, oui?”
She stood just beyond reach, like the evening star gleaming overhead. She smoothed her opulent robe. Another gift from Don Maximo. Jealousy blazed through him.
“I said what I must in the corridor, as surely you appreciate, Joscelin. I rarely have the luxury of speaking as I wish. Perhaps I should have left it there…but I found that I couldn’t.”
“No, no, I’m glad you came,” he said, while an unwelcome inner voice—the Boleyn in him—agreed that she was right. “Come under the blankets, before you catch your death of cold.”
Damn it, he just couldn’t help himself. He wanted her in his bed, and the Devil take the consequences.
She cast him a sidelong glance, eyes lingering on his naked chest. He ignited under her gaze, his cock swelling beneath the blanket. When her long-lidded eyes lifted to his, a blend of temptation and danger simmered in those violet depths.
“You were right about the Spanish, signor,” she whispered, so soft he could barely hear. “I have decided it might be useful to have a well-placed ally—one who does not fear Spain.”
Her intimate confession brushed over him like a caress. Another current of arousal surged through him as she perched on his bed, lithe as a panther—ready to twist away at any moment. The sweet perfume of jasmine teased his nostrils.
“You can tell me anything, Allegra,” he said. “I swear it.”
Surely she would never trust a Boleyn, of all men living. Surely she read his face—she who suspected everyone, and trusted nothing.
Yet, for once, her attention was turned inward, gaze fixed on the tarnished silver cross around her neck. “This relic belonged to my mother. Since you and I have discussed her, you know what became of her.” She drew a shuddering breath. “You know that her death was my fault.”
“I don’t know any such thing.” Shock and pity struck him. “You can’t blame yourself for Grimaldi’s lust, or the corruption of those he bought off.”
A smile of haunting sadness curled her lips. “You were right about me, about the need to protect my family—a secret no one else has guessed. I haven’t seen them since Genoa, more than three years ago. Don Maximo holds them somewhere, most likely here in England.”
A tide of outrage propelled him from the bed. His bare feet recoiled from the stone floor, a sheet of ice against his soles. Recalling his nudity, he sat and dragged the blanket across his hips.
“My father went blind when I was just a child,” she said, eyes shadowed as she pressed the cross to her lips. “He plunged from invincible hero to helpless cripple in a single year when he lost his sight. When my mother was taken up for witchcraft, he could do nothing but pray. And my sisters are only children. I can’t allow them to suffer as my mother suffered. I will not allow it.”
“Of course you won’t.” Wanting to comfort her, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and felt her shivering. She stared forward, unseeing. “We’ll find them, Allegra. With the might of the Boleyns and Henry Tudor at our disposal, there’s no one on earth we can’t find.”
Violently she shook her head. “I’m not begging for the king’s assistance, nor Thomas Boleyn’s, God save us all from that! You’ve said very clearly where your loyalties lie. You must earn your father’s favor.”
“My father—” He bit back the words with a savage curse. She was right about what he’d said, damn it. This very hour, his sister Mary lay dreaming in her bed, certain that he would do what he must to bring the Spanish to their knees, and their sister to the throne. Mon Dieu, how had his life become such a bloody mess?
He scrubbed at his brow. “You’re right to be wary of all Boleyns. You mustn’t feel compelled to spill all your secrets.”
“Oh, I’m not spilling all of them, believe me. I simply wanted you to know, to understand a little—why I thrust you away with one hand and beckon you forward with the other. Whatever may come in the days ahead, I want you—above all men—to understand.”
Pushing out a frustrated breath, Joscelin knew he understood none of it, neither her circumstances nor her feelings toward him, nor the unruly tumult of his own heart. Beyond everything, concern for her safety stood paramount, the overwhelming need to do whatever he must to protect her.
Yet, still, a creeping sense of shame kept him silent. He didn’t deserve her trust. She was a thousand times right not to trust him! She watched him, a glimmer of tears—or was it contrivance?—sparkling in her gaze.
“I cannot be all wickedness and duplicity, can I?” she whispered. “Surely there remains some spark of light in the darkness. Whatever I am that’s good, whatever ember still burns in the ruin of my life, it springs from love for them.”
“You’re no more wicked than I am. Your determination to protect them proves that.”
Allegra bowed her head. “I am as the Devil fashioned me.”
“You’re God’s creature, and damn those Romish mummers for telling you otherwise!” Ferocious, he caught her shoulders, clearing an unexpected gruffness from his throat. “What do you need from me, Allegra? What do you intend to do?”
“Do?” Her brows arched as if with mockery, but her indigo eyes blazed fire. “For once in my life, for one night only, I intend to act for my own pleasure.”
Color flooded beneath her creamy skin as she leaned toward him. Before he could drag air into his lungs to fuel his thundering heart, she stole his breath and kissed him.
Chapter Thirteen
Allegra was afraid to allow him space to demand answers or protest, to give him the moment he’d need to push her away. Clumsy as a virgin, she dove at him and pushed him back on the bed, the weight of her mother’s cross swinging between them. Her hands tangled in his burnished hair, whiskers rasping against her face as she kissed him.
Now she sprawled across him, only the rich brocade of her chamber robe and a blanket between them. For a heartbeat she feared he would throw her off, until his strong arms closed around her. A soothing noise rumbled from his chest as his hands wrapped in her loosened hair, gentling her, holding her in place for the kiss.
For the thousandth time, she warned herself against him. Sharing his bed would do nothing but heighten the risk for both of them. But, Corpus Christi, how she hungered for him! Could she not know for one night what the poorest peasant was free to explore—the glory and wonder of a lover’s embrace?
Trembling, she stroked his face, feeling strong bones and warm skin and a man’s resolve. She pushed back his head—unspeakably clumsy, but he tolerated it—and rubbed her lips against his bearded jaw, found the hot rough skin stretched over the vulnerable column of sinew and nerves. She knew a hundred ways to kill a man, but she’d never known the salt tang of a lover’s sweat or the ragged leap of his pulse beneath her lips.
“Allegra—Mon Dieu, I’ve burned for this! Pray God, be certain what you want. I can weather no more of your contrary choices, blowing hot and cold at whim.”
“You’re wise to question, but I want to know this.” Straddling his hips, she drank in the sight of him: flame-bright hair tumbled on the pillow, eyes molten gold, skin gilded to copper from the firelight. “I want to know all of this—and all of you.”
“If you’re certain, then take your fill, sweetheart.” His hands spanned her waist, unaware of her assassin’s strength. Through the layers between them, the hard blade of aroused manhood nudged between her thighs. Her breath clogged in her throat.
Her palms traced the bulging muscle of his shoulders. The planes of his chest drew her like magnets, fingers rasping in crisp bronze hair, finding the ruddy pink buttons of his nipples beneath. The white scar of an edged wea
pon followed his ribs, and she traced its slanting course across his sinewed torso. A tongue of tawny hair arrowed toward his hips, making her fingers itch to follow it.
She had never made love to a man. Certainly Casimiro had not been the manner of man to encourage it. When she hesitated, Joscelin’s callused hands covered hers.
“It’s all right, sweet, I understand your fear. We can explore as much or as little as you desire.”
“What I desire.” She savored the words, flushed and tingling with passion, her entire body ready to burst into flame. Gripped by anticipation so powerful she could barely breathe, she took her courage in hand. “This is what I desire.”
Her hand slid beneath the furs, along the furred plane of his belly, until she brushed the turgid head of his manhood, still hidden from sight. Silken skin sheathed the leaping vitality of the man beneath, slick moisture coating her fingers from his ridged tip. She inched back until she straddled his thighs, dragging down the blankets with her.
Briefly, the old fear squeezed her in its vise, ugly memories of another man’s swollen length, wielded as a weapon against her tender flesh. But this was Joscelin, lying still beneath her as though he sensed her fear. Lying helpless in her power—this man she prayed never to hurt.
Gingerly she stroked him, barely daring to touch, an amazed breath slipping from her lips when he arched beneath her and pressed into her hand. With greater confidence she gripped him, fingers tightening around his shaft. His hands fisted against the blankets as though, even now, he fought not to frighten her. His restraint steadied her, endeared him to her, reassured her that he would never hurt her.
Continuing to massage with one hand, she explored with the other, finding the furred silk of his sac beneath. Delight tingled through her when he surged against her.
She moistened her lips. “Do I give you pleasure?”
“God-a-mercy, Allegra!” He choked out a laugh, eyes closed. “You give me pleasure enough to make me spill in your hand, if that’s your desire. How far do you want to go?”
“As far as we may.” Anticipation rippled through her to think of all that vitality and power, surrendered to her touch.
He uttered a sound between a groan and a chuckle, eyes slitting to reveal his simmering gaze. “Will you take all the pleasure of looking for yourself? Or allow me to look in return at the beauty that haunts my dreams?”
Another shiver of the old vulnerability worked through her, to be naked and powerless before a man who could hurt her—but this was Joscelin. Decisive, she released him, unfastened her chamber robe. A seam of cool air licked down her torso as she pushed the garment from her shoulders to pool in opulent splendor behind her.
Beneath her lashes, she watched him watching her, eyes gleaming as they trailed down her body. His gaze slid below her navel, lingered between her parted thighs, where the pink petals of her core were exposed as she straddled him.
“Certainement, I must be dreaming,” he said, voice thick with a man’s desire. “Any moment, I will wake. Will you let me touch you, Allegra?”
Her last doubts fractured—that he would ask, and wait for her response, rather than grasping and taking what he wanted as Casimiro had done. A giddy sense of languor swept through her. Allegra arched her back, stretching like a cat, lifting her hair with both hands and letting it unravel down her back.
“Aye, Joscelin, you may touch me.” She smiled at the blaze of satisfaction that leaped in his face. She held still as his hands swept up her arms, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. In careful spirals he circled her breasts, sending shivers of anticipation through her body. Her eyes closed as a shaky breath escaped her lips.
So blessed different, all of this, from the rough preliminaries to violence that she’d known before.
With her eyes closed, his touch grew bolder, cupping the tingling weight of her breasts in his palms, stroking and squeezing. Suspended between wonder and uncertainty, Allegra felt the damp heat pulse between her thighs. In no apparent hurry, he prolonged the moment. Moisture welled from her depths and slicked her secret places.
“Does this please you?” he asked.
She had to swallow before she could speak. “It pleases me. Santa Maria, do you have to ask?”
A low laugh rolled through him as his hands slipped under her hair, stroked the arched line of her back. He skimmed the crevasse of her derriere, and she tensed, memories of cruelty piercing her dazed mind.
“Be at ease.” Clearly sensing her unease, he withdrew, settling her gently against him. “I’ll stop whenever you wish, though I can’t pretend it’s easily done.”
“No, don’t stop.” Letting the dark memories spin away, she focused on the man with her here, now, in this place. Exploring, she rubbed her slick heat against him.
The friction resonated through her, a moan slipping from her lips. He angled his hips until he nudged the pulsing heart of her desire, spreading moisture along her cleft.
Spurred on by mounting hunger, Allegra struggled to fit against him. She was no virgin after all, even if this miracle of pleasure was utterly new. She knew how a man and woman joined together, but tonight everything seemed different. He slipped a hand between them, grasping himself, his thumb brushing teasingly against her aching bud.
“Do you want this, sweetheart?”
She whispered her assent—in what language she didn’t know, but he seemed to understand her. He probed her wet heat, and then she knew what to do. Her breath shuddered out as she sank down on him, feeling him slide deep inside.
“Nom de Dieu.” For a breath, he was still, inside her, letting her grow accustomed to him.
Gratitude welled in her for his restraint and understanding—for his patience, letting her initiate the rocking thrust of passion. Her knees sank into the mattress as she rode him, clutching the broad shoulders that clenched beneath her. He gripped her hips to steady her, murmuring words of encouragement and endearment she heard dimly, through the rasp of her own breath. Losing herself in the hammering pulse of pleasure, she gripped him with her inner muscles.
The climax rippled through her with the force of an earthquake. Shuddering, still riding him, she gasped, “Gesù!”
In the next heartbeat he stiffened and shouted, their voices mingling in the night as his heat spurted within. The chamber wheeled around them while the last slow shivers swept through her.
Breathless, she collapsed against his sweat-slicked chest. His arms closed around her—holding her safe, protecting her, as the world steadied around them.
She kept her eyes closed, holding at bay the clamoring voices of warning and fear that waited in ambush. Whatever her tangled motives—this need to confide in him, ease her burdens, earn his trust—she’d surrendered once to impulse and a woman’s passion. Now he trusted her, she felt certain. He’d left himself open and undefended. For a fighting man, that must run counter to his nature.
His trust would make it simple to betray him.
“I can feel your thoughts whirling in that clever head of yours,” he said. “Care to share them?”
Now, of all times, she felt a vast repugnance to lying. Yet she could never tell him the truth.
“I’m thinking that what we shared was…miraculous. Santo Spirito, I never knew I could feel that way.” She paused. “You have given me a gift I will always treasure.”
A gift she would always remember, with astonishment and sorrow, after she left him.
“I’d like to give you more of the same. It must be a mortal sin, for a woman of your passion to wait so long in life for pleasure.”
Was he still wondering if Maximo had taken her, if the don was an inept lover? Did he wonder if she’d remained chaste in widowhood, if her court mask of carnality was truly a disguise? Sighing, she rolled over to lie beside him.
She sensed the hour of Matins approached—the deepest hour of the night. Surely every soul in Belhaven was sunk deep in slumber. Yet she must not linger, with Beatriz likely to waken soon from the careful dos
e of passion vine Allegra had slipped into her ale.
When she shivered, Joscelin tossed the blankets over them but did not bridge the distance she’d placed between them. She curled under the blankets and studied him—bold as an archangel plunging down from Heaven, copper hair tumbled over his brow like a halo. He looked pensive, scowling at the ceiling—no doubt dwelling on the dangerous consequences of their passion.
Scrambling to divert his thoughts and prolong just a little this moment of intimacy, she thought about what he’d said.
“Do you think it’s a mortal sin, what we’ve done?” she whispered. “We’re not guilty of adultery, since neither of us is wedded. But the priests speak against carnality more than any other sin.” She uttered a wry laugh. “Trust me to know, for the holy men look to my pew when they preach it.”
Somberly, he rolled over to study her. “Oui, we’re taught that carnality is a sin, for Catholics and Lutherans both—one of the few things they seem to agree on. I can’t find the wrong in it, myself, when it brings such joy to body and soul.”
“You’re very French,” she said, amused.
“I’m very honest.” He gave a Gallic shrug. “Where’s the harm in it, if both parties are willing—and candid, with no false pretense on either side?”
Transparent and direct as always. But he couldn’t conceal his discomfort. If he didn’t consider the act of love to be sinful, then something else troubled him. Something he’d done…or something he planned to do.
Be careful, her instincts whispered. Now more than ever, when he could capture your heart—and use that to ensnare the rest of you. Even now, you mustn’t trust him, for the price of failure is too dear.
“What do you think?” He searched her features. “Will you confess me to your priest, and do penance for me—ten paternosters and a fasting day, or some such?”
“When I am confessed, I assure you my penance tends to be much heavier than that. I think the priest assigns penance not only for what I confess, but for the sins he thinks I’m hiding.”
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