NOTORIOUS in the Tudor Court. Amanda McCabe
usually.”
“Nay. You would use your dark arts to capture moonbeams to colour your hair, and sunsets for your cheeks.”
“Shh, Monsieur Ostrovsky! You give away my secrets.” She hummed softly as she worked, a low, gentle lullaby that emphasised the quick, light movements of her fingers.
Nicolai slowly relaxed, lulled by her voice, her touch, the scent of her exotic lily perfume that seemed to curl around him in a silken net. He would hardly have guessed, after Venice, after their encounter in the garden last night, that she possessed such softness. What endless facets she had, like the fine emerald set in her dagger.
How very easy she must find it to winnow secrets out of men, who were so vulnerable to gentleness and sweetness. And he was a man like any other. His body stirred at her touch, becoming hard and hot, and he longed to fall into her arms, bury himself in her complex beauty and never emerge again.
Was this truly what she wanted, then, what she worked for? His complete eradication? If so, in that moment he would have happily given it to her.
Her fingertips lightly skimmed over his temples, his cheekbones, down his throat to rest on his shoulders. “There, Monsieur Ostrovsky, you are quite tidy now.”
“You are indeed most gifted at the toilette, mademoiselle,” Nicolai muttered, slowly coming back to the hard ground, to himself. It was a bit like emerging from the spell that overtook him on the tightrope.
“And a woman of my word, too, yes?”
“My throat does seem to be intact.”
Marguerite laughed. “For now, monsieur.”
Nicolai stood and gave her a bow, his hair falling forward like a shining length of silk, all knots removed. “I am most obliged to you, mademoiselle, for sparing my poor life one more day.”
“I do not have time to deal with you properly,” she said, sounding quite surprised as she seemed to recall her original errand. “I must find Sir Henry…”
“No need, Mademoiselle Dumas, for he is here,” Sir Henry’s voice called from the doorway, where he had thrown back the curtain. Nicolai turned to find the Master of the Revels standing there, the crook of his arm filled with scrolls, a page behind him laden with russet satin costumes. “I am very glad to see that the two of you have already met.”
“Already met?” Marguerite said.
“Ah, yes, for Master Ostrovsky has generously offered to supervise the great pageant of The Castle Vert,” Sir Henry said, obviously eager to be on his way. “And you, Mistress Dumas, must take the most important role, that of Beauty, for I see now that you are perfect for it. I am sure the two of you will work together marvellously well! Master Ostrovsky will tell you all about it, as I fear I must now take my leave. The play for tonight, you know.”
As Sir Henry hurried away, Nicolai smiled at Marguerite, who watched him with narrowed eyes. “Well, mademoiselle,” he said. “It seems we are to be colleagues…”
Chapter Seven
That did not go at all as she planned.
Marguerite stalked along the garden pathway, her hands balled into tight fists against her skirts. She didn’t even feel the chilly breeze, for her cheeks burned hot! She hurried around the corner of one of the buildings, away from the better-travelled thoroughfares. No doubt her face was as red as it felt, and she did not want anyone commenting on her agitation.
Here, close to the kitchen herb gardens, there were only a few servants, maids and pages too intent on their own errands to question hers.
She sat down on a stone bench, drawing out a book and pretending to read as she drew in deep, steadying breaths. What a fool she was! She had sought Nicolai out to use her “charm,” her femininity, to beguile him, lull him into trusting her. Into telling her what his true errand was in England.
Instead, she came away far more beguiled than he could ever be.
When she went to that doorway in the theatre, she was determined to coldly draw him in. But she was brought up short by the vision of him balanced on that rope, so graceful and strong. He took feats that should have been impossible for any human body and made them appear effortless. He seemed to fly lightly through the air, as naturally as any bird.
Any bird of prey.
She stared, hardly daring even to breathe, as he leaped backwards, landing perfectly straight and unwavering on that flimsy rope every time. It was surely magic!
And she was swept away, her errand completely forgotten in the flurry of his movements, the musical flexibility of his body. She watched, completely mesmerised, out of all time, until he landed on the ground. He scarcely seemed even out of breath, and only when she drew near did she see the faint, glistening sheen of sweat on his bronzed skin, the tangle of his tumbled hair. He appeared golden all over, an ancient god flown down to earth.
Marguerite had met many men in her life, men with high opinions of themselves—some even deserved, by force of their great intellect, their fine looks or their artistry. Many who were fools, but never knew it. But never had she met a man who had her so entranced as Nicolai Ostrovsky. What was behind his lightness and ease, his lazy, graceful sensuality? What did he hide in those pale blue eyes?
She found she wanted his secrets, not to use as weapons, not to gain the power that secrets always bestowed, but just to know.
She lost her careful concealment in that little room, giving in to the force of her wonder and awe, her attraction for his glittering goldeness. Only for a moment, yet long enough to show her the graceful danger he posed.
When he offered to help her walk the tightrope herself, when he held his hand out to her, she was seized by such longing. Longing to feel the freedom he must know when he flew high above the sordid world. Longing for things she knew could never be hers.
She did avoid that temptation, the desire to feel the rope under her feet, his hand in hers. But she gave in to a darker desire—she actually touched his hair.
Marguerite groaned, burying her face in her book as she remembered that compulsion which would not be denied. That rush of need to feel the cool silk of his hair against her skin. Pressed close to him in that dim, dusty space, inhaling the scent of him, the green, herbal freshness of his soap overlaid by the salty tang of honest sweat, she had wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him, throw herself into his lap and kiss him, until they drowned in the hot tide of passion.
She remembered too well the taste of his mouth in Venice, the feeling of his lips on her body, those graceful fingers on her stomach, her breasts. He was surely as skillful in the arts of lovemaking as he was on that rope.
Yes, she lost herself for a moment, drowned in the force of that cursed Russian’s allure and charisma. Only Sir Henry’s arrival saved her, and she had to flee when she heard she was actually to be working with Nicolai!
“Idiot,” she muttered. She could not succumb to weakness now. There were yet long days ahead here in England, and she needed her wits and skills to see her through. She would not give in to the allure of a lithe body and golden hair.
Remember, he stole your dagger, she told herself sternly. She had to get it back, and find out what his business was among the Spanish.
She closed her eyes, envisioning a sheet of pure, white ice encasing her whole body, her mind and heart, erasing the heat and light of Nicolai Ostrovsky. When she opened them again, she felt calmer, more rational.
She lowered her book to her lap, hands steady. Passion, agitation, achieved nothing. Her feelings for Nicolai were a mere physical manifestation, her weak, womanly body clamouring for pleasure. Focusing on her work would soon overcome such foolishness.
Marguerite heard a burst of laughter, a flurry of chatter in Spanish, and she turned to see a group