One Forbidden Evening. Jo Goodman
Ferrin was forced to turn and see what manner of creature could inspire it. He was aware of a niggling hope that it was Netta.
The queen standing at the threshold was not the woman-child Cleopatra, but she was immediately recognizable to him and every other man in the room. They were all staring at Boudicca come to life. The heavy mass of flame-red hair, the brightly dyed orange tunic and thick blue mantle, the twisted golden torc at her throat, and gold bracelets on her left wrist and arm proclaimed her as the fierce warrior queen of ancient Britain. Lest anyone doubt it, she carried a spear a head taller than she was.
Wellsley started to take a step forward, but Ferrin managed to rise and insert himself directly in his friend’s path. “You do not even like redheads,” Wellsley whispered from behind.
Over his shoulder, Ferrin said, “I am prepared to reevaluate. One must, you know, when presented with new evidence. It is in the nature of scientific inquiry. Do you know her?”
“If I did, I would go to my grave with it.”
It was just as well, Ferrin decided. She was Boudicca, and more than that he didn’t need to know. Like the torc at her throat, the brooch that held her mantle closed, and the bracelets on her wrist and arm, the mask that covered her upper face was hammered gold. Gold threads were woven into her tunic, and her bodice shimmered in the candlelight as she drew in a deep breath. Ferrin had the odd notion that she was steeling herself for battle. She had yet to hold the glance of any one man, but she had paused long enough on the threshold to examine all of them.
He stepped forward and closed the distance between them. “My queen,” he said, making a courtly bow. “There is someone in particular you are seeking? A pirate, perhaps?”
She did not smile or incline her head to acknowledge the overture. Her posture was unyielding: shoulders back, head high, feet planted slightly apart so she would not be moved. “A shepherdess,” she said.
Ferrin indicated the occupants of the card room with a wave of his hand, encouraging Boudicca to take a second look. “Knights Templar. Roman centurions. King Arthur. A highwayman. Two Harlequins. A king’s executioner. Sir Francis Drake. A cardinal and a friar. Not a single shepherdess. Tell me, does she have ribbons on her crook?”
“Yes.”
“Their color?”
“Green.”
“I have only seen pink, blue, and yellow.”
“That is what I have observed also.”
“May I escort you through the squeeze in the ballroom? Mayhap with two pairs of eyes making the search, we shall find her.” From behind her mask, Ferrin could make out the faint narrowing of her gaze. She was regarding him skeptically, her attention riveted on the black silk patch covering his right eye. “Three eyes are not as good as four,” he said, “but they’re half again as good as two.”
She smiled a little then, not enough to show her teeth or brighten her eyes, but enough that he was encouraged.
“Will you take my arm?” he asked. When he saw her hesitate, he added, “We will make but one circle of the ballroom, and I will release you.”
She raised her weapon slightly. “I am carrying a spear. Of course you will release me.”
“Point taken.”
“No, not yet you haven’t,” she said. “But I won’t hesitate to see that you do.”
Ferrin gave a shout of laughter, unwittingly making him the envy of every one of his guests within hearing of it. He saw she did not startle. Rather she held her ground and gripped her spear more tightly as if she might have use of it sooner than she’d thought. He held out his arm and waited patiently for her to accept it. “As pirates go, I am not considered a particularly ruthless one.”
“Like Blackbeard.”
“Far and away more ruthless than I.”
“And Bluebeard?”
“I have yet to take a wife, let alone murder one.” She took his arm and allowed him to lead her back into the ballroom. “Do you think I would be afraid if you had?”
He did not have to pause to think on his answer. “No. There is the spear, after all.”
“Just so.”
As soon as they stepped beyond the threshold they were swallowed in the crush inside the ballroom. Ferrin had the advantage of height and he immediately spied two crooks with pink streamers near the stringed orchestra. He steered Boudicca in the opposite direction, weaving her in and out of the conversational clutches that formed near the refreshment table and beside the fountain of cider punch. They skirted the drooping fronds of the potted plants that made a veritable jungle of one corner of the ballroom and drifted among the dancers as though they were taking a set themselves. Ferrin was quick to notice that their passage around the room was made easier because the guests parted for her, not him. The novelty of it amused him.
She was not the amazon that Queen Boudicca was alleged to have been, but she was taller than many women present, taller certainly than all of the shepherdesses he had seen thus far. Her bearing was in every way regal. She moved with a certain fluid grace among the guests but somehow remained apart from them. He wished he might know the shape of her nose better, but the mask defined it, not flesh and bone. The arch of her cheeks was also hidden and he could not quite make out the color of her eyes. Candlelight from the chandeliers and wall sconces glanced off the hammered gold and defied his best efforts to determine whether they were gray or green or even blue. Her mouth was the feature most openly revealed to him, and when she was engaged in looking over the crowd, he took the opportunity to mark the shape of it, noting the full bottom curve and the way her upper lip curled slightly each time she caught him out.
“You are staring,” she said, not bothering to look at him this time. “We have not met before, my lord, so you should not apply yourself to divining my identity.”
“But you know mine?”
“I would be a very shabby guest if I did not know the name of my host.”
“Perhaps, but are you certain I am he?”
“You were pointed out to me earlier.”
Ferrin wondered that he had not seen her before. He had obviously been too eager to quit the ballroom, though he was reminded now of all his reasons for wanting to be gone from it.
The room, in spite of being quite large, was too warm. The energy of the dancers, the milling of the onlookers, the occasional heated discussion, bursts of laughter, smoldering glances, and all of the incessant gossip combined to raise the temperature five degrees above what was comfortable. Guests spilled into the adjoining rooms so that revelers now occupied a drawing room, the gallery, and Ferrin’s library. All of this was in addition to room he’d gladly given over to card play at the outset of the evening.
As they passed the refreshment table, Ferrin managed to lift two glasses of lemonade, though it meant releasing Boudicca’s arm. She thanked him for the refreshment, but of necessity both hands were now occupied, one with her drink, the other with the spear. She hadn’t an arm for him as they proceeded, a turn of events Ferrin regretted.
“Perhaps the library,” he said. “Your shepherdess might have slipped inside in want of a good book.”
“Unlikely.”
He made to turn her away from the entrance to that room, but she shook her head and indicated they should look anyway. “You are thinking that there might be some other reason the shepherdess would be interested in the library? A tryst, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.”
Ferrin wondered if he would know this shepherdess. Boudicca was not forthcoming, and he suspected it was because she did not want him to be able to identify her through her friend. He decided not to press. In truth, he was disappointed that she knew him. He would have liked to have remained a pirate to her this evening, not