Kitabı oxu: «NOTORIOUS in the Tudor Court: A Sinful Alliance / A Notorious Woman»
Notorious in the Tudor Court
A Sinful Alliance
A Notorious Woman
Amanda McCabe
AMANDA McCABE wrote her first romance novel at the age of sixteen – a vast epic starring her friends as the characters, written secretly during algebra class. She’s never since used algebra, but her books have been nominated for many awards, including the RITA®, Romantic Times Book Reviews Reviewer’s Choice Award, the Booksellers Best, the National Readers Choice Award and the Holt Medallion. She lives in Oklahoma with a menagerie of two cats, a pug and a bossy miniature poodle. She loves dance classes, collecting cheesy travel souvenirs and watching the Food Network – even though she doesn’t cook.
A Sinful Alliance
Prologue
Venice, 1525
Her quarry was within her sight.
Marguerite peered through the tiny peephole, leaning close to the rough wooden wall as she examined the scene below. The brothel was not one of the finest in the Serene City, those velvet havens purveying the best wines and sweetmeats, the loveliest, cleanest women—for the steepest prices, of course. But neither was this place a dirty stew where a man should watch his purse and his privy parts, lest one or the other be lopped off. It was just a simple, noisy, colourful whorehouse, thick with the scent of dust, ale and sweat, redolent with shrieks of laughter and moans of pleasure, real or feigned. A place for men of the artisan classes, or travelling actors here for Carnival. A place where the proprietor was easily bribed by women with ulterior motives.
She had certainly been in far worse.
Marguerite narrowed her gaze, focusing in on her prey. It was him, it must be. He matched the careful description, the sketch. He was the man she had seen in the Piazza San Marco. He did not look like her vision of a coarse Russian, she would give him that. Were they not supposed to be built like bears, and just as hairy? Just as stinking? Everyone in France knew that these Muscovites had no manners, that they lived in a dark, ancient world where it was quite acceptable to grow one’s beard to one’s knees, to toss food on to the floor and blow one’s nose on the tablecloth.
Marguerite wrinkled her nose. Disgusting. But then, what could be expected from people who lived encased in ice and snow? Who were deprived of the elegance and civility of France?
And it was France that brought her here tonight, to this Venetian brothel. She had to do her duty for her king, her home.
A bit of a pity, though, she thought as she watched the Russian. He was such a beauty.
He had no beard at all, but was clean shaven, the sharp, elegant angles of his face revealed to the flickering, smoking torchlight. The orange glow of the flames played over his high cheekbones, his sensual lips. His hair, the rich gold of an old coin, fell loose halfway down his back, a shimmering length of silk that beckoned for a woman’s touch. The two doxies in his lap seemed to agree, for they kept running their fingers through the bright strands, cooing and giggling, nibbling at his ear and his neck.
Other women hovered at his shoulder, neglecting their other customers to bask in his golden glow, in the richness of his laughter, the incandescence of his skin and eyes.
And he did not seem to mind. Indeed, he appeared to take it all as his due, leaning back in his chair indolently like some spoiled Eastern lord, his head thrown back in abandoned laughter. He had shed his doublet and his white shirt was unlaced, hanging open to reveal a smooth, muscular chest, glimmering with a light sheen of sweat. The thin linen hung off one shoulder, revealing its broad strength.
No lumbering Russian bear, then, but a sleek cat, its power concealed by its grace.
Oui, a pity to destroy such handsomeness. But it had to be done. He and his Moscow friends, not to mention the Spanish and Venetian traders he consorted with, stood in the way of French interests with their proposed new trade routes from Moscow to Persia, along their great River Volga and the Caspian Sea. It would interfere with the French trade in silks, spices, furs—and that could never be. It was even more vital now, after the king’s humiliating defeat at Pavia. So, Nicolai Ostrovsky would have to die.
After one last lingering glance at that bare, golden skin, Marguerite turned away, letting the peephole cover fall into place. She had her task; she had done such things for France before, she had done worse. She could not hesitate now, just because the mark was pretty. She was the Emerald Lily. She could not fail.
There was a small looking glass hanging on the rough wall of her small room, illuminated by candles and the one window. She gazed into it to find a stranger looking back. Her disguises often took many turns—gnarled peasant women, old Jewish merchants, milkmaids, duchesses. She had never tried a harlot before, though. It was quite interesting.
Her silvery blonde hair, usually a shimmering length of smooth waves, longer even than the Russian’s, was frizzed and curled, pinned in a knot at the back and puffed out at the sides. Her complexion, the roses and lilies so prized in Paris, was covered with pale rice powder, two bright circles of rouge on each cheek and kohl heavily lining her green eyes.
She was not herself now, not Marguerite Dumas of the French Court. Nor the lady who had strolled, modestly veiled and cloaked, through the Piazza San Marco in the bright light of day, watching Nicolai Ostrovsky in his guise as an actor. An acrobat, who juggled and jested and feinted, always hiding his true self behind a smile and the jangle of bells. Just as she did, in her own way.
Voila, now she was Bella, a simple Italian whore, come to Venice to make a few ducats during Carnival. But hopefully a whore who could catch Nicolai’s eye, even as he was the centre of attention for every woman in the place.
Marguerite stepped back until she could examine her garb in the glass. It was scarlet silk, bought that afternoon from a dealer in second-hand garments. It must have once belonged to a grand courtesan, but now the gold embroidery was slightly tarnished, the hem frayed and seams faded. It was still pretty, though, and it suited her small, slender frame. She tugged the neckline lower, until it hung from her shoulders and bared one breast.
Hmm, she thought, examining that pale appendage. Her bosom was good, she knew that; the bubbies were not too large or small, perfectly formed and very white. Perhaps they were meant to compensate for her rather short legs, the old scars on her stomach. But they seemed a little plain, compared to the other whores’. Marguerite reached for her pot of rouge and smeared some of the red cream around the exposed nipple. There. Very eye-catching. For good measure, she added some to her lips, and dabbed jasmine perfume behind her ears. Heavy and exotic, very different from her usual essence of lilies.
Now she was ready. Marguerite lifted up her voluminous skirts, checking to see that her dagger was still strapped to her thigh, its point honed to perfect sharpness.
She smoothed the gown back into place and slipped out of the small room. The corridor outside was narrow, running behind the main rooms of the house, the ceiling so low she had to duck her head. It was also deserted. But even here she could detect the sounds of laughter and moaning, the clink of pottery goblets, the whistle of a whip for those with more exotic tastes. Marguerite hoped that was not a Russian vice. Baring her backside for the lash would surely reveal the dagger.
She turned down a small, steep flight of stairs, careful on her high-heeled shoes. The low door at the foot of the steps led out of the secret warren into the large, noisy public room.
It was like tumbling into a new world. Noises here were no longer muffled, but loud and clear, echoing off the low, darkened ceiling. Smoke from the hearth was thick, acrid, blending with the perfumes of the women, the smell of flesh and sex and spilled ale. The wooden floor beneath her feet was sticky and pockmarked.
Marguerite stood for a moment in the doorway, her careful gaze sweeping over the entire scene. Card games and dice went on by the hearth, serious play to judge by the great piles of coins on each table, the intent expressions on the players’ faces. There was drink and food, plain fare of bread, cheese and prosciutto. But whores were the first commodity, any sort a man could fancy. Short, tall, fat, thin, blonde, brunette. There was even a young man clad in an elaborate blue satin gown. He was quite good, too, with smooth skin and silky, black hair. ‘Twas a shame he couldn’t do something about that Adam’s apple.
Marguerite surveyed them dispassionately, her competition for this one night. She knew she was beautiful, had known it since she was a child, taken to Court by her father. She was not vain about it. It was merely an asset to her work, particularly at times like this. She was fairer than any of the others here, even the boy in blue. Therefore she should be able to catch Nicolai’s attention.
Her competition was less now, anyway. Many of the women who had clustered around him were scattered, sent by the proprietor to see to the other patrons. There were just the two on his lap, half-dressed in their camicias, wriggling and giggling. Marguerite straightened her shoulders, displaying her bosom in its red silk frame, held her head high, and sauntered slowly past the Russian and his harem. She let her train trail over his boots, let him smell her perfume, glimpse her white breast, her half-smile. Once past him, she glanced back and winked. Then she went on her way, seeking a cup of ale.
Now—well, now she waited. In her experience, a touch of mystery worked better than fawning attention, which he obviously got enough of anyway. She sipped at her ale, carefully examining the room behind her in an old, cracked looking glass hanging on the wall. The two whores were still on his lap, but she could tell his full attention was no longer on their full-blown charms. He sat forward on his chair, watching her, a small frown on his brow. She turned slightly toward him, her pretty profile displayed. A slight impatience made her fingers tighten on the cup. He had to come to her before anyone else did! She flicked lightly at her lips with her tongue, and tossed her head back.
Whatever the secret charm, it worked. She turned away again, and in a few moments she felt him close to her side. How warm he was, yet not in a heated, lascivious, overpowering way, as most men were. More like the summer sun in her childhood home of Champagne, touching her skin with light fingers, beckoning her ever closer. He smelled like the summer, too, of some green, herbal soap behind the salty tang of sweat and skin. Of pure man.
She swivelled toward him, smiling flirtatiously. He had eased his shirt back over his shoulders but his chest was still bare, and he stood near enough that she could see the faint sprinkling of wiry blond hair against his skin. Gold on gold.
“Good evening, signor,” she said, every hint of a French accent carefully banished.
“Good evening, signora,” he answered, giving her a low bow, as if they were in the Doge’s palace and not a smoky brothel. His eyes were blue, she noticed. A clear, sky-like expanse where anything, any wish or desire or fear, could be written.
And they watched her very carefully. The laughter he shared with the other women was still there, but lurking in the background. He was a wary one, then. She would have to be doubly cautious.
For an instant, as that blue gaze met hers steadily, unblinking, she felt a prickle of unease. A wish that she had worn a mask, which was ridiculous. The heavy make-up was disguise enough, and he would not see her after tonight.
Marguerite shoved away that unease. There was no time for it. She had to do her task and be gone.
“I have not seen you here before,” he said.
“I am new. Bella is my name, I have just arrived from my village on the mainland to work for Carnival,” she answered, gesturing for more ale. “Do you come here often, then?”
“Often enough, when I am in Venice.”
She laughed. “I would wager! A virile man like yourself, I’m sure the pale, choosy courtesans of the grand palazzos could never keep you satisfied.” The ale arrived, and she handed him one of the goblets. “Salute.”
“Na zdorovie,” he answered, and tossed back the sour drink. “Venice is truly filled with the most beautiful of women, signora. Lovelier than any I have ever seen, and I have travelled to many lands. But I do prefer company more like—myself.”
Marguerite glanced toward the boy in blue. “Yourself, signor?”
He laughed, and she was again reminded of summer and home, of the warm, sparkling wine of Champagne. “Not in that way, signora. Closer to the earth.” She must have looked puzzled, for he smiled down at her. “‘Tis a saying from my homeland.”
“You are not from here, either.”
“Nay. I can see where you might mistake me, though, given my excellent Italian,” he said, giving her a teasing grin. “I am from Moscow, though many years removed from that place.”
“Ah, that explains it, then.”
“Explains what, signora?”
“The virility. For is Moscow not snowbound for much of the year? Much time to spend in front of the fire. Or in a warm bed.”
“Very true, signora.” His arm suddenly snaked out, catching her around the waist and pulling her close. For one flashing instant, Marguerite was caught by surprise and instinctively stiffened. She forced herself to go limp, pliant, arching back against his arm.
Through her skirts and his hose she felt the press of his erection, hard and heavy. “No ice tonight, I see, signor.”
“The Italian sun has melted it away—almost.”
She smiled teasingly up at him, twining her arms about his neck. His hair was like satin spilling over her fingers, cool and alluring. She tangled her clasp in its clinging strands, inhaling that clean, warm scent of him. “I’m sure this Italian sun could finish the job completely, signor. You would never feel the touch of ice again.”
In answer he kissed her, his lips swooping down on hers so quickly she had no time for thought. She could only react, respond. His kiss was not harsh and bruising, but soft, gentle, nibbling at her lips, luring her to follow him into that sunshine and forget all. For a moment, she did forget. She was not Marguerite Dumas, not the Emerald Lily. She was just a woman being kissed by a handsome man, a man who ensnared her with a blurry, humid heat, with his scent, his strong arms, his talented lips. She pressed closer to him, so close the edges of her being melted into his and she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. His tongue pressed into her mouth, presaging an even more profound joining.
Overwhelmed, Marguerite eased back. She needed her own ice now, the cold thoughts, precise actions. Not this, this—lust. This need. The Emerald Lily did not have needs, especially not carnal ones. Nicolai Ostrovsky was a task, nothing more.
Why, then, was it so very hard to remember that as she stared up into his pale blue eyes?
She made herself smile. “You are hot tonight, signor.”
“I told you the Italian sun has made me so.”
“Then come with me, signor, and I’ll cool you off—eventually.” She untangled her clasp from his hair, reaching down to take his hand. His fingers held hers tightly, holding her prisoner as she led him toward that small doorway she earlier emerged from.
They climbed the narrow stairs, Nicolai ducking to avoid the rafters overhead. The quiet enclosed them again, the loud, bright world shut away, and Marguerite felt her heart thud in her chest, felt her skin grow chilled. The time was almost upon her.
At the entrance to her little room, Nicolai suddenly reeled her close to him, spinning her lightly around to press her to the wall. Marguerite’s heartbeat quickened—had he discovered her, then? Was she caught in a trap of his own?
He did not slit her throat, though. He merely held her there, pressed against her in the half-light, staring down at her with those otherworldly eyes as if he could see into her soul. Her sin-riddled soul.
“Where did you come from, Bella?” he said softly. His accent was more pronounced now, the edges of his words touched with some icy Russian music.
Marguerite smiled at him. “I told you, from the mainland. This is our most profitable time of year, but one has to be in Venice to make the coin.”
“Have you been a whore long, then, dorogaya?”
She laughed. “Oh, yes. Decades, it seems.”
“Miraculous, then. For you still have your teeth, your clear eyes…” He reached down to trace the underside of her naked breast, the soft, puckered flesh. His thumb flicked lightly at the rouged nipple, making her shiver deeply. “Your smooth skin.”
“I was born under a lucky star, signor. My father always said so,” she said, still trembling. And that was one true thing she said tonight. Her father had told her that when she was a child, holding her up on his shoulder so she could see the clear, bright stars in the Champagne sky.
But then her star faded, and here she was in a Venetian brothel. Bound up with this beautiful puzzle of a man.
“A lucky star on the mainland,” he said.
“Just so. You must have been born under an auspicious sign yourself, to be so handsome.” She spoke teasingly, but it was also true. Such beauty and charm should belong to no ordinary mortal. He was blessed. Until tonight.
This was a fateful hour for them both, then.
“If we are both so fortunate, then, Signora Bella, why are we here?” he murmured, as if he truly could read her thoughts. “A whore and an actor, who must both sing for their supper. Can we even afford each other?”
“I am not so expensive as all that,” Marguerite said. She went up on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, “Not for you. I think we are alike, you and I, whores and actors both in one. And we do love our homelands, though we don’t want to admit it.”
He pulled back, staring at her as if surprised by her words, but she wouldn’t let him go. She caught him closer, kissing him with every secret passion of her heart.
“You didn’t come from any human land,” he muttered roughly against her neck, his lips trailing a fiery ribbon of kisses along her throat, her shoulder. “You come from an enchanted fairy realm, and you’ll surely vanish back there at the dawn.”
“‘Tis hours until then,” Marguerite gasped. “We have to make the most of the night.”
Nicolai captured her breast in his kiss, laving the pebbled, rouged tip with his tongue until she added her hoarse moans to the others of the house. That hazy, hot passion descended on her again like a grey cloud, and she felt so weak, so warm and yet shivering. Through that fog, she felt him reach down and grasp her hem, drawing her skirt up.
The cold draught on her bare leg brought sanity crashing down around her. Non! He could not see her dagger, or all would be lost. She pulled away, laughing. “I said we had all night, signor! We don’t have to rut against the wall.” She drew him toward the small cot tucked beneath the room’s one window. Later, when her task was done, she would escape through that portal, vanishing over the rooftops of Venice. Not to any fairy kingdom, but to a curtained gondola where “Bella” would disappear for ever.
She lightly pushed Nicolai, unresisting, on to the sheets, standing above him for a moment, studying him in the moonlight. His golden hair spilled around him on the rumpled, dingy linen. So handsome—so unreal. He smiled wickedly up at her, a fallen angel.
“So, we can rut on a bed like civilised beings?” he said.
“Exactly so.” She leaned over him, tracing the muscled contours of his chest with her fingertips. The arc of his ribs, the flat, puckered discs of his nipples. So glorious, like a map of some exotic, undiscovered country. She felt the pace of his heartbeat, racing under her caress. “We can savour each moment. Each—single—touch.” She kissed his nipple, tugging its hardness between her teeth, tasting the salt of his skin.
Nicolai shivered, and she felt the pull of his fingers in her hair, the shift of his body under hers. He was so hard against her hip, his whole body taut as a bow string. Oui, he was under the spell of desire now. She couldn’t let herself fall prey to it, too.
“How much will this cost me?” he said tightly.
Marguerite eased up his body until she lay prone atop him, pressed close. “Your soul,” she whispered.
Then she acted, as she had before. As she was trained to do. She drew up her skirts and snatched the dagger, in the same smooth motion rising up from his chest and lifting the blade high. She had a quick impression of his eyes, silver in the moonlight, his body laid bare for her to claim. She had only to plunge the dagger down into that heartbeat, and an enemy of France would be gone.
But those eyes—those inhuman, all-seeing eyes. They watched her steadily, not even startled, and she was captured by their sea-like depths.
Only for an instant, one quicksilver flash, but it was enough to lose her the advantage. Nicolai seized her wrist in a bruising grip, tightening until her wrist bone creaked and she cried out. Her fingers opened convulsively, and the dagger clattered to the floor. He swung her beneath him, pinning her to the bed. No lazy, debauched, lustful actor now, but a swift, pitiless predator. Just as she was.
Marguerite was well trained in swordplay and the use of daggers and bows, in courtly fencing and rough street brawling. She knew tricks and dupes to compensate for her small size and feminine weakness. Yet she also knew when she was truly defeated, and that was now. She knew what it was she saw in those eyes. It was doom.
As she stared up at him now, she felt strangely calm, as if she was already hovering above her body, watching the scene from the rafters. Her victim became her murderer, and it was no less than she deserved for her sins. This day had been long in coming. If only she could not die un-shriven! She would never meet her mother in heaven now.
But she did see her avenging angel, rising above her in the darkness. He scooped up her dagger, examining the blade while he held her firmly down with his other hand, his strong body. She felt the full force of that lean strength; the smooth, supple muscles that held him on a tightrope or in a backflip now held her easily in place.
He stared at the dagger, so thin and perfectly balanced. So lethal. The small emerald embedded in the hilt gleamed. “Why me?” he said roughly. “Why try to kill a poor actor?”
“You are not a poor actor, Monsieur Ostrovsky, and we both know it,” she said in French. “You have secrets to equal my own.”
“What are your secrets, mademoiselle?” he answered in the same language.
Marguerite laughed bitterly. “It hardly matters. I have failed in my task, but I take my secrets to the grave.”
“Do you, indeed? Well, that might be a long time from now, mademoiselle. I have the feeling that fairies, like cats, have many lives. You are young; I’m sure you have some to go.”
Marguerite stared up at him, baffled, but his face gave nothing away. He was as beautiful, as cold, as the marble statues in the piazza. Her passionate lover was gone. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, mademoiselle whatever-your-name-is, that this is not your night to die. Nor mine, though you would have had it otherwise.” The dagger arced down, but not into her heart. It sliced into her skirt, cutting away thick strips of silk. Holding the blade between his teeth like a corsair, he bound her hands and feet tightly, with expert knots.
“What are you doing?” Marguerite cried, bewildered. This was not how the game was meant to be played! “I would have killed you! Do you mean you won’t kill me? You won’t take your revenge?”
“Oh, I will take my revenge, mademoiselle, but not on this night.” He tied off the final knot around her wrists, so firm she could not even wriggle her fingers. “It will be some day when you least expect it.”
Once she was trussed up like a banquet goose, he leaned down and pressed one gentle kiss to her lips. He still tasted of herbs, ale and her own waxen rouge. And he still smelled of an alluring summer day. Quel con!
“I just can’t bring myself to destroy such rare beauty,” he whispered. “Not after your fine services, incomplete though they were. Adieu, mademoiselle—for now.”
He tied the last strip of silk over her mouth, and opened the very window Marguerite had planned for her escape. As she stared, infuriated, he gave her a wink, and with one graceful movement leaped through the casement and was gone.
Marguerite screamed through her gag. She arched her back and kicked her legs, all to no avail. She was bound fast, caught in her own scheme. And the cochon didn’t even have the decency to kill her! To follow the code all spies and assassins adhered to. At least French ones.
“Have his revenge,” would he, the beautiful, arrogant Russian pig? Never! She would find him first, and finish this task, no matter what. No matter how far she had to go, even to the frozen wastes of his Russia itself.
For the Emerald Lily never failed.
