скачать книгу бесплатно
“The French angel?”
“It seems one of Henry’s attendants suggested that a lady of the French party, one who was ‘beautiful as an angel,’ should be given a role as a diplomatic gesture.”
Marguerite laughed. “I know little of acting.”
“Oh, mademoiselle, I beg to differ. You played the Venetian whore to perfection.”
Her lips tightened, but other than that she betrayed no emotion. “I suppose I could always come to you for advice, Monsieur Ostrovsky. I’ve seldom met such a consummate player as you.”
“I am at mademoiselle’s disposal if you ever need advice, as always.” Nicolai reached back for his hair, tied with a narrow black ribbon to keep it out of his face while he worked, and started to plait it. It was such a bother, the thick fall of it halfway down his back.
Marguerite’s eyes widened and she took a step closer to him. “It does seem such a shame to confine it,” she murmured.
“It is tangled, and I haven’t the time now to see to it properly.”
“Here, I will help you. If there is one thing I am good at, it’s a proper toilette.”
“I would wager you are good at many things, the least of which is wielding a comb.”
A smile twitched at her lips. “I was told only this morning that my embroidery is rather fine. Now, sit here, and I will see to your hair before you hurry on your way.”
She gestured toward a stool, which Nicolai eyed warily. “You will just take the chance to slit my throat, I fear.”
Marguerite laughed, a clear, sweet sound. “Indeed I will not! I will appear as avenging angel when you least expect it, Monsieur Ostrovsky. At this moment I am only a woman who appreciates masculine beauty.” She turned back the edges of her fur-trimmed brown velvet sleeves. “See, I have no daggers today.”
“Except for what might be hidden in your garters,” Nicolai said, quite beguiled against his will. Beguiled by her smile, the glow in her eyes.
“You shall not be allowed to search there, sirrah! Come, I give you my word, no sneak attacks today.”
Nicolai slowly sat down, holding himself tense, ready to spring up if she made any lethal movements. She merely stepped behind him, her hands gentle as she untied the ribbon and spread his hair over his shoulders.
“Any lady would envy such hair,” she murmured, running her fingers through the strands, untangling them slowly, massaging his scalp as she went. “You do not use a lemon juice solution on it? Or saffron?”
Nicolai laughed. “Why would I squeeze lemons on my hair? I am not a baked salmon.”
“To brighten it, of course. Many ladies do, you know.”
“Do you use such things?”
“Not 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 of ladies strolling toward her. At their head was the woman Nicolai sat next to at the banquet, the one with the sweet smile. That smile was in evidence now as she drew near Marguerite’s bench.
“Ah, señorita, are you alone this afternoon?” she asked. As she stopped before Marguerite, her dark red velvet skirts swaying in a cloud of violet scent, Marguerite saw she was older than she first appeared. Tiny lines fanned out from her brown eyes and her lips, and grey threaded her brown hair at the temples. She was obviously quite wealthy, too, with a heavy garnet-and-pearl cross around her neck, hanging low over her fur-trimmed surcoat, and pearl drops in her ears. An important member of the Spanish party, then, Marguerite decided. But her eyes were kind.
Marguerite stood up to make a curtsy. “I am reading, señora…”
“This is the Duchess of Bernaldez,” one of her attendants said sternly.
The lady waved these words away. “Dona Elena when we are outdoors, if you please, Esperanza.” She whispered to Marguerite, “I have spent many years at a quiet convent, you see, and have yet to become accustomed to the strict etiquette my husband seems sadly to enjoy so much.”
Marguerite laughed in surprise. “I, too, prefer informality. I am Marguerite Dumas, Dona Elena.”
“I know. You are quite famous, Señorita Dumas.”
“Famous?” Oh, no. That would surely make things so much more difficult! It was hard enough to engage in subterfuge in a crowded Court without being well known.
“Of course. The men can talk of nothing but your rare beauty. I see now why that is so.”
“You are very kind.”
“I just speak as I find, and I must say I enjoy having beauty around me as much as anyone. It brightens these grey English days. Would you care to walk with us? We were going to take a turn by the river.”
Ah, an opportunity! They so rarely just fell into her lap like that. Hoping to compensate for her silly behaviour with Nicolai, Marguerite nodded and said, “I would be honoured, Dona Elena.”
She fell into step next to the duchess as they strolled around the palace to the long walkway that ran beside the Thames. The river was placid today, grey and flat as a length of sombre silk, broken only by a few boats and barges floating past on their way to London and the sea. Dona Elena’s attendants gradually went back to their conversations, their whispers like those waves that broke and ebbed along the banks.
“You have not long been married, then, Dona Elena?” Marguerite asked.
“A few months only. My first husband, a sea captain, died many years ago, señorita. I loved him a great deal, and when he was gone I sought the refuge of a convent. I thought to stay there for the rest of my life.”
“Until the duke swept you off your feet?” Marguerite teased.
Dona Elena laughed. “You certainly have it aright! His sister, you see, is abbess of the convent, and we met when he came to visit her. We spent a great many hours walking in the garden together, and before he left he asked me to marry him.”
“Such a romantic story!”
Dona Elena gave her a wink. “And an unlikely one, you are thinking. An old lady like myself—why would an exalted duke choose such a wife?”
“Not at all, Dona Elena. You can hardly be so ‘old’ and still be so beautiful.”
“You do possess the art of flattery, Señorita Dumas. I had heard that of the French.”
“Like you, I must speak as I find.”
“Are you married yourself?”
Marguerite shook her head. “I fear not.”
“I was first married when I was fifteen. My new husband was also wed when he was quite young, and his wife gave him many children before she died. We did our duty in our youth, you see; we have our families. Now we are blessed to find companionship and affection in our old age.”
“It sounds a marvellous thing indeed, Dona Elena. I can only pray to find such contentment myself one day.”
“You must surely have received many offers!” Dona Elena examined her closely, until Marguerite felt her blush returning. “I wonder you are yet unwed.”
“My duties at Court keep me very busy. And, too, I am an orphan, with no one to see to such matters.”
“Oh, pobrecito! How very, very sad.” Dona Elena took Marguerite’s hand in her plump, be-ringed fingers, patting it consolingly. “Have you been alone in the world very long?”
“My mother died when I was born, and my father died above seven years ago.”
“And you were their only child?”
“I fear so.”
Dona Elena sighed. “I have but one child myself, my son Marc. He has been the greatest blessing of my life, but I would have wished to give him brothers and sisters.” She drew a gold locket on a chain from inside her surcoat, opening the engraved oval to show Marguerite the miniature portrait inside.
Marguerite peered down at the painted image of a dark-haired young man. “He is certainly very handsome.”
“That he is. And he is soon to make me a grandmother!”
“How very gratifying. You must wish to hurry back to Spain to see the new baby.”
Dona Elena pursed her lips as she snapped the locket shut. “Alas, he makes his home near Venice now. But I hope to see him again soon after we leave England.”
Whenever that would be. Marguerite feared they would all be at Greenwich, strolling round and round the gardens for weeks to come, with nothing at all resolved. And she could not even devise how to discover what this lady knew of Nicolai.
“You must wish for children of your own one day, Señorita Dumas,” Dona Elena said.
For one flashing instant, Marguerite remembered the kicks of the horse’s hooves, the burning, searing pain in her belly. Her twelve-year-old body, barely budding into womanhood, bleeding on to the ground. “If God wills, Dona Elena,” she said, knowing full well His will for her had already been revealed. He turned from her long ago.
“If you were one of my ladies, I would have you settled with a fine husband in a trice,” Dona Elena said confidently. “Even from the convent, I arranged seven happy marriages among the children of my friends! I am known for my eye for a good match.”
