Andria Cardarelle - To sleep with Evil

Donskoy gave a throaty chuckle. "That is generous indeed."

"Is our guest Jacqueline Montarri?"

Lord Donskoy halted abruptly, his fingers pressing into her waist. "How do you know that name?" he asked. His tone was soft, yet measured.

"I saw Miss Montarri yesterday morning. I saw her only briefly, and Zosia told me who she was." Marguerite did not reveal that she had seen Donskoy as well,

"Zosia speaks far too freely."

Marguerite answered chattily, as if deaf to any underlying tension. "Actually, Zosia told me very little. Just the name, and that Jacqueline Montarri is an old friend."

"I see …"

They walked on, and Marguerite patiently awaited his next response.

"Well, it doesn't matter," Donskoy added resolutely. "Jacqueline's presence comes as something of a surprise, but you would have become acquainted with her soon enough. She visits quite frequently. I must warn you that she may seem rather coarse, despite her elegant exterior."

Marguerite was not at all surprised by this last revelation.

Donskoy continued, "She will join us for the feast I have planned. My associates are already waiting in the great hall to meet you. We shall celebrate the marriage."

"Your associates?" Marguerite asked. The term was peculiar. Certainly a lord might have henchmen, soldiers, hirelings.

"Loyal followers," explained Donskoy, "companions even before J became a lord. But that is the past. And now, we look forward."

Without warning, they had gained the foyer, Donskoy led her to the opposite side, to a pair of wide doors. "Ready?" he asked.

She nodded.

He flung open the doors, exposing the castle's great hall. Marguerite gazed in awe at the immense chamber before her; it was at least four times the size of the room in which they had previously dined. She felt as though she had shrunk. The ceiling vaulted upward through the next two levels of the keep, past a narrow gallery and into the shadows. A row of chandeliers descended from this darkness-spiders of iron and wood, dangling from strands of rusty chain, their legs aflame with myriad candles. An enormous, gaping fireplace glowed in the left wall. Smoke and ash whirled before the open hearth like gray snow stirred by a sudden draft.

At the far end of the hall rose a dais supporting the lord's high table, which was freshly dressed in white linen. Marguerite noted that table seemed small; but perhaps this was intentional, to make the lord seem large. Twin rows of rough-hewn tables and benches created a broad aisle that led directly to the honored position. All of the tables were empty, save the pair just before the platform, which were occupied by about two dozen men, sullen and silent. Marguerite felt a catch her throat.

A man in a black and red doublet rose from his seat, lifting his palms toward the ceiling. He began to snap his fingers. Slowly, the other men followed suit, one by one, until the room was filled with a sound like a hundred pebbles dropping.

Donskoy gripped Marguerite's hand. "Smile," he said. "And show them how tovely you are, how full of life."

He led her forward across the herb-strewn planks, past the empty dust-covered tables, past the grimly nodding men and up the shallow steps to the dais. All the while, Donskoy's followers continued to snap their Fingers. The lord took his place in the thronelike chair at the center of the table, before an eiegant saltcellar made of silver. He motioned for Marguerite to sit beside him. Then he raised his hand, and the men ceased their strange applause, taking their seats as well. They began to murmur softly among themselves, throwing the occasional glance in Marguerite's direction. One of the men nudged his companion and whispered into the fellow's ear, then both laughed darkly.

From this new vantage point, Marguerite could better view her audience. They formed an incongruous picture of fine clothing and imperfect bodies. One man was missing his right eye and half his face; it had caved in along a terrible scar. Another had only one hand; the left arm ended in a fingerless stump. A third had a hump. Others seemed less tattered, but even the fittest suffered some small deformity, such as a cauliflower ear or a blind white eye, or a profusion of sores and boils.

Smiling stiffly, Marguerite whispered a question to her husband. "Do these people live in the castle?"

Donskoy chortled. "No, my dear," he said, patting her hand. "Rest assured. My associates may lodge here on occasion, but they devote most of their time to … ah, watching the borders of my land. They prefer the wild, and I admit I prefer the solitude. You have nothing to fear from them. No doubt they are jealous, but they would never dare harm my pretty wife, if that's your fear. They are not as rough as they seem."

Marguerite breathed a sigh of relief.

Her husband continued, "Of course, they are easily summoned, should I require them. They are always close at hand."

The places had already been set and the wine poured, with full jugs resting on each table. A pewter platter and mug lay before each man, while Donskoy and Marguerite were to dine with fine silver and goblets of precious red glass. The men were already drinking. As soon as Donskoy had taken his seat, they had returned to their libation and chatter. Yelena rustled in through a door behind the dais and added a third setting at the end of the high table. Marguerite raised a brow, recalling the uninvited guest, the woman.

Donskoy did not acknowledge Yelena's actions. He stood, raising a glass toward his associates. "I present to you my bride, Marguerite," he bellowed. The men lifted their mugs and gave a half-hearted hail. Marguerite nodded politely, but few met her gaze. The men's attentions had turned to the rear of the hall, to the sound of large doors opening.

The white-skinned woman from the chapel entered. She swept in as if she herself were the keep's mistress, well acquainted with every nook and shadow. Marguerite frowned. The men rose from their seats and they lifted their mugs again, this time toward the new arrival. The woman's traveling cloak was gone, displaying a sleek gown of dark green silk. It fit snugly to the hips, then flared to allow movement. The wide neckline boldly exposed her neck and shoulders, while the tight bodice thrust her round white breasts up toward her collarbone. Yards of black lace dripped from the gown's snug sleeves and trailed from the waist like a tail. As she crossed the floor, the dress rustled and hissed. Like a snake through autumn leaves, thought Marguerite.

The woman slithered up the aisle, nodding to each associate in turn. Pearls had been woven in the plaits of her raven hair. She stepped onto the dais, and draped her pale white hand across the table to Don-skoy, who pecked her fingers stiffly.

"Jacqueline," he said, "may I present my wife, Marguerite Donskoy, nee de Boche."

Jacqueline nodded to Marguerite. "Delighted, I'm sure." She darted her pink tongue ever so slightly between her scarlet lips, which echoed the color of a velvet ribbon encircling her neck. "Your bride is quite striking, Milos," she added. "An unusual sort of beauty. Those huge dark eyes against that pale amber hair. I never imagined you could unearth such a specimen from the piddling corners of Darkon."

"I beg your pardon?" Marguerite was incredulous.

"Is Darkon not your home?" Jacqueline asked coyly.

"Yes, but-"

"Oh, I meant no offense. You must tell me all about your roots then, Marguerite. Later."

Donskoy bade them sit. Jacqueline took her place at the end, where she enjoyed a vantage of both her companions. As Donskoy extolled the quaint rituals of the wedding and the lovely quality of his fresh bride, Yelena shuffled in with a tray, presenting a pair of finger bowls to the women. The servant's cheek was still marred by the long weal that looked like a leech sucking her vitality-what little remained to her.