Amanda McCabe - NOTORIOUS in the Tudor Court - A Sinful Alliance / A Notorious Woman

She hardly recognised herself. Surely she would just vanish like a wisp of mist, and no one would remember she was there at all.

Marguerite shrugged one long strand of hair back from her shoulder, staring at the tiny red mark just at the upper curve of her breast. Nicolai had left it there, his kiss on her skin a reminder of their wild sex on the theatre floor. A reminder of his touch, of the exploding need that overcame her.

It couldn’t go on. He was a distraction from her work, and any misstep now could prove fatal. She was given this chance after her failure in Venice, this one last chance. She balanced on that acrobat’s tightrope, wobbling, wavering, unable to move forward or back.

She had to decide which way to jump.

Marguerite spun away from the glass, reaching for her cloak before she could let caution overtake her. She swung the black velvet over her chemise, and left her chamber on silent, bare feet.

The corridors were silent, filled only with the soft snores of the pages on their pallets, the sputter of torches in their sconces. From behind some of the closed doors could be heard the cries and sighs of passion. No one stopped her as she crept down the stairs and through the labyrinthine halls, her hood up to cover her pale hair and conceal her face. Surely she was turning to mist already.

The wing housing the Spanish was just as deserted as the rest of the palace, though there were signs of an abandoned gathering in empty goblets and scattered cards, a lute in the corner. Marguerite tiptoed up to a door, half-hidden behind a tapestry, and reached down to test the latch. It was not locked, and clicked open at her touch. She slid inside, hardly able to breathe, and closed the door behind her.

Nicolai was not asleep. He lay propped up in his bed, a book open beside him, candlelight flickering over the tumble of the bedclothes. She could see that he was naked under the sheet, his skin glistening gold against the white linen, the thin fabric skimming lightly over the lines of his body. She shivered as she recalled the slide of that body against hers.

He frowned as he glanced up, one hand edging toward a bolster where she was sure a dagger was hidden. But he went still when she folded back her hood, his eyes widening as the light fell over her face.

There was surely a price for what she did tonight, Marguerite knew that well. She was willing to pay it.

Would he?

Nicolai sat straight up, watching her in the tense silence. The sheet fell back, revealing the lean, muscled contours of his body. The light glimmered on the fine blond hairs of his legs and arms, making him seem gilded, like an ancient idol.

She shrugged the cloak away, leaving it in a pool on the floor as she moved slowly toward the bed. She didn’t know what he would do. Kill her? Kiss her? Laugh at her, and send her away? She would rather he plunged his dagger into her heart than do that!

He said nothing, just studied her with his unearthly eyes as she slowly climbed on to the mattress beside him. She reached out and gently pushed him back on to the tangle of sheets and velvet blankets.

“Marguerite…” he said tightly.

“I am not Marguerite tonight,” she whispered. “I am your fairy enchantress.”

She leaned over his taut body, her hair falling around them in a pale curtain, closing off the world. She touched the hollow of his throat with the tip of her tongue, feeling the pulse of his life, tasting the salt of the tiny bead of sweat that pooled there. He was so tense under her, like a drawn bow, but he leaned back, gave her her own way.

As she trailed kisses across his shoulder, she reached her fingers down to lightly trace the circle of his flat, brown nipple, which pebbled under her caress. Her tongue followed, darting out to lick before blowing on it gently. Ever so softly.

“An enchantress indeed,” he groaned.

Marguerite laughed, revelling in the sudden wave of power that rushed through her. The heady, giddy pleasure. Her lips trailed along his chest, over his taut abdomen, soft, quick, teasing kisses.

At last her mouth closed over the throbbing length of his manhood. His fingers clasped in her hair, as if to push her away—or hold her closer. In that one, perfect moment, he was hers. And it was everything she wanted.

Marguerite drowsed in Nicolai’s loose embrace, lying on her side in his bed, curled back against him as she ran her fingertips lightly along his arm. From his wrist to his elbow and back again, until she twined her fingers with his and pressed his hand to her stomach.

There were old scars there from the horse’s kicks, the cuts of the iron shoes, a tracery of rough red lines she had never let anyone see before. But now she let Nicolai touch them, his fingertips playing over them gently.

“What will you do when you leave England?” she asked quietly.

Nicolai chuckled, his warm breath stirring her hair. He drew her even closer into the heat of his body. “Why? So you can chase me when I go? Run after me across the continent until you kill me at last?”

“If I wanted to kill you, you would be dead tonight, Muscovite!” she said, kicking back at him. “Remember, I had your most precious organ balanced right in my hand.”

He laughed, spinning her in his arms until her head rested on his shoulder. “How could I forget?”

Marguerite propped herself on her elbow, gazing down at his face in the sputtering candlelight. He was relaxed, laughing, so young. “I will not kill you in bed. I will face you fairly on a dueling field.”

“Would you indeed, dorogaya? ” He took her hand, kissing each fingertip in turn. He sucked her littlest finger into his mouth, laving it lightly until she shivered. “Well, you will not have to search for me very hard for our duel. I intend to stay in one place for a good long while once this errand is done, and Dona Elena safely on her way back to Spain.”

“But you are a travelling player!”

“And so I’ve been nearly all my life, since I was nine years old, and I am twenty-seven now. I grow weary now, too old for this life. Too old to don motley and walk the tightrope.”

Too old to spy? Surely she did know how he felt. She was barely twenty-one years of age herself, and yet there were times she felt so very ancient. “What will you do instead?”

“I fear you would laugh at me, my sophisticated mademoiselle. My worldly fairy queen.”

“I could never laugh at you. Unless you play the Arlecchino. Then you are diverting beyond measure!”

“Ah, so you have seen my Arlecchino, then?”

“Once, in the Piazza San Marco, when you and your pretty young lover outwitted her sour old husband.”

“Then you know what I mean. I would soon be more likely to play the husband.”

“ Au contraire, monsieur!” She traced a light, teasing caress along his chest, his taut abdomen. “There can be no player in all Europe who would look finer in those tight silks.”

“Lecherous lady! Now I know why you came to me—your lust for Arlecchino.”

“Can you blame me?” She rested her head on his shoulder, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the pulse of his very life. “So, if you will be a player no more, what will you do?”

“I will turn farmer.”

“Farmer? You? In Russia?”

“Nay. I have lost my taste for bitter winters. I bought some land from my friend Marc’s wife Julietta, on the mainland near Venice. It is an overgrown tangle right now, and the villa burned. I will build a new house, though, one that is entirely mine. And I will tend my grapevines and fields of barley, will learn to make wine and press olive oil. I’ll grow old in peace there, under the warm sun.”