He was stiff from the long, idle days aboard ship and on horseback, out of shape after too much rich food and fine wine. It was fortunate the Emerald Lily was not able to overpower him last night, when he was foolish enough to ambush her in his poor condition!
But as he traversed the length of the rope, balancing on one foot and then the other, he felt his muscles warm, felt them grow pliant and supple again. His mind, too, was centred, leaving England and Marguerite Dumas and Marc’s mother behind, until there was only his body and the thin rope.
Nicolai tucked and rolled into a forward somersault, springing up to do a backflip. One, two, then he was still again, his arms outstretched.
A flurry of applause burst the shimmering, delicate bubble of his concentration. He glanced up to find Marguerite standing in the curtained doorway, clapping her jewelled hands.
He would have expected to see sarcasm written on her face as she watched him, cold calculation. Yet there was none of that. Her cheeks glowed pink, and her eyes were bright, clear of their usual opaque green ice. Her lips parted in a delighted smile.
How very young she looked in that moment, young and free and alive. If he had thought her beautiful before, he saw now he never knew what real beauty was.
“Oh, Monsieur Ostrovsky, how very extraordinary that was,” she exclaimed. “How can a human being perform such feats?”
Nicolai swung down from the rope, landing lightly on his feet. He stayed a wary distance from her, not trusting that she did not conceal a blade up her fine brown velvet sleeve. Not trusting himself to be near her, to step into the circle of that silvery glow she seemed to carry everywhere.
“‘Tis merely practice, mademoiselle,” he answered. “Many years of it.”
“You must have a great gift,” she said. “Anyone else would have cracked their skulls open!”
“And so I did, a dozen times.”
“Yet you lived to tell about it.”
“I have a very hard skull.”
“And so you do. Thick-headed, indeed.” She stepped closer to the rope, reaching up tentatively to test its strength. “Why, it’s as thin as my embroidery silks.”
“It’s harder to find your balance if the rope is too wide.”
“Truly?”
“Would you like to try it? It would not be easy in those heavy skirts, but you could surely stand.”
She looked toward him, her eyes wide. That impression of youth, of wonderment, still clung about her, and Nicolai was surprised to notice she could not be more than two and twenty. What could have happened to such a girl, so lovely and graceful, so full of a wonder she hid even from herself, to run her to such a hard life, to the shadowy, sinful existence of a spy and assassin?
He suddenly had the overpowering desire to take her in his arms, to hold her close until whatever those hardships were faded away and she was only that young girl again. His cursed protectiveness. It always got him into trouble.
“Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “I can help you.”
But she stepped back from the rope, tucking her hands into her wide sleeves. She laughed cynically, and he could see the veil fall again over her eyes. “Nay, Monsieur Ostrovsky! I am sure you would let me drop at the first opportunity. I am too fond of my neck to see it broken on these paving stones.”
He let his own hand drop, and turned away to fetch his doublet and boots. “How very suspicious you are, mademoiselle.”
“One has to be, to survive.”
Nicolai shrugged into his doublet, fastening the tiny pearl closures. The room had suddenly grown very cold. “What do you do here, Mademoiselle Dumas? Are not all the ladies attending on the queen today?”
“I was, but they have joined the Spanish ladies for a stroll in the garden. And I received a note from the Master of the Revels summoning me here. Lady Penelope Percy says he wants to cast me in one of the pageants.”
Ah, yes, the pageant. Nicolai had forgotten about it for a blessed five minutes. “I should have known you were the French angel.”
“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