What Wild Moonlight (27 page)

After a minute he rolled to the side, taking his weight off her. As he pulled away she tensed, suddenly feeing very vulnerable. She was gripped by an irrational certainty that he would stand and move away, leaving her alone. Instead he drew her to him, her back snuggled up against his chest. He brushed the damp hair from her forehead with a gentle, ministering touch, and he softly kissed her temple. Then he drew his hand lightly over her belly, her ribs and breasts in a meandering, indolent caress. Katya closed her eyes and let out a low purr, a sound that was almost a whimper, of luxuriant relief and satisfied pleasure.

“Did I hurt you very badly?” he asked. Although she couldn’t see his face, a gruff note of regret and apology was clear in his voice.

She caught his hand and lifted it to her mouth, brushing his knuckles with a light kiss. “No.”

Heavy silence hung between them. Finally he broke it by saying, “I wasn’t prepared—I assumed you and William—”

“No.” Katya was suddenly glad he couldn’t see her face, for she could feel the heat suffuse her cheeks. “No,” she repeated, then, at his continued silence, “I disappointed you.”

As though sensing her intent to move away from him, he tightened his grip on her waist. “Just the opposite,” he answered quietly. “Everything about you pleases me. It sometimes frightens me how much.”

The warm breeze they had enjoyed earlier grew progressively chilly, until at last they resigned themselves to abandoning the garden and returning to the villa. They gathered their clothing from where it had been strewn and quietly dressed. Katya took one last, lingering look at the place where their bodies had joined, then turned toward Nicholas. Seeing that her gaze had turned toward him, he sent her a soft smile and silently reached for her.

His ancient gold-and-onyx ring glistened in the moonlight as she placed her hand in his.

Katya sat alone in her bedchamber with the curtains pulled wide, flooding the room with glorious Mediterranean sunshine. The early morning song of a warbler nesting in the olive tree outside her window drifted in to greet her. Her spirits buoyed by the beauty of the day, she hummed a light tune as she fastened the last of the tiny pearl buttons lining the front of her blouse. Then she moved to stand before the looking glass, checking her appearance one last time before going downstairs to join Nicholas.

Her attire was modest: an indigo riding skirt and matching cropped jacket with a crisp white blouse beneath. Wearing her hair in a thick ponytail, she wore a classic straw boater that was softened by the addition of navy and lavender ribbons around the hat’s wide brim. The ensemble was completed by sensible brown riding boots and wrist-length leather gloves. All in all, she decided, her clothing was eminently suited for a leisurely afternoon spent riding.

But as she gazed into the looking glass, she knew that she was searching for more than the mere suitability of her attire. Two weeks had passed since she and Nicholas had become lovers. Although she had embarked on the affair burdened by a nearly overwhelming sense of trepidation, her worries had all but vanished.

As she searched her reflection, she wondered if the heady thrill of her burgeoning romance was visible to everyone who saw her. Did her eyes glow with inner excitement? Were her cheeks rosier? Was her smile more mysterious? She half expected to see physical evidence of their relationship on her skin; surely Nicholas had left his mark somewhere. How was it possible that he could affect her so profoundly heart and soul, yet leave no trace of his touch for others to see?

Even though she was alone in her bedchamber, it felt as though he were beside her. She could still smell the spicy, masculine scent of his skin on her bedsheets. She could almost hear the low murmur of his voice as he whispered in her ear, or the steady sound of his boots echoing down the hall as he came to her room late at night. She saw herself, eager and breathless, trembling with desire, waiting for him in her bed. If she closed her eyes and imagined it, she could almost feel him standing behind her, reaching around to hold her breasts in his hands as he kissed the nape of her neck. She could almost feel the gentle brush of his lips over her skin, the tight knot of warmth radiating from the juncture of her thighs as he slowly entered her, and the way her nipples tingled in glorious anticipation of his touch.

Their lovemaking embraced her like an invisible ghost, holding her nightly in its thrall. It was an odd sort of possession, but one to which she willingly submitted. His presence surrounded her; the very air seemed to pulsate with his being. His touch captured her completely, setting her flesh on fire and making her shudder with so much pleasure that she nearly felt weak. In the two weeks that they had been lovers, they had settled into an exquisite, sensual routine. Or perhaps, Katya reflected, routine wasn’t the right word for it, as each night was spectacularly different from the others.

The news of their liaison was likely of interest to no one else—particularly since she had been posing as his mistress since her arrival in Monaco—but to her it was a source of unending astonishment. She felt as though she were a different person. Surely it was apparent to anyone who looked at her that the rational, prudent Miss Katya Alexander no longer existed. Every move she had ever made was always meticulously planned—until now. For the first time in her life she had willingly thrown caution to the wind, allowing the giddy bliss of passion to replace the more tempered path of reason. She gave herself freely, without worrying about the consequences. Most remarkable of all, she enjoyed a stunning lack of shame.

Her only troubling moments came when she thought of the fleeting nature of her arrangement with Nicholas. Where would it lead? Their relationship had been temporary at best, unscrupulous at worst. Her original plan, so brash and daring, now seemed unimaginable. Could she possibly steal the scroll out from under him and leave without a word?

Putting that weighty issue aside for the moment, she turned away from the looking glass and moved across the room to her bedside table. She had taken to poring over Sacha’s diary every chance she had; the ancient documents covered the small mahogany nightstand. Katya had become fascinated with the diary, finding parallels to her own life on every page. It seemed as though the destiny she and Nicholas shared was mysteriously entwined with that of her ill-fated ancestor centuries ago.

Katya was driven by the irrational notion that if she could find an explanation for what had gone wrong between Sacha and Marco, she might be able to foresee how her relationship with Nicholas would end. But the excerpts she had read thus far suggested nothing but rapidly escalating affection and intimacy between the medieval lovers—exactly what she was experiencing with Nicholas. Frowning as she pondered that fact, she opened the diary and removed the ancient parchment page she had discovered that morning. Although she had read it so many times it was nearly committed to memory, she scanned the document once again, looking for something in Sacha’s words or tone that she may have missed.

Marco came to me again last night. I thought at first it was only a dream, for none but a sorcerer can move through the castle so unguarded, or slip into my room with the silent grace of a shimmering moonbeam. Then his lips touched mine. He is no phantom, but a man of flesh and blood. Only Marco can awaken the fire within me, only he can spark the quivering heat that spreads through my body. Even the rough linen of my bedsheets turns to woven silk with his touch. I know it is a sin to be with him without the sacrament of marriage, but how can I turn him away? Soon we will be together for eternity. Is it so wicked that I should let him claim my body, when he has already laid claim to my soul?

Katya folded the page and tapped it against her lips, vaguely uneasy. Was Sacha’s loyalty to Marco commendable or foolish? If the worst-case scenario were true and Marco had set out to destroy her from the very beginning, Sacha had been an unknowing innocent, her faith rewarded with cruelty and treachery. But Katya could plead no such defense. She had entered into her liaison with Nicholas knowing exactly what she was doing. Like a willful child playing with matches, she had completely disregarded the danger contained in the lure of the dancing flames.

The kiss of fate.
Her mother had told her that it had been bestowed upon her at birth, but she had neglected to mention whether it was a blessing or a curse. Katya let out a sigh. Perhaps only time would tell. She swept up the ancient documents and tucked them neatly away in the hidden compartment at the base of her trunk. Then she picked up her reticule, looped it through the waistband of her skirt, and left the room, heading downstairs to join Nicholas.

She found him in the parlor that overlooked the terrace, enjoying tea with the Comtesse. He rose to his feet the instant she entered the room. The Lord of Scandal, she thought, watching him move toward her with passion in his ebony eyes. How apt the title. Once he had been intimidating. Now he was intoxicating.

Katya fleetingly wondered if her eyes mirrored his. If he saw within her gaze the same longing, the same approval, the same eager rush of desire that flooded through her every time they were reunited, no matter how short the absence. Even if her emotions were as blatantly visible as she feared, she doubted she could hide them.

Fortunately the Comtesse displayed the utmost discretion, acting as though she were blind to the fact that the relationship Katya and Nicholas enjoyed had been profoundly altered. Although Katya knew the regal older woman would never comment on their newfound intimacy, her expression indicated approval.

“Do come in and see the costumes I sent for, Miss Alexander,” she said. “It has taken an inordinate amount of time for them to arrive, but at last they are here.”

Katya stepped into the room. “Costumes?” she asked. She stopped as her gaze fell on a pair of richly detailed medieval robes that were laid out over a chintz-covered settee. The first was clearly a woman’s gown: a long-sleeved smock of soft, misty green, made from a linen so sheer that it was nearly transparent. Over it was a surcoat of rich silver brocade. For Nicholas there was a cream-colored chemise woven from soft flax, a sleeveless tunic, a pair of coarsely knit braies in a deep copper color, and a rich indigo cape heavily studded with jewels. A wide leather belt with a loop that held a glistening dirk completed the ensemble. As her fingers brushed the gleaming blade, a shiver of ominous forewarning raced down her spine.

“If you don’t like them—” the Comtesse began.

“Not at all,” Katya said, sending her a wan smile. “It’s just that they’re so… authentic.”

“They should be. My first husband was an amateur scholar with a particular fondness for medieval lore. He ordered the costumes years ago for a ball we attended in London. He designed them himself and was meticulous in every detail, right down to the very thread with which they were sewn together.”

“I see.”

“If they meet with your approval, I thought they might be suitable for you and Nicholas to wear to the Fete du Tarasque.”

Katya turned to Nicholas with a soft frown. “The Fete du…?”

“Tarasque,” he supplied. “It’s an annual festival here in Monaco. The Tarasque is a man-eating creature of mythic appearance, part dragon and part lion. You’ll find it on many of the heraldic flags in the area. Legend has it that the beast roamed the countryside, laying waste to the towns and villages in its path. Although many powerful knights attempted to slay it, it was a beautiful maiden who finally soothed the ferocious beast with her awesome beauty. Once under her spell, the Tarasque fought alongside the knights against the Saracen invaders who stormed the region.”

He paused and folded his arms over his chest, resting against a sturdy mahogany desk. “The taming of the Tarasque is now celebrated with a day of bullfights, outdoor concerts, wine festivals, and a parade in which the beast is carried through the streets in effigy and ultimately tamed by a town maiden. The celebration culminates at night with a huge gathering in the ancient quarter of town.” He nodded toward the clothing the Comtesse had sent for. “It’s traditional for those attending the gala to dress in medieval garb, hence the costumes.”

Now that the reason for the attire had been explained, Katya felt somewhat better. Somewhat. But a lingering sense of apprehension remained as her gaze moved over the clothing. Putting aside her reservations for the moment, she turned to the Comtesse and said, “The costumes are exquisite, but there are only the two. Won’t you be joining us?”

An expression of haughty astonishment flashed across the older woman’s face. “Heavens, no. That’s far too parochial a spectacle for me.” She released a mock shudder. “As far as I can tell, the festival is nothing but a blatant excuse for everyone involved to behave with abysmal taste and make complete fools of themselves—not that they need an excuse on any other day of the year, mind you.”

“Yet you encourage Katya and me to attend,” Nicholas pointed out with a sardonic smile.

She waved a dismissive hand in his direction. “It is entirely proper that youth be wasted in foolishness. I, however, am too old to make a mockery of myself parading around town in the guise of a virtuous medieval maiden. I much prefer to remain here in the company of my servants and my books.” She turned to Katya and fixed her with a stern stare. “Provided that you supply me with a full and detailed report as to who attended, what they wore, and what they said—all the latest
on dits
. The more persnickety the gossip, the happier I shall be.”

Katya smiled. “Very well.”

“Then we are agreed.” She gave her cane a decisive thump on the parlor’s thickly padded carpet. “Now help me up, Nicholas. I have far too much to accomplish today to waste any more time here.”

Nicholas crossed the room and extended his arm, helping his aunt to her feet. The Comtesse gave a cool nod of parting as she strode regally from the room, her ice-blue skirts trailing in her wake.