What Wild Moonlight (37 page)

They moved as only lovers could, swaying to an inner rhythm that had long ago been established between them. With each brush of his body against hers, a sense of aching tenderness and desire blossomed within her. She was overwhelmingly aware of every motion, every slight touch, every breath that fell against her cheek. Her senses were almost too heightened; a rush of warmth swept through her body and a knot of sexual expectation coiled tightly within her belly. She remembered how safe and secure she had felt within his embrace, how profoundly correct their bodies felt together. As the troubadour sang of false pride and loss, she longed to throw caution to the wind, to tumble heedlessly back into the sanctuary of Nicholas’s arms.

But sanctuary was no longer to be found there, she realized with a jolt of pained awareness. They had come full circle. There was nothing between them any longer but the ancient legends. The greed and mistrust that had kept their families apart for centuries had risen once again.

As they swayed together she felt the brush of his hip against hers. The small dirk and the leather pouch that hung suspended from his belt pressed between them. In that instant curiosity combined with icy determination. He had checked and rechecked that pouch several times already that night. Whatever it contained must be of some importance.

Her scroll, perhaps?

There was only one way to find out. Emboldened by the success she had enjoyed to date with her sleight of hand, she removed her hand from his shoulder and let it slide ever so gently down his back. As they swayed in time to the medieval melody, she brushed her body against his. “You seem quite familiar with the steps to the dance,” she said, hoping to distract his attention.

“Do I?”

She moved her palm lightly over the thick leather of his belt. “Indeed. One would almost think that—”

His hand immediately came up to clamp on top of hers as her fingers made contact with the small pouch. “Your touch is smooth, little gypsy,” he whispered against her ear, “but not undetectable.” He gave her hand a light squeeze, then released it. As he brushed a kiss over her forehead he mummered softly, “Leave it alone for the moment, will you?”

Shock, disbelief, and anger coursed through her. Her cheeks flamed and she stiffened her spine, withdrawing slightly from his embrace. “I was merely curious,” she said.

His indigo eyes reflected only cool amusement. “You couldn’t have asked me?”

“I thought—” Katya began, then stopped and looked away, her thoughts and emotions in turmoil. Short of accusing him of stealing her scroll, murdering her parents, and attempting to murder her, what could she possibly say?

Fortunately the moment quickly ended. The minstrels finished their tune and set down their instruments. Anxious to retreat, she turned away and moved off the stage, Nicholas following behind her. As they merged back into the crowd, she scanned the area for Monsieur Chatelain. She found him only a few yards away, standing near a pen of livestock. Because her focus had been on Chatelain, she did not notice Corrina Jeffreys and Philip Montrose until they materialized at their sides.

“Well done, Duvall,” said Montrose, a thin smile on his face as he brought his hands together in slow, sardonic applause. “And you as well, Miss Alexander,” he added, giving her a graceful bow. “What a stunning medieval pair the two of you make.”

Corrina appeared as exquisitely feminine as usual, Katya noted, her gaze moving over the other woman’s gown of ice-blue brocade. In the past, Katya had based her dislike of the pair on their constant disparaging remarks toward Nicholas. Despite the fact that those remarks had proved to be accurate reflections of his character, she found she felt no more warmth toward them than before. Their presence amounted to nothing more than a vague annoyance that must be temporarily tolerated—like a summer cold, unruly children, or ants at a picnic.

Therefore she paid little attention to the conversation, turning instead to watch the troubadour as he once again resumed center stage. Rather than singing, he knelt down on one knee before a young maiden. In a fervent demonstration of courtly love, he began to extol her many virtues, praise her beauty, and promise to devote the remainder of his life to demonstrating his unending adoration.

Katya was only half listening until she heard Montrose turn to Nicholas and dryly remark, “Rather bland, don’t you think? Surely even you could do better than that, Duvall.”

Nicholas shrugged. “I fear I have no poetic abilities”—he paused and lifted Katya’s hand, pressing the back of it to his lips—“even when gifted with so beautiful a subject upon which to lavish my words.”

“In the spirit of the occasion, name one virtue,” insisted Montrose. His gray eyes moved over Katya in wintry appraisal. “Tresses of spun moonlight, lips as soft as rose petal, skin smoother than freshly churned cream… What is the virtue you would praise above all others?”

“Therein lies my problem. How does one narrow it down to one single virtue when there are so many from which to choose?”

“Try.”

Nicholas turned to Katya and regarded her steadily for a long moment, a flicker of undisguised deviltry glistening in his ebony eyes. “I suppose if I had to name one virtue that I hold dear above all others, it would have to be her honesty.”

The distinct glimmer of challenge contained within his words was unmistakable; a private thrust and parry of sorts. “Indeed,” Katya mummered, refusing to allow him the upper hand, “clearly Lord Barrington admires in me that quality which I find so compelling in him.”

“How very refreshing,” said Montrose in a tone of infinite boredom. “Lovers who are drawn to beauty of the soul, rather than the baser lure of the flesh.”

A dull roar coming from the grounds south of them drew their attention away from the conversation. Katya saw a rapidly swelling mass of people moving toward them, laughing and jeering as they ran alongside a huge green-and-gold monster that writhed slowly through the crowd, swishing its tail and spewing flames of red tissue paper from its mouth.

“It appears the evening is drawing to a head,” remarked Montrose as he gestured toward the frenzied crowd. “It must be time for the taming of the
Tarasque
.”

The mythical beast was preceded by a group of mummers dressed in black robes, their faces covered by grotesquely distorted animal masks. They raced in the forefront of the crowd, performing feats of random foolishness and acrobatic skill, then dashing off from time to time to pull in a woman from the onlookers and spin her around in a frenzied dance while their audience roared its approval.

As they approached, Corrina grasped Katya’s hand and pulled her along beside her into the path of the celebrants. “Do hurry, Miss Alexander,” she urged. “The mummers select the maiden who will have the honor of taming the
Tarasque
.”

Although Katya had no interest in taking part in the festivities—particularly not in so principal a role—it seemed easier to play along for the moment than to attempt to break the grip Corrina had on her hand. In any case, Nicholas and Philip Montrose waited for them only a few feet away.

In what seemed like mere seconds the crowd reached them and they were swept up in the jubilant melee. Two mummers broke free from the group. One took Corrina by the hand, the other reached for Katya. His face was completely covered by the ferocious and rather gruesome mask of a wild boar. He held her wrists in an iron grip as he whirled her around, spinning her until she was nearly dizzy.

The mob swelled around them, shouting and laughing, making her feel as though she were being carried away on the crest of a giant wave. She searched for Nicholas in the crowd, but the faces that surrounded her were all a blur.

At length the roar of the crowd faded and the mummer released her. Katya stumbled to a disoriented stop. As the mummer raced on without her she surveyed her surroundings in some confusion. Rather than keeping pace with the
Tarasque
, the mummer had released her in a rather solitary spot away from the masses. She had joined the crowd near the livestock bin and the platform stage. Now she stood alone on the cliffs that overlooked the harbor. She gazed about her in an attempt to place her whereabouts, but it was rather difficult to see. The only light was that of the waning moon hanging low in the sky.

As the warm wind buffeted her skirts she turned in the direction from which it blew. Her heart leaped to her throat as she suddenly caught sight of a man standing only a few feet from her. He stood alone gazing out over the sea, one booted foot propped up on a rock. He was so still she had missed him entirely at first glance.

She had missed him, but obviously he knew she was there, she realized, as a shiver ran down her spine. He must have heard her stumbling, awkward halt as the mummer abruptly released her hands.

Noting his dark hair and indigo cape, as well as his height and posture, Katya softly called out, “Nicholas?”

The man straightened and slowly turned. “I’m afraid I disappoint you.”

His face was at once familiar and yet at the same time unknown. She took an instinctive step backward in fear, then recognition sunk in. Jeremy Cooke, she thought, breathing a sigh of relief. “Jeremy—hello,” she said with a soft laugh. “I seem to be forever mistaking you for Nicholas, don’t I?”

“Do you?”

She studied him with a small frown as she moved toward him. “You’re not wearing your glasses, are you?” she said. “That’s why you look so different. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without them.”

“Somehow they didn’t seem appropriate to medieval attire.”

“I suppose not.” Her gaze moved briefly over his clothing. “Very noble. I take it you are a knight.”

“Alas, no,” he replied, shaking his head. “It seems times have not changed since the olden days. Armor has always been a prerogative of the upper classes, worn by only the wealthiest of lords. I might aspire to knighthood, but I’m cursed with an inability to afford the chivalric glory of full armor. Thus you see before you a mere knight’s apprentice.” A self-deprecating smile curved his lips as he gestured to his costume. “A lowly squire, if you will.” He paused for a moment, then continued, “Fortunately those heavy suits of armor you see in museums were not long in fashion. In time, the preoccupation of fighting men shifted to weapons of offense, rather than defense.”

“Indeed?” Katya mummered politely.

As though abruptly recalling himself, Jeremy said, “You must be seeking Lord Barrington.”

“How did you know?”

He lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. “From what I’ve seen, the two of you are not long parted.”

“Actually,” she said, “we were separated when the
Tarasque
swept through. I believe he’s waiting for me at the site of the symbolic taming.”

Jeremy Cooke frowned. “Are you certain?”

“I— Yes, I think so.”

“Odd. I saw him just a moment ago, speaking with Lord Montrose and Miss Jeffreys. I believe they stepped into the caves to see the remarkable display of medieval alchemy.”

“Into the caves?”

“Yes. Shall I take you to him?”

Katya hesitated. She followed his gesture to the face of the cliff, noting for the first time the flickering light emitted from the caves below. Uncertainty gripped her as she glanced around, looking for some sign of Monsieur Chatelain, but he was nowhere to be seen. He had probably lost her when she was swept up in the wild mob surrounding the
Tarasque
.

“Or if you prefer,” Jeremy continued, “I would be happy to escort you to the jousting field where the taming of the
Tarasque
is to take place. I may be a poor substitute for the Earl of Barrington, but it would be my honor to stand in for him until he finds you.”

She considered his offer. Although she would feel more comfortable back among the bustling crowds, her wisest course was probably to seek out Nicholas. Even if Monsieur Chatelain had lost sight of her, undoubtedly he had kept Nicholas in view. Besides, she reasoned, what harm could come to her if the group contained not only her and Nicholas, but Jeremy Cooke, Philip Montrose, and Corrina Jeffreys as well?

That decided, she gathered her courage and sent Jeremy a small smile. “Actually, I haven’t seen the caves yet myself. Why don’t we start there, then we can all return to the jousting fields together?”

He nodded politely. “As you wish.” He led her toward the edge of the cliff then stopped, frowning as he glanced back at her. “I hope you won’t think me too forward if I ask for your hand. It’s difficult to see, and the path is rather narrow and rocky.”

“Of course.” She extended her arm and placed her hand in his. As they made their way along the ledge she was glad for the security of his hand. Strong gusts of wind threw her off balance. On two occasions she lost her footing and would surely have slipped were it not for his firm grip. Although it was too dark to see exactly where they were, she could hear the faint thunder of the waves crashing against the rocks below.

“Why would they have placed this exhibit in the caves?” she asked. “Everything else I’ve seen has been so easy to reach.”

“In the spirit of authenticity, I suppose,” Jeremy answered. “The church reigned supreme in medieval times, you’ll recall. Alchemists were considered heretics. Anyone who pursued science was thought to be in league with the devil. Hence they were often tortured for their beliefs, imprisoned, or burned at the stake. They routinely hid their experiments, working in underground laboratories or caves such as this one, anywhere they wouldn’t be discovered.”

“I see.”

At last they reached the entrance to the cave. “I think you’ll enjoy this,” he said, stepping aside to let her enter.

Katya stepped inside. Flaming torches propped in the crevices of the rock walls filled the interior with flickering golden light. She glanced around, seeing makeshift wooden tables upon which were propped an odd assortment of bellows, crucibles, odd-shaped bottles, glass vials, and bowls filled with powders and liquids. The air was heavy with the smell of burning charcoal and brimstone. On one table a thick book sat open next to a quill and an ink pot. Scientific scribbling filled the pages, as though the person working had been momentarily called away. Aside from the echo of the howling wind, the interior of the cave was silent.