Royal Blood. Rona SharonЧитать онлайн книгу.
in a smile between tanned cheeks. He pushed away from the wall. Of a sudden a man blocked her view of him. She stiffened. Norfolk’s man!
“Sir Walter Devereaux, madame. At your service.” The intruder bowed. “I have decided to be overbold and present myself as your most enchanted admirer, yours to command in all things.”
Renée eyed him disdainfully. Gallophobic churl! Did Norfolk put him up to wooing her or was he serving his own interests? “Sir Walter.” She bobbed politely and made to sidestep him.
Again the irksome importuner stepped into her path. “My lady, would you do me the honors of standing up with me at the midnight masque?”
She smiled coldly. “Sir, I challenge you to recognize me masked. Au revoir!”
He shifted again. “You shall discover, madame, that I rise most potently to every challenge.”
Did he, now? The insolent knave! “And you shall discover, sir, that I snip overreaching vines like…that!” She snapped her fingers, making him flinch. With a smile and a flounce of skirts, she moved past him without breaking into a run and rammed into another obstacle: hard, large, and tall. She would have toppled back if strong hands hadn’t caught her arms and set her aright.
The hands let go of her. “Your pardon, my lady.”
Renée looked up into luminous eyes, reminiscent of the Mediterranean Sea, set in a striking, suntanned face. She lost her power of speech. He smelled wonderfully, Castilian soap, a whiff of bergamot musk, body heat. A patch of burnished skin on the side of his neck betwixt his white lawn collar and the silken filaments of gold hair enticed her eyes. She imagined pressing her lips there, learning the texture of—Jesu, mercy! What was the matter with her?
The spellbinder’s features furrowed with concern. “Mayhap you should sit. You look faint.” Gallantly he conducted her to a bench and knelt before her, handing her a cup of perry.
She accepted the drink, lowering her gaze lest he read her mind. “I thank you, sir.”
“Was that man troubling you?”
“No more than others.” Feeling sufficiently restored, she looked at him. “Who are you?”
He straightened and bowed with a hand across his heart. “Michael Devereaux, enchanté.”
“Another Devereaux?” She noted the likeness, but Michael was…She sipped her pear cider.
His expression shuttered. “I am unfamiliar with others who lay claim to my surname.”
Renée ventured a direct look at him. “Why have you been staring at me?” It was a probe.
A soft smile curled his lips. “Two reasons. I daresay you can guess them, madame.”
It pleased her that he found her appealing. “What was your business in the undercroft?”
Her straightforwardness wrenched an embarrassed laugh from him. “May I?” At her nod, he eased himself down on the bench. His eyes glittered as he gauged her humor. “Quid pro quo?”
“Tit for tat,” she consented with a smilet, and realized to her shame that she was flirting.
“I was given lodging there and was looking for the stair to the upper level. Now you.”
“Lodging in the undercroft? Surely not!” She wrinkled her nose in distaste, taking in his fine apparel, which lacked the exuberance of the courtly male fashion and yet exuded sophistication.
A vulnerable look came at her, swiftly banked—and she knew. “Your first visit to court? Did the usher swear all the better lodgings were taken and the inns overcrowded?”
“You have divined it, my lady.”
“Renée.” She offered her hand. As warm lips lightly touched her knuckles, startling pleasure blazed through her. She retrieved her seared limb. “You sleep there, with the wine and the rats?”
He gave an indifferent shrug. “I have not yet had the pleasure. I arrived today.”
Renée read discomfiture in his eyes. Clearly someone had practiced on him, and he had not the savoir faire to rectify the situation. What an ignoramus he was, a boy in a man’s body. How he would suffer at this court. Then again, the wounded cub one petted yesterday might turn into a mastiff and bite one’s hand tomorrow. Notwithstanding his ingenuousness, she sensed strength and secrets. He had the appearance of a warrior angel, St. Michael slaying the Serpent. Her mind spun mischief. “I owe you a tat. I suggest you have a word with one of the White Sticks, the six officers of the court,” she explained, ticking them off her fingers. “The lord steward, the lord chamberlain, the master of the horse, the vice chamberlain, the comptroller, and the treasurer. You may recognize them by the gold collars with the SS links, their badges of portcullises and roses, and their wands of office. They administer the palace. All requires their seal of approval. Whoever assigned you the inadequate quarters answers to one of them.”
“Whom do you recommend I speak to?”
“Without doubt Earl Worcester, the lord chamberlain. The old bibber has had a run of bad luck at the gaming tables. I imagine he should appreciate a discreet contribution to his private treasury. A liberal sum will purchase a scolding and penalty for the usher who wronged you.”
“Earl Worcester,” he repeated, committing the name to memory.
“In future do not hesitate to press coins into hands. Greed makes the world go round. All is purchasable at court: a higher seat, a softer bed, a bowl of fruit…” A wealth of information.
A dazzling smile broke out on his tanned face, transforming him from handsome to gorgeous. “I am much obliged to you, madame. In truth, I had not thought…You must think me a noddy.”
In truth, she did not like the direction of her thoughts. “Are we even?”
“Hardly. You are a princess, and I…your grateful student.” He inclined his golden head. He was a gentleman, Renée realized. He knew she had tricked him with her answer and let it slide.
“There you are!” Anne materialized before them.
Michael shot to his feet and offered Anne a fluid bow. “My lady.”
“Why did you leave the gaming table?” Renée demanded to know.
“Everyone is gone to dress for the masque.” Her eyes devouring, Anne offered Michael her hand. “Good evening, sir. I do not believe I have seen you at court before.”
“It is my first pilgrimage, my lady.” He kissed her plump chilblained fingers.
She smiled provocatively. “Your first time…Are you prepared to lose your innocence?”
Renée felt nauseated. Michael chuckled. “Most heartily, beauteous lady.”
“Anne.” She glided closer to him, keeping her hand in his. “Who might you be, Viking?”
“Michael Devereaux, at your service.” He honored her with a courteous tilt of his head.
“Are you come to plunder and ravish, Viking, or to joust and make merry?”
“I am come to do all four, madame.”
Renée watched the interlude with grim annoyance. The horrid flirt had destroyed any chance of gleaning information from the man and was neglecting to do her part in her brother’s plot. She stood. “Shall we go dress for the masque?”
“Anon, friend.” Anne dismissed her as if Renée was a pesky fly and ran her fingertips over the sporran attached to Michael Devereaux’s sword belt. “It seems I was mistaken. You are a Celtic warrior, not a Viking.”
He laughed. “Mayhap a bit of both, a Norse-Gael.”
Her fingertips continued playing with his sporran. “What do you carry inside your pouch?”
“Magic potions,