The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(22)

"We could refuse to take his orders," she replied.

"And risk being accused of treason?" He shook his head. "I fear we are mired too deep in Walsingham's intrigues to escape so easily."

"We could give up this mission to Venice altogether, return to France and never come to England again."

Mal sighed. "It may yet come to that. But while Walsingham lives, we must do his bidding. I owe him my life."

"How am I to discover the truth of this rumour?" Coby asked. "Grey will not tell me, I am sure of it."

"You must speak to Lady Frances, woman to woman."

"But…" She folded her arms and frowned at him. "This is some ruse to get me back into women's clothing, isn't it?"

"No, I swear. But this is too important not to try every approach at our disposal."

She drew a deep breath. "Very well, I shall consider it."

"You will?" He wished he could be there to see the attempt. He had always wondered what she would look like in proper clothing.

"As a last resort. Now, come, let me deal with this earring."

She motioned him to the bench, then perched next to him. Taking hold of his earlobe, she pushed the blunt needle through the piercing.

"Owww!"

"Big baby. What must you have been like on the battlefield, if you complain at such a tiny scratch?"

Before he could reply, she swabbed the wound with ashaarr. He gritted his teeth as the pungent fluid seared his flesh, bringing back the memory of Grey's voice in his ear, asking the same questions over and over. Sweet Jesu, it had been more than a year; he should be over it by now, not shivering like a whipped cur at the very thought. He slipped his arm around Coby's waist and leant his head against hers. She froze, but did not pull away, and the blood stirred in his veins at the memory of their first and only kiss, half an age ago or more.

"I need to put the earring in, sir," she said after a few moments.

He gave her the pendant. The touch of her fingers on his were sweet torture.

"Hold still," she muttered. "It's bleeding again."
"Good. Blood on iron–" he gasped as the hoop caught on raw flesh "–breaks any enchantment."

When she was done, he turned his head slightly so that their eyes met. His arm was still around her, though she was as tense as a deer poised for flight.

"How do I look?" he asked.

"As handsome a rascal as ever," she said, the quaver in her voice belying her bold comment.

He leant in to kiss her, but she wriggled out of his grasp and went to stand by the door, hugging herself and not looking at him.

"I can't," she whispered. "We can't."

"Why not?"

He crossed the room and took her in his arms again. She rested her head against his chest, but would relent no further.

"You know why," she whispered.

"We are not in France any more," he said, trying to keep the anger out his voice. "We are among friends. Who is there to betray us?"

She muttered something into his doublet, but he could not make out the words.

"Please, Jacomina. I am going far away and… and I cannot be sure of coming safely back to you."

"Don't say that."

He bent and kissed her brow. "You know it for the truth."

She looked up at him and a moment later they were kissing, though he was not aware of having moved. Desire for her threatened to overwhelm him but he reined it in, unwilling to spoil this moment. It was enough to hold her, feel her lips warm and soft against his own.

How long they stood there lost in anguished pleasure, whether moments, hours or days, he could not say. Releasing her was the second hardest thing he had ever done, after giving Sandy into Kiiren's care. For a moment his resolve wavered. All he had to do was change his mind, take both her and Sandy on Raleigh's ship as far as Marseille… but he had to know the truth about Grey. Otherwise he could be coming home to worse than guisers.

After supper that evening Coby boiled some water and took a cupful upstairs to her room. From the chest at the foot of her bed she brought out a pouch of coarse cotton and sprinkled a generous pinch of dried herbs into the hot water. The skraylings called it "desert fire" and sold it to women who wanted to avoid conceiving a child – and those like Coby who wished to stop their monthly flow altogether.

When the herbs had steeped long enough she dragged the bench over to the chimney breast that took up most of the back wall, sat down and leaned back against the warm bricks. Cupping her hands around her drink, she breathed in the steam. At first she had found the taste unpleasant, but brewing it had become a treasured ritual, a quiet moment in many a hectic day.

Tranquility evaded her tonight, however. All she could think about was this morning: the pleasure of that kiss, and the pain of knowing she would not see Mal again for months. Go to him tonight, a voice seemed to whisper in her ear, lie with him. You may never get another chance.

"Satan, I abjure thee," she breathed into her cup. "I will not lie with him until he marries me."

She laughed bitterly at herself. Small chance of that, unless she were to put aside her disguise for good. And what then? Would she have to be the dutiful wife, staying at home to cook and sew and raise his children? She thought again of Lady Frances Sidney, who had refused an earl in order to serve her queen – but would she refuse a duke, especially one with ambitions to continue her father's work? Perhaps, if he forbade her to continue with her spying.