preoccupation with Ash Merrick by entering wholeheartedly into their
heated word games. It was early yet. Not everyone had arrived. Cornered by a
lean fellow in a black silk domino, she giggled, intoxicated by this unexpected
freedom from her troubled thoughts.
“Ah, pretty
ladybirds!” His voice was slurred and husky, and his thick French accent was so
authentic one could not help but wonder if it were real. He peered owlishly at
the young ladies tittering behind Rhiannon. “A full gaggle of them and all
squawking love songs!”
He swept a crumpled
tricorn from his head. A tight-fitting scarf of silk covered his hair. He bent
over in so low a bow that his forehead nearly brushed the floor. Just as he was
about to overset himself and crash face first into the ground, he snapped
upright, blinking woozily.
Part
of his act, no doubt, Rhiannon thought. Because though his voice was slurred,
he moved with the grace of God’s own fool, dodging the
vases his fellow acrobats hurled at him, catching them midair, and sending them
back. Through it all the inane smile remained plastered on his lower face. But
behind the mask his dark eyes gleamed with feverish light.
“Here now, miss,”
he said snatching at Rhiannon and missing her by inches. Merrily, she danced
out from his reach, twirling away in a cloud of jonquil-colored brocade. A
tendril of hair escaped its knot and tumbled down her neck.
“Come, dearest. My
haughty, devilish, quick-footed Mab,” he crooned, reaching for her again. “You
look an adventuresome wench, a curious kitten. I’ve heard it said that all
‘ladies crave to be encountered with.’ Admit it, sweetling, ’tis a fact that
virgins dream of what a gypsy’s embrace might be like.”
A French gypsy
who knew Shakespeare? Not likely.
Rhiannon snorted.
“If I allowed your arms about me, sir,” she said through her laughter, “I’d be
wondering still.”
His head swung up.
A flicker of surprise appeared in his shadowed eyes.
“Oh ho! What are
you saying,
mon amie
?
That I’m not what I appear to be”—his voice lowered, became silky with
innuendo—“or that
you’re
not?”
Why, the audacious cur!
The knave! Rhiannon thought in bemusement and could not help grinning at his
audacity.
“Tinsel gypsy!” she
declared.
“Downy child!” he
returned in his low, rough voice, grinning drunkenly.
“I’m not so easily
gulled.” Rhiannon denied the charge of naïveté, placing her hands on her hips.
She cocked a brow at him. “For have I not discovered
you
?”
She leaned forward,
studying him closely, the marble smoothness of his blue-cast chin, the full
sensual lips. They were unfamiliar yet...
“I know you,” she
murmured, mystified.
“No, Mademoiselle.”
He shook his head sadly. His dark eyes caught and held her own. “For how can
you know me when I do not know myself?”
Around them the
noise from the tumblers and jugglers dimmed to a hum. She was scarcely aware of
her friends, moving closer.
Faithless flirt,
she chastised herself hopelessly. Was it not enough that in her heart she’d
betrayed Phillip with a black-haired Londoner, but now she betrayed both men to
this...
actor
who had honed each slippery, honeyed word on a continent
of twittering, blushing girls.
“Who
are
you?” she asked.
He shrugged.
Stepped back. “Who do you want me to be? Tumbler?”
He folded at the
waist and snapped suddenly backward, head over heels, landing lightly. Around
them the ladies clapped. He did not acknowledge their applause; his eyes
remained riveted on her.
“Minstrel?”
He withdrew a
slender flute dangling from his belt and placed it to his lips. A frolicsome
tune flushed from beneath his fingers. Once more the applause broke from the
little group of watchers.
“Buffoon?”
He laughed, an
unpleasant, helpless sound that caught at Rhiannon’s heart, propelling her
forward a step. He held out his hand, backing away as if her spontaneous
movement somehow threatened
heated word games. It was early yet. Not everyone had arrived. Cornered by a
lean fellow in a black silk domino, she giggled, intoxicated by this unexpected
freedom from her troubled thoughts.
“Ah, pretty
ladybirds!” His voice was slurred and husky, and his thick French accent was so
authentic one could not help but wonder if it were real. He peered owlishly at
the young ladies tittering behind Rhiannon. “A full gaggle of them and all
squawking love songs!”
He swept a crumpled
tricorn from his head. A tight-fitting scarf of silk covered his hair. He bent
over in so low a bow that his forehead nearly brushed the floor. Just as he was
about to overset himself and crash face first into the ground, he snapped
upright, blinking woozily.
Part
of his act, no doubt, Rhiannon thought. Because though his voice was slurred,
he moved with the grace of God’s own fool, dodging the
vases his fellow acrobats hurled at him, catching them midair, and sending them
back. Through it all the inane smile remained plastered on his lower face. But
behind the mask his dark eyes gleamed with feverish light.
“Here now, miss,”
he said snatching at Rhiannon and missing her by inches. Merrily, she danced
out from his reach, twirling away in a cloud of jonquil-colored brocade. A
tendril of hair escaped its knot and tumbled down her neck.
“Come, dearest. My
haughty, devilish, quick-footed Mab,” he crooned, reaching for her again. “You
look an adventuresome wench, a curious kitten. I’ve heard it said that all
‘ladies crave to be encountered with.’ Admit it, sweetling, ’tis a fact that
virgins dream of what a gypsy’s embrace might be like.”
A French gypsy
who knew Shakespeare? Not likely.
Rhiannon snorted.
“If I allowed your arms about me, sir,” she said through her laughter, “I’d be
wondering still.”
His head swung up.
A flicker of surprise appeared in his shadowed eyes.
“Oh ho! What are
you saying,
mon amie
?
That I’m not what I appear to be”—his voice lowered, became silky with
innuendo—“or that
you’re
not?”
Why, the audacious cur!
The knave! Rhiannon thought in bemusement and could not help grinning at his
audacity.
“Tinsel gypsy!” she
declared.
“Downy child!” he
returned in his low, rough voice, grinning drunkenly.
“I’m not so easily
gulled.” Rhiannon denied the charge of naïveté, placing her hands on her hips.
She cocked a brow at him. “For have I not discovered
you
?”
She leaned forward,
studying him closely, the marble smoothness of his blue-cast chin, the full
sensual lips. They were unfamiliar yet...
“I know you,” she
murmured, mystified.
“No, Mademoiselle.”
He shook his head sadly. His dark eyes caught and held her own. “For how can
you know me when I do not know myself?”
Around them the
noise from the tumblers and jugglers dimmed to a hum. She was scarcely aware of
her friends, moving closer.
Faithless flirt,
she chastised herself hopelessly. Was it not enough that in her heart she’d
betrayed Phillip with a black-haired Londoner, but now she betrayed both men to
this...
actor
who had honed each slippery, honeyed word on a continent
of twittering, blushing girls.
“Who
are
you?” she asked.
He shrugged.
Stepped back. “Who do you want me to be? Tumbler?”
He folded at the
waist and snapped suddenly backward, head over heels, landing lightly. Around
them the ladies clapped. He did not acknowledge their applause; his eyes
remained riveted on her.
“Minstrel?”
He withdrew a
slender flute dangling from his belt and placed it to his lips. A frolicsome
tune flushed from beneath his fingers. Once more the applause broke from the
little group of watchers.
“Buffoon?”
He laughed, an
unpleasant, helpless sound that caught at Rhiannon’s heart, propelling her
forward a step. He held out his hand, backing away as if her spontaneous
movement somehow threatened
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