A Notorious Woman

Hmm, she thought, examining that pale appendage. Her bosom was good, she knew that; the bubbies were not too large or small, perfectly formed and very white. Perhaps they were meant to compensate for her rather short legs, the old scars on her stomach. But they seemed a little plain, compared to the other whores’. Marguerite reached for her pot of rouge and smeared some of the red cream around the exposed nipple. There. Very eye-catching. For good measure, she added some to her lips, and dabbed jasmine perfume behind her ears. Heavy and exotic, very different from her usual essence of lilies.

Now she was ready. Marguerite lifted up her voluminous skirts, checking to see that her dagger was still strapped to her thigh, its point honed to perfect sharpness.

She smoothed the gown back into place and slipped out of the small room. The corridor outside was narrow, running behind the main rooms of the house, the ceiling so low she had to duck her head. It was also deserted. But even here she could detect the sounds of laughter and moaning, the clink of pottery goblets, the whistle of a whip for those with more exotic tastes. Marguerite hoped that was not a Russian vice. Baring her backside for the lash would surely reveal the dagger.

She turned down a small, steep flight of stairs, careful on her high-heeled shoes. The low door at the foot of the steps led out of the secret warren into the large, noisy public room.

It was like tumbling into a new world. Noises here were no longer muffled, but loud and clear, echoing off the low, darkened ceiling. Smoke from the hearth was thick, acrid, blending with the perfumes of the women, the smell of flesh and sex and spilled ale. The wooden floor beneath her feet was sticky and pockmarked.

Marguerite stood for a moment in the doorway, her careful gaze sweeping over the entire scene. Card games and dice went on by the hearth, serious play to judge by the great piles of coins on each table, the intent expressions on the players’ faces. There was drink and food, plain fare of bread, cheese and prosciutto. But whores were the first commodity, any sort a man could fancy. Short, tall, fat, thin, blonde, brunette. There was even a young man clad in an elaborate blue satin gown. He was quite good, too, with smooth skin and silky, black hair. ’Twas a shame he couldn’t do something about that Adam’s apple.

Marguerite surveyed them dispassionately, her competition for this one night. She knew she was beautiful, had known it since she was a child, taken to Court by her father. She was not vain about it. It was merely an asset to her work, particularly at times like this. She was fairer than any of the others here, even the boy in blue. Therefore she should be able to catch Nicolai’s attention.

Her competition was less now, anyway. Many of the women who had clustered around him were scattered, sent by the proprietor to see to the other patrons. There were just the two on his lap, halfdressed in their camicias, wriggling and giggling. Marguerite straightened her shoulders, displaying her bosom in its red silk frame, held her head high, and sauntered slowly past the Russian and his harem. She let her train trail over his boots, let him smell her perfume, glimpse her white breast, her half-smile. Once past him, she glanced back and winked. Then she went on her way, seeking a cup of ale.

Now—well, now she waited. In her experience, a touch of mystery worked better than fawning attention, which he obviously got enough of anyway. She sipped at her ale, carefully examining the room behind her in an old, cracked looking glass hanging on the wall. The two whores were still on his lap, but she could tell his full attention was no longer on their full-blown charms. He sat forward on his chair, watching her, a small frown on his brow. She turned slightly toward him, her pretty profile displayed. A slight impatience made her fingers tighten on the cup. He had to come to her before anyone else did! She flicked lightly at her lips with her tongue, and tossed her head back.

Whatever the secret charm, it worked. She turned away again, and in a few moments she felt him close to her side. How warm he was, yet not in a heated, lascivious, overpowering way, as most men were. More like the summer sun in her childhood home of Champagne, touching her skin with light fingers, beckoning her ever closer. He smelled like the summer, too, of some green, herbal soap behind the salty tang of sweat and skin. Of pure man.

She swivelled toward him, smiling flirtatiously. He had eased his shirt back over his shoulders but his chest was still bare, and he stood near enough that she could see the faint sprinkling of wiry blond hair against his skin. Gold on gold.

“Good evening, signor,” she said, every hint of a French accent carefully banished.

“Good evening, signora,” he answered, giving her a low bow, as if they were in the Doge’s palace and not a smoky brothel. His eyes were blue, she noticed. A clear, sky-like expanse where anything, any wish or desire or fear, could be written.

And they watched her very carefully. The laughter he shared with the other women was still there, but lurking in the background. He was a wary one, then. She would have to be doubly cautious.

For an instant, as that blue gaze met hers steadily, unblinking, she felt a prickle of unease. A wish that she had worn a mask, which was ridiculous. The heavy make-up was disguise enough, and he would not see her after tonight.

Marguerite shoved away that unease. There was no time for it. She had to do her task and be gone.

“I have not seen you here before,” he said.

“I am new. Bella is my name, I have just arrived from my village on the mainland to work for Carnival,” she answered, gesturing for more ale. “Do you come here often, then?”

“Often enough, when I am in Venice.”

She laughed. “I would wager! A virile man like yourself, I’m sure the pale, choosy courtesans of the grand palazzos could never keep you satisfied.” The ale arrived, and she handed him one of the goblets. “Salute.”

“Na zdorovie,” he answered, and tossed back the sour drink. “Venice is truly filled with the most beautiful of women, signora. Lovelier than any I have ever seen, and I have travelled to many lands. But I do prefer company more like—myself.”

Marguerite glanced toward the boy in blue. “Yourself, signor?”

He laughed, and she was again reminded of summer and home, of the warm, sparkling wine of Champagne. “Not in that way, signora. Closer to the earth.” She must have looked puzzled, for he smiled down at her. “’Tis a saying from my homeland.”

“You are not from here, either.”

“Nay. I can see where you might mistake me, though, given my excellent Italian,” he said, giving her a teasing grin. “I am from Moscow, though many years removed from that place.”

“Ah, that explains it, then.”

“Explains what, signora?”

“The virility. For is Moscow not snowbound for much of the year? Much time to spend in front of the fire. Or in a warm bed.”

“Very true, signora.” His arm suddenly snaked out, catching her around the waist and pulling her close. For one flashing instant, Marguerite was caught by surprise and instinctively stiffened. She forced herself to go limp, pliant, arching back against his arm.

Through her skirts and his hose she felt the press of his erection, hard and heavy. “No ice tonight, I see, signor.”

“The Italian sun has melted it away—almost.”

She smiled teasingly up at him, twining her arms about his neck. His hair was like satin spilling over her fingers, cool and alluring. She tangled her clasp in its clinging strands, inhaling that clean, warm scent of him. “I’m sure this Italian sun could finish the job completely, signor. You would never feel the touch of ice again.”

In answer he kissed her, his lips swooping down on hers so quickly she had no time for thought. She could only react, respond. His kiss was not harsh and bruising, but soft, gentle, nibbling at her lips, luring her to follow him into that sunshine and forget all. For a moment, she did forget. She was not Marguerite Dumas, not the Emerald Lily. She was just a woman being kissed by a handsome man, a man who ensnared her with a blurry, humid heat, with his scent, his strong arms, his talented lips. She pressed closer to him, so close the edges of her being melted into his and she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. His tongue pressed into her mouth, presaging an even more profound joining.

Overwhelmed, Marguerite eased back. She needed her own ice now, the cold thoughts, precise actions. Not this, this—lust. This need. The Emerald Lily did not have needs, especially not carnal ones. Nicolai Ostrovsky was a task, nothing more.

Why, then, was it so very hard to remember that as she stared up into his pale blue eyes?

She made herself smile. “You are hot tonight, signor.”

“I told you the Italian sun has made me so.”

“Then come with me, signor, and I’ll cool you off—eventually.” She untangled her clasp from his hair, reaching down to take his hand. His fingers held hers tightly, holding her prisoner as she led him toward that small doorway she earlier emerged from.

They climbed the narrow stairs, Nicolai ducking to avoid the rafters overhead. The quiet enclosed them again, the loud, bright world shut away, and Marguerite felt her heart thud in her chest, felt her skin grow chilled. The time was almost upon her.

At the entrance to her little room, Nicolai suddenly reeled her close to him, spinning her lightly around to press her to the wall. Marguerite’s heartbeat quickened—had he discovered her, then? Was she caught in a trap of his own?

He did not slit her throat, though. He merely held her there, pressed against her in the half-light, staring down at her with those otherworldly eyes as if he could see into her soul. Her sin-riddled soul.

“Where did you come from, Bella?” he said softly. His accent was more pronounced now, the edges of his words touched with some icy Russian music.

Marguerite smiled at him. “I told you, from the mainland. This is our most profitable time of year, but one has to be in Venice to make the coin.”

“Have you been a whore long, then, dorogaya?”

She laughed. “Oh, yes. Decades, it seems.”

“Miraculous, then. For you still have your teeth, your clear eyes…” He reached down to trace the underside of her naked breast, the soft, puckered flesh. His thumb flicked lightly at the rouged nipple, making her shiver deeply. “Your smooth skin.”

“I was born under a lucky star, signor. My father always said so,” she said, still trembling. And that was one true thing she said tonight. Her father had told her that when she was a child, holding her up on his shoulder so she could see the clear, bright stars in the Champagne sky.

But then her star faded, and here she was in a Venetian brothel. Bound up with this beautiful puzzle of a man.

“A lucky star on the mainland,” he said.

“Just so. You must have been born under an auspicious sign yourself, to be so handsome.” She spoke teasingly, but it was also true. Such beauty and charm should belong to no ordinary mortal. He was blessed. Until tonight.