Nicholas: The Lords of Satyr (3 page)

Really, this was too easy, he thought. While pleased at her lack of artifice, he couldn’t help but wonder if the lure of her simplicity might dull in time. It didn’t matter. Husbands of his rank spent little time in their wives’ company.

And every Faerie had hidden depths. He wondered what magic her demure manner concealed.

The drape parted as the tent emptied its latest client.

“Going to try it?” asked one of the youths as the mystic’s most recent customer was expelled. He sounded hopeful, no doubt assuming the ladies wouldn’t divert their attention from Nick until he left them.

Nick offered an arm to Bianca. “Since I’m to be denied a dance, will you accompany me inside to have my fortune told?”

Bianca’s startled eyes darted to her brother.

“With your brother’s permission,” Nick added.

“Go ahead, Bianca,” said her brother. “The mystic is chaperone enough, and I’ll be right outside.”

“But I’ve already had my fortune told,” she reminded them.

“I haven’t, however,” said Nick. “And I admit I’m daunted by the notion of approaching a true mystic. You have obviously navigated these waters and survived. I beseech you to come along with me that you might shore up my quaking will.”

Bianca still hesitated.
Probably wondering if Mama would approve,
he thought.

He employed his considerable powers of persuasion. “Your eyes tell me you possess a generous spirit. Surely you can find it in the kindness of your heart to make a decision in my favor.”

“Why, all right. Of course I’ll accompany you,” she agreed. Then she leaned closer to offer, “But the mystic isn’t terribly frightening, really.”

With a nod to her brother, Nick held the drape aside and bade Signorina Rossini enter before him.

W
ithin the tent, Jane Cova listened and rolled her eyes at the gentleman’s blandishments. Was his lady really wooed by such practiced flattery? She’d seemed to hang on his every word.

For a very different reason, Jane had done so as well. One could learn a great deal about a potential client by eavesdropping on what they said prior to entering the tent. With enough information, an entire fortune could be fabricated for someone, as she had cause to know. Not that her talent was all subterfuge.

The cobweb drape at the tent’s entrance fluttered. She prepared herself to greet the new arrivals, adjusting her head covering to partially conceal her youthful features. A few strands of her moon-colored hair escaped the wrap, but she didn’t bother to tuck them away. They would be mistaken for gray in dim light.

The betraying softness of her hands was carefully hidden with black lace gloves that left only her fingers bare. She rounded her shoulders to foster the perception she was wizened beyond her years. The crude corncob pipe she slid between her lips was unlit. It, too, was designed to age her and disguise her voice. It was effective, but holding the stem for any length of time was painful. Her lips were already bruised.

A male hand parted the drape, allowing some of the gloom inside the tent to escape. At the sight of those strong fingers, an odd awareness prickled over her. Uncertainty quickened her pulse. Inexplicably, her every intuition and instinct urged her to flee.

She flattened her palms on the table and half stood and then hesitated. Rarely did she gainsay such feelings. Still, she hadn’t yet earned the coin she’d hoped for today. She’d arrived late to the event and found the tents occupied with other vendors. Only when the prior inhabitant of this tent had recently vacated had she entered and begun to ply her trade.

The assemblage was wealthy and the evening young. What to do?

Before she could decide, her new customers came inside. Jane recognized the pretty signorina as an earlier visitor. Her color had heightened under her suitor’s attentions. But she was harmless enough.

However, the gentleman who shadowed her was a different matter.

His gaze when it met hers was a jolt to the senses. How unusual to encounter an Italian with eyes the color of blue mirrors. Heavily fringed with dark lashes, they reflected what he observed, giving away nothing.

Skin of golden olive marked him as a man of Italian blood. His strong brow, sculpted chin, and jutting blade of a nose marked him as obstinent.

Taken altogether, his features combined into a striking, if haughty, aristocratic face that sat atop a muscular frame. His height was commanding and surely reached to six and a half feet. Blessed with such a surfeit of good looks, he appeared a god among mortals.

“Leaving?” he inquired, noting her uncertain pose.

Jane faltered and then simply stared into those strange eyes. She stood frozen in indecision, knowing she looked the idiot. But she couldn’t seem to help it.

At her continued silence, the man’s brow rose in question. He’d politely seated his lady, fetched an additional chair for himself from somewhere outside the tent, and now stood patiently waiting for her to be seated. Perhaps he was accustomed to striking women dumb at first sight.

“I hope my gold will prevail upon you to tarry?” he asked gently.

The pipe slid from Jane’s slack jaw. She barely caught it before it bounced on the table. The mishap had the effect of pulling her eyes from his, thus breaking the spell. Her legs wobbled, forcing her to sit.

Embarrassed, she gathered her wits and straightened to find him seated, studying her.

Hoping to divert his attention, she began to caress the crystal ball before her. Though she didn’t really employ it in her trade, it helped foster the illusion in people’s minds that she was a gypsy fortuneteller.

“What are you called, mystic?” Nick asked. His Italian was shaded with a slight accent, she’d noted. But the language sounded comfortable on his tongue and was most likely his native one. His English was fluent but less certain. She guessed he’d been schooled in England or by an English tutor, at any rate. The commanding timbre of his voice indicated he was a man accustomed to having his demands met, which implied he was wealthy.

“Jane,” she replied.

He settled back in his seat with a smugly amused expression. “Jane the mystic?”

Signorina Rossini looked puzzled. “I thought your name was Madame Fibbioni.”

“Jane be me given name,” Jane lied, lapsing into the fractured cockney-Italian blend she’d developed for such occasions.

“Well, Madame Jane Fibbioni,” said Nick, “what is your usual fee for reading palms?”

The signorina answered for her.

“I tell me fortunes singly,” Jane announced, belatedly remembering to disguise her voice as a throaty cackle.

“Oh!” said Signorina Rossini. “In that case, I should withdraw.”

Jane drew in a breath of alarm. She couldn’t take him alone! The idea was horrifying.

A masculine hand over the signorina’s stopped her from rising. “Hold a moment. Would triple your fee convince you to make an exception?” he inquired of Jane. He lay the money on the table atop the beaded scarf she’d draped over it.

Jane stared at his coin in indecision.

“Is business so robust you can turn down such an offering?” he cajoled.

No, it wasn’t. With a sweep of her hand, she raked the money into the coin purse in her lap.

“Yer takin’ a chance lettin’ yer lady hear yer future,” she warned. “But if it’s yer wish, then oiyl see if the spirits be willin’.”

“Grazie. We shall await our fortunes at the spirits’ leisure, dear mystic,” he said.

“I make no claim to the title of mystic,” she told him with a shake of her head. “I be a simple teller of fortunes.”

“Do let her tell yours first,” encouraged Signorina Rossini. “It’s very exciting.”

Nick smiled down at her.

The pretty signorina hardly struck Jane as the type who would appeal to an earthy male such as this. However, he appeared to be truly under the spell of her attractions. His look when set upon her was hungry enough to make her own skin tingle under its indirect impact. No wonder the signorina had fallen for his honeyed words.

From the distance came the eerie sound of water being pressured through the pipes of the grand Water Organ in the garden for the guests’ amusement. Jane fiddled with the strings of the coin purse in her lap, loathe to begin what must be begun.

“Begin by placing your hand in hers,” the signorina prompted to Nick.

“As you command.”

His hand settled onto the scarf within Jane’s vision, palm upward. Something about the shape of those long, blunt fingers both repelled and compelled her. The blue pulse at the inside of his wrist throbbed warm and strong, his life force vibrant.

Beneath the table, she tugged the lacy gloves low. Nothing but her fingers must be bared on him.

Then she sat forward, touching. The tips of his fingers curled in response, brushing sparks over the tender underside of her wrist through the lace.

Desperately she traced the terrain of his palm, willing the images to come. His fate line ran unbroken through the valley of his palm—a man of exceptional self-control. His heart line showed him to be shrewd. The padded Venus mount at the base of his thumb was plump. A man of vitality, health, and stamina.

Her abilities as a fortuneteller weren’t a total ruse. She could learn something of a person through touch. At least, enough to satisfy the average customer.

But the remarkable abilities that had come to her with the onset of puberty had recently begun shifting. They were slowly draining away in some areas while increasing in others. Her ability to read Humans became less reliable with each passing of the moon. She prayed it wouldn’t fail her now.

A sigh of relief left her lips when the mind mist enveloped her, calming her with its familiarity. Her eyes drifted shut, and she drew her fingers over him, occasionally following a crease or dusting over a mount. Just the barest, minute mixing of skin oils was all it took for a simple telling of fortunes. It was important to avoid melding. If she bonded further, parting sometimes caused her pain.

“I see a forest,” she began. “An ancient forest. It surrounds a flourishing garden covering many hillsides. I see three brothers, three splendid homes.”

She opened her eyes and pondered him curiously. Only Nick noticed how refined her accent had become.

“Lord Satyr owns a large estate in Tuscany, along with his two younger brothers,” supplied Signorina Rossini. Her voice trembled with excitement that Jane had guessed correctly.

Jane smiled at her. Now she had his name and residence. People were so free with information. Really, it made her efforts quite simple at times.

Nick eyed her sardonically. “My estates and family ties are no secret. You will have to do better to earn your coin.”

If she’d been wise, she would have fabricated a silly fortune and released his hand as soon as possible. It was no doubt what he expected. But she was overcome with an irrational desire to prove herself.

She ducked her head and continued.

“I see material wealth. Power. Passion.” She slanted him a glance through her lashes. “Concealment.”

A subtle tension invaded his skin.

Signorina Rossini giggled. “Passion! Goodness! And what could you be concealing, Lord Satyr?”

His hand shifted so his thumb interlaced Jane’s two smallest fingers, stroking the tender skin between them. Deliberately?

She was amusing, he thought. Her fingers were soft, her skin unlined and youthful beneath her ragged crone disguise. His curiosity was aroused. He shifted on his seat.
He
was aroused.

Annoyed that she had caused his need to flare when it couldn’t be quenched, he smiled, flirting. Just to rattle her.

As Jane stared at the full curve of his mouth, sudden shocking visions dashed at her like storm-tossed waves. She saw him in another time and place. He was standing. The muscles of his naked chest flexed and rippled in soft candlelight. Or was it moonlight? His features were raw and savage, and eyes glittered as he stared intently at—something. A woman. She was before him, bent over some sort of table. W—what was he doing to her?

She gasped, realizing they must be copulating. Blushing, she snatched her hand away. The vision snapped off as though a door had slammed shut.

Flames of interest lit his eyes.

Surreptitiously, she wiped her fingers on her skirt. This was insane. What was she doing melding so closely? What if he were to rip off her disguise and report her doings to her aunt and father?

In a panic, she began to pack her belongings. His gold be damned.

“You’ve only told me a mix of obscure speculation and what I already know to be certain. What of my fortune?” Nick demanded.

It was impossible to look at him now. What if he read the truth of what she’d seen? Of him doing
that
. It was wrong that she’d observed him in such a private moment. Evil that she had the despicable ability.

“’Tis a pleasure to report all yer prospects be excellent! I see only good fortune in yer future,” she predicted hastily. “And there’ll be a bride for ye soon! One with pretty blue eyes.”

There—that should please his companion.

Smiling, she turned to Signorina Rossini and pretended to realize her identity just then. “As for yer young lady—I’ve previously given her a fortune, tellin’ her she would meet someone dark and handsome.”

Here she turned back to Nick. Not daring to meet his gaze, she stared at his chin. Already a blue-black cast shadowed his jawline, though it was only early evening. For some reason, this small confirmation of his virility alarmed her all out of proportion to its import.

“Yer appears to fill the bill, good sir. I’ll leave you to it then.”

She gathered the trappings of her fortunetelling trade in the table scarf, loosely tying its fringed ends. Holding the makeshift bundle to her chest, she rose to leave.

But the muscular god stood as well. Was he being polite, or did he intend to block her exit? By now, she’d dodged a sufficient number of men along Tivoli’s streets that she’d become wary of their bold hands.

Determinedly, she moved forward, shying an arm’s length from the formidable wall of his chest. Lord, he was tall. A vision of him naked and straining flashed in her mind, and she nearly moaned in despair.

“I mustn’t tarry. The, uh, spirits call me away,” she informed the toes of his boots. They were midnight blue, nearly black. And there was a pattern etched on them of writhing vines that entwined some sort of mythological creatures. How odd.

She felt him smile at the top of her head. He sought to toy with her, did he?

Though the eyes she lifted to him shot green sparks, her voice was mild. “Please stand aside, signore.”

“Lord Satyr?” his companion asked uncertainly.

At her voice, he seemed to come back to himself. He shifted, parting the drapery at the tent’s opening.

Something nagged at Nick as the gypsy’s bent figure scurried beneath his arm and outside, but he couldn’t determine the source of it.

He stared after her, loathe to let go of an unsolved puzzle. “Strange one, that.”

“Well, she is a fortuneteller, after all,” Signorina Rossini reminded him.

She was right, of course. He shook off the feeling that something wasn’t quite as it should be and turned back to his companion. He had more important matters to attend to.

He pondered whether to tarry alone with her in the tent’s confines. Her brother would report the indiscretion to her parents, which would likely facilitate their consent to a quick wedding.

Instead, he watched his hand part the drape, and he escorted her outside. Uncertain as to why he had done so when lingering within would have been to his advantage, he attempted to engage her in conversation apart from her acquaintances.

Putting a question to her regarding an upcoming ball was enough to incite her interest. As she was one of those young ladies who required little attention in order to prattle on about inconsequential matters, it took only a small portion of his mind to keep up his side of the social discourse from there. Another part of his brain returned to puzzle on the episode that had passed inside the tent.