This Rough Magic

very strong hands. You're the only man I have ever met with strong enough hands to give me a really relaxing massage.' She twinkled at him. 'And you do want me relaxed, don't you, dear? It gives me such a lot of energy.'

Manfred went back to his task, but his mind was not distracted from her comment. 'What's this about my going to Jerusalem for Charles Fredrik?'

Francesca ran a hand down his hairy, naked thigh. Nerves he'd thought frozen numb for the duration became most delightfully alive again. 'Forget that I said it, darling. It just slipped out.'

Manfred raised his eyes to heaven. But like a terrier onto a rat, he stuck to his questions. Rather admirably, he thought, considering the distractions. 'Why Jerusalem, Francesca? I mean, it has got to be an improvement on Norway at this time of year, but—well, I thought I'd be involved in setting the Knots to rights. I'm only a confrere for another year and there's still a lot to do.'

'I think you've started the ball rolling,' she said playfully . . . nearly distracting the terrier. Not quite, but nearly. 'Never make the mistake of thinking others cannot do the job, if not quite as you would, possibly just as well.'

He grinned. 'They don't have my hands, darling, or Erik to make theirs as strong. Now tell: There's more to this isn't there? Politics?'

Francesca gave him a look of deepest innocence, from under half-lowered lashes, spoiled only by a throaty chuckle. 'How could you suspect that! The Emperor is an old man. He feels his age. He would like, for the sake of his soul, to undertake a pilgrimage to Jerusalem himself. But the Emperor's health . . .'

'Besides his dislike of leaving Mainz.'

'Tch. Don't interrupt while I am betraying confidences, Manfred dear.' She tapped his lips with one long finger. 'His health and the running of an empire do not allow him to take the six months or a year necessary to go to Jerusalem. But as age creeps up on him he would like to prepare his soul for the inevitable. As would any man above a certain age.'

Manfred snorted. 'The Ilkhan do keep a substantial presence in Jerusalem,' he stated, and was rewarded by her sly little grin, which told him he had struck dead in the black.

Well. Politics, then. Not his favorite task, but he wouldn't be the one engaged in it. He wasn't nearly crafty enough to deal with the Mongols. The Swedes and Danes were about at his level; if he hadn't had Francesca, the Italians would have had him raw, on toast. Even with her help, they nearly had, anyway.

'Who is going to accompany me? Trolliger? Or Brunswick?'

Francesca rolled over, exposing a front draped only in the sheerest bits of lace and silk, certainly not designed to conceal. 'Eberhard of Brunswick. But I do believe your uncle does want to make his peace with God, and that he is feeling his age. And let's not talk boring business right now . . . unless you want to, of course?' She cocked her head slightly, lowering her long lashes, and ran an elegant finger down his torso. Reviving still more nerves.

'Argh!' He sighed, as a gloomy thought occurred to him. 'I don't want to leave you for a year, Francesca.'

Not that there wouldn't be plenty of distractions in the sophisticated and ancient (as well as holy) city of Jerusalem, not to mention the other delightful metropolises along the way. But they wouldn't be Francesca.

She pulled him closer and began to do very distracting things indeed. 'Who said anything about leaving me behind?'

'You want to come with me?' He was startled enough to be distracted from her distraction. 'But—'

Why had he thought she'd want to be left behind? Why had he thought that his uncle would allow her to remain behind? She was, after all, first and foremost, the Emperor's trusted servant, and he would be wise never to forget that.

Still. She was also Francesca. 'That's wonderful!'

'Well, it is warmer there, is it not?'

* * *

It was only later, much later, on the verge of sleep, that it occurred to Manfred that Francesca did not betray confidences, and she didn't let things slip out. He'd been very skillfully manipulated. Very skillfully indeed.

Well, it had been more fun than being told. And even if he doubted that Charles Fredrik really needed any praying for another ten years, Jerusalem would still be interesting—and much more pleasant to visit with Francesca for company.

And if she was the Emperor's trusted servant, well, so was he. She was wise enough to remember that, even when he was distracted. Wise enough for both of them.

The thought gave him immense comfort.

 

Chapter 10

'Kat says I should have a talk with you,' said Marco, plainly uncomfortable.

Benito put his hands on his hips. He could read the signs. Big brother time, he thought silently.

He wished Marco would pick some other time for it. He wasn't exactly hung-over . . . just . . . blurry.

'What is it?' he snarled. Marco frowned, ever so faintly.

All right, so it was a sulky tone. He didn't need lectures from Marco, and even less from Kat. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth these days—but she'd been a night-bird, a smuggler, once, moving very gray cargoes of magical supplies. And, unless Benito misread the signs, by the vacant-space-to-let smile his brother wore these days, she hadn't waited for the marriage banns to share Marco's bed.