The Demon’s Parchment

finding her mouth again. He lingered over hers before her tentative tongue slid past his lips. A rush of emotion stiffened his whole body and he let her explore for a moment while his hands found her backside. Strange how he had somehow known all along. Relief mingled freely with his awakening desire.

“Was this your father’s idea?” he asked breathlessly. She seemed a novice in the art of kissing, but she was a ready student. He wouldn’t mind spending time tutoring her.

“We . . . we came upon it together.” Crispin found her throat—that smooth, feminine throat—and licked and bit at it. She moaned for a moment before continuing in a staccato. “I wanted t-to learn the art of the physician. He w-wanted to protect me from Gentiles on our travels. It seemed to be—oh!—th-the perfect solution.”

His mouth found her ear and he sucked slowly on her lobe. Her knees seemed to give way and if he weren’t holding her with one arm wound about her waist, she would have slumped to the floor.

Still so wrong. Crispin chided himself for choosing so poorly when it came to women, but his tastes were never satisfied by those found on the Shambles.

“Are you . . .” He kissed her jaw and left a trail to her mouth with his tongue. “A maiden?” he said to her lips.

“Yes,” she gasped. “But I have wanted you. I have never met a man like you: intelligent, thoughtful. You are my . . . equal.”

He pulled back and looked at her. “Equal?”

“For a Gentile.” There was a sly smile on her lips as well as in her eyes.

“Indeed.” He studied her face again and gently touched the bruise on her jaw. “I’m sorry for this.”

“You were justified, I suppose. You thought I was a man.” She reached up and ran a finger down his nose. “You seem to have had your own encounter.”

He smiled. “Trouble manages to find me.” He swept the cap off her head, running his fingers unfettered through her stringy locks. “Your hair . . .” he said regretfully.

She ducked suddenly out of his reach. “It is only hair,” she muttered. “I am a woman in every other way.”

A bit of hysterical laughter tried to bubble up in his throat. The irony! She in her boy’s clothing and John Rykener in his woman’s garb. Was anything as it seemed?

His hands lighted gently on her shoulders. She leaned into it to chin his hand affectionately.

“Julianne,” he said, enjoying the slightly different accenting of the name. He kissed the top of her head, feeling a surge of need well in his chest. But just as these warm feelings crested, they were slashed with a rush of dejection. He saw their situation in one sweep, like figures on a tapestry. This was not just any woman. Not only was she masquerading as a boy—something that was enough to get her landed in Newgate—but she was a Jew! And Jews and Gentiles did not mingle. Was he to toy with her affections merely to satisfy an itch? He knew there was a fine line between the raw emotions of anger and lust. He had crossed over that line with her numerous times. But he couldn’t take what he wanted. He owed her father more respect, if not as a father at least as a client.

She seemed to draw the same conclusion. “What’s to be done?” she sighed.

Her hand covered his for a moment before she turned, looking up at him with sorrowful eyes. He wondered now how he could ever have been fooled.

“This is foolish,” she said. “You are a Gentile. That would seem to be the end of it.”

Crispin nodded. She was right, of course. He shouldn’t be touching her. But it had been so long without the touch of a woman, even a woman in men’s clothing. Even a Jew. He should stop. “We are both fools.” His hands traveled up her arms. “You must eventually go back to France. I . . . must remain here. Nothing can come of this.”

“But why? The king exiled you from court. You have no ties here.” He stiffened and pulled away, but like some irresistible pull, he swung back and looked at her. Yes, she had a face that could not be entirely characterized as feminine, but the look she returned was as coy as any maiden. “I asked around court about you,” she said quietly. “I learned many . . . interesting . . . things.”

He raised a finger to toy with the collar of her man’s gown. “While it is true that I no longer have ties to court, I feel obligated to remain in London. Call it penance, if you will.”

It was her turn to frown. “You owe no further allegiance to his Majesty. You are no longer his knight.”

The words were like a slap. “I owe my allegiance to the crown. And to the people of London.”

“Bah!” This time she pulled away from him and strode across the room in her distinct, manly gait. Her every mannerism was male. He wondered how long she had been masquerading as a boy. Since childhood?

“Allegiance to people who scorn you?” she said. “It is a foolish enterprise.”

“I could say much the same to you. You serve Christian monarchs who do not even allow you at the same table—”

“We would not sit with a Gentile at table! To do so is against the Almighty’s law.”

“And yet,” he said gently, striding toward her. He slipped his hand around her waist again, feeling now the gentle swell of the hip below. His other hand curved under her jaw. “You would kiss me. You would . . . lay with me.” He kissed her trembling mouth. A promise. He pulled her against him and she laid her head upon his chest. He stared down at the part in her hair, at the dark tresses scored by the whiteness of her scalp, smelled the fragrance of her, a combination of herbs and balsam. He wanted to kiss her again. Wanted to do much more. He reached for the nape of her neck when the door flung open.

There had not been time to break apart. They merely gaped at the figure in the doorway.

Jacob stared at them for a moment, that moment stretching longer and with it the realization on his face. He shut the door and threw the bolt.

“Julian! Get away from him!”

“Mon pere!”

“And you!” His finger jabbed. Crispin backed up until he jolted against a table with nowhere else to go. “What have you done?”

“I . . . I . . .”

“It wasn’t his fault, Father,” she said. “I kissed him.”

“You what?” But instead of a further explosion, his voice deflated and he sagged against a chair, sliding into it.

“And then . . . he reckoned that I was a woman.”

“We are lost,” he said, shaking his head. “They will seize you and throw you into prison.”

Crispin straightened. “Sir, I would never divulge what I have learned. Your secrets are safe. I would see no harm comes to Julianne.”

“You must not use that name,” rasped Jacob, as if he had said it a thousand times before. “She is in danger every moment she is in England.”

“Then dammit, man! Why did you bring her? Why this charade? Are you mad?”

He couldn’t help but notice the smug half-smile on the woman’s face even as he rounded on the physician.

“You do not tell me what to do!” It was the first time Crispin had seen Jacob act in this manner. Always, the subservience was foremost, but now he was the very portrait of a father. Crispin gulped and took a step back. “You will not touch her, do you understand? It is forbidden.”

His glance slid toward Julianne, who did not look contrite in the least. In fact, she was openly leering at Crispin. He swallowed again.

“Master Jacob—” But he did not know what he wanted to say. He could promise the man he would not touch her, but he knew that to be a lie.

Before he could open his mouth, a scream broke the twilight.

Outside.

Crispin lunged toward the window and cast open the casement. A woman huddled with a cluster of other ladies in the garden near Lancaster’s window. She was sobbing and pointing toward the garden wall. Without