She danced with a monk and then with Thor, but she wasn’t truly enjoying herself. When Merlin lifted his mask to try to kiss her and she discovered he was the Earl of Rosslyn—the married cur!—she almost decided to head back to her apartments.
But she wanted to see the unmasking. And Nell’s surprise.
She was dancing with a Viking when, outside in Clock Court, the great astronomical timepiece struck midnight. Nell sharply clapped her hands. “Yeomen,” she shouted. “Now!”
As one, the flaming torches were extinguished, and the room plunged into darkness.
FIFTY-THREE
ROSE SHRIEKED, and the Viking grabbed her by both arms. “Come here, my lovely.”
He stank. Deprived of her vision, she realized many of the people in the great hall stank—all the flowers on her gown couldn’t mask the odors of stale sweat and too much perfume. Feeling lost, she held tight to the smelly Viking. Though she blinked and blinked, she couldn’t see a thing. Her heart was threatening to pound right out of her chest.
She’d never liked the dark.
“What is this?” she cried.
“It’s naught but a bit of fun,” he said in a voice anything but soothing. Dropping one of her arms, he scrabbled at her mask. Cool air hit her face, swiftly replaced by wet, rubbery lips.
Gagging, she twisted her head. “Get off me!” She wrenched from his grasp and stalked away—or tried to, but tripped instead.
She fell to her hands and knees, bouncing off a body on the floor. “Ah, the flower girl,” a man murmured, his fingers grasping an ankle and working their way up. He gripped her calf and dragged her closer. “Come to me, sweet.”
Whimpering with disgust and fear, she scrambled away on all fours, losing a shoe when it came off in his hand. She kept moving, darting around boots and skirts as she frantically tried to feel her way to freedom. Laughter and exclamations rang through the air along with the sounds of courtiers milling, pausing for a kiss here and a touch there, exploring one another in the dark.
It seemed an enormous, terrifying maze of debauchery.
Someone stepped on her hand, and tears sprang to her eyes. She crawled faster, running headfirst into a pair of legs. Large hands reached down and hauled her up.
“What have we here?” a male voice drawled, sniffing appreciatively. “Oh, the flower girl. Are you not the one guarding the secrets of I Sonetti?”
With that, he clamped her ruthlessly, one large hand on the back of her head and the other against her spine, his lips bruising hers as they found their target in the dark.
She pushed against him and kicked his shins, but he kept her clutched tight. Reaching blindly to his right side, her fingers closed on the hilt of his sword. She pulled with all her might, but the peace strings held fast. Tears trailing hot down her cheeks, she bit his lower lip. Hard.
A metallic flavor flooded her mouth.
“Confound you!” he cried, shoving her away with both hands. Spitting blood, she turned and stumbled into someone soft and fragrant—a woman. The vixen squealed and clawed at her face. Rose careened away, bumped into someone else, and screamed.
Hands gripped her shoulders and held her steady. Just held her, not grasping. An anchor in the dark sea of terror.
“Hush,” he said. “There’s nothing to fear.”
Kit. His voice, his hands. Feeling her knees buckle, she leaned against his shoulder, smelling frankincense and myrrh. Kit. Warm and yielding instead of cold and hard, but a knight in shining armor nonetheless.
“Hush,” he repeated. “Keep still. It’s nothing but a silly game. The court will tire of it soon enough, and the torches will be relit.”
She clung to him, feeling calm begin stealing over her, restoring her world to balance. “Can you help me get out?”
“I’m afraid we’d but stumble over others.” His arms came around her; his deep voice soothed. “You’re safe here with me, I promise.”
Darkness still enveloped her, but she wasn’t quite so panicked. “All right,” she whispered.
“We’ll just wait.” Moving closer, he laid his cheek against her hair. She slipped her arms around his waist, wondering vaguely how he’d got in here and managed to find her.
Like at the duel, he’d known just when to show up, just when she needed him.
They were buffeted by other bodies searching, laughing, groping in the blackness. When she mewed in protest, his arms tightened, settling her more securely against him, locking the two of them together. Whatever flowers might remain on her gown were crushed mercilessly between them, but she cared not a whit.
He felt comforting; he felt right. The last of her fear evaporated as the moans and groans, the squeals and breathy sighs that echoed all around them melted away. More bodies bumped them, but she barely noticed. She was sheltered within his arms, wrapped in his warmth, enveloped in his soothing, woodsy scent.
At the other end of the chamber, a single torch flared to life. They sprang apart as the glow spread to reveal, in the all-but-darkness, courtiers engaged in various and sundry embraces.
It sickened her, this horde of writhing humanity. The whole court sickened her.
“Take me away from here,” she said. One shoe off and one on, she began limping toward the door. Kit swept her up into his arms and wove his way through the crowd, stepping over bodies as he went.
At long last, they made it down the Great Stairs and into Clock Court. Torches bathed the courtyard in a hazy yellow glow. He strode to the fountain in the center before setting her on her feet.
Her gown was in tatters from the knees down, the few remaining blooms torn and limp. Her face burned in one spot; she touched it and came away
