Chapter Seven

The Costume

"The Masque is an annual costume ball to celebrate the queen's official accession," Nicolo explained to me after he'd just announced there was to be a costume ball.

"And the whole court attends?"

"It's not mandatory. But yes."

"What will your costume be, sir?" I asked, turning to give him a curious glance as we rode horses through the woods that bordered the castle. As I had imagined, Nicolo was an expert horseman. And though I tried to downplay my own ability on the grand beasts, owing to the fact that I didn't want to appear adept in all aspects, he still appeared impressed that I could handle the steed on my own.

Nicolo pulled a face as he looked over at me. "If I had my way, I wouldn't wear one."

I grinned, sensing an opportunity to test the boundary between us. Recently, I'd become more daring in my dealings with Nicolo—I was pushing the limits, trying to understand what was acceptable and what was beyond. Thus far, I still didn't know where to draw the line.

"No costume at all?" I asked with a smirk. "That's even better than what I had in mind."

He looked at me and frowned. "You tempt fate, Charlotte."

"How is that?"

"Because you speak as if you have experience in such subjects."

"And you believe I don't?"

"Should I believe otherwise?"

I then simply gave him a smile and spurred my horse to surpass his—another pushing of boundaries that could quite easily see me unseated and with a sore rump, to boot.

Based on the heat within Nicolo's gaze whenever I pushed those limits, I realized he enjoyed these conversations and this rebellious, playful side of me, yet he still showed a maddening reluctance to throw me to the bed and take what I wanted him to take.

And that thought raised some concerns for me. Whenever Nicolo leaned in close to correct my spelling on whichever document I was writing for him, or when he made some minor adjustment to my uniform, his fingers lingering longer than they had to, unbidden images filled my head. My heartrate would increase, my breathing would hitch and I felt sweat on the back of my neck and sharp, bright sensations pricked at my core and even lower still.

I'd told myself I had to seduce the blasted man because such was the only way I could reasonably kill him. But now I was beginning to wonder if perhaps I had other reasons.

"Come in, your Grace."

Every official protocol demanded that Master Nicolo should have stood and bowed when I opened the door for Duke Wylder. The Duke was related to the royal family (albeit tangentially and removed by multiple generations), while Nicolo was a peasant who had simply gotten lucky (well, if one considered being wrenched from his mother lucky), and who held no official office or social standing. But, regardless, Nicolo remained seated behind his desk, being deliberately rude to the Duke. If Wylder cared or even noticed, he made no sign of it.

The name of Duke Wylder had featured prominently in the conversations I'd overheard between Nicolo and Balduin and the content of those conversations suggested that Nicolo considered Wylder a potential threat, while Balduin thought him just another preening noble out to feather his own bed.

It was nice to actually get a look at the man about whom I'd heard so much, and my immediate impression was surprise. I'd pictured one of the rotund aristocrats who were a feature of the court, men who appeared older than their true years, faces red with liquor, so large, they appeared to be with child and always accompanied by nervous, bird-like women who might have been wives, mistresses or paid for by the hour.

In appearance, at least, Duke Wylder was not of this set. I imagined him to be in his middle forties and though he'd grown heavier with age, he still managed to cut a dashing figure, and was handsome enough to carry off the extra pounds. His black hair, singed with silver, was swept back from his strong features, which were enhanced rather than marred by the roguish scar that cut across his cheek.

Wylder was an old warrior and he walked like one. The sword which swung at his side wasn't for decoration, and I was sure the blade bore the notches of old fights. It occurred to me that, though they didn't look alike, in his bearing and attitude, this was how Nicolo might look in twenty years.

"Nicolo," Wylder nodded curtly.

As Nicolo had chosen not to stand and give Wylder the greeting to which he was due, so Wylder chose not to refer to Nicolo as ‘Master'.

"Will you sit, your grace?" Nicolo asked, his tone flat.

Wylder did so.

"Will you take wine? Brandy?"

Wylder raised a hand to decline. "It's too early in the day."

Nicolo shrugged. "I've heard stories that in your youth you would drink a bottle of brandy before battle."

Wylder kept his eyes firmly on Nicolo, something few dared to do. "Are you and your prince going into battle this afternoon?"

"He is your prince too, your grace."

Wylder's expression hardened. "I serve my queen with pleasure and honor. But I draw the line there."

Nicolo shrugged. "The succession is the succession."

"And ‘prince' is more than a title."

Nicolo nodded. "True. It is a birthright."

A thin smile spread across Wylder's face. "Tell that to Otti the First. Or to the king he slew to win the throne."

Nicolo poured himself a drink, as though to position himself on Balduin's side of the argument as Balduin never missed an opportunity to imbibe. "I'm sure neither of us would wish a return to the wars of accession, your grace."

Duke Wylder's affront subsided a little. "You are right about that, Nicolo. As a man who has fought in many a war, I don't want to see such bloodshed again. But, as a man who fought in many a war, I also don't want a preening, drunken dilettante on the throne."

"The trouble with not having any wars," mused Nicolo as he leaned back into his chair and rested his long, booted legs on the top of his desk, twirling his crystal glass of amber liquid, "is that the lack of battle makes it very difficult for heirs to prove themselves in the eyes of a certain—forgive me— old-fashioned element in the court."

"I'm not in your damned court," growled Wylder. "And I don't expect my prince, nor even my king, to have seen battle. But nor do I expect him to be a womanizing sot who surrounds himself with— forgive me —ass-licking toadies, who might know how to fence, but would hide under a woman's skirts sooner than face real danger. King Balduin would let the Gath go to ruin so as long as it didn't affect his personal supply of strong wine, fancy clothes and willing women." He flicked a glance at me. "My apologies, Miss."

"You may speak freely in front of my squire," said Nicolo. "Charlotte is the equal of any man and the better of most."

Of course, I was floored by Nicolo's words, but then I wondered if he really meant them as a compliment to me or was merely saying them to shock Wylder. And to my further surprise, Wylder didn't seem to care about my presence, my status as Nicolo's squire or the fact that I wore a sword. Not only did he have no objection, he just seemed to accept my presence here as normal—something it simply wasn't. He was clearly the enemy of Prince Balduin and thus, Nicolo, but I had to admit, I rather liked him.

I also wondered if he might be the man who had hired me, whose identity not even the Guild knew. Hmm, the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if such were the case because the proverbial puzzle pieces appeared to fit.

Wylder paused. "Damn it, give me a glass of brandy."

Nicolo snapped his fingers at me. "Charlotte."

I hurried to pour the old warrior a glass and handing it to him, he immediately slugged it back.

"Nicolo, can we talk as men?"

Nicolo smiled and the expression was full of victory. "I wasn't aware you were mincing your words."

Wylder gave him a half-smile. "I don't like you."

I couldn't help the shock that soared through me. I had never witnessed anyone speaking so directly and rudely to Nicolo. As to the man in question, he simply smirked.

Nicolo nodded and continued to give Wylder the same predatory smile. "Very good."

"You've done nothing to deserve your role in this court," Wylder continued. "And I don't like it that you're the only one who has the ear of that halfwit who's too close to the throne." Wylder took a breath. "You bully and threaten people because the prince's power is behind you, but without that you're nothing. But," he held up a finger, "I know how you got here."

"Do you?" Nicolo asked and it was then that I noticed he hadn't once taken a sip of his brandy. He'd just sat there, swirling it this entire time. And I was quite sure that was entirely on purpose.

Wylder nodded. "I don't like that either—what happened to you when you were a boy was wrong. It was no way to treat a child and maybe that's made you the ruthless man you are."

I watched Nicolo as Wylder spoke because I was curious as to Nicolo's reaction to conversation about his boyhood. There was no change in his expression. The only thing to give away any hint of his discomfort was the slight tightening in his jaw.

After Wylder finished his statement, he seemed to remember I was still standing there and looked over at me with hesitation.

"Continue," Nicolo barked at him. "I already told you not to concern yourself with my squire. I imagine she is finding this conversation as interesting as I am."

I was but said nothing.

Wylder nodded and continued. "I may not like you, but I respect you as a man and as a warrior. I know you've defeated every assassin who's come for you, yet saving them from the torture chamber." Wylder nodded again. "I respect that."

"I appreciate your respect."

Wylder leaned in closer. "So, listen to me now. I'm not here to overthrow your ridiculous prince. No one wants to see the succession preserved more than me. I just want Balduin to act the part, rather than acting the fool." He leaned back into his chair and took another heavy sip of his brandy. "Now you tell me, ‘Master' Nicolo, man to man, will Balduin ever be the king I want and the king this Gath needs?"

Nicolo took his time to respond. He continued to swirl his brandy, looking into it as though he were deep in thought. After a few seconds lapsed, he looked back up at Wylder and cocked his head to the side. "The prince is his own man."

Wylder breathed out his pent-up breath. "One day, you and I will cross swords and I hope you'll have the decency to kill me clean."

Nicolo met his gaze. "You I might leave for the torturer."

***

The next morning, one of the guards fetched me to inform me that I was to meet Nicolo in his bedchamber. Of course, I immediately wondered if my time to truly seduce him had just arrived but when I walked through his door, I was glum to find Gauthier standing in front of him, a heap of clothing on Nicolo's bed.

"Good morning, Charlotte. Come in," Nicolo announced and appeared to be in a good mood—at least he was very animated this morning. I wasn't—after suffering nightmares all night, in which I failed in my duty to the Guild. My nerves had begun to visit me in full force recently, owing to the fact that my allotted time to finish my deed was looming down on me. Now every hour of every day counted.

"A happy morning to you, master."

Nicolo faced Gauthier. "Please set yourself up and all the costumes I ordered over there." Then he pointed to the corner of the room where there stood a three-sided privacy screen picturing a tapestry of lovers in the forest.

With the day of the Masque quickly approaching and Nicolo informing me I'd have to go, I'd broached the question of my costume, unsure what was appropriate for a squire.

Nicolo's reply took me by surprise. "I've had Gauthier run up some potential outfits for you to try on and see which you prefer."

Far less of a surprise was that Nicolo would be in attendance while I tried the costumes on. And, despite his words, I was well aware that the decision would be more his than mine.

"There's a good selection," grinned Nicolo, already enjoying himself. "At first, I thought it would be good to put you in something masculine, to reinforce your position, but then I decided to go quite the opposite direction." He grinned at this.

"Oh?" I asked.

He nodded and for a split-second I could see the young boy in him—a naughty child up to no good and grinning in the face of danger. "Your sex has upset so many people already, we may as well continue to upset them," he answered, chuckling as the thought occurred to him. Clearly, he enjoyed upsetting the status quo.

"Where shall I change, sir?"

"Gauthier, the screen."

Gauthier erected a second folded screen, this one decorated with oriental dragons. Apparently, the lump of clothing was now occupying the chaise behind Nicolo's privacy screen.

"Let us try the slave girl first," Nicolo said jubilantly.

The ‘slave girl' costume confirmed my suspicions about Nicolo's motives.

I doubted the costume had any resemblance to what was worn in eastern harems (if such places existed), but Gauthier's inspiration had come from the illustrations of a series of prurient books on the subject, purporting to be cultural but they were really the drooling fantasies of their author, catering to the drooling fantasies of his readers.

Nicolo had the full set of books (a gift from Balduin). But, as Nicolo's wish was my command, I soon found myself battling with the costume as I tried to ascertain just how to put it on. A thin golden veil covered my face, so diaphanous that ‘covered' was the wrong world. The rest of the costume was of similar golden material so I was fully dressed, yet very much on display. A gold-plated brassiere covered the essentials while providing no support, and the gold, embroidered, satin panties were opaque but alarmingly brief. The effect was completed by curly-toed velvet slippers and a gold band encircling my throat from which a slim chain hung, so I could be led about.

Nicolo had reclined into his chair, ready for the show, and when I stepped out from behind the screen (which I noticed had been backlit so Nicolo could enjoy my silhouette as I dressed), the look in his eyes was one I recalled from the day he'd watched me bathe.

"Turn around," his voice was low and thick. Sultry.

I executed a brief pirouette, Nicolo's eyes roasting every inch of me while Gauthier coughed and turned a shade of red that was so dark as to be almost purple. Or perhaps he was choking, I couldn't be sure.

"It suits you," Nicolo said after a lapse of another second or two. "But I wonder if it might be a bit… much for some people."

"Then ‘no' to this one, sir?"

"‘Maybe' to that one," he responded as his eyes boiled with lust. "Next costume, Gauthier!"

"Do you have a preference?" the man started to which Nicolo immediately nodded.

"Let us see the wood nymph."

There were ten costumes in all for me to try on and the first nine were all variations on the theme of ‘skimpy and revealing'.

Nicolo was my master and I was under obligation to do as he told me—he could have pushed further if he'd wanted to—taken whatever he wanted from me. But I was quickly realizing such wasn't his way. Taking what he wanted from me wouldn't have been fun for him. And I did believe he viewed his whole association with me as something of a game. For all his well-earned reputation and the fear in which people held him, Nicolo liked to have fun. So, this whole trying on costumes bit was as much about making me feel awkward as it was about seeing my body. And he was enjoying every bit of my disquiet.

I tried to play with him a bit, as I had when I'd tried on my squire uniforms, but it was difficult to tease in costumes that were this blatant. In the back and forth of flirting and pushing each other's buttons in which we'd indulged from the first time we met, this was a definite win for Nicolo.

Which meant it was my turn to get my own back, and I was already forming ideas.

"Ah, that's the one," he said when I revealed the final costume which was a Harlequin. The costume was comprised of a sleeved bodice of brightly colored diamonds which led into a short tunic and hose of the same pattern. Also in the same pattern were the knee-high boots. A black mask completed the ensemble. Actually, all the costumes came with masks on account of the celebration being of a masquerade theme. The Harlequin costume was certainly sexy, but in a more understated and less flesh-baring way than everything else Nicolo had me try on. It was my least favorite.

"Gauthier, you will excuse us and wait in the hall," Nicolo said as he faced the older man. "I should know how my squire likes my decision in private."

"Yes, of course," Gauthier said with a quick bow as he escorted himself out.

Then Nicolo turned to face me. "Well, squire, what say you?"

"It's very nice, sir," I answered dutifully. "Thank you, Master."

"A pleasant morning." Nicolo subtly adjusted the front of his tunic as he stood. "I know how much women enjoy trying on clothes. I hope you enjoyed yourself."

I smiled at him. "Not as much as you did… sir ."

Sometimes it was hard to read Nicolo's expression when he looked at me, and now was one of those moments. Neither of us said anything for the count of five heartbeats, but when Nicolo spoke, his voice was deep, low and guttural.

"Balduin says I should beat you to get some of that pertness out of you."

"And you?" I asked, looking up at him from under my long eyelashes. "Do you believe you should beat me, sir?"

He narrowed his eyes and studied me for a few more seconds. "You say ‘sir', but you do not mean it." His eyes further narrowed as that insufferable smile took hold of his lips again. "And, yet, for the life of me, I can't seem to find it within myself to care."

"Then you do not wish for me to call you ‘sir'?"

"You will continue to refer to me as is fitting to my rank," he answered, frowning.

"Very good, sir." I smiled up at him. "And as to the subject of the prince believing you should beat me?"

He breathed in deeply and then shook his head. "For now I find you amusing. Though I do wonder how far you can push my good humor."

On the night of the Masque, we both would find out.