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“Which landscape? Mine or the countryside’s?” With his eyes glinting, the knave cupped a hand to his mouth and whispered, “Be careful how you answer, sweeting. I’m memorizing what you say, in case you’re wondering.”
“I am not.”
As though choreographed, he stopped. I floundered in my tracks, nettled that I’d allowed him to take the lead in the first place.
“By the way,that—” he circled his index finger between us, “—was a dance.”
“It does not count. I was not concentrating.”
“Precisely. That’s the reason it worked.” He tilted his head, layers of dark, disheveled hair slanting with the action. “My name’s Poet.”
“Why?” I asked, my tone accusatory.
He grinned. There was a pause in which he stared, and I waited.
Then I lost my patience. “The question was meant to be answered.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“I know who you are.”
“Everyone knows who I am,” he proclaimed with a dismissive wave. “The atrocity is that King Basil and Queen Fatima rarely announce me the right way at these revels. No chariots. No blaring trumpets. No pomp and circumstance.”
“No fireworks,” I mocked, pretending to lament with him. “No naked escorts.”
His mouth twitched. “You’re getting warmer.”
I burst into a half-laugh, half-sneer. “You’re a subject of the Crown. You’re lucky you warrant an introduction at all.”
I would try to forgive myself for that unkindness later. My breeding and conscience should have known better than to belittle his position.
His gaze narrowed, bathed in hot auburn from the flames. His reply trampled over the spot where my apology should be. “With pleasure and with skill—” he stole my hand and bent his head, his breath coasting across my knuckles, “—I am decidedly more than that.”
The touch provoked the strangest response, swooping me on an ocean wave. My head spun, so that my insides tumbled over themselves.
Poet must have registered the change. When his gaze slanted from my hand to my face, a deceptive shadow etched his features—the very picture of a dark and sly jester. His fingers flexed against mine like an offer or a bargain. If I allowed it, those digits might squeeze and pull me closer, and this dance would transform, and that ocean wave would consume me.
I stood still, caught between recoiling and sinking my hand further into his—not to let this stranger draw me into him, but to tughimintome.
The notion caused me to stiffen. Just like that, the wave broke.
The jester’s grip eased, and he straightened. “Ah. What is this? Have words forsaken you, sweeting?”
I yanked my fingers away. “You cannot address me in that manner.”
“Perish the thought. But something more compatible, I agree. Sweet Thorn, perhaps? ’Tis the best I can do on short notice.”
“Keep away from Eliot.”
Poet’s lashes flapped in surprise. I’d spoken too freely. To call one of the court artists by his given name risked exposing my closeness to Eliot.
So be it, if it meant protecting him.
My foe recovered quickly. “Ah, Eliot. Maker of melodies, player of lutes, singer of destinies.” Poet quirked a brow. “Keep away from him in what manner?”
“He’s … my friend.”
“Found one worthy of the term, did you?”
