0 comments/ 1101 views/ 0 favorites Shakespeare Masquerade Ch. 04-06 By: mcbook Chapter Four A sharp, shrill sound wormed its way through her befuddled brain. It resonated again and again, grabbing her consciousness by the scruff of the neck and shaking her awake. The doorbell? She groaned and slid lower beneath the sheet and pulled her pillow over her head. She tried to block the persistent ringing in her ears. It didn't work. "Can't a body get some sleep around here!" She muttered a few choice oaths and kicked the sheet from her body. She got up from the bed and stormed to the bedroom door, picking up an oversized cardigan on the way out. She shrugged it on and stomped down the broad, timber stairs to the encaustic, floor-tiled hallway. Whoever stood on the other side of that door was in for a piece of her mind. She yanked the colorful, leaded glass door open...then snapped her mouth shut. "Where did you run off to yesterday? I tried calling you several times." "Mum?" She stepped to one side, allowing her mother to move past her into the spacious hall. "I went to see Xander. I left a message on your cell." "What's the point of you having a phone if you won't answer your calls, Magda?" her mother retorted. "What was so important that you had to see Xander and kick Niall out of your office?" Magdalena closed the front door with an exasperated breath and traipsed behind her mother toward the living room. "Niall left of his own accord. I didn't kick him out of anywhere." "What must he think?" "Mum, please calm down. Think about your heart." Sofia whipped around and removed her coat. "If you were so worried about my heart, you could have eased the stress of the last few weeks and told me we were back in business, and that I can get our builders back to work." "What are you talking about?" "Jill found the deed for Cadfan Abbey on your desk that Niall had redrawn in my name. And yes, before you say anything, I'm having our lawyers check and confirm everything anyway, just to be on the safe side. Why on earth didn't you tell me about this? Did he specify a price?" Sofia hung her coat on the coat rack. "He will probably want market price. A great deal more than we would have paid last week, and we haven't got that kind of money, but I'm sure the banks will be open to—" Magdalena pulled her cardigan tighter about her shoulders. "The abbey was a gift. I told Niall we didn't want it." Sofia whirled about. "You did what? Magdalena, whatever in the world is wrong with you? This is what we want, isn't it?" "But not like this. A week ago, Niall didn't give a damn about us. Our plans, the young women on the streets meant nothing to him, but he let emotion for a child he'd never known or touched or held influence his decision about the abbey. You shouldn't have told him about Angharad. You had no right to tell him about her." "I had every right—" "It was blackmail, Mum. Emotional blackmail." "You think I forced his hand?" "I don't know. Did you?" She hadn't quite forgiven her mother for returning Niall's letters, although it was unreasonable since she had no one to blame but herself for the predicament they were in. She stalked to the black and white floral sofa near the bay window and sank heavily down on it. Her mother followed her across the living room. "I told him the truth. It was his choice what he did with the information, and he chose to come after you. Besides, if I'd told you I went to see him, you would have headed for the hills." "It would have been nice to have had a little bit of warning before he arrived in my office spouting all this...stuff." Sofia sat down beside her on the sofa. "It's time for this to stop. You can't be in control all the time. Twelve years is a long time to hold a grudge, and both of you need to see sense, to realize what you've both lost—a beautiful daughter. You need to understand his pain as he had to understand yours, not inflict it on each other at every given opportunity." She shrugged and avoided her mother's gaze. "If I accepted the abbey, I would feel like a hypocrite. I should be the one making amends, asking forgiveness. I was the vindictive one. I was the jealous shrew who nearly destroyed him." Sofia cupped Magdalena's face between her hands. "Why didn't you tell him that? How is Niall suppose to know what you're feeling if you run away and hide?" "I didn't run away." "No? Then what do you call this? Meet him halfway, Magda. Don't hide behind the past. You and Niall both made mistakes. Don't hide behind Angharad's death. I know it's sad and painful for you, but you have to let her go and give Niall—give yourself—a second chance to love the one man who has always had your heart." "Who says I'm still in love with him?" Sofia brushed back the errant strands from Magdalena's face. "Because the lady doth protest too much, methinks." Magdalena gave a wistful smile. "He may have my heart, Mum, but Polly has his." "Are you so sure about that?" Sofia reached into her trouser pocket and pulled out a small, red envelope. "Jill found this in the deed. I'm assuming you were supposed to find it." Magdalena bit down on her bottom lip and stared at the blood-red envelope held between her mother's manicured fingers. "What is it?" "I don't think it's a death threat. Unless it's from Polly," her mother quipped. "Open it." Magdalena glared at her mother. She took the envelope and pulled out a dark-red, embossed invitation. She traced her thumb lightly across the slightly raised lettering—The Merchant of Venice. Her favorite Shakespearean play. She raised widened eyes to her mother. "It's an invitation to The McFarlane Annual Shakespeare Ball. Tonight." "Do you have any idea how exclusive this Ball is?" Yes, she knew. It was Old Money exclusive. She expelled a slow breath. "We've cleaned up after a good many of those exclusive parties, remember, Mum?" "Yes, I remember, Magda. It didn't matter to you how late it was, you always wanted to help me tidy up, but I knew you only helped because it was a chance for you to spend time in the ballroom. You loved it there. You used to float about that room as if you were dancing in the arms of your prince charming." "Did I? It's lucky for me that little girl grew up, then." "Too quickly," her mother added. Sofia brushed a hand across Magdalena's brow and creased her own. "I should've given you and Niall a chance. Perhaps if I'd allowed things to run their course—not interfered—" "You only interfered because I led you to believe the wrong things about Niall. He never touched me like that before my eighteenth birthday." "Don't you think I know that now? You've punished yourself for that mistake for long enough. Niall has forgiven you. It's time you forgave yourself." "How do you know he has forgiven me?" "Trust me. No man gives a woman property worth millions under whatever circumstances unless he's certifiable or already in love with her. And Niall isn't certifiable." Magdalena voiced her doubt. "After everything that has happened between us? After all this time?" "Why is that so hard to believe?" "Because I behaved like a total, immature bitch." "Then go to the Ball and show him the woman you've become. You won't be happy until the past is resolved between you and Niall, either way. Make it right between you both or find a way to let each other go." Magdalena rose to her feet. She sighed. "Have you been speaking with Xander?" she mused. "No, but speaking of which, I suggest you call him. I have to get back to the office and start turning our business around." "I can help—" "No," her mother dictated. "You have a Ball to get ready for." Magdalena moved away and fingered the card in her hands. The Merchant of Venice. Which character was she meant to be? Jessica, Shylock's daughter? Maybe not. Jessica had dressed as a boy and eloped with her lover, Lorenzo. She could go as Portia who was bound by the lottery set forth in her father's will and whose suitors had to choose wisely from one of three caskets—lead, silver or gold—in order to win her hand. Or would she disguise herself as Nerissa, Portia's maidservant? "You're going to need a dress and shoes. Perhaps Xander can help you with that, as well. You've got the entire day to..." She half-listened to her mother's chatter. She flipped the card over and read the handwritten text there. Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves—Arragon In The Merchant of Venice, the arrogant Prince of Arragon had been one of Portia's suitors who had chosen the silver casket and found the picture of an idiot instead of Portia's portrait. He'd chosen unwisely and ultimately gotten what he'd deserved. Nothing. He'd forfeited Portia's hand in marriage and the right to marry any other he desired. She grimaced. Would she get what she deserved? The doorbell rang for the second time that morning. "What now?" Her mother rose from the settee. "I'll go." Magdalena listened attentively to the exchange between her mother's dulcet tones and a man's deep baritone filtering through the living room door, although she could barely distinguish what was being said. The door pushed open, and she scrambled backward. He mother entered the room closely followed by a well-dressed man wearing a dark-gray suit and matching chauffeur's cap. He removed his cap and addressed her. "Good morning, madam. Lord McFarlane has instructed me to deliver your gown." She frowned and glanced at her mother who stood with a small, smug smile on her face. She eyed the man again. "My gown?" "Yes, madam. For this evening." She looked at the large, black garment bag draped across the man's left arm then back at the seasoned face. "Are you sure it's me you want?" "Oh, yes, quite sure. Lord McFarlane was quite specific about this address. The gown was to be delivered to you and no one else." She double-checked. "My name is Magdalena Perez." "I certainly do hope so, madam. My job depends on me getting this right." Magdalena folded her arms across her waist and shot her mother another bemused look. Sofia indicated the dining room table. "Put the dress down over there, will you?" she directed. The chauffeur complied. "Lord McFarlane asked me to wait for your answer, madam." She stared at the man's seasoned face then remembered to speak. "Tell Lord McFarlane...tell him I'm...um..." "Perhaps you should look at the gown first, Magda, before you give Niall your answer," her mother said. She stared at the clothing bag laid neatly across her dining table. "Yes, maybe I should." "I'll wait by the car then, madam." The chauffeur left the room, shutting the door behind him with a gentle click. A moment later, the front door closed with a firmer sound. "Well?" her mother prompted. Magdalena took small, hesitant steps across the living room. She slowly reached a hand to the zipper glinting in the morning sunlight and tentatively pulled it lower. A rich sliver of red brocade peeked from behind the black covering, trapping her gaze. She hadn't realized she stood practically frozen, until her mother took the zipper between her fingers and completed the task. Sofia lifted the renaissance dress free of the garment bag and Magdalena's gaze bounced from the invitation in her hand back to the gown's richly embroidered bodice. She could barely control the whoosh of air escaping her lungs. "Oh my God, Magda! It's beautiful, absolutely stunning. You can't say no. You simply can't not go tonight." * * * * She had returned to bed and awoke in another panic because she'd overslept. It was four o'clock. Niall's driver would be picking her up at six. She looked out the bay window where she'd been waiting for the last forty minutes. Xander's silver coupe pulled into her driveway. She breathed out. Finally. She didn't even wait for the doorbell to ring. She sprinted to the front door, threw it open and hauled Xander into the tiled hallway by his T-shirt. "Okay. Okay," he said. "What's the emergency? I'm sure I broke several traffic laws on the way here." "I'm going to a Masquerade Ball tonight and I...I don't know what to do." She ran her fingers through the dark strands of her messy hair. "My hair," she bemoaned. "And my make-up. I don't have a clue. I don't even know if I want to go. I wanted to end this, whatever this is. And he sends me a dress! I don't even know how it got to be so complicated—" Xander caught her shoulders between his large hands and squeezed gently. "Magda! Stop! Breathe." She inhaled and exhaled deeply. "I'm a mess," she said. Xander laughed. "I gathered that much." He took her hand in his and pulled her behind him into the living room. He pushed her gently but firmly onto the pretty black and white flower-patterned sofa. "Don't move," he directed. "I'll be right back." He left the room only to return moments later with two wine flutes and an uncorked bottle of Riesling, which he placed on the low, dark walnut table. He sat down beside her and poured the sparkling white wine into the tall glasses. "You're going to a Masquerade Ball. I got that part," he said. "Now, tell me who sent you a dress and who we're talking about." She accepted the long-stemmed glass and took a grateful sip of the cool wine. She pointed to the blood-red invitation lying on the coffee table. Xander picked it up and read it. He sipped casually from his glass and cocked an eyebrow at her. "And you're freaking out because...Prince Charming sent you a personal invitation to the Ball?" "I'm not freaking out. I just don't want to go." He shrugged nonchalantly. "Then don't," he answered dryly. "Niall signed the abbey over to my mother. How can I not go? If only to say thank you." "Just like that?" "My mother told him about Angharad." "Ah, I see. And now he has the gall to invite you to the most exclusive party of the year. The bastard." She shifted uneasily. "I guess if you put it like that..." "What's really bothering you, Magda?" She tilted her head back and enjoyed the calming sensation of the alcohol filtering into her blood. There is only one woman I wanted to marry. But she left me before I had the chance to ask her." "Me," she finally said. "There are a thousand and one reasons why I should go tonight, and they're all to do with my mum, the abbey and being grateful. And there's one reason why I really shouldn't go." "You're scared." She nodded. "Of your feelings or his?" "Mine." Xander gave a wistful smile. "What Niall and I shared hasn't faded. It's still there as vital and strong and tempting as ever." "Do you want him?" She took a large gulp of wine and shook her head. "I shouldn't even be thinking like this. He's engaged to Polly." "That hasn't been officially confirmed. Do you want him?" She cradled her glass to her chest. "I don't want to come between them." "Do. You. Want. Him?" She groaned and closed her eyes. "Yes, but—" "But nothing. Why hasn't Niall married Polly in all this time?" She opened her eyes and studied her friend's face. "What do you mean?" "I mean, Niall and Polly have been engaged for a number of years, right? Why haven't they tied the knot in the last twelve years, if it was what their parents wanted?" "I—I don't know." "Well, it's about time you found out, don't you think?" Xander fished his cell from the back pocket of his jeans. "Come on. Let's get you ready. I take it you haven't got shoes or accessories." She shook her head. "And we'll definitely need Dorian to do your hair." He hit a few buttons with his thumb then raised the phone to his ear. "Just leave everything to your good old fairy godmother." * * * * At five minutes to six, she stood in front of the tall, cheval mirror in the corner of her bedroom and stared at her reflection. She brushed a hand over the stiff embroidered stomacher and tried to breathe. The rigid, ornamental garment reached below the waist and worked against the natural body lines. It was highly uncomfortable. She brushed her hand lower over the sumptuous material of her gown and couldn't contain her smile. Niall was a connoisseur. The seventeenth-century French gown fit her like a glove. She touched a hand to the soft length of her flowing curls and pressed the other against her low, square-cut bodice. Dorian had done an amazing job with her hair, although she didn't dare give in to the excitement coursing through her legs and popping in her chest. She'd been laced up so tightly, she could scarcely breathe. "Isn't it too much, Xander? Nerissa is a mere servant in the play. I look—" "Like you could've stepped from the canvas of a Titian painting," Xander said, coming to stand behind her. She released a slow breath and shifted her gaze to his reflected in the mirror. "Titian had a preference for painting women with red hair," she corrected. "I'm—" "Beautiful," Xander interjected. She smiled and released another careful breath. "Couldn't you loosen the bodice, just a wee bit? I feel like a trussed up turkey." "No. And stop fidgeting with your hair." He walked over to the bed and grabbed the drawstring velvet pouch lying there. He'd been gone an hour after speaking on the phone, giving her the opportunity to bathe and pamper her skin. He'd returned with shoes and the reticule, which he'd categorically refused to open or allow her to satisfy her curiosity and look inside it. He reached a hand into the dark-green bag. "La pièce de résistance," he said. She gasped at the rich carcanet of garnets and pearls that emerged between his fingers. "It's exquisite." "I know, and Wesley will kill me if you lose it, Magda. So, here's the thing—don't. It belongs to some patroness-of-the-arts or other, who donates clothes and jewelry to the theatre from time to time. The carcanet is one of their prize possessions." He fastened the elegant jeweled choker about her neck and reached into the bag a second time. This time, he pulled out a dragon pendant decorated with rubies, hanging on a very long, heavy gold chain. "Y Draig Goch," he said. "An omen. I couldn't resist." He slipped the chain over her head, feeding her hair free of it until the metal touched the skin of her neck. The dragon dangled at her drawn-in waist. She caught it in one hand and glanced at her reflection once more. She lifted the hem of her dress with her free hand and looked down at the authentic leather, square-nosed latchet shoes gracing her feet, courtesy, of course, of the incomparable Wesley, then lifted her gaze to Xander. He smiled at her suggestively. "Journeys end in lovers meeting, I hope." She turned and cupped his face. "Feste the fool, and yet the wisest character in Twelfth Night. Thank you for this. Thank you for everything." "You're welcome, Magda." Xander looked at his watch. He picked up the deep-red satin masquerade mask lying on the bed and draped a matching cape about her shoulders that covered her bodice and sleeves. The doorbell rang. "Your carriage, my lady." He took her gloved hand in his and led her down the wide, timber stairs. He opened the door onto the suitably warm night and prized his fingers from her bone-crushing grasp. "I wish you were coming with me." "Relax. You'll be fine. Just remember: What's past is prologue." Shakespeare Masquerade Ch. 04-06 He clasped her trembling fingers lightly in his own. "What has already happened merely sets the scene for the really important stuff," he explained. "Mistakes have been made on both sides, but tonight isn't about mistakes or Cadfan Abbey. It's about following your heart. It's about you and Niall. I've done my part. The rest is up to you. Now go have wild, passionate sex with the man of your dreams." She laughed and shook her head. "You're incorrigible." "I know. And don't you dare come home at midnight." She gave Xander a quick, final hug and hurried toward the waiting Bentley. The chauffeur opened the back, passenger door, and she climbed in with an appreciative nod. She drew in a deep steadying breath. "I can do this," she said. "Excuse me, madam?" the chauffeur inquired as he slipped behind the wheel. She lifted her gaze to the rear-view mirror and met the man's querying eyes. "I was just wondering if you could you play some music, please?" she said. "Something operatic." "Very good, Madam." The glass partition closed silently between them and she leaned her head back against the plush leather upholstery. She clasped her fingers about the jeweled dragon dangling at her waist and hoped it proved to be a good omen. Chapter Five The lighter tones of Salieri's Falstaff had replaced the dramatic strains of Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet by the time the Bentley rolled onto the Cadwaladr estate three hours later. She stared out the car's tinted window into the encroaching night. Smooth tarmac and urban development had been swapped for graveled private roads, wide pastures and a dark, forested landscape that stretched as far as the eye could see. Here was where she'd spent long summer days reading or idling her time away while waiting for her mother to complete the extensive castle chores. She released a longing sigh. How she'd missed this playground of her youth. How she'd missed Cadwaladr. The Bentley crossed the old stone bridge on the outskirts of the estate and meandered the long, tree-lined avenue where ancient turrets, black against the mauve sky, rose through the treetops. The trees and forest soon fell away to reveal manicured lawns and cascading fountains. Her heart skipped a tiny beat. Nothing had changed. She waited with bated breath for the car to round the final bend then exhaled again in silent wonder. Cadwaladr Castle loomed into view, rising from the ground in stately grandeur and glittering under the soft glow of golden lights. The car came to a standstill at the castle's north entrance. The chauffeur got out and walked around to the passenger door. He opened it, and she climbed out, bestowing him with an appreciative smile. Then apprehension lurched in her throat, and she breathed deeply in, stemming the tide of her rising panic and filling her nostrils with the delicate scent of daffodils and lily of the valley hanging in the air. She swept her gaze upward above the stone steps to the towering wooden doors guarded by sixteenth-century pike men. She took the first step then faltered as the carved, wooden doors opened, releasing a stream of dazzling light into the dusky night. After a moment, the doors closed again and three, shadowed figures stood on the top step gazing down at her. The distinct smell of alcohol wafted down in her direction. They started down the steps, and she moved to one side. The two men and one woman could barely stand let alone manage the co-ordination needed to descend a broad flight of steps. But they attempted the challenge with as much poise as they could muster amid their stumbling bouts of giggles and fits of laughter. The woman wore a gown similar to Magdalena, although with a less revealing décolleté. A white chemise gathered high at the neck filled in her low neckline. And whilst her hair flowed past her shoulders, the woman's hair had been carefully pinned and covered with a small beret-type cap. Both men wore colorful, sleeved doublets, panned slops with codpiece and matching sword cloaks. They passed her, and one of the men smiled. He bowed gallantly, although she half expected him to fall flat on his face. "Care to join us, fair lady?" he said. He had let go of his companion's arm and allowed his friends to continue on their merry way. Magdalena shook her head and made to take a step forward. The drunken man blocked her path. "I don't remember seeing you here before," he slurred. His dark eyes sobered behind his mask as they examined her face. She touched her fingers to her mask and assured herself it was still securely in place. "I've the strangest feeling we've met before," he said, doing his best to sound coherent. She shifted slightly. Oliver Jameson. Yes, they had met, and he'd despised her on sight. As had all of Niall's friends. They had been out of her league back then, and she'd been out of her depth. "No, we've never met," she lied. The whites of his eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm sure I've seen you somewhere before." He reeled on his heels then steadied himself. "Just give me a moment. It will come to me. I never forget a face." "I don't move in your social circle, so I really doubt it." His eyebrows shot up. "My social circle?" Even in his inebriated state, he sounded genuinely amused. "You must be one of Katie's friends. She always had a tendency to socialize outside her station." His lips curled into a smirk. "Down market, if you know what I mean." He touched a hand to her hair. "No offence." She didn't know who Katie was, but she liked her already. She tossed her head, shaking her hair free of his fingers. "None taken." "What's your name?" She brushed off Oliver's clumsy attempt to embrace her and quickly moved past him, keeping three of the steps between them. He staggered forward. "Since this is a masked ball, I suspect the purpose is to maintain some level of anonymity." Oliver slurred. "You're quite right, although I meant, of course, your character." He held himself unsteadily and puffed his chest. "I'm Bassanio, Portia's lover. And you are Portia?" "Nerissa." Oliver inclined his head slightly. "Pity." But he tested the name on his tongue. "Nerissa. No, that wasn't it," he determined. He wagged a finger in front of her face. "That's not it, but I'll remember. I never forget eyes, and certainly none as beautiful as yours." She gave an impatient sigh. "Nerissa is my character." "Of course." He lowered his voice conspiratorially and put a finger to his lips. "I've had a bit to drink. Sorry. But I still think we've met before. Allow me to escort you inside." "That won't be necessary." "I do know the owner of this castle. Lord McFarlane. I love him like a brother. Best of friends." "How lucky for you. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm expected." Oliver stumbled backward and graced her with a covetous sweep of his gaze. "In that case, I wish you and your lover a most pleasant evening. Lucky man, whoever he is." He turned with an unsteady gait and descended the final steps. She pressed a hand to her heart. Great. Now she had to avoid Oliver Jameson this evening as well. She climbed the remaining stone steps. The doorman, holding a long pike and wearing blue and yellow striped breeches, doublet and matching boot covers, pushed open the heavy doors and bade her welcome. A tall man clad in a long, black-brocaded robe, wearing a red hat and circular red badge on his tunic, greeted her on the other side of the double doors. She knew enough about sixteenth-century Venice to realize his was the acceptable dress code for the Jewish men of that period, although the mask with caricatured false nose helped enhance a less-than-flattering stereotypical image of Shylock. She smoothed a hand down her full skirt and stepped farther into the brightly lit hall. Enormous canvases portraying vivid hunting scenes and equestrian themes hung prominently on the thick, old walls. Everything was how she'd remembered it. As a child, she'd been forbidden to walk these ancient halls. But once in a while when Lady McFarlane was away in London and the old lord had locked himself in his office for the remainder of the day, she would put pay to her curiosity and amble the long corridors and vast halls. Sometimes, she would be content to sit in a window place and gaze through the tall windows lining them. At other times, she would study the portraits of Niall's ancestors and foolishly imagine being mistress of all she surveyed. She loosened her red cape, which was immediately removed from her shoulders and spirited away by a pair of unobtrusive hands. She held her arms straight at her side, although she wanted to cross them over her breasts. Xander had strapped her much too tightly. She felt naked, even with so much heavy material flouncing about her body. She followed Shylock across the eight-hundred-year-old Great Hall and swept behind him up the richly carved, dark-oak staircase. She walked past the marble busts and French tapestries her mother had so often cleaned and sped down lengthy corridors and through high-ceilinged connecting rooms where dour-faced portraits hung on gilded walls. Then, she was on the outside looking in on the immense Grand Ballroom that, for one festive night, had been magnificently decorated to resemble the stone facades of Venetian palazzos. She edged closer to the towering doorway. Flutes and songs and drums enriched the warm air. And a sea of varnished faces, colorful doublets, velvet caps and silk gowns danced and capered about the room. She stared in awe at the wooden replica of the famous Rialto Bridge that spanned the center of the massive room and connected one side with the other. If she closed her eyes, she was there, in the watery city of medieval Venice where high-necked boats, looped and necklaced with little lights, nodded along the flowing streets. The detail was extraordinary. It was perfect. She was truly amazed. She turned, smiling her thanks to Shylock, but the tall, black-clad man was gone. She took a calming breath and ventured farther into the crowded room to the busy Rialto where long ago it had been the custom for rich men to gather, lend money and talk affairs. And who knew, the masqueraded men engaged in animated conversation were probably doing the same. She kept her head up and made eye contact, all the while praying no one would waylay her and engage her in conversation, although the chance of that happening didn't seem at all likely. There wasn't a single guest without a partner or devoid of conversation, so she contented herself to cross the vaulted room and study the expensive decors, taking the glass of wine offered by a passing waiter, styled in sixteenth-century servants' garb. She found a quiet spot on the Rialto Bridge and gazed down onto the giddy throng. "Niall won't be able to keep his hands off you tonight." She spun abruptly and stared at the woman who had spoken. Titian was the first word that sprung to mind. And although the face was masked, Polly was the second. Polly looked stunning in a velvet, teal gown with low bodice and over-sized slash sleeves. Her red hair spilled loosely from beneath a matching turban-style headdress bound with ribbons and adorned with pearls. Darkened, blue eyes studied her from behind a silver mask, and red lips thinned and tightened. "We need to talk," Polly said. The redheaded woman didn't wait for her to agree or not but turned elegantly on her heel and flounced away across the bridge. Polly weaved skillfully through the milling crowd toward a dark-wood door and pushed it open. Magdalena entered the long, high-ceilinged room behind Polly, where long banquet tables draped with a crisp, white tablecloth and set with hand-painted eighteenth-century Sevres porcelain dinnerware took center stage. Iridescent flames from candles perched in gilded wall sconces and brass candelabras bathed the richly wallpapered walls in shimmering light, and lavish, brocaded silk hung the length of the casement windows. High above, dropping from the center of the Rococo-style ceiling like an enormous spider web, was a huge, crystal chandelier. The door closed and the noise of the party muffled at once. Polly slowly circled her, her footsteps soundless on the rich, embroidered carpet, then she drifted toward the Carrara marble fireplace at the far end of the room where she admired her reflection in the ornamental mirror hanging on the wall above it. "If Niall asked you to marry him, would you accept?" Magdalena's jaw dropped inelegantly. She lifted her eyes and caught Polly's startlingly blue gaze in the mirror. Magda searched her mind for a diplomatic answer. "Since he's engaged to you that question is rather redundant." Polly squared her shoulders then turned about. Magdalena took a step backward. She really hadn't come to rekindle foolish, childish passions or dredge up old quarrels, although she forced herself to hold Polly's icy stare. "I've moved on, Polly. And so has Niall, with you. I'm not here to come between you." "You've always been between us, Magdalena." Magdalena sighed. "He's marrying you. Not me." Polly released a tight breath and took slow, measured steps toward her. "Niall has called off our arrangement. That should please you." She frowned at Polly's strange choice of word. "What arrangement—?" Her query was met with an impatient flick of Polly's hand. "Love was never important to either one of us until Niall saw you at that blasted auction last week. You changed the whole dynamic. I knew it before he did. And deny it as much as you want, but deep-down you know it, too." "I was at the auction trying to save my company. I never thought I would see Niall again or..." Polly arched an eyebrow. "Want him?" She looked at her hands clasped against her stomach. Then lifted her head at the harsh sound of Polly's bitter laugh. "You don't need to say a word. Your silence says it all," Polly said. Silent tears slid silently down Polly's cheeks from behind her mask. Magdalena stepped forward, her eyes widening with guilt and regret. Where once she would've welcomed the chance to see Polly's suffering, it gave her little satisfaction now. "I'm sorr—" "Don't," Polly said. "Don't pretend you're sorry when in your heart you're rejoicing! You've won! You got him back." "You can't think I wanted this? Or expected it." "Oh, give me a break! We both know Niall has never stopped loving you. Even after you hurt him. Even after he turned to me." She wiped away her own tears. "I never encouraged this. I never encouraged him. I swear." "It doesn't matter what you did or didn't do. You and Niall were lovers long before he ever touched you. I can't compete with that kind of love. No one can. I was a fool to even try, and you're a fool for trying to deny it." Heat singed Magdalena's cheeks, but her breath hitched at the determined look on Polly's face. "My father invested a great deal of money into Niall's businesses after old Lord McFarlane lost most of the McFarlane fortune. Niall was virtually bankrupt when he took over his father's holdings." Polly arched her brow. "My father trusts my judgment. I could undo all of Niall's investments with a single word." "Why are you telling me this?" "Because if you want me to bow gracefully out of the picture. If you want to marry Niall and have his finances intact, you have to do something for me." She angled her head slightly and narrowed her gaze. "What do you want?" Polly sauntered closer. "I'm thirty-five years old, Magda. I may not have technically loved Niall, but marrying him was still a better choice than spending the rest of my life alone." "You will find someone else—" "Who will love me for my money? Or for what I can do for them? At least with Niall, I knew it was neither of those things." Magdalena gasped. "What can I do?" "You've taken Niall from me. It's only fair you should find me someone suitable to replace him." "You want me to find you a husband? That's insane. We're not exchanging handbags." Polly smirked. "My fate is yours. If I'm destined to be alone, then so are you. If I don't marry, then neither will you. But, if you're so sure Niall won't propose, then there's no need to do anything, is there?" Polly marched toward the door. "How can you be so sure he will? Propose, I mean," Magdalena countered. "I have no other but a woman's reason." "So, that's the bottom line, is it? If you can't have him, then neither can I. Is that it, Polly? It's ridiculous and petty." "In my world, wealth marries wealth. You know that. You lived it even if you weren't a part of it. Niall should be mine by reason of that alone." "And what about love? I'm not a matchmaker." "What about it?" Polly snapped. "Not everyone is meant to have a fairytale ending." Polly shrugged. "I'm giving you thirteen chances. One chance for each year you were gone and one to prove I'm not the complete bitch you think I am. That seems fair, doesn't it?" "Thirteen chances for what?" "To find me a date for October's Charity Fundraiser." "That's only six months." "That may be, but it's the only way I'll give Niall up quietly. I'll agree to one date with each man of your choosing. On the basis of what I like or don't like, I'll decide if there will be a second date. Agreed?" "And if you choose none?" "Then prepare yourself for a life of spinsterhood." "I could tell Niall." "And see him destitute? I don't think so, Magdalena. You love him too much, and that is your weakness." Polly opened the door and, pasting a smile on her face, rejoined the noise and revelry. Magdalena had little stomach to party and escaped through a hidden door at the far corner of the Long Dining Room. She slipped through quiet, concealed corridors and emerged in the east gardens. There was a slight drizzle, but she didn't mind the rain. It was insane. Polly was insane. Marriage? To Niall? The idea alone was preposterous, ridiculous and absurd. She and Niall had spoken twice since the night of the auction and even then, they had only shouted at and accused each other. It had taken her mother's intervention to soften his stance against her. And her mother had used Angharad as a bargaining tool to achieve it. Perhaps not intentionally, but her daughter had turned out to be the key to her father's heart. That was it. The extent of their contact. Hardly the basis for Polly's "I have no other but a woman's reason." And yet, he'd broken off his arrangement with Polly for her. She frowned and continued across the lower courtyard. She took the elegant, stone steps leading down to the tear-shaped pond rumored to have been commissioned in the nineteenth century by one of Niall's ancestors after he'd suffered a broken heart. And each subsequent step took her deeper into the wood and farther away from the shouts and carousing, the glittering lights and the odd costumed partygoer ambling about the grounds. She stopped halfway across the ancient, wooden bridge leading down to the hidden lake and gazed at the old willow tree whose shimmering leaves reflected on the dark, moonlit water. It looked smaller than she'd remembered, but the memories were no less vivid. Thunder cracked and the rain fell harder. Her gown hung heavy at her waist, and she could hardly breathe through the constriction of her corset, but she raced down to the water's edge and the willow's scanty shelter. Shakespeare Masquerade Ch. 04-06 She leaned against the bark and closed her eyes. She frowned again. What arrangement? A twig snapped somewhere in front of her. Her heart leapt to her throat, and her eyes startled open. She blinked away the rain blurring her vision and tried to make out the shadows stirring in weird and wonderful shapes before her. A tall, familiar figure stepped forward from among the hanging leaves and into the opening. She dug her fingers into the bark. "Niall?" Relief surged through her. "What are you doing here?" "I saw you and Polly enter the Long Dining Room. When you didn't return to the Ball, I knew I would find you here. This was always your favorite spot at Cadwaladr." His eyes blazed bright in the dappled moonlight filtering through the green canopy overhead. Thoughts of betrayal, hurt and anger combusted in the heat of his gaze. "I didn't think you'd come," he said. She needed to face him to move on, yet she suddenly wished she could delay it for another year then another one. "You knew I would," she countered softly. He moved slowly forward, every tall, powerful inch of him dressed in black-leather breeches and velvet doublet. She tried to still the chills of excitement whispering down her spine and inflaming her skin. "No," he said. "I could merely hope." His eyes glinted from behind his black mask and flicked over her décolleté, deliberately stoking the fire that she'd spent twelve long years trying to put out. She shivered, although no longer from the drops of rain that trickled over her shoulders and seeped down into the bodice of her gown. "You make a beautiful Portia," he said. "I was trying for Nerissa," she said. "Equally beautiful." The sensual smile retreated and the mood sobered. His eyes captured hers again before she could look away. "Thank you," she said. "For the abbey. It means a great deal to my mother—" He stepped closer. "And you?" She glanced away from the intensity in his eyes. "When Perez Developments starts to make a profit again, I will repay every last penny, with interest." "You know that's not why I did it." She returned his gaze. "Because of Angharad. I know." His eyes briefly closed, and he exhaled deeply. "Knowing that you and I lost our child tears me up inside, Magdalena. You were right, I didn't know her or hold her or watch her die, but something shifted here when I learned she'd existed, if only for two precious weeks." She lowered her gaze to where his hand lay against the left side of his chest and released a slow breath. She'd said some terrible things. Lightning struck from afar and thunder rumbled in her heart. She bit down on her bottom lip and hung her head. "It was my fault—" "No." She didn't protest when he pulled her possessively into the warmth of his embrace. She leaned into him. She'd missed this—missed him. His touch, the sanctuary of his arms. If Angharad had lived, she would've told him about her. She wouldn't have kept him from his daughter. She buried her face against his chest. "It all went wrong between us. I'm sorry Niall...for everything...for running away...for believing your mother...for...what I did..." He ghosted his fingers along her jaw and the part of her face not hidden by her mask. Then placed a finger beneath her chin and gently coaxed her gaze to meet his eyes, tense and dark in the starless night. "We've been given a second chance. All we have to do is take it, if that's what you want. But if you don't feel anything for me anymore, tell me now." She blinked away the raindrops weighing down her eyelashes. Her heart drummed in her chest and her knees shook, but her mask gave her the courage to reply in the only way she could. Chapter Six At first it was just lips on lips, hesitant and yet confident. She took the time to savor him, to relearn the shape and texture of his mouth. She moaned and arched into him, lifting her arms and locking them about his neck as she tasted and partook of what she hadn't tasted in way too long. He increased the pressure of his mouth against hers, dropped his hands to her waist and molded her firmly to his groin. This was how it used to be between them. Hot, crazy and wonderful all at once. Her fingers curled in the silky wet strands at the base of his neck. His hands splayed across her back. Her breasts grew taut. Her nipples rose hard and tight, throbbing with the need to be touched by him. Only him. Her fingers blindly felt for the buttons on his velvet doublet and pushed one open. He stopped fumbling with the laces on her bodice and with an impatient sound, shrugged the jacket-like garment from his shoulders at her insistence before his fingers returned to their task. Her bodice loosened and the constricting garment sprang apart. The feel of her gown sliding down her skin sent a jolt through her. She broke the kiss and gasped a lung full of air. His mouth covered her lips once more, and she surrendered to the intoxicating taste of rain and him filling her mouth. He gave the dress a helpful push and peeled it down her arms. It gathered heavy and wet at her waist. His fingers deftly unhooked her strapless bra. It fell without hindrance to her feet, exposing every nerve ending to the tantalizing delight of fat raindrops splashing on her bare skin and pelting her nipples. A needy groan gathered in her throat that she couldn't hold back. Niall dragged his mouth from hers and licked the rivulets cascading down her shoulder to her breast. She threw her head back and moaned aloud. He suckled hard and strong. She closed her eyes, trusting the strength of his arm wrapped tightly about her waist to keep her upright. She fisted her fingers tighter in the mass of his hair, keeping his mouth at her breast and eliciting a soft, appreciative moan. His free hand squeezed and toyed with the other. Blood pounded in her core, and she pulsed in a vibrant, delicious ache. This was too much. It'd been too long. She blushed at the need she couldn't help but betray. White-hot tension engulfed her, stretching her nerves to the breaking point. She arched and moaned and trembled against him, her breath slipping rapidly in and out of her lungs. Pressure built, and her body expanded, shuddering as a hot stream of sticky sex threatened to escape down her thighs. His mouth released her. She whimpered with the frustration of pleasure and denial cutting through her senses like a double-edged sword. She'd been so close. He kissed the valley between her breasts and scorched a wet path upward back to her lips. She reached for his tunic, pulling it free of his breeches. Her shaking hands slid under the damp fabric. Her palms pressed against taut, warm, muscled flesh that tightened beneath her tentative touch. He stiffened and pulled back, breaking their kiss. She followed him in the hope of recapturing his mouth. His chest rose with an unsteady breath. He removed his mask. She stopped tracking him and held his gaze. He knew what he'd denied her. She knew what he wanted from her. It'd been a while since she'd been with a man, but she couldn't be more sure of this. More sure of him. She didn't want anyone else. She never did. Her hands slid lower and traced the hard length of his erection straining against the soft leather. She pulled at the velvet ties on his breeches, unfettering him. His long fingers brushed the outer swell of her breasts and trailed to her bare waist. He pushed her gown lower over her hips, ridding her of its cumbersome weight before wrenching his tunic over his head and tossing it to the wet ground. Her mouth brushed his skin, skimming the hard muscles across his rain-slicked chest then moving higher to the pulse throbbing at his throat. She absorbed the light shiver running through his body. She hooked her fingers in the waistband of his breeches and edged them past his hips. Her fingers languidly traced the trail of hair leading from his belly button to the base of his penis. She firmly caressed the smooth head of his erection with her thumb, moist with rain and pre-cum, and gently nipped his flat nipples with her teeth. It was pure ecstasy having his hands on her. His fingertips ghosted her ribcage and stomach, continuing lower and slipping under the elastic of her panties. Her stomach quivered. His erection jerked in her hands. She tightened her grip and stroked the pulsing length. His fingers twisted in her hair and brought her face closer to his. She wanted him. She couldn't wait. She ached to be filled. "I've loved only you," she said. He kicked off his shoes. She peeled off the final vestige of his clothing. He removed her mask and kissed her, sliding his tongue between her eager lips. The soft rip of her panties barely registered among the delicious sensations spiraling through her and pooling between her thighs. He lifted her to him and pinned her against the rough bark. She wrapped her legs about his waist, anchoring herself lest she fall. She breathed him in, the freshness of rain and the heady scent of the man he'd become. One arm kept her securely in place. His free hand cupped and explored her tender lips. Her body shivered in anticipation, and the flesh of her thighs twitched with longing. His fingers rubbed her wet folds, probing and pinching the taut flesh before splaying her moist lips and sliding into the welcoming heat of her body. She tilted her head back. It was the same—he was the same, and yet different. His fingers moved deep inside her. Dominant and controlled. Smooth and experienced. Her entire body shook with excitement. Her inner muscles clamped tighter around his digits, sucking his fingers deeper as he stretched and molded her slick passage. A continuous moan escaped her lips. He nuzzled her throat, her breasts, biting and licking the jutting tips until her nipples throbbed in delicious torment. Wave upon wave of ecstasy crashed against the walls of her lower belly. She gripped his shoulders and finally cried out as her orgasm rushed from deep inside her and erupted like a river of molten fire between her thighs. Niall caught her limp body to him, and she closed her eyes, shuddering through her climax and waiting for the tiny bursts of stars behind her eyes to subside. She buried her face against his neck, her heart beating wildly in her chest. It'd been too quick. In moments, the ground was warm and damp at her back. Rain dripped from his body onto hers, coating her already wet folds. His mouth lowered to hers. Her hands clutched his hips. His hand inched between their bodies, his fingers finding the swollen flesh where her nerves converged in a delirious knot of pulsing torment and raw pleasure. Her strangled cry got lost within his mouth. She pushed against his chest, wanting his sweet torture to end, but Niall held her closer and tightened his arm about her. His penis nudged her entrance, inching her open. His warm breath fluttered over her ear. "I've only ever loved you." She expelled a trembling breath. He pressed into her, rousing her so easily a second time. His weight crushed her into the moist earth. Her muscles clenched again, driving him deeper, milking his firm shaft as he moved slowly within her. She crossed her ankles at his lower back and tilted her hips from the ground upwards, meeting every hard, delicious thrust. She arched against him, kissed his neck and chest and bit down in his shoulder. He teased her into a frenzied state of hunger then relentlessly withdrew until only his bulbous tip held her open. She clawed at his back and pleaded with him to end her torment. He snapped his hips forward, arching fiercely into her body and erasing the trace of every man who had made love to her since him. Her orgasm overwhelmed her a second time. It fell in waves, a lengthy, drawn-out explosion in slow motion shattering her into a thousand lights. She moaned a long, guttural cry of blissful release then collapsed against the ground, giving in to the intense aftershocks racking her body. Her inner muscles gripped his shaft and refused to relinquish her prize until he pumped hot and deep and primal inside her. The rain eased and so did their movements. His whispered words gently brought her down from the dizzying heights he'd driven her to. She murmured his name. Their breathing slowed. He rolled from her, taking her into his arms so she lay on top of him. His hands cupped her face, and the raindrops teased from the ends of her wet hair into his in reminiscence of their very first time. She traced his lips with the tip of her finger. He kissed it, and her heart raced, drowning out the pit-a-pat of rain falling on the leaves about them. She searched his eyes. "Were you engaged to Polly?" "No." "Then—" "We made a pact six months ago, after my mother's funeral. We were drunk but not so far gone that we forgot what we'd promised each other." "And that was?" "That if neither one of us had found true love at the end of the year then we would marry each other." "What about love?" He kissed her before giving an answer. "You're the only woman I've ever loved," he said. "I didn't have you, so it really didn't matter who I married." He kissed her again. "I never thought I would see you again." "And I never thought you would forgive me." "My heart has only ever been yours. Polly, even with all her charms, was swept from my mind and heart the minute you walked back into my life. How could I honor the pact knowing that? She deserves better. As do I, if you, Magdalena Perez de la Peña y Mendoza, will have me." * * * * The arrow slits once inherent to the long, medieval room were gone, replaced by high, mullion windows that allowed in a great deal of sunlight. She blinked back the bright, early morning light seeping through the elevated windows and tried to shake off the weight of Niall's arm flung possessively across her breasts, pinning her to the bed. Her legs were trapped under one of his thighs, and he'd spooned her tightly against his body. She sighed her irritation. She stared at the three, iron-crown chandeliers dangling from a magnificently blue painted ceiling covered with Renaissance works of art then squinted as she tried to make out the fables and other allegories depicted above. She'd never been in this part of the castle before. It'd been old Lord McFarlane's domain where the personnel had never been allowed. Not even her mother. For a moment, she relaxed in the vice-like embrace of the man holding her and allowed her senses to wallow in the stillness and pristine beauty of the sixteenth-century architecture. As long as Niall held her captive like this, she wasn't going anywhere. He suddenly shifted in his sleep and loosened his hold. She eased from beneath the weight of his limbs and rolled from his side. She pushed herself slowly upright, careful not to disturb the mattress too much, and swung her legs from the bed— "Where do you think you're going?" The deep, gentle voice startled her, and she gave a surprised gasp. She looked over her shoulder at Niall's face. He'd rolled onto his back, an arm thrown over his head, but his eyes were still closed. "I thought you were asleep," she said. "Well, I'm not. I could hear you thinking." His eyes opened fully, and she caught her breath at the unmistakable desire swirling in their green depths. She crossed her arms across her breasts and felt the heat rise in her cheeks. "It's time I went home," she said. Niall looked across at the clock on his bureau and squinted. "It's six o'clock in the morning." He stretched his lean frame then turned onto his side, propping himself on his elbow. "I thought we could spend the day together. Go riding like we used to and talk about us—" She brushed him off. "I have a lot to do, Niall." He reached forward, grabbing her wrist when she tried to leave his bed. "Magdalena, don't do this. Not after what happened between us last night." They had made love once more by the lake before sneaking back to his room in the private wing of the castle using a side entrance and the privy stairs. Niall's knowledge of the estate had been invaluable in helping them avoid the costumed guests roaming the gardens, since they'd been scarcely dressed at the time. She'd donned his wet tunic, and he'd put on his breeches. The rest of their discarded clothing still lay scattered by the lake. They'd showered and made love before tumbling into his king-sized bed and making slow, sweet love a fourth time. The mattress dipped slightly beneath Niall's weight as he moved closer behind her. He wrapped his arms about her, pulling her to the warmth of his bare chest. "Why won't you say yes?" Her heart burst with excitement at the thought of being Niall's wife, but she couldn't disregard Polly's threat, and she couldn't tell him, either. It would be her word against Polly's, and she didn't want their relationship to begin with such ugliness. "I will Niall, one day—" His voice caressed her ear, trailing goose bumps across her skin. "I don't want one day. I want now, tomorrow, next week. We've already wasted twelve years. I don't want to waste any more time." She turned to face him. "I never thought I would have this chance with you again. Twelve years ago I destroyed us. I don't want to do that again." He touched her face and frowned. "You think by marrying me, you will destroy us?" She gently extricated herself from his embrace and rose from the bed. "You don't understand." "Then explain it to me." She walked across the room and plucked one of his dress shirts from the wooden, valet stand and slipped it on. She stood by the window and looked out onto the lakes and lawns. Her fingers toyed with the red locket about her neck as she listened to his movements. He got out of bed and shrugged on a pair of pants. "Is there someone else?" She whirled to face him. "Of course not! If there was—" She pointed between them. "If there was, this wouldn't have happened." "Then, what is it? Talk to me, Magdalena. Please. Last night there were no doubts between us." "I know, and I don't have any doubts or regrets, Niall. I haven't done anything I'm ashamed of. It's just, this is going way too fast. A week ago—" "I was an idiot." She smirked, remembering his costume. "The Prince of Arragon?" He padded across the room toward her. "Appropriate, wouldn't you say? He chose the wrong casket and forfeited Portia. I let you go once when I should've come after you." She looked at him with a faint smile. "You did come after me. You wrote me letters. I just didn't know." "And would that have made a difference? Knowing?" "I'd like to think it would have." He planted feather-light kisses on her eyelids, her cheeks and the curve of her jaw. "I want to marry you. I want you in my bed. In my life. Is that too unreasonable a request after twelve years of waiting?" "I'm already in your bed." He leaned his forehead against hers. "Yes, but I want to know you're legally required to be there." She laughed. "Stay with me today. All day. Let me convince you to marry me." She pulled back and looked into his eyes. "Yes, I'll stay."