Free Royal 02 - Royal Passion by Jennifer Blake Page B

woman is deceiving; our pelves are larger than they may appear, for natural reasons."
    "Still, I think not,” Estes said.
    "Roderic's?” Michael asked.
    Sadly, Estes shook his head. “Too large."
    As one, they turned toward Michael. “Scissors. Who has scissors?"
    Mara did not cut the trousers that they brought for her, however; she only rolled them to her knees. The shirt she had also been loaned hung upon her with the sleeves in rolls around her elbows where she had turned them up. There were no studs to hold the shirt closed, so she used a piece of ribbon from her camisole to tie it at the top and tucked the remainder into her trousers. She removed her waist-heeled shoes, but retained her stockings of opaque white silk, bedraggled though they were, since they gave her some feeling of semirespectability. Still, it was rather embarrassing to emerge from the salon where she had changed wearing them, a little like appearing in public in her pantalettes and camisole.
    They began with simple somersaults down the length of the rug, rolling over and over like so many garden bugs tucked into balls. Agile as a monkey and twice as droll, Estes showed her how to relax as she fell. It was tight muscles and joints that caused injury, he claimed; she must relax and move in the direction of the fall, continuing the motion so that it was dispelled, instead of trying to stop it and having it come to a jarring halt against the hard ground with her body in the way. They progressed from somersaults to gentle tumbles and cartwheels for Mara, while the others bounded down the length of the gallery in a series of quick, head-over-heels springs. So fast did they move, and so vigorously, that it was as if they were made of coiled steel.
    Time passed, and Mara began to lose a sense of self, to feel that her muscles could and would respond to the dictates of her brain on an instant's command. At first there had been some soreness in her shoulder, but it seeped away. Her hair came down from the loose knot she had put it up in that morning. It spilled around her, clinging to her flushed face with its dew of perspiration from the exertion. They were moving so quickly, however, that there was no time to see to it.
    "Now we will teach you to land on your feet like the cat,” Estes declared. “We make the standing pyramid, all seven!"
    Once again, Michael and the twins took the load on the bottom row. Estes, talking all the time about footholds and handholds and the art of climbing a human body, clambered up to stand on Michael's shoulders on one side. Trude made her way up to balance on Jared's shoulders on the other, and Luca climbed up onto those of Jacques in the middle. Those on bottom held the ankles of those in the second row, who in turn linked arms, gently swaying for balance.
    "Come, Chère, now you on the very top. Up you go!"
    She could not do it, she told herself as she stared up at the place she was meant to be, so near the painting on the top of the high ceiling. At the same time, she took a few running steps and began to climb, bracing on a knee, the crook of an arm, a shoulder, pushing, pulling, gasping with the effort to draw herself higher. At last she knelt on Luca's shoulders, her fingers clutching his hair.
    "Ouch!” the gypsy yelled.
    "Steady, my angel,” Estes called as she released her grasp and had to fling her arm out abruptly, wobbling back and forth to maintain her place on the wavering, shifting column of bodies.
    "I'm going to break my neck and be an angel indeed,” she said with resignation.
    "Indeed not!"
    There was more gaiety than she thought seemly in the Italian's tone. “Yes!"
    "Trust me, my cabbage. Put your hand on Luca's head. Now push, fast, fast, up, and get your foot on his shoulder. Good. Steady. Now take your fingers from his hair—"
    "Thank you,” Luca said.
    "Quiet. Rise, little one, rise. Turn. Place your other foot on his other shoulder. Easy. Hands on hips. Voilà !"
    The muscles in her legs