Free The Silver Wolf by Alice Borchardt Page B

Lucilla like a proper woman. She’s as nervous as a pullet in a yard full of roosters,” he told Lucilla.
    Regeane was stung.
    The wolf was stung.
    Regeane drew herself up and studied the woman called Lucilla.
    At first sight, she seemed young, but then Regeane realized this was an illusion created by a number of deftly applied decorations. Her shift was Egyptian linen, a fine weave embroidered with white silk. The overdress she wore was a woolen silk damask, dyed two shades of green and of such a fresh, bright color that it reminded Regeane of the first flush of new leaves in the spring. Some very clever painting. Powdering had been done to her face. She was still beautiful, but carried the telltale marks of age in the lines around the eyes and mouth, and the faint, as yet so very faint, webbing of wrinkles on the brow and cheeks.
    “How do you do this to your hair? By what art?” Lucilla asked. “Teach me. I’ll pay you well. I’d like to learn it.”
    “No art,” Regeane said. “I know no arts. My hair has been so since I can remember.” Her hair was as the silver wolf’s fur, dark shading to white at the tips. Each tress appeared dipped in moonlight.
    “No art,” Lucilla said. “Of course not. I was foolish even to ask. You are obviously as nature made you. Not even a strophium.” Regeane’s hair fell from her fingers.
    Regeane gasped. Her hands came up to search her breasts. Her cheeks glowed. “Oh, my God,” she gasped. “I forgot.”
    Lucilla’s escorts and the two merchants doubled whooping with laughter.
    Lucilla stretched out her hand and cupped one of Regeane’s breasts. “May the angels bless my soul,” she said quietly. “A ripe peach. My poor dear, you don’t need a binder.”
    Regeane knew she should be angry at the liberties taken with her person, but she found the lady’s touch stimulated a stab of pleasure in a part of her body far from her breast. She caught Lucilla’s wrist, but didn’t push her away. Lucilla withdrew her hand at her own pace, slipping her wrist slowly through Regeane’s fingers.
    “Are you a free woman?” the lady asked abruptly.
    “Free and freeborn,” Regeane replied proudly and a little angrily. This woman was frightening her. She wondered if she should shout for Hugo, but then abandoned the idea immediately. The two mercenaries accompanying Lucilla were wellarmed, well dressed, well paid, and—doubtless—well practiced servants of a noble house. Either one of them could pulverize Hugo with one hand.
    “Married or betrothed?” Lucilla asked.
    “Betrothed,” Regeane answered doubtfully.
    Lucilla pounced on the uncertainty in her voice. “Then you don’t like him?”
    “I don’t know.” Regeane felt at a loss. “I’ve never met or even seen him.”
    “Aah,” Lucilla said. She smiled, lowered her eyelids. Regeane was amazed to see the eyelashes were outlined in black and the lids themselves were stained pale blue, shading away at her brows.
    “Why not come home with me,” Lucilla said. “I’ll give you a good dinner, then you can share my couch. In the morning, my maids will fit you with a better dress than any you could buy here. And if I find you especially pleasing, as I believe I will, you shall have a little gold in the bargain.”
    Regeane didn’t say anything at first because she didn’t understand. When she did, the proposition was so foreign to her experience, she was confused by it. She blushed, then became very annoyed with herself for blushing and made a determined effort to get out of her corner.
    Lucilla and the two mercenaries stepped aside laughing. Regeane was ready to flee, not out of displeasure, but embarrassment. She was brought to a halt immediately.
    The cloth seller, perched on his wagon seat, had a good grip on the back of her dress. He shook her gently. “Fluffy little hatchling. Don’t pay any attention to her, Lucilla. Her feathers are still damp. She doesn’t understand what a fine offer you’ve made