She’d scorned Talbot’s suggestion that the Reeve wouldn’t take a woman of questionable taste as his mistress. Everyone knew that the Reeve had never taken a mistress, so she had to be extraordinary. With her angular features and slender body, that left her wardrobe.
The dress she wore was black, a color that the Cybellians used only for mourning. She’d had the seamstress lower the bodice and take off the sleeves, leaving most of her upper body exposed. Small sapphire-blue flowers, torn hastily from another dress at Shamera’s request, were sewn here and there on the satin skirt of her gown.
Her hair, free of its usual restraints, hung in thick soft waves past her shoulders and halfway down her back. She’d colored her lips a soft rose and lined her large eyes and darkened her lashes with kohl. Her face she’d powdered until it was even whiter than usual, a shocking contrast to the darker-skinned Cybellians. She had even changed her movements, exchanging her usual boyish stride for a sultry swaying walk that covered the same amount of ground in a completely different way.
When she’d emerged from the dressing room at the dressmaker’s, Talbot had started laughing.
“No one, but no one, is going to confuse ye wi’ Sham the thief.” Even the outrageous bill that she’d run up hadn’t been enough to take the wide grin off his face.
Shamera didn’t bother to knock at the Reeve’s door, but thrust it open hard enough that it hit the wall behind it with a hollow thud.
“Darling,” she gushed in heavily accented Cybellian. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard that you were ill. Is this why you broke off with me?”
After a dramatic pause at the door, Shamera rushed over to his side trailing expensive perfume behind her and ignoring the stunned looks on the faces of the man and woman who were sitting in chairs next to Kerim. As she crossed the floor she looked at them from the corner of her eye.
The woman was small and beautiful despite the fine lines around her mouth and nose. Her coloring was the same as the Reeve’s: thick dark hair, warm brown skin, and rich dark eyes. She must have been extraordinarily beautiful as a young girl; even now, with strands of silver and a slight softening of the skin of her neck, she would have brought a pretty penny at any of the higher-class brothels in Purgatory.
The man sitting next to her was similarly beautiful; his features were fine-boned and mobile, a refined version of the Reeve’s. The dark eyes were large and long-lashed. A warm, approving smile dawned on his lips at her appearance, revealing a single dimple.
Shamera reached the Reeve’s chair and leaned over, pressing a passionate kiss on his mouth, lingering longer than she’d really intended when he responded with matching theatrics. Breathing a little harder, she pulled back before she ended up sitting on his lap in front of the woman who, judging by the look of moral outrage on her face, could only he his mother.
“But sweetheart, what is it they are feeding you?” Sham looked with honest horror at the mush on the tray that sat on a table beside Kerim’s chair. She picked up the tray and sought out the servant standing in the shadows, where a good servant learned to make himself at home.
“You, sir, what is your name?”
“Dickon, my Lady.”
“Dickon, take this back to the kitchens and get something fit for a man to eat.” She thickened her vowels deliberately when she said “a man”; it might have been her accent.
The servant came forward to take the tray, stiffening slightly as he got a good look at her face. But he took the gold inlaid wooden slat without commenting and left the room before anyone had a chance to object to Shamera’s order. She turned back to the remaining three occupants in the room and noticed that Kerim had lost control of his laughter.
She widened her eyes at him and gestured dramatically, saying, “Horrid man, I come here to rescue you, and all that yon do is laugh at me. I think I shall leave.” With that she turned on one foot and took two steps toward the door.
“Shamera,” Kerim’s voice darkened and Sham felt as if he’d run a caressing hand down her back. “Come here.”
She turned back with a pout and crossed her arms under her breasts. The effect caused the other man in the room to swear softly in admiration and the immaculately garbed woman’s eyebrows rose as Shamera’s gown slid lower. Slender she might be, but not everywhere.
“Shamera.” There was a soft warning note in the Reeve’s voice, but Sham was glad that no one but she was looking at him. No one could have missed the inner amusement that danced in his eyes. She felt her lips slide out of their pout and into an honest smile in response.
“I’m sorry,” she offered softly, obediently traversing the floor between them, “but you know I don’t like being laughed at.”
He took the hands she offered him and brought them to his lips in apology. “Dear heart, your presence is like a breath of summer in these dark chambers.” He spoke in the sultry voice that would have made a young maiden swoon.
“Our presence is obviously unnecessary,” commented the other man. “Come, Mother.” The older woman took his arm and allowed him to assist her to rise.
“Wait,” ordered the Reeve raising a hand imperiously. “I would like to introduce you to the Lady Shamera, widow of Lord Ervan of Escarpment Keep. Lady Shamera, my mother the Lady Tirra and my brother, Lord Ven.”
Shamera’s shallow curtsy was hampered by the fact that Kerim hadn’t released her hand. She smiled at them and then turned back to Kerim, without waiting to see if they would return the greeting. With her free hand she smoothed the hair out of Kerim’s amused face.
Shamera heard the Lady Tirra draw her breath in to speak as Kerim’s servant came in with a new tray from the kitchen. Sham straightened, took the tray, and gifted the servant with a warm smile for his timely interruption; she wasn’t sure how far she could push Lady Tirra without offending Kerim. Balancing the meal easily on one hand, she lifted the warming covers to reveal a nicely roasted chicken with an assortment of greens.
“Ah, that’s much better. Thank you, Dickon.”
The servant bowed and retreated to the corner he’d occupied from the beginning as Sham set the richly carved wooden tray on Kerim’s lap rather than on the nearby table. She knelt in front of him, ignoring the damage to the material the dressmaker had so carefully pressed.
“Eat, my Leopard; then we will talk,” she purred in the sultriest tone she could manage; it must have worked because she heard the rustic of crisp fabric as Kerim’s mother stiffened with further outrage.
Without taking his eyes off Shamera, Kerim spoke. “My thanks, Mother, for your concern. It seems that I will not be dining alone tonight after all. The gentlemen of the court are doubtless awaiting your late arrival.”
Lady Tirra left the room without another word, leaving her youngest son to trail after her.
4
As the door closed. Kerim turned to his servant. “Dickon, I believe Talbot will be nearby. Find him and send him in, will you?”
“Very good, my lord.” Dickon bowed and left the room.
As soon as the soft click of the latch reached Sham’s cars, she relaxed and sat back in a more comfortable cross-legged position on the floor.
The Reeve looked at her for an instant and then began laughing softly, his shoulders shaking. “I was wondering how we’d pull this off. You’ll forgive me, but when Talbot proposed this, I thought he was insane.”
“Thievery requires a certain amount of boldness, and a touch of theatrics,” she answered, batting her lashes at him. “I have it on good authority that being a mistress has similar requirements.”