"I was wonderin' whether ye'd make it in such foul weather," a cheery voice declared. "Fire's bright, and there's a good supper waitin' abovestairs."

Polly stepped into a small, square hall and found herself the object of scrutiny from a pair of bright black eyes set into a ruddy-complexioned, well-lined face. The scrutiny was interested but far from unfriendly. "This be the young lady, then, m'lord?"

"Mistress Polly Wyat," Nicholas said formally. "My love, this is Goodwife Benson. She will be looking after you."

Polly had never been looked after by anyone, except by Prue, way back at the dawn of memory, and even then not with any enthusiasm. She looked blank, searching for an appropriate response. The kindly eyes twinkled as if in understanding.

"Come along a' me, m'dear. I'll show ye the apartment m'lord 'as taken for ye." The plump body turned and bustled up a narrow flight of stairs. "Two nice chambers," she called over her shoulder. "Clean as a new pin, they be. No vermin in my 'ouse."

They reached a minute landing, where the goodwife unlatched a solid oak door, pushing it open with a flourish. A neat, paneled parlor was revealed under sloping eaves. A fire sizzled on a stone hearth, and a linen-covered seat ran beneath the low mullioned window. The furniture was plain but highly polished, the hangings and coverings crisply clean and bright. A round table was set with platters, pewter cups, knives, and skewers; the aroma of roasting meat wafted up the stairs.

"And 'ere's your bedchamber." Goodwife Benson opened a door in the far wall. Here was a room dominated by a big four-poster with a carved oak tester and rose-red curtains. There was a paneled tiring table with a branched candlestick and a crystal mirror above it, the whole warmed by the cheerful blaze of yet another fire.

Polly was speechless. She was to have two rooms to herself! And such rooms! Her eyes flew to Nicholas, standing behind her, watching her with the enigmatic smile she had come to expect, even though she frequently did not know why he should have it.

"It's to be 'oped all's to your satisfaction, mistress," the goodwife said when Polly remained silent.

"Oh… yes… p-please… th-thank you… indeed, it is," stuttered Polly.

"Then I'll see to your supper," the woman said comfortably. "Ye'll be sharp-set, I'll be bound."

"Indeed we are," Nicholas said when it became clear that Polly had once again lapsed into muteness. Goodwife Benson bustled out, and he snapped his fingers in front of the bewitched Polly. "Wake up."

Her eyes focused, and she saw he was laughing at her. "Am I to live here alone?" she managed to ask, still unable to grasp the idea of so much space for one person.

"I'm hoping I may be a frequent visitor," he said quizzically, unfastening the clasp of her cloak.

"Y-yes, of course, sir," replied Polly, hearing how absurdly polite and formal she sounded, unable to blame Nick for the ready laughter brimming in the emerald eyes. "Shall… shall you be staying tonight?"

"Well now." He pulled pensively at his chin, "If I were issued an invitation, I just might be induced to accept it. It being such a dreadful night, you understand? Blizzard threatening…"

Her lips twitched. Peeping up at him through her lashes, she swept him a deep curtsy, sinking to her heel, one toe delicately pointed. "I do beg you will take shelter in my humble abode, my lord. I should never rest easy if I thought you were out in such a storm."

"I shall be eternally grateful, madame." A magnificent leg returned her salutation, and Polly, assailed by giggles, lost her balance and collapsed with an undignified thump on the floor. Nick picked her up. "What a lamentable performance," he chided. "I thought I had taught you to execute a curtsy with more decorum." Drawing her into his embrace, he pushed up her chin, consuming that ravishing countenance with his gaze, feeling her pliancy under his hands, seeing the image of her body in the eye of memory.

"I want you." The naked hunger in his eyes and voice

sent laughter scuttling to the four corners of the bedchamber. Then the sound of footsteps next door, the smells of roasting mutton, Goodwife Benson's cheery summons to table, broke into the charmed circle. "Anticipation must again whet the appetite," he said with a rueful smile. "And you will be the better for your supper. Lovemaking on an empty belly leaves something to be desired." He ushered her into the parlor, where a roast of mutton steamed enticingly upon the sideboard and a platter of oysters sat upon the table, ready opened, glistening pearly gray in the candlelight.

He held her chair for her, unfolded a linen napkin on her lap, poured wine into her cup, then took his place opposite. For all the ease of their past companionship it was the first time that she had sat at table in his company. There had never been any question before but that matters between them would be conducted on the terms of tutor and pupil, master and servant. Now Polly felt unaccountably nervous, as if these present attentions were awarded mistakenly and should have had some other recipient than a Newgate brat of unknown parentage. Then she remembered that she was an actor, that she could be whomsoever she pleased. She raised her glass in salutation, her eyelashes fluttering, lips curving delicately.

Nick, absorbing the full impact of this breathtaking performance, was in little doubt as to its cause. He raised his own glass. "Masterly," he approved. "You know well how to adapt to unfamiliar circumstances. It is a talent that will stand you in good stead in the next weeks."

Polly sucked an oyster from its craggy shell. The intensity had quite gone out of the occasion. His lordship was speaking in the easy tones he habitually employed, as if those words of passion had not been spoken with such urgency such a short time before. It ensured that she was able to devote her full attention to her supper; under the benign influence of good food, good wine, warmth, and undemanding companionship, all apprehension left her.

Nicholas noted her gradual relaxation with satisfaction. He was far from such a state himself, although his compan-

ion could not possibly guess from his manner at the effort he was exerting to keep his ardor under bridle. It was ot the utmost importance to him that the true initiation of this exquisite creature should bear no relation to the brutalities she had endured in the past. He remembered only too clearly her piteous plea that he not hurt her that first evening, when, with the resignation of the accustomed victim, she had ceased her struggles, surrendering herself to whatever new yet inevitable horror awaited her. Tonight she would experience only gentleness as he led her along the sweet paths of pleasure. There would be time enough later for the glorious rough and tumble of lust's urgencies.

He selected a Katharine pear from the fruit bowl. It was a fruit beloved of King Charles and his queen; one, it was to be assumed, never before tasted by the girl who should, if all went according to plan, shortly find herself moving in those exalted circles. He peeled the fruit, quartered it neatly, and laid it upon her plate, remembering pragmatically that he had not yet educated her palate for that role, and must do so. The reminder, for some reason, cast a bleak shadow. It was the second time the concerns of the conspirator had intruded in such unwelcome fashion when he wished only to think of a loving seduction.

"My thanks." She smiled with a hint of shyness as she took the offering. "Seldom have I enjoyed such a supper."

"That was my intention," he replied softly, rising and coming 'round the table.

She turned in her chair to look up at him as he came to stand beside her. "Is it time?"

The forthright question took him completely aback, until he realized that it was only what he should have expected. Seduction rituals would be quite unknown to this maid, whose depths of experience were on the one hand vast, and on the other pathetically spare. "Finish your pear," he said, beginning to unpin her hair.