Susan Sipal
Writer

Excerpt from Moonlit Masquerade:

Prologue

November 1875, Copenhagen, Denmark

He was Marc Antony in a black mask.

     She was Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile, in a flame-red toga.  With a limp.

     Which was exactly why she once again visited the refreshment table rather than dance along with the other guests.

     Mari lowered her lashes to scrutinize the overwhelmingly handsome young man standing across the table, his fake Roman sword dangling by his side.  He was tall, and if the glimpse of leg she saw from beneath the Roman toga was an indication--extremely well muscled.

Sighing, she withdrew her attention and once again studied the smorgasbord.  The scent of cardamom-stuffed sausages made her stomach growl.  What would she like this time--the smoked caviar on egg or the tasty North Sea shrimp?

     “The sausages are good,” Marc Antony said in English, pointing at the heavy-laden platter.  His piercing green gaze contrasted sharply with the soft black satin masking his face.

He was talking to her?

     “Takk, I mean, t-thank you.”  She heaped three servings of sausages on her plate.  Uff, what was she doing?  She moved to put them back, but stopped.  That would be ruder.

     “This cold weather increases one’s appetite, does it not?”

     Mari nodded, a blush burning across her cheeks.  She glanced back up at Marc Antony, but failed to gauge his expression hidden behind the mask.  His lips were spread in a grin, however.  She lowered her gaze instantly, the tresses of her black wig slipping over her shoulder.

Blasted pale complexion.  Showed everything she felt for all to see.  But at least the mask covered part of her face.

     “You make a very fetching Cleopatra.  I’m sure you look just as she would have--in her youth.”

“Tusen takk, sir.  And you make a fine example of an old Marc Antony.”

     He chuckled and reached for a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

     Mari’s hands shook.  Uff.  She hadn’t meant to say that!  Why was she so nervous?  Because it’s your first ball, silly, and at the Swedish Embassy in Copenhagen, no less.  Any young lady would be uneasy--especially with a tall, dark, handsome stranger chatting so close by.

     “So you think I’m old, do you?  I guess I would seem so to someone of your age--sixteen?”

     Mari jerked her head up.  How did he know?

     “It’s not that hard to guess,” he said, as if he’d read her mind.  “Besides, I talked to your cousin earlier this evening.  Harald told me this was your first ball.  He seemed anxious.”

“Ja, that would be Harald, all right.”  Mari grimaced.  Really!  To have her naïveté revealed to a complete stranger.

     “Come now, it’s not that bad.”

     Was he laughing at her?  Or simply being friendly?  But why?  None of the other young men had paid any attention to her this evening, besides a formal greeting when introduced.  Certainly none had asked her to dance.  It would be too embarrassing to escort a cripple onto the dance floor.  She held her shoulders back and sidled toward the punch.

     Surprisingly, Marc Antony followed.

     “So, I’m told you’re from Stockholm.”

     Mari caught herself before she corrected his misinformation.  Her uncle put it about that their family was from the capital.  It helped him move in higher circles more freely.  But it aggravated her tremendously not to present herself as who she really was.

Their family was descended from the last Viking king of Norway himself.  And here she was pretending to be a boorish Dane.

     “Is my conversation so stimulating that you are sleeping on your feet?”  Marc Antony’s gaze laughed down into hers.

“Nei.”

     Brilliant.  Such a witty conversationalist she was.  She searched her brain for something more sparkling, or at least more intelligent, to say.

     “And you?”  Was that all she could manage?  Surely someone had laced the punch with vodka.  "Where are you from?"

     He motioned vaguely with his empty hand.  “I’m from east of the sun and west of the moon.” 

     Mari arched her eyebrow.  East of the Sun and West of the Moon was one of her favorite stories.  “How do you come to know our beloved folk stories?”

     “I’ve traveled the world a bit, even to your ports in Scandinavia.  I collect books wherever I travel.”

     “How interesting.  And how do you come to travel the world?”

     “I’m a sailor.”

     “Really?  A sailing Marc Antony.  I never would have guessed.”  She took a sip of her punch.

     He laughed, a softly rough sound.  “I hear your family is in the shipping business as well.”

     “Ja.  My father is a ship builder.”

     “What type of ships?”

She couldn’t place his accent.  It wasn’t one she was accustomed to, even with all her travels.

     “All types of merchant ships, barks, brigs.  He does well with the steam vessels.”

     “Has he ever produced any military ones?”

     Was she mistaken, or did his eyes sharpen behind that black mask?

     “I think he did a couple of years ago.”  Her memories of that time period were vague.  It was after the accident that took her mother and had initially left her paralyzed.

     “Would you like to dance?”

     Her stomach dipped.  “Ah, ah...” Back to her brilliant conversation skills.  Her hand shook, rattling the plate.  Straightening, she set her untouched dish on a nearby table.  “That is kind of you to offer.  But in case you haven’t noticed, I feel I must point out to you that I have a bad leg and limp.”

     “Does that mean you don’t want to dance?”

     “Oh, no, I’d love to.”  Uff, she shouldn’t gush so much.  She sobered her face.  “It’s only that I do not wish to embarrass you should I stumble.”

     He looked deep into her eyes and claimed her hand.  “Is there anyone I should ask permission of to dance with you?”

     “M-my c-cousin, Harald.”

     He bowed low, pressing his lips to the back of her hand briefly.  “I’ll return in a moment.”

     When the band struck up the next waltz, Marc Antony swept Cleopatra onto the dance floor into a colorful swirl of kings and queens, highwaymen and gypsies, and knights and damsels.  The guests had gone all out in their choice of costumes.  The unmasking was set for midnight--just an hour away.

     Marc Antony’s strong arm gripped her waist firmly, holding her weight.  It was a good thing she’d insisted on taking dance lessons, even though her father had despaired of her ever using them.  Her heart raced to keep up with her body as it floated on air.

It was a moment of magic, the sound of violins and smell of rich perfumes blending into her dreamlike state.

Marc Antony’s eyes, revealed through his mask, watched her tenderly, acknowledging her amazement.  She could not look away, the sharp planes of his face defined by the dim light from the chandeliers...nor could she hide her feelings.  Her body tingled with excitement, and another sensation she couldn’t name, had not experienced before.

She barely noticed the other dancers as the tall, dark stranger guided her expertly about the floor.  They danced in silence and Mari tried to squelch the fluttering butterflies in her stomach.  He moved closer, his mouth barely a breath away from her ear.

She closed her eyes, absorbing the strength of the bunched muscles in his arm where her hand rested, the faint scent of vodka on his breath.

     “Have you never danced before?”

     “Nei.  Only in lessons.”

     “You have mastered them well.”

     “So have you.”

     He smiled down at her, golden flecks glinting in the deep emerald of his eyes.  “Thank you.  My master would be pleased to hear you say so.”

     “Who is-“

     “Tell me about yourself,” he broke in.  “Do you have brothers, sisters?”

     “One--a younger sister.  But she is at home with Papa.”

     “No brothers to carry on the ship building business?”

     He whirled her through an intricate step.  She stumbled, but his grasp tightened, bringing her closer to his body, her breasts brushing against his chest.  She caught her breath.

     Uff.  What was wrong with her?  Warmth flooded her as his long legs touched intimately between hers, his fingers at her waist burning through her.  Her palms went damp.

     He, on the other hand, seemed unaffected as he swept her into another turn.

     Tossing her head back, she finally answered, “Nei, no brothers.  But this sister will be quite competent to carry on the family enterprise.”

     He laughed, the sound low and husky.  Was he amused that she thought her female self capable, or pleased with her response?

     “Ah, yes, Cleopatra the Bold.  Tell me, do you plan to sell your ships to all the countries in northern Europe?  Perhaps even Germany?”

     She definitely did not feel bold.  Nervous, excited, scared...but bold?  She waited a moment to respond as he negotiated their dance through a tight cluster onto a less crowded space on the ball floor.  “Wherever I can, of course.  Papa has sold to most of the countries that border the sea.”

     “And which ships will you choose to build?”

     “I’ve been researching some new designs and want to try my hand at a-“

     A passing couple pushed past her and her bad leg collapsed, sending her sprawling to the floor.  Marc Antony bent instantly, and lifted her back onto her feet, his arms strong about her waist.  The nearby dancers had stopped to watch.  At a glare from Marc Antony, they resumed their dance, but with heads turned in her direction.

     The buzz of low murmurs brought all the heat coursing through her body to her face.  “F-forgive m-me.  I’m s-sorry to have caused a scene.  Would you excuse me, please?  I need a breath of air.”  She pushed back and curtsied to him, holding her leg as steady as she could muster.  Ignoring the pain and his entreaty to remain, she turned and stiffly walked away, her limp slowing her more than usual.

     She headed to the balcony.  Only a few couples braved the brisk night air.  But she needed privacy.  Clinging to the rail, she stumbled down the steps to the garden below, searching for a bench.  She found one near a tinkling water fountain of Athena.

Taking a deep breath, Mari sat and dragged her left leg onto the cold cement.  Her muscles knotted painfully.  She lifted the hem of her skirt to massage them.  As she worked out the tightness, her body relaxed.

It wasn’t so bad.  So, she had fallen on a ballroom floor.  At least she had been on that floor.  At least she had danced.  And with one incredible man.

     But why had such a handsome man shown an interest in her?  Why had he been so friendly and asked her to dance?  Was it because of their matching costumes?  Or had he...?

     She stopped, afraid to venture that a man might actually have found her attractive.  With a groan, she removed the heavy shoe from her left foot.  Another cousin, Olaf, had made the shoes for her since she first started walking after the accident.  He was a talented shoemaker and designed it specially to compensate for her grossly shortened leg.

     “I’m sorry if I caused you embarrassment,” murmured a husky voice behind her.

     Mari whirled on the bench.  Marc Antony stood behind her, his expression inscrutable behind the black mask.  The valleys of his face were darkened by the cloud covered, moonlit shadows.  In his hand, he held two flutes of champagne.  He passed one to her.

     “You gave me nothing but pleasure."  She lowered her gaze.  "It was my leg that caused the discomfiture.  But I’m used to that.”

     “You are a graceful dancer.  I enjoyed our waltz.”

     She sipped the dry bouquet, the bubbles tickling her nose.  “You are too kind.”

     “I speak only the truth.”

     Did he?

     He sat on the bench next to her, and she scooted aside to allow him space.  Had she swallowed a fly?  Something was definitely aflutter in her chest.

     “A wise man once taught me that it is a person of strong character who takes a disadvantage and masters it, not letting it rule her life.  I think you are strong, Cleopatra.”

     She stared at him.  “Takk.”

     “You also possess incredible beauty.  Any man would be proud to accompany you on the dance floor.”

     Incredible beauty?  Her?  Was he a flatterer?  She surreptitiously smoothed her skirts to cover her naked foot.

     “Takk,” she whispered, lowering her eyelashes.

     “Would you allow me to escort you back inside?”

     When she nodded, he stood, then reached for her hand and drew her to her feet.  She swayed in an attempt to regain balance, and leaned against him.  Her fingers tingled where he grasped them, and when his other arm swung about her waist, supporting her, her heart throbbed toward her throat while warm shivers raced in the opposite direction.

A cloud passed and the moon shone brightly, highlighting his black curly hair with blue sparks.  A breeze carried the scent of lilacs and gardenias along with the tinkling of the Athena fountain.

She sighed softly.

     He lowered his head and whispered a kiss against her forehead.  Her forehead!

Groaning, he stepped back, still clasping her fingers.

     “You should return to your cousin, Cleopatra.”  He dropped her hand and stepped aside to let her pass.

     Mari shook her head unconsciously, then leaned closer.  She mouthed “Please,” and his green eyes flamed like those of a dragon.

     Marc Antony’s head swooped down, his lips claiming hers.  The gentle but forceful touch of his mouth, her first kiss from a man, sent Chinese rockets spiraling throughout her body.  She moved her lips wetly, frantically against his, unsure of what to do.

     He cupped her face with his palms, stroking his thumbs against her cheeks.  His tongue slipped through her lips, prying her mouth open.  She gasped, awash in a torrent of sensation she didn’t understand.  It left her dizzy.

     His tongue slid around the corners of her mouth, and then lightly touched hers.  She whimpered in the base of her throat, whether for fear for yearning, she did not know.

     He broke the embrace, his breathing harsh, and set her away from him.  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.  You’re too enticing.  Go now, before I do something I’ll truly regret.” 

     Mari fled toward the strains of music, her senses befuddled.  What had she allowed him to do, nei, begged him to do?  Kisses in the garden, in the moonlight?  She groaned as she hobbled up the steps of the balcony.

     Ooohhh.  The marble was freezing beneath her naked foot.  Her shoe!  She’d left it under the bench.

     Mari turned toward the man she’d just left.  His shadow was apparent even as another cloud swallowed the moon.  She couldn’t go back.  She’d have to stoop and hope her skirts covered her naked foot until she returned to her room upstairs.

     Mari limped around the ballroom floor, on tiptoe on her shortened leg.  She spied her cousin Harald coming toward her, his scowl intended to intimidate.

She grinned.  Her garden flight was worth every moment.  She’d danced with a handsome stranger and been swept off her feet in the moonlight.  And tasted her first kiss--her first delicious kiss.  She suppressed a besotted sigh.  What more could any young lady hope for from her first ball--especially a young woman like herself?

     Harald flung his hand wide as he approached.  “Where have you been, Mari?  Anders and I have been looking all over for you?”

     “I was taking my breath outside in the garden.”

     “Mama informed me that you were seen in the garden with that stranger dressed as Marc Antony.  She was worried, and sent me to fetch you.”

     “Stranger?  He is your guest.”  Uff, she hadn’t even gotten his name, nor had she given him hers.

     “Nei.  He was not invited.  I do not know who he is, or how he made it in.  And with Chancellor Bismark's anticipated arrival here tonight, we even had guards posted.”

     Alarm snaked through Mari’s breast.  She shook her head.  “But you gave us permission to dance.”

     “I did not.”

     “But...but, you even talked to him earlier in the evening, telling him my age and that this was my first ball.”  She couldn’t disguise her distressed voice.

Harald abruptly shook his head.  “Nei, I never talked with him this evening.  And I definitely did not give you permission to dance.”  He put his arm about her shoulder as he guided her out of the ballroom.

     “But he told me...” Mari turned to hide the wetness leaking from the corner of her eye.  Blasted weakness.  She never cried.

     Why had Marc Antony lied to her?  Who was he, anyway, and what had he hoped to accomplish with his ruse?  Why had he chosen her?  He’d seemed so genuine, so sincere...so tender.  Surely her judge of character could not be that wrong.

Who was that masked man?  And was he friend...or betrayer?

###

     Marc Antony stood watching the fleeing slim figure in her bright red costume.  Absently, he picked a flower from the shrub that partially concealed the bench from the balcony.

He had to leave.  Someone could start asking questions soon.

     And his mission had gotten him nowhere.  His shoulders sagged.  It was the fault of Cleopatra, of course.  That naïve, self-conscious, beautiful young woman.

He’d approached her as a possible source of information.  But somewhere along the line, his conscience had protested.  She was so young, so impressionable, and so hurt by the isolation her less than perfect body caused.  He’d wanted to put a smile on her face.

     Somewhere it had gone all wrong.  He’d never intended to kiss her, but her shy bravado in the face of her embarrassment had enticed him and made him forget his training.

     He shook his throbbing head.  Hell.  It was the combination of too much champagne, a moonlit garden, a beautiful budding lady, and his own male instincts.  It had happened before, it would happen again.  No need making a whale out of it.  It was time to leave.

     As Marc Antony stepped toward the opening at the back gate, where he’d snuck in earlier in the evening, something hard rolled beneath his foot.  Bending to investigate, he found a red dance slipper.  It was hers--Cleopatra’s.  He’d never even gotten her name. 

What an odd shoe it was.  Turning it over in his hand, he noted the sole was thick from heel to toe.  Thicker than he’d ever seen, by at least three inches.  What had happened to her to shorten her leg?

     He glanced once more at the open doors from the ballroom to the balcony, then tucking the flower inside the slipper, he placed the shoe carefully on the bench for her to find.

     “Until the next moonlit masquerade, should we meet again, Queen Cleopatra.  May you reign supreme.”

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