"Where is the Dane?"

At the strident bellow, the actors, costumiers, and carpenters backstage looked vaguely around, but no one answered.

"The Dane! Where is he?"

"Will someone not silence that barking cur with a bone?"

At the sound of the soft but carrying tones, everyone looked up at the gallery railing. A handsome, tawny-haired man in a doublet of ink-stained velvet looked down at the milling crowd. The insistent intruder pointed, and spoke again.

"Master Mortensen," he said ominously. "I have been looking for you."

"Master Rhys-Davies," the blonde man replied equably. "Your search is at an end."

"You owe me five sovereigns," Rhys-Davies began.

"Please, my dear sir," the Dane said quickly, "come up, come up. Share a dram with me and acquaint me with your business here."

Rhys-Davies looked around at the colorfully dressed and heavily made up people staring at him and decided to accept Mortensen's offer. He climbed the narrow stairs and sat at the large table that served the writer as a desk. Through the railing, they could see the bustle of the cast readying themselves for a performance later that evening. By the curl of Rhys-Davies' upper lip, the Dane perceived the man's low opinion of theater people. It did not surprise Viggo in the least; it was the prevailing attitude of their society.

"How now, Master Rhys-Davies," the Dane said, pouring a glass of claret for the man. "How can I improve your lot?"

"You can pay me the money you owe me," Rhys-Davies said, as he quaffed the potent liquor.

The Dane immediately refilled the man's glass. "Ah, if only I could, sir. It is my misfortune to be temporarily without funds. As soon as my new play opens, my coffers will overflow, but until then, I am afraid I can give you no satisfaction."

"If you knew you had no money, why did you buy drinks for everyone in the tavern?"

"I would imagine for the same reason you poured them without seeing the color of my coin: simple good fellowship, sir. A man of your obvious sterling character must be overflowing with amity for his fellow man. I am certain that had I not called for a round, you would have stood the house a drink yourself."

*And meat pies will rain from the sky, * the Dane thought wryly, as he poured another glass of claret for the stingy publican.

"See here, sir," Rhys-Davies said, "I can understand your generous gesture, but I have creditors of my own to deal with."

"To be sure," the Dane said smoothly, "the plague of modern man, along with the tax collector. Perhaps, sir, there is something I may do for you in barter. I can write you a love sonnet that will have a strumpet's linen around her ankles in a trice. If you are in need of a solemn eulogy that will wring tears from a creditor's eye . . ."

"I need money," Rhys-Davies interrupted. "I have no need of poetry."

"I beg to differ," said a soft, cool voice that immediately caught the Dane's trained ear. "Everyone needs poetry. Poetry is rain in the desert. Just because a thing cannot be held in the hand does not make it less real or valuable."

"Master Bloom," Rhys-Davies exclaimed. "I asked you to wait without. If your father knew I had allowed you into such a place as this, he would have my hide on his wall by sundown."

The Dane looked over his shoulder and a sonnet began forming in his head. His fingers reached automatically for the pen while his other hand drew a sheet of parchment toward him. Never in his life had the writer seen such perfection in human form. The vision standing in the sunlight at the top of the stairs was more beautiful than anything the Dane had previously considered beautiful. Abruptly, he realized that the sweet voice was no longer caressing his ears and the fine, dark eyes were focused on him inquiringly.

"Pray forgive me," Viggo said, smiling wryly at himself. "I did not understand your question."

The boy's eyebrows quirked upward in the middle in a quizzical expression that caught at Viggo's heart. "I asked if you were the playwright," Master Bloom said.

"The finest writer that ever trod the boards," the Dane said drolly, having recovered his aplomb and his not inconsiderable charm. He still marveled at the lad's appeal, but he was able to take it in stride now; he worked with very attractive people every day. However, he couldn't help thinking that the boy was made for the stage and what a pity it was that one of Master Bloom's class would never consider it. On the other hand, Viggo could imagine what a pain in the bum a spoiled aristocrat would be. As if to illustrate that point, the young man spoke haughtily.

"I sense a witticism in your words, sir," Bloom said. "Alas, I am not privy to the language of the theater that I might share your humor."

"And I sense a reprimand in your words, sir," Viggo replied.

"As well you should, rogue," Rhys-Davies groused. "Young Master Bloom is quite above your station. See that you speak him fair or you will find yourself in debtor's prison."

"Does this artist owe you money?" the lad asked Rhys-Davies.

"Aye, that he does," the publican said, with a dark look for the Dane.

"What is your name, sir?" Orlando asked.

"Mortensen, but I am called the Dane."

The Dane's heart stumbled and settled into a faster rhythm as the boy's eyes widened and a smile curved his sweet lips.

"Why, this is wonderful! You! You are Master Mortensen? The author of 'Warrior Queen?' Of 'The Miller's Daughter and the Devil?' Of 'Crowns and Courtesans?'"

"I am he," the Dane bowed from his chair.

"But you are brilliant, sir! You've written tragedies, farces, comedies, everything. Oh, I am pleased to have made your acquaintance. None of my friends at Oxford will credit this story. I shall have to have your signature on something as proof."

The Dane smiled ruefully. "It is always pleasant to meet an admirer, even in the company of a creditor."

"Oh! Yes, of course. There must be some way to resolve your difficulty so that you can concentrate on penning your magnificent plays."

"Master Bloom," Rhys-Davies began.

"Quiet, sir," said the boy. "I am speaking with Master Mortensen."

"Please call me Dane," the writer said.

"No, I do not think I shall. It smacks of a vulgar familiarity as well as racism. I shall call you Viggo, which is your name, if I am not mistaken."

The Dane raised sandy eyebrows. "As you wish," he said.

"I am Orlando Bloom," the young man said. "Among other properties, my father owns the tavern that is managed by Mr. Rhys-Davies. I would be willing to wipe out your debt in exchange for a favor."

The Dane looked at the boy skeptically. "What sort of favor?"

"I wish to learn to act. Teach me, and I shall pay your debt and more besides."

"Master Bloom!" Rhys-Davies rose so quickly that his chair flew back and fell to the floor. "You cannot be serious, sir. People of quality do not join the theater."

"This is my wish," Orlando said. "You shall not gainsay me."

"I shall inform your father."

"You will not, unless you wish me to inform him of the monies you receive from the purveyors of spirits that never finds its way to his coffers."

Rhys-Davies jammed his hat onto his head. "If you will insult me by naming me thief, I will bid you good day. I trust you can find your way home from here."

"It should present no great challenge," the boy said. "Greet my father for me."

Rhys-Davies cleared his throat. "I shall not be seeing your father this evening, young sir."

"Ah . . ." Orlando smiled a victor's smile. "Good day then, Rhys-Davies."

The Dane slanted a look at the callow-seeming boy who'd just run off the wolf at his door. This Orlando Bloom was willowy and lady-faced, but he was not soft.

"Have we a bargain, sir?" the young man asked in his ear-pleasing voice.

"It would be difficult to say no," the Dane said, "but I will refuse you, if you have no talent. I would not wish to waste my time or yours."

"Put me to the test," Orlando said.

The Dane shuffled through the pieces of paper covered in his sprawling, elegant hand. Having found the one he wanted, he offered it to the boy.

"Read the first line," the Dane said to cover his sudden attack of nerves.

Orlando read the words, put down the paper, and addressed the Dane in a voice as lovely as a woodwind skillfully played.

"Leave you, my love? In what world would it be possible that I should deprive myself of the sight of your eyes, the sound of your voice, or the touch of your hand? Nay, my own, not Death himself could bar the door, did I but know you were on the other side."

Viggo was appalled and amused at the effect the speech had on him. With those dark, luminous eyes fixed on his, the Dane believed for a moment that this lissome creature was offering him the keys to Paradise. Viggo reminded himself that this was an upper-class prig speaking Viggo's own words, and sat silent for a long moment while the young man fidgeted.

"Will I do?" Orlando was finally driven to ask.

"Well, I suppose you have some modest talent that might be developed."

"Then we have a bargain?"

"I do not think I have a choice, sir."

"What shall I do first?"

"You will want to acquire practical experience, will you not? That would be my advice, and the only means to gain it is by performing before an audience. I will make you understudy to our *leading lady*."

Viggo had played his sleeve card; supposing the boy to be a dilettante, the Dane called his bluff. The threat of making them act in front of people usually frightened off the tender, silly young things who thought theater life was romantic. The Dane considered that he was doing them a favor, saving them from the hardscrabble existence of an actor. To survive here, you had to possess an unwavering love for the art.

Orlando dimpled fetchingly, no trace of fear in his eyes. "You see me as *the damsel*, do you?"

"Yes," Viggo answered dryly, observing the boy's enthusiasm. "Particularly at this moment."

"I find the role to be the least interesting character in theatre. The heroine usually has little to recommend her beyond her beauty and her virtue."

"Qualities which you project admirably, Master Bloom. You will make a charming damsel."

"She is only there to be won, lost and won again."

"I am sorry if it does not suit you," Viggo said, "but I must place you where you will best benefit the company. The audience prefers that the heroine be beautiful and great beauty cannot be acted in my humble opinion."

"I will not argue with a master thespian. When shall my lessons begin?"

"They have already begun," the Dane answered. "However, they are over for today. Return . . . one week hence and you shall have another."

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"Who's he?" Dominic asked, pointing with his chin at the stranger.

"I've never seen 'im before," Billy replied. "Do you think this color suits me?"

Dominic turned to look at the gown his best friend was holding up. "No, that one makes your bum look bigger."

"Cheeky!" Billy swatted Dom on his round backside. "Do you think yon dark beauty is joining our company? I do not need the competition."

Dom snorted. "Look at his garments. That is not a costume, my sweet William. He's noble or wealthy, probably both. And though I love you dearly, you are no competition to him."

"Bastard!" Billy exclaimed.

"Shush," Dom said. "Here he comes."

"I beg your pardon," Orlando said. "I am to meet Master Mortensen here. Have you perchance seen him?"

Dom smiled. "Many times, poppet, and the sight never fails to please."

Billy nudged his friend with his elbow. "The Dane is speaking with the Master of Wardrobe," he said to Orlando. "You will find them just over there."

"My thanks," Orlando said. "Good day to you both."

Dom whistled softly as Orlando walked away. "Just as comely at close quarters," he said.

"And polite," Billy added. "Come on, let us return to rehearsal. Master Law will be annoyed at our tardiness and you know how he hates to frown for fear of wrinkles."

Dom and Billy cast curious glances at the Dane and the visitor as they passed by, but the look on Viggo's face convinced the pair to keep moving.

"'Tis Tuesday week, Master Mortensen," Orlando was saying. "When we parted you did bid me meet you here one week hence."

"Ah, but you see, when I said that, the day after tomorrow was ages away," Viggo said.

"Do not charm me, sir," Orlando said. "Admit it. You had no intention of instructing me in the Arts of Thespia. You used me to rid yourself of an unpleasant situation."

Viggo raised a sandy eyebrow while Hugo the wardrobe master hid his smile.

"I may have misremembered when you were to come for lessons," Viggo said. "However, you are here now, and I am indisputably here, also. Shall we begin?"

Orlando eyed the man suspiciously, but he very much wanted to be part of the theater. Deciding the playwright's foibles were part of an entertainer's colorful personality, Orlando gave the man another chance.

"I stand ready for instruction," Orlando said, making Hugo suppress another grin.

"Excellent," Viggo said. "Let us find you a suitable costume. Hugo?"

"What?"

Viggo looked at the slim man significantly and then back at Orlando.

"Oh . . . of course. A costume for the young gentleman."

"Please, I wish all of my colleagues here to call me Orlando," the young man said.

"Very gracious," Hugo said, bowing slightly. "Come, Orlando. Allow me to take your measure."

"At your leisure, sir," Orlando replied.

Hugo raised a wry eyebrow. "You may call me Hugo and it would make my task somewhat easier if you would disrobe."

A tide of red rose in the boy's smooth cheeks. "Of course," he said, already working the laces of his doublet.

"Here, I will do that," Hugo said, when the young man's fingers tangled nervously.

Deftly, the wardrobe master's clever hands danced over Orlando's garments, divesting the boy of clothing piece by piece. Hugo folded each costly item and laid it carefully by on a chest. The young noble could not help but be aware of the Dane's interested gaze.

"You find the male form pleasing, sir?" Orlando asked.

"I?" Viggo asked. "Hugo certainly does, do you not, Hugo?"

"If the male form is pleasing," Hugo quipped. "I am apt to find it so."

"I will use that, if you do not object," Viggo said, scribbling down the phrase.

Unused to such banter, Orlando looked from one man to the other in consternation as Hugo bade him raise his arms level with his shoulders. The boy was down to his linen drawers and appeared none too comfortable with this state of affairs. The wardrobe master circled the young aristocrat with a tape, making notations in his head.

"Exquisite," was Hugo's judgment as he stepped back. "You are a trifle tall, Orlando, but so is our male lead. Your frame is excellent: a bit broad of shoulder, but a full skirt will balance that nicely. Wait but a moment and I shall select some gowns."

"You did not answer me," Orlando said to Viggo.

"Yes, I know," Viggo replied. "I think red must be your color. I see you in wine colored velvet, your hair loose on your white shoulders. You stand upon the battlements of a besieged castle and capture the heart of the invader who watches from below."

Orlando's expression softened as the man spoke. "You have a gift," he said wistfully.

Viggo half-bowed as Hugo returned with an armful of expensive fabric. Laying the garments across the back of the bench where Viggo lounged, Hugo took up one and shook it out. The heavy folds of deep green brocade resolved into a nip-waisted, wide-skirted formal court gown of present day. A tall collar of whalebone splines and gem-encrusted lace fanned out to frame the wearer's face and coiffure.

Orlando eyed the ungainly dress doubtfully. Hugo glanced at Viggo who made a throat-cutting gesture with his forefinger. The wardrobe master returned to the pile and sorted through it until the playwright nodded.

Hugo smoothed the wrinkles from the rose petal silk of a gown from a bygone era. Instead of layers of ruffles, underskirts and panniers, the dress had simple lines that conformed more closely to the body. The undergown of watered silk came up to the chin and down to the wrists, fastened with rows of pearl buttons. Over it went a sleeveless tabard of royal blue velvet, slit to the hips on the sides and burnished with knotwork in silver thread.

"I am afraid you will have to dispense with your final item of clothing, Orlando," Hugo said, "lest you spoil the sleek line of this gown."

Orlando reminded himself that this was the theater and different rules of decorum applied and that was one of the salient reasons that he wished to be here. Pretending a nonchalance that he did not feel, the boy stepped out of his linen and held out his arms for Hugo to help him into the dress. In that space of time, Viggo's heart was forfeit.

Telling himself that he'd seen plenty of beautiful, naked young men, Viggo attempted to collect himself. The Dane managed to get his thoughts under control, and he was reasonably certain that he could use his tongue without embarrassment. However, his manhood was most wayward, refusing to acknowledge a direct command to stand down. Crossing his legs casually, Viggo waited until Orlando was completely dressed before speaking.

"By my Viking ancestors," the man said. "You are dazzling. With your hair properly arranged you will break the hearts of all who gaze on you."

"I should hope not, sir!" Orlando said, appalled. "I have no wish to cause anyone pain."

"It is a turn of phrase merely, my tender-hearted lad," Viggo said. "I was doing my best to compliment you."

"Billy," Hugo called out. "I know very well that you and Dominic are eavesdropping. Come and help Orlando with his hair."

Billy came into sight with a sheepish smile. "Dom's rehearsing with Jude," he said, as he glanced at Orlando. "Shite! You're a sweeter sight than an unguarded pie. Sit here and let me make your hair match the rest."

Docilely, Orlando sat where the slight young man pointed and Billy began combing back his ringlets. Hugo stood next to Viggo's bench and watched critically.

"By the way, Dane," the wardrobe master said off-handedly. "Has Jude met Orlando?"

"You wicked old buggerer," Viggo said equably without taking his eyes from the boy. "You love trouble. The merest whiff of strife and you are drooling."

"Mere?" Hugo replied archly. "There is no *mere* where young Master Law is concerned. Never was man so ill suited to his name. Jude knows no law; control is unknown to him."

"You speak as if he and Orlando are rivals," Viggo said.

Hugo snorted. "Willfully obtuse does not suit you, my friend. You know as well as I that Jude would be jealous of any new *actress* you hire and this lad . . ." Hugo sighed. "This lad is Jude's equal in beauty; that will not sit well with our *leading lady*."

"Then perhaps Jude will attend more rehearsals and actually have his dialogue memorized when he does grace us with his temperamental presence," Viggo said.

Hugo looked down at his friend in sudden apprehension. "You hound!" the wardrobe master said. "You sly, sly hound."

Viggo grinned when Hugo patted the top of his head before wafting off to disparage Billy's handiwork as shoddy and unworthy. Taking the brush from the young man, Hugo rearranged the pile of curls, snapping his fingers at Billy for the jeweled combs that Billy held ready. When Hugo was finished, Orlando's shoulder-length hair was pulled up at the sides and allowed to cascade to his shoulders in waves of shimmering chestnut. A few spiraling wisps escaped his hairline to nestle softly against his forehead, cheeks and neck.

"Seems a pity to stop here," Hugo said. "Bill, fetch me a paint box."

Orlando sat patiently while between them Billy and Hugo transformed his face into a vision of virginal beauty. His dark eyes were outlined with a small amount of kohl and rouge was applied sparingly to his cheekbones and lips. Seeming to agree by silent consent that they could do no more to improve upon near perfection, the two stepped back and Huge bade Orlando rise from his stool.

Viggo's breath caught at the boy's flagrant beauty and he imagined the reaction of the audience the first time this striking figure took the stage. Orlando would drown in thrown blossoms. Admirers would fight duels. Jude would kill him.

Viggo sobered abruptly. "Orlando, you look lovely," he said. "Come and I will introduce you to your fellow players."

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Jude dipped snuff from a small box and delicately applied it to his nostrils.

"Strike me!" Dom said. "Where'd you get that?"

Jude smugly held up the elegant enameled etui topped with a sapphire. "Is it not exquisite? Everyone is carrying them at court."

"Yes, but we're not at court, are we, Jude?" asked a tall man. "Why do you not answer Dominic's question?"

Jude tilted his pretty nose up and ignored the dark-haired man. "This jewel is real," the blonde said touching a fingertip to the blue gem on the lid. "The one who gave it to me said it matched my eyes."

"What a liar," the tall man commented.

"Excuse me, Clive," Jude said sweetly. "Would you be so kind as to shut your cake hole?"

"Well, your eyes are nothing like that jewel," Clive said. "Your eyes are . . . sort of blue, but sort of green. They have a softer light than . . . Oh rubbish! Who gave it to you, you slut?"

"Yes, tell us," Viggo said as he walked onto the stage from the wings with Orlando in tow.

Orlando valiantly strode along in the Dane's wake in imminent danger of tripping over the skirts of his dress with each step. He stopped behind Viggo and remained silent, sensing the sudden tension in the atmosphere. The beautiful blonde man holding the splendidly decorated snuffbox whirled to face Viggo.

"Dane!" Jude exclaimed. "I thought you were . . . How lovely to see you!"

"And you, Jude. It is always an event when you actually manage to attend a rehearsal."

Jude fluttered his long lashes. "Viggo, you know I cannot hold to a schedule. I am too impulsive. I must have freedom."

"Freedom to do what?" Viggo asked. "Earn snuffboxes?"

"This was a gift from Lord Rickman!" Jude said.

"I am sure you were quite generous in turn," Viggo said.

"Aye, I hear Lord Rickman is much in your favor these days," Clive put in.

"That is no one's business but mine," Jude answered hotly.

"Ah, so you admit it is a business," Clive said.

Jude's expression made Orlando flinch. If the pretty blonde had been in possession of something sharp, Orlando felt sure they would be seeing the color of Clive's blood now.

"Children."

All heads turned at the sound of the rich, vibrant voice. An aged, but spry man with a close-cropped silver beard smiled upon the assembled actors from the prop stairs. Using his impromptu podium to advantage, Ian McKellen addressed them again.

"Can you not see we have a new compatriot amongst us? What will this lad think of us if we continue to squabble like ill-mannered brats?"

Jude finally noticed that someone was lurking in Viggo's shadow. The blonde's gaze fastened on Orlando and his eyes narrowed fractionally.

"Who is this flower, then?" Jude asked, his voice woven of silk and acid.

"Did I forget to tell you that you have an understudy, my dove?" Viggo asked innocently.

"But I'm Jude's understudy," Billy spoke up.

"No, you are Jude's second understudy," Viggo said.

"Oh," Billy said lamely and moved back to stand beside Dominic.

"Do you imply that I am unreliable?" Jude hissed.

"I imply nothing," Viggo said. "You are unreliable, Jude. How are we to know if you will be kept late by Lord Rickman, or Lord Neeson, or whomever you have bestowed your favor on that night? You are impulsive, to use your own words."

"And I suppose you think you can replace me with this milk-breathed moppet."

"Well, he is prettier than you, Jude," Clive said.

Jude's jaw clenched as a few chuckles greeted Clive's remark.

"I am not here to replace you, Master Law," Orlando said, moving from behind the playwright. "I am here to learn from you, if you will deign to teach me."

"What pretty manners," Jude sneered. "My God, you are an aristocrat, are you not? Viggo, what in Creation are you thinking? A nobleman on this side of the curtain? Disaster."

"We shall see," Viggo said.

"Indeed, we shall," Jude answered in kind. "Or you shall. Let us see how the performance tonight goes with your dark-eyed protégé in the role of Ursula."

"Jude, you would not," Ian said, coming down the false stairs.

"If the Dane thinks I can be replaced, perhaps he needs a practical lesson," Jude said.

Gathering his skirts, the blonde began walking away. The cast watched, stunned, as Jude approached the edge of the stage. As the actor stepped down, Viggo spoke.

"Do not do this lightly, Jude," Viggo said. "If you come back, you will be Billy's understudy."

Jude smirked up at the playwright. "You know where you may find me, Dane," he said, kissing the air.

As the door to the street closed behind Jude, Viggo turned to the rest of the players. "This is Orlando Bloom," he said. "Orlando will be taking over the role of Ursula."

Orlando's stomach turned to ice as the players smiled and applauded him. What trouble had his willfulness bought him now?

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"Do you feel you have this scene committed to memory?" Viggo asked, trying hard to keep his anxiety out of his voice.

The playwright had not counted upon the attention-craving Jude to walk out on a performance. The blonde actor adored applause, courting his public like a disinherited younger son woos a rich, plain widow. Fortunately, Orlando knew the play that was being presented that evening and it was only ten of the clock in the morning. Viggo had some reasonable hopes that they could give the audience some semblance of a play.

Orlando looked at the man that was scratching out whole passages and rapidly inking in truncated versions. "I believe I know it," Orlando said.

"Faith is a wonderful thing," Viggo said, "but do you know the dialogue by heart?"

"I do," Orlando said more confidently.

"Excellent," Viggo said. "Clive! I am ready for you."

Clive rose from a game of knucklebones with Dominic and swaggered over. Orlando watched the big man approach as though seeing him walk onto a stage. Clive was tall, dark and handsome with an aura of manliness that made him perfect for the role of hero.

"Stand up, Orlando," Viggo said impatiently.

Orlando rose quickly to stand in front of Clive. Clive smiled down at Orlando in a friendly way as Viggo started talking.

"You know how little time we have for rehearsal. Just do the scene perfectly the first time and I will be content." Viggo looked up and frowned. "Move closer together. You are lovers, not brother and sister."

Clive took a step toward Orlando and the young man had to fight the instinct to step backward. This close, the man's presence was well nigh overwhelming.

"Orlando," Viggo said sharply. "You are looking at Clive the way a fawn looks at a wolf. That is wrong. Remember, you are Ursula, sister to a prince slain in battle, in love with the man in front of you, but betrothed to another. In another hour, your cowardly intended will inform you that the man you love, the enemy commander you have been meeting in secret, is the one who killed your beloved twin brother. All right?"

Orlando nodded numbly and dropped his eyes to the boards under his feet. Shutting out all distraction, he imagined what it would feel like to be that beleaguered royal lady. Noting the lad's preoccupation, Viggo nodded to Clive. Clive cupped Orlando's chin in his palm and gently raised the boy's head.

Looking into Orlando's pellucid eyes, Clive spoke his first line. Ursula's answer fell easily from the boy's lips and in moments all within earshot were captivated. The doomed couple pledged their love with heartbreaking earnestness, the moment almost unbearably poignant for this audience already knew how "Warrior Queen, or the Tragical History of Ursula of Aquila" was going to end.

Orlando spoke his last, bittersweet piece of dialogue and Clive took the boy in his arms. Clive felt Orlando's uncertainty and didn't give the young man a chance to balk. Wrapping a strong arm around Orlando's back, Clive cradled the back of Orlando's head and brought their lips together in a passionate kiss.

Orlando recoiled as far as Clive's grip allowed when the man's mouth moved on his. Aside from chaste pecks beneath the mistletoe, the young nobleman was virtually ignorant of the ways of the flesh. When Clive licked at Orlando's closed lips, the boy moaned involuntarily. Clive pulled Orlando closer, pushing his tongue into Orlando's mouth.

"You can stop now," Viggo said, wondering at the prick of irritation as Clive kissed Orlando.

"I am not certain that went as well as may be," Clive said, looking down at his *leading lady*. "I think perhaps we should try it again."

"Orlando," Viggo called.

"Yes?" Orlando said breathlessly.

"You kiss like you have never done it before."

Orlando blushed again. "I have not," he admitted candidly.

Viggo shook his head. "Gods I wish you could blush at will. Have you ever seen anything so charming?" Viggo appealed to the onlookers.

It seemed that they had not and Orlando turned a deeper shade of carnation. Clive smiled indulgently at the mortified boy.

"They are not mocking you," the big man said, putting a hand on Orlando's shoulder.

"Your pardon, Clive," Viggo said curtly, taking Orlando by the biceps. "The lad and I have more work to do on the funeral pyre scene."

Clive looked intently at Viggo for a moment before he released Orlando. Viggo nodded to the actor as he pulled Orlando back to the table covered in sheets of vellum. The varied members of cast and crew dispersed to continue getting ready for tonight.

"I apologize," Orlando said, looking at Viggo's stern expression. "I have never kissed like that before. Clive surprised me."

"Aye and I will surprise Clive right soon," the playwright muttered darkly.

"I beg your pardon," Orlando said.

"I will talk with Clive," Viggo said more clearly. "There is no need for his tongue to enter your mouth. I, er, we are striving for a sense of kindred spirits doomed to be ripped apart by circumstance and jealous hate. Clive needs reminding from time to time to keep his lewd impulses under his codpiece. Ah, there is that charming rosy glow."

Orlando ducked his head. "I am ready to continue," he said shyly.

Viggo cocked an eyebrow at the beauty so patently unaware of his appeal. "I daresay you are," the playwright said, with a wistful regret for innocence soon to be lost.

"The pyre scene?" Orlando prompted.

Viggo sat back in his chair, running an ink-stained hand through his pale locks. "You are as ready as may be," the man sighed wearily. "Go to Hugo and let him get you into Ursula's rig. I know 'tis early, but you have not worn the costume and you should practice moving about in the gown. Well, do not stand gawking, lad. Go; get you to wardrobe."

Orlando was halfway across the stage when Viggo called after him.

"You are doing well, boy," the playwright said. "We are all in your debt."

The tense line of Orlando's shoulders eased, as the boy glanced back. "I shall do my best for you," he said sincerely as he walked away.

Viggo scrubbed his face with his palms, feeling the week's worth of stubble on his cheeks. The company could not afford to cancel this production. Without the proceeds from ticket sales, the players would soon be in debt. Debtor's prison was no place to spend the winter, but it wasn't fair to place all this on the shoulders of one green boy.

However, Viggo didn't see what choice he had. Neither Dom nor Billy would be any better choice to essay the role of Ursula. Either would have to wear stilts to kiss Clive, and Billy, God love him, didn't have the presence to play the lead role. Orlando had presence to spare, but it was expecting too much for the boy to go out and perform like a professional.

Fetching another deep sigh, Viggo prepared himself to apologize to Jude. Though the playwright was prepared to grovel, the boy sent to find Master Law came back with the news that the blonde spitfire was not in any of his usual haunts. Picturing the stunning, capricious Jude lounging against the cool linens and rich velvet coverlets of some nobleman's bedchamber, Viggo clenched his jaw and went looking for Orlando.

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A slim white hand reached from the shadows and plucked the decanter of claret from Viggo's writing table. A few drops from a glass vial mixed with the dark red wine as the lurker swirled the jug. Setting the claret back in the same spot, the slender figure slipped into the wings downstage suppressing a wicked giggle.

"What is so amusing, you smirking slut?"

Jude spun and stared at Clive.

"Answer me," Clive said harshly. "Why are you skulking about after betraying us?"

"I do not skulk," Jude said, raising his chin.

Quick as cat, Clive took Jude's jaw in his hand and fastened his eyes on Jude's. Jude struggled, but his resistance was token at best. Growing still, the blonde gazed insouciantly back into the man's chill blue eyes, daring Clive to do more.

"Why are you such a selfish bitch?" Clive said at last.

"Because all of you allow me to be," Jude said, pulling away from the man. "If you have no more questions, I have better places to be."

"Good riddance to you," Clive said, letting the slender man go. "This Orlando is miles better than you ever were and he is a rank novice. In two weeks, the crowd will forget your name."

Jude's gaze wavered and Clive knew he had scored a hit. Standing aside, so the blonde could pass, Clive smiled pleasantly.

"You are as besotted with that doe-eyed spaniel as the Dane," Jude hissed. "I wish you much joy of him, stud, when I am drawing the crowds to the Globe."

"I am sure he will be a comfort," Clive returned mildly. "He is more talented, prettier and younger than you."

Clive caught Jude's hand just before the palm struck his cheek. Ducking his head, Clive took the blonde's mouth in a plundering kiss that left a drop of blood on Jude's lower lip. The tall man shoved the other actor toward the exit and walked away.

Trembling with fury, Jude briefly considered several methods of immediate revenge as he stared knives at Clive's broad back. When the dark-haired man picked up Viggo's bottle of claret, Jude's expression relaxed from enraged to smugly amused.

"Cheers," the blonde said softly as Clive raised the decanter to his lips and drank.

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"Viggo!"

Viggo turned from the sublime sight of Orlando Bloom half-naked in a shaft of sunlight, being fitted for Ursula's defiant mourning gown of crimson brocade. The playwright waited for Dominic to catch his breath, but the young man's expression boded no good.

"Ian found Clive lying on the floor and we cannot rouse him."

"Clive is drunk?" Viggo exclaimed in disbelief.

Master Clive Owen might be a cold bastard as unafraid to use his fists as his sharp tongue, but he was a reliable bastard. The man had never missed a performance in the twelve years he had been treading the boards.

"Ian wants you to come," Dominic sidestepped the question.

Viggo's eyes flicked to Orlando, but he addressed the wardrobe master. "Carry on, Hugo. It seems I must be surgeon as well hiring the actors, designing the sets and incidentally writing the damned plays."

Hugo shrugged, the pins held between his lips rendering him mute. Viggo sighed in a most put upon manner and followed Dominic.

"Viggo!" Ian looked up from his kneeling position beside the recumbent Clive. "Tis odd. There is wine on his breath, but the jug is nearly full. I have shaken him, called his name and sprinkled cold water on his face, but he will not wake."

Viggo knelt and peeled back one of Clive's eyelids. The blank blue orb told the playwright nothing. Clive was unconscious and that was all Viggo knew, besides the fact that the company was now well and truly buggered. Unless of course the male lead woke within the hour ready to perform. Rising to his feet, Viggo addressed the onlookers.

"Well, I suppose we can always fall back on our second careers as prostitutes," the playwright said wryly.

A ripple of laughter circled the stage before Ian spoke up.

"Shall I send a boy to fetch Clive's second?" the silver-haired man asked.

"Why?" Viggo asked. "The messenger will no doubt find Ioan has unexpectedly decided to return to Wales or somewhat of that nature."

Another round of tension-relieving laughter lightened the air.

"Go about your tasks, all of you," Viggo said. "The show will go on if I must call up the Prince of Hell and sign a pact with Lucifer himself."

The small crowd drifted off leaving Viggo and Ian to get Clive onto a bench.

"Call for a doctor," Viggo told Ian. "And I will . . . think of something."

"I know you will," Ian said, patting the Dane's shoulder as he hurried away.

Viggo looked down at his inert leading man. "I thought we were friends, Clive," he said. "This is not the sort of thing one friend would do to another. How do you expect me to mount a production of "Warrior Queen" without my General Lucan? Ioan is handsome enough, but he does not yet have your bearing. He is a Captain, not a Commander."

Viggo turned away delivering a smack to the top of Clive's insensible head. "Damn it, man," the playwright said. "I cannot believe what I must do now."

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Night fell and the lanterns were lit in Rose Theater as people arrived and found seats or stood in front of the stage. Hawkers of ale, roasted nuts and strips of meat on sticks moved through the crowd on the ground. Refreshments were passed up to the more refined spectators in the tiered horseshoe of seats. The noise began to swell as the groundlings made merry and the upper classes discussed the merits of the Dane's plays.

The pots of lime at the edge of the stage were lit, brightly illuminating the set. The sounds of cannon were heard. Smoke drifted from the wings and the siege of Castle Aquila had begun. The crowd murmured, cheered and applauded as the General took the stage and declaimed the opening lines of the exposition. Aficionados realized immediately that it was not Master Clive Owen beneath the General's helmet, but the fellow was good enough.

The play ran miraculously smoothly. Orlando's entrance caused a sensation among the groundlings and a cultured stir in the upper tiers. That the neophyte was nervous was obvious, but the boy acquitted himself well, moving gamely on after fluffed lines and neatly avoiding the props as he entered and exited. The young man was so keyed up that the pivotal, emotionally wrought scene with the General was upon him before he knew it.

An expectant hum rose from the audience as the curtain went up and they recognized the set. The General waited below the battlements for a rendezvous. Those who had not seen the play gasped when the General's collaborator was revealed to be Lady Ursula. Greater shock ensued when the warrior queen's first line made it clear that she and the invading general were more than political allies.

"How I have despised each hateful hour that deprives me of your sweet company," Orlando said, lifting his hand to raise the General's visor.

"Is it not strange that we should be enemies to the world?" Viggo responded. "Yet we must keep the semblance of hatred until this war be over."

"I would not have it be thus," Orlando said as though the man had accused him of something.

"Why then will you not ride away with me? We could go far from here where none know our faces and live as ordinary folk."

"We are not ordinary folk, my love," Orlando gently touched the man's cheek. "We may not do as we wish, but as we must."

"Why? Do we not deserve happiness?"

"Aye, my own, but not as the expense of others."

Viggo knelt then, taking both the boy's hands in his and swearing undying love to the Lady Ursula of Aquila. Orlando gazed deeply into the man's upturned eyes and pledged his heart for eternity. Viggo rose and took Orlando into his arms. The crowd held its collective breath as the General leaned over the Lady.

Viggo's lips covered Orlando's in a gentle kiss. Softly, the playwright's mouth moved on the boy's, coaxing him to surrender. Orlando opened to the sweetly insistent tongue, melting against the man's hardness, his arms going around Viggo's neck. Both men were lost in a world of heat and sensual pleasure as their tongues slid together and each instinctively tightened his hold on the other.

The boom of a cannon jarred Viggo back to reality. He had no idea how long he'd been kissing Orlando. The boy was loose-limbed and compliant in Viggo's strong arms and it was only with the greatest effort of will that the Dane released him. Orlando tottered on his feet for a moment before getting his bearings.

With a regal lift of his head, Orlando delivered his final line and swept from the stage. Thunderous applause erupted as the General gazed after his brave love and then exited upstage. The curtain came down and rose again on Act IV, and on Clive, who had revived and wandered onto the stage. After the unintentional comedy routine, the high drama that followed seemed more poignant than ever before.

Act V, the final segment, built to the moment when the grieving Lady of Aquila throws herself on her brother's funeral pyre. The groans and outcries of protest drowned out the sounds of the General's troops marching in, too late to tell Ursula that her lover still lived. Tears streamed freely down the cheeks of the spectators, gleaming red in the torchlight, as the General delivered a moving elegy.

The people left the Rose Theater talking excitedly about the Dane's triumphant revival of "Warrior Queen", the unintentional entrance of the half-clothed leading man, and the lovely new *actress* who seemed destined to conquer the world of London theater.

Viggo threw his prop helmet into the air and let out a great shout of relief. "I cannot believe it still," the Dane said exuberantly. "We did it, my fellow outcasts."

"And this lad deserves some praise, I warrant," Ian said, putting an arm around Orlando's shoulders.

"Indeed he does," the Dane nodded. "I must think of a suitable reward since it appears I've nothing to teach him about winning a crowd."

"You put me to the blush, sir," Orlando said with a soft giggle.

The young man was giddy with relief at having survived his trial by fire and his spirits had never been higher. He felt light and fast, capable of anything; he could fly if he turned his will to it. It was difficult to keep a wide foolish grin from spreading across his face.

Hugo's strident reminder abruptly broke the mood. "Orlando! Come on, lad. Let me get that gown back into the clothes press."

Orlando followed Hugo, looking longingly over his shoulder at the group that was already passing around a skin of wine. Viggo was looking intently at a groggy Clive, whatever the man was saying deepening the frown on the playwright's face. Hugo tugged on Orlando's hand, and the boy trotted reluctantly after the wardrobe master.

Hugo had divested the fledgling actor of the expensive gown and stored it away when Viggo came into the wardrobe area. A glance at the Dane's face convinced Hugo that he would be happier elsewhere just now. Viggo turned to the young man pulling a muslin undershift over his head. Orlando saw the Dane and smiled a greeting.

Viggo's heart leaped up and fluttered in his throat until he swallowed it back down. It was no use trying to deceive himself or the boy; the Dane was besotted with a pair of melting brown eyes, a naïve youth with dimpled cheeks that blushed like a nun in a brothel. Squaring his shoulders, Viggo faced Orlando.

Orlando was suddenly convinced that the Dane was here to tell him that he wasn't good enough after all and that he should not come back to the theater. An almost overwhelming urge to cry made the corners of his eyes prickle as he stared apprehensively at the man. Viggo saw the dark eyes sparkle with unshed tears and his instincts pulled him across the floor to take the lad in his arms.

"Tis good of you to comfort me," Orlando sniffled. "I should have realized that I could not learn to act in a day."

"You do not need to learn," the Dane said. "You are marvelous as you are."

"You are not here to banish me?"

"Banish you? I would banish the wide world first," Viggo said fervently.

A charming frown puckered Orlando's forehead. "What do you mean, sir?"

For the first time in his life, words deserted the Dane. Unable to tell Orlando how he felt, Viggo chose another means of communication.

Orlando made a small sound of surprise when the playwright swept him into an ardent embrace and claimed his lips like a robber-king. Greedily, the Dane's hands mapped the new territories he intended to conquer. Orlando succumbed to the adoring assault, yielding sweetly what he had to offer.

"Has anyone ever touched you thus?" Viggo murmured in Orlando's ear.

"Only . . . only myself," the boy answered breathlessly.

"Do you wish me to stop?"

Orlando could not answer, his panting breath hot on the Dane's neck as the playwright turned to take his mouth again. Lulled by the man's skillful caresses, Orlando drifted deeper into the erotic fog that clouded his thoughts. A soft whimper strayed from his throat as a strong hand stroked his arousal through the thin material of the shift.

"I would like to savor this, but I am too eager to taste all your sweetness," Viggo growled, jarring Orlando from his sensual trance.

"That you shall not, sir," Orlando answered, pulling away. "I have not so forgotten myself under the witchcraft of your touch that I will give myself to you tonight."

Viggo grinned. "So there is a steel blade in the velvet sheath," he said. "Do you mind if I try and persuade you?"

"I should be disappointed if you did not," Orlando said, brushing the hair from the man's forehead. "Just be mindful that I am somewhat lacking in experience."

"If I can teach you to act brilliantly in one day, I am certain I can teach you to . . . Pray do not look at me with those eyes. You make me feel like the worst lecher in Londontown for wanting to . . . do what I want to do to you," the Dane finished lamely.

Orlando smiled. "In good time and in good measure," the young man said. "Imagine the sonnets you will write while you are yearning for me."

"You are an imp of mischief," Viggo said. "Did I think you callow? You are far cleverer than I and I surrender to you."

"I take no prisoners, my lord," Orlando answered with Ursula's words.

"You will cause all manner of trouble for me, will you not?" Viggo's tone made it plain that he had no doubts.

"My father is hardly likely to be pleased by my choice of careers," Orlando allowed.

The Dane nodded resignedly; he had expected no less. "Is there aught else I should know?"

"One thing that might please you," Orlando said. "In two years, when I reach my majority, I shall inherit a fortune, which I intend to use to benefit the Dramatic Arts."

"Do you mean to say that I must pander to you for two years before it becomes profitable?" the Dane asked. "This bargain is looking worse for me each time you speak."

"Can you think of no way to stop my mouth?"

That was too much provocation for the Dane. Pulling Orlando close again, Viggo feverishly pressed kisses to the boy's forehead, cheeks, ears, neck, nose, everywhere but the sweetly curved lips. Orlando gasped as his earlobe was nipped between strong teeth and moaned when a hot tongue circled the dip between his collarbones. Viggo kissed, licked, sucked and nibbled at every inch of bare skin he could comfortably reach.

Finger-combing the boy's sable tresses, Viggo scattered jeweled ornaments like grain for wild birds. Lacing his fingers in the silken hair, the man cradled the fragile skull on both palms and took possession of Orlando's mouth. This time the boy kissed him back with equal ardor, boldly thrusting his tongue against the Dane's.

Viggo let one hand drop to the firm buttocks and pressed their groins together. As the kiss deepened in intensity, the Dane cupped both lower cheeks and ground his crotch slowly against Orlando's, letting the young man feel the effect this was having on him. Orlando drew back and looked into the playwright's vivid blue eyes.

"Enough for now," the young nobleman said breathlessly.

Viggo grimaced. "I should push you away while I still have a will of my own," he said. "You will enslave me with chains invisible. Your father may have me clapped in chains somewhat more substantial if he hears aught of this. I fear me you will be my doom."

"Do you wish me to go?" Orlando asked.

"Of course not," Viggo said. "This is much more fun."

Orlando's smile of delight was all the reward the Dane was going to receive, but somehow it was enough for now. Gently, the man took the flawless face on his palm and placed a tender kiss on the sculpted lips. Letting his free hand drift near Orlando's arousal, Viggo spoke softly, in between delicate kisses.

"I would be honored to give you pleasure now," the Dane said. "However, I shall school myself to chaste behavior, never o'erstepping the bounds set by Heaven in the guise of your lovely form, my heart."

"And I shall endeavor not to torment you unduly," the young man promised. "I forgot to ask if Clive has recovered from his odd malady."

"You need not concern yourself with Clive's welfare," Viggo said. "That is a problem that has been resolved."

"Then all is well," Orlando said, nestling against the Dane's velvet doublet.

Viggo gathered the boy close, knowing this would be the tragedy of his life or its greatest triumph. It made no odds which for he could no more resist Orlando than he could stop writing poetry. Orlando's presence in his life meant more to him than rain to the desert; it was air to a drowning man.

The young man's words to him the day they'd met rang truer than ever. *Just because a thing cannot be held in the hand does not make it less real or valuable. * Orlando had been talking about poetry, but the sentiment held true for love, also. And it appeared that Love, with a capital L, was now a necessity for the Dane.

Ah, life, 'twas more like a play than the play itself.

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A slight blonde man with compelling eyes in an astonishingly handsome face wafted past the other young actors waiting to audition. Spying someone he recognized, the richly garbed newcomer glided up to a table and leaned upon his hands. Smiling winsomely, the blonde addressed the man who sat with poised pen.

"Good day, Will. You have grown handsomer during your sojourn at Stratford. I believe married life agrees with you. How is Anne? Marvelous. I shall tell why I have favored you with my presence today. It seems you have written a new play, you wicked lad, about young lovers who defy their parents. Delicious! I have come to set your minds at rest. The answer is yes; I will take the role of leading lady."

Will Shakespeare looked about nervously and spotted help. Gesturing to the tall actor flirting with a laundress, the playwright smiled queasily at the man in front of him.

"Ah Master Law, how good of you to come 'round," Will said. "Today we are choosing actors for the parts of the mothers of Juliet and Romeo."

"Oh," Jude eased back a bit from the table, his face darkening as he saw Clive Owen approaching. "When do you audition for . . . Juliet, was it?"

"Um, yes, Juliet. Italian name," Will mumbled, as Clive stopped behind him.

"What do you want?" Clive asked curtly.

"I am here to essay the role of Juliet," Jude said haughtily.

"Then you are late," Clive announced with a certain amount of relish.

Jude's eyes dropped to Will's. Shakespeare lifted his hands, palm up, as if it were out of his power entirely. Jude hissed a single word.

"Who?"

"Oh please, Master Shakespeare, allow me," Clive said.

Jude was acutely aware of the onlookers as Clive smiled at him in the way a devout Catholic smiles at a meat pie the day after Lent. The comely blonde became aware of a growing discomfort in the region of his midsection. As Clive began to speak, Jude's stomach did a slow roll.

"Master Shakespeare returned to London after hearing news of a bright new star in the theater," Clive said. "The part of Juliet was written expressly for this brilliant young actor. I believe you actually know him, Jude. Orlando Bloom?"

Jude's eyes went from Clive's to Will's and back again. It was no trick; there was no humor in their gazes and Jude felt the earth fall from under his feet. There was a long moment when the sensation of plummeting downward, feet first, was horribly disorienting. Then reality reasserted itself and he was standing before the table, reduced from prince to beggar by a few words like a witch's curse.

"Do not give it another thought, Will," Clive told Shakespeare, as Jude walked away. "Jude's sort always land on their feet. Now, if you have no further need of me, I am still searching desperately for your Romeo. If we do not find him soon, I fear I shall have to play him and I am much too . . . It galls me to say it, but I am too mature for the role."

Will's eyes lit in gentle humor. "I have no objection to you in the role, but you are casting this production and I will not interfere. Is the Dane here yet?"

Clive gave Will a look from under his brows and the playwright chuckled softly.

"True. If he were here, I would know, the same way I would know that a tempest had arrived." Will looked up at Clive with a wink. "Unless he stole in and is closeted somewhere about the place corrupting young Master Bloom."

"That is certainly well within the realm of possibility," Clive agreed. "Shall I have a look 'round for them?"

Shakespeare shook his head as he shuffled some sheets of vellum. "Nay. These revisions can wait. Let them have their time together."

Ye Ende