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“I ask you to excuse me now.” He felt ridiculously relieved that his voice sounded normal. “I have much to do.”
As he spoke, his mind raced. Was he going mad? Where had the smell of blood come from? Was it connected to the wisp of a vision that he could not even have described? A vision that had suddenly turned the crimson color of blood?
His innate skepticism came to his aid and he thrust the questions aside as one thrusts aside an importunate beggar on the street. He was a logical, sane man, he assured himself. Such men did not have visions, nor did they smell blood where there was none. But he knew that he had to get free of this room.
Alessio was almost at the door when Ugo called out his name.
Because the heavy brass handle of the door was within reach now, he could steel himself to turn around. “What is it?” he snapped.
“Did Madonna Bianca like the gift I sent her?”
“She sends you her thanks.” The image of Bianca as she had stood, proud and tall, in the small courtyard had his muscles tensing.
“Did she try out the mare?”
“Yes, she is an excellent horsewoman.”
“Good. Excellent.” Ugo grinned. “I, too, ride well.” His lascivious laugh left no doubt as to his meaning. “Then we are well matched.”
Tension had gathered in a tight ball in the pit of Alessio’s stomach and he knew that if he did not leave this moment, he would launch himself at his brother and wipe that smile off his face with his fists.
“You will excuse me now, Ugo.” Alessio jerked open the heavy studded door and dragged in a lungful of the cool air of the vestibule. Thank God, he thought as he let his eyes fall closed for a brief moment. It did not carry the smell of blood.
“Alessio?”
Alessio spun around on his heel.
“I do not command you, but if I ask you as a brother who needs help to do me another favor, will you do it?” Ugo made clever use of the scar that bisected his right cheek, making his smile seem merely wry instead of twisted.
Alessio sighed, remembering how his brother had held his small hand as they had stood at their father’s graveside.
“Yes, Ugo.” His voice was resigned as he nodded. “I will do it.”
As Alessio bent his head to pass the low door of the cantina, Antonio Rossi raised his hand in greeting and gestured to the innkeeper to bring another cup.
Alessio tossed his cloak over the plank table and sat down on a bench across from his friend.
“Well, you look cheery today.” Antonio clicked his stoneware cup against Alessio’s. “Drink up. A few cups of wine and you will forget whatever it is that is marring your fair brow.” He trailed the tips of his fingers over Alessio’s forehead in a comically melodramatic gesture.
Alessio’s only answer was a black scowl. But Antonio did not take offense. Instead, he grinned and took a generous swallow of the mellow red wine made from the grapes that grew on the hills to the south of the city.
“Is she a virtuous virgin or someone’s wife?” He grinned again. “What’s her name? Maria? Lucrezia? Ginevra? Do not worry, my friend.” He chuckled. “If you put out the candle later—” he gestured toward the stairs that led to the upper floor with his eyes “—you can call her by any name you please.” Antonio gave him a friendly cuff on the shoulder. “In the dark, all cats are gray.”
“Why don’t you shut up and let me get drunk in peace.” Alessio emptied the cup and refilled it but did not drink again.
“Go ahead and get drunk, my friend.” With a smile, Antonio settled back to wait. “But not too drunk.”
He had seen Alessio brood often enough to know that he would not be hurried. When he was done, he would look up and laugh or curse at whatever had been plaguing him and that would be that. And then they would while away the night with wine and dice and a soft woman.
But tonight Alessio sat and stared, unmoving, into his wine cup as though there were something that had bewitched him within it. Minutes passed. A half hour. And still he sat, as motionless as if he had been turned to stone.
Antonio cast an impatient glance toward the stairs. With a sigh, he signaled the innkeeper to bring more wine.
He could not get it out of his head. No matter how he tried, the misty image that had surely been an illusion conjured up by his tired brain stayed with him. An illusion, he repeated to himself. An illusion, damn it. And yet it had been real. So real. Even now, hours later, he still felt as if he were a small boat adrift in a dark, unfriendly sea, lurching about in a storm. And he did not care for the feeling.
For the hundredth time, he picked through those brief moments, carefully, methodically. Surely, if he examined what he had seen closely enough, he would understand. He swore again, silently, viciously. What good did method do when he had seen next to nothing? But he had felt. And known.
The tension in his gut built to a new height. He had known that behind that hazy barrier he and Bianca had been lovers. Lovers of the flesh. Lovers of the heart. That knowledge had been as real as the white curtain that had turned crimson. As real as the smell of blood, which had nearly overwhelmed him.
He was not a fanciful man, nor was he a squeamish one. Why then did this ghost of an image not leave him in peace? Why did it torment him until he no longer knew if he was seeing the image again or merely the memory of the image? Until he was certain he was going mad?
No, he was not a fanciful man. But something that took such hold of him had to have a meaning. And he’d be damned if he did not find it.
Alessio lifted his head, his eyes wild. With a curse he swept his arm across the table, sending cups and bottles crashing onto the brick-tile floor.
Unperturbed, the innkeeper approached and matter-offactly started picking up pieces of stoneware and glass. Antonio started to make a jest, but the grin froze on his lips, the words stuck in his throat as he saw something he had never seen before—not when they had ridden into battle, not when they had faced a naked sword in a dark alleyway. In Alessio’s eyes he saw pure, unadulterated terror. And behind the terror was an emotion so deep, so intense that he did not know how to read it.
The noise jarred Alessio back to reality, and yet some part of him still remained caught in that illusion. He shifted his gaze from the havoc he had wrought to Antonio, and yet he saw neither.
Instead he saw Bianca’s face. The look of a little girl lost. The look of a temptress sure of her triumph. And he knew that all the rough, hurtful, mocking words they had said to each other today had changed nothing, meant nothing. Only one thing he had said today had been completely true—she belonged to him.
For a fleeting moment he was filled with the certainty that unless he made that an irrevocable reality, something terrible would happen. The certainty dissipated, but the compulsion to act remained.
“I have to ride back, Tonio.” Already he was reaching for his cloak.
“Back? Back where?”
“Monte Nero.”
“Back to the Merisi villa?” Antonio stared at his friend as the terrible truth began to dawn on him.
“I see,” he said slowly. “So I wasn’t so far wrong before. Just wrong about the name.”
As Alessio turned to go, Antonio finally managed to get his body to obey his mind and leapt up, reaching across the table to grab a handful of Alessio’s black velvet doublet.
“What of the curfew? The fines are stiff if you run into a watchman,” he babbled. “And the city gates will be closed by now.”
“I will find a way. For enough fiorini I can buy myself a way through the gates of heaven. Or hell.”
Antonio breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Alessio’s arrogant grin. This was the Alessio he knew. This was the Alessio he could talk some sense into. Still holding on to Alessio’s doublet, he scooted around the table.
“Listen to me. This is insane.” He gripped Alessio’s shoulders and shook him. “You cannot do this. She is betrothed to your brother.” He shook him again. “Your brother, damn it.”
“You don’t have to remind me, Tonio.” His voice was dull.
“And you would still take her?” Antonio’s hands fell down to his sides. He was as cynical a man as any. He knew that rules were made to be broken. Most rules. But there were some rules a man did not break. “Take your brother’s bride and leave him to find used goods in his marriage bed?”
“Is that what you think of me?” Anger flared in his eyes. “Is that what you think I will do?” But as Alessio said the words, he remembered that that was just what he had almost done on the beach only hours ago. No, he thought. He had done it. Perhaps he had only taken her mouth, but with that kiss he had possessed Bianca as surely as if he had spilled his seed into her body.
“Isn’t it?”
“I want her, Tonio. I wanted her long before she was betrothed to Ugo.”
“So why didn’t you seduce her then? Or marry her yourself?”
“A younger brother with no prospects marry?” Alessio laughed shortly, mirthlessly. “And the other alternative? Seduce the virgin daughter of good family?”
“Would that have been worse than seducing the virgin daughter of good family who is betrothed to your brother?”
“No.” Alessio met Antonio’s eyes and held them. “I will not seduce her.” It crossed his mind that if anyone would practice seduction, it would not be him.
“So.” Antonio crossed his arms over his chest. “So you ride fifty miles in the middle of the night to do what? Will you serenade her? Will you play a game of chess with her? Or perhaps have a philosophical discussion?” he scoffed, bis good-natured face grim.
“Don’t forget I’ve known you all my life,” he continued, “and I’ve seen you with more than your share of women since we shared our first girl the year we turned thirteen.” There was a touch of envy in his laugh. “You are to women what a flame is to dry gunpowder.”
“I tell you I will not bed her.” Alessio wondered what Tonio would say if he knew that he had never bedded a virgin. He had bedded cheap whores and expensive courtesans, peasant girls and highborn wives. But never a virgin.
“I need to talk to Bianca. Something happened today—” He broke off. How could he put into words something that had happened only in his head? Tonio would think he had gone mad. And perhaps he had.
“She will break the betrothal.” His hands fisted. “I will make her break the betrothal.”
“Break the betrothal?” Antonio parroted. “I imagine old man Merisi will have something to say about that.”
“The betrothal will be broken, I tell you. It’s been done before.”
“Alessio, Alessio.” Antonio shook his head. “Think with your head and not with what’s between your legs.” He slung his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Would it be worth the trouble? I do not deny that lying with a woman is one of the great pleasures of this earthly life, but would it be worth it? At some point, they all grow fat or ill-humored. Or both. Besides—” Suddenly, he shivered. “Besides, Ugo would kill you if you do.”
No, he will kill me if I do not. The words were so clear in Alessio’s mind that for a moment he thought he had spoken them aloud. As he stared at Tonio’s face, he wondered where the words had come from.
Then, because he was first of all a man of action, he threw off the introspection that had been paralyzing him all evening. As energy and power surged through him, he cast Antonio a dazzling smile.
“Drink a cup of wine to my good fortune, Tonio.”
“I would drink a barrel if I thought it would do any good,” Antonio said morosely, but Alessio’s sudden confidence was so contagious that he, too, smiled. “Forza, Alessio, e buona fortuna.”
Alessio’s smile wavered for a moment as he remembered that those had been his exact words to Bianca that morning. Then, deciding to take that as a good omen, he laughed. He withdrew a handful of coins from his purse and tossed them on the table. Then he took a silver lira and, gesturing with his chin toward the shards that still lay on the floor, flipped it in the direction of the innkeeper.
The man caught the coin deftly and bowed low, well pleased. The coin was worth more than the bit of broken crockery. But then, Messere Alessio was always generous.
With another smile, Alessio gave Antonio a slap on the back. Then he took the stairs two at a time, unbarred the door and stepped out into the night.
Chapter Seven
Several hours of his time and most of the contents of his purse were spent before Alessio was on the road leading to the coast, but neither point disturbed him. He still had half the night to get to Monte Nero and money was the means to an end for him—no more, no less.
The sky was turning an opalescent gray when the breeze brought him the first scent of the sea.
By the time he reached the crossroads that led up the hill to the Merisi villa, the first streaks of pink and pale blue were coloring the sky, but he rode past. He could hardly turn up and demand entry when dawn was just breaking. So he turned his mount toward the beach. Perhaps, he thought, the morning sea would quiet the thoughts that had turned turbulent again in the last hour.
He felt an unreasoning flash of irritation when he saw that he did not have the beach to himself. A boy, his chin resting on his bent knee, was sitting on the rocks, and although he sat very still, his gaze directed out to sea, the presence of the slender figure annoyed Alessio.
A split second before he turned his mount toward the other end of the beach, a movement caught his eye and, not knowing why he did so, Alessio remained where he was. The boy played with his hair, which he had pulled to one side. Then he lifted his head and tossed the hair over his shoulder so that a wealth of black curls flowed down his back. And Alessio knew that the lone figure watching the dawn was no boy but Bianca.
He looked up and down the beach for a servant, a man-at-arms. When he saw that she was truly alone, he felt a spurt of unreasoning anger even as he told himself that it was none of his concern. Still, despite the anger, he understood that he was intruding on a very private moment, and he might have retreated without making himself known to watch over her from afar. But his mount chose that moment to scent Bianca’s mare and whicker nervously. He urged his horse forward.
Bianca knew she was not alone. For a moment, but only for a moment, she thought that Lia had detected her absence and sent one of the servants after her. Even without turning around, she knew that it was Alessio who watched her.
She could feel his presence as surely as if he were touching her. Only his eyes rested on her, yet she could feel the warmth of his hands against her skin, trailing down in a lazy caress with the promise of passion. Already she could feel her body softening like wax against a flame.
Needing to break the spell, she tossed her hair over her shoulder. But there was no help for it. Still his gaze lay on her like a lover’s touch. Then she heard the horse whinny, and the sound of its hooves on the sand. Because she wanted to turn toward the sound, she laced her hands tightly around her legs and stared stubbornly out to sea.
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Alessio reined in his mount directly in front of Bianca. Because his hand was heavy, the horse pawed the air in protest. “I could have been an outlaw come to rob or rape you and you sit there on your rock as unperturbed as if you were invisible.”
Bianca, her chin still resting on her knees, returned his gaze without any outward sign of the turmoil within her. He looked rougher than he had yesterday. He wore finely tailored velvet the color of the sea at nightfall, but the top buttons of his doublet were open and the laces of his shirt hung untied. The night wind had tangled his hair and his face was shadowed with a day’s and night’s growth of beard. And yet it was just that roughness, that wildness that accented the chiseled beauty of his features. It was just that roughness, that wildness that drew her.
“So.” She schooled her voice to sarcasm to mask the longing that had sprung up within her. “Have you appointed yourself my guardian now, Alessio? I am indeed touched.” Straightening, she kept her hands laced just below her knees, not trusting herself to restrain from reaching out for what she wanted so badly.
“Your fears are ungrounded. At dawn, all self-respecting outlaws are asleep after their night’s work. Besides, I have a trusted companion.” Her mouth curving in a suggestion of a smile, she withdrew a dagger from the sheath at her side just far enough that he could see that it was a true weapon and not a jeweled trinket for a lady’s hand.
“A man with but a whit of skill would have you disarmed in moments.”
“Perhaps.” Her voice remained even, but her generous mouth thinned. “Perhaps not.” She thrust the dagger back in the sheath with more force than necessary.
Alessio leapt off his horse and onto the rock she sat on so quickly that her hand was still on the hilt when he pushed her back. Bianca twisted to the side, managing to free the dagger. As she turned back to face him fully, she brought up one knee.
He was so close to her that she could feel the length of his hard, warm body along hers. He was so close to her that when she drew in a breath, she inhaled his scent. The sudden pleasure was so keen that she almost closed her eyes with it.
Her split second of hesitation was all the advantage he needed to shift away from her knee and to fetter both her wrists with his hard fingers.
“You were saying, madonna?” His tone was insolent, but his grin was more boyishly brash than arrogant.
“If I had not hesitated, you would have had my dagger between your ribs.” Bianca drew in a breath that was not quite steady. “And my knee between your legs.”
“Indeed, you are right.” He grinned again. “Why did you hesitate?”
Despite her ignominious position, his grin had her lips twitching with the beginnings of a smile, and she pressed them together. “It did not appear seemly to have my future brother-in-law’s blood on my hands.”
He raised a black eyebrow at her prim tone. “And what of the second?” He leaned into her, pushing the hand that still held the dagger down to the rock and pinning her legs with his so that they lay body to body.
With only the barrier of his clothes and her thin shirt and breeches between them, she could feel the imprint of his body against hers. She felt the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. She felt the pressure of his awakening flesh against her thigh.
“No answer to my question, madonna?” He laughed, but only to hide the catch in his breath from the dizzying speed of his arousal.
Her eyebrows lifted in a mocking curve. “It seemed a shame to maim what is apparently such a fine specimen.” Already she could feel his heat stealing through her, making her weak, and she began to struggle. “Let me go, damn you.”
“I think not.” He pried open her fingers so that the dagger slipped out of her grasp.
He was playing with fire, he thought as he looked down at her. Her hair was spread out to the side, inviting him to bury his face in the black curls. Her breasts rose and fell quickly beneath the thin white shirt, inviting the touch of his hands. The breeches and hose revealed her curves, inviting his body to fit itself to them.
