Betrayed by His Kiss

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Awe was a fine word for Isabella’s emotions on that long-ago day. Awe that a human being could be so perfect, could be all that she herself was not. Fair, serene, accomplished, self-possessed. Awe and—and envy.

Those feelings hadn’t changed with the years, Isabella found, as she stared up at her cousin. Caterina stood framed in the arched doorway, one of her statues come to life. Her skin was pale as marble, touched with pink only along the high, smooth cheekbones, the perfect foil for the loose fall of waving, red-gold hair that flowed to her waist. She wore an open robe of sky-blue silk over an even paler blue muslin gown, shades that matched her eyes. If Isabella were to paint her, she would use priceless blue marine.

Caterina gave a welcoming smile and hurried along the terrace. Her arms, draped in long, gold-lined sleeves, were outstretched in welcome.

‘My dear cousin!’ she cried, enveloping Isabella in a rose-scented embrace. ‘You are here at last. Was your journey terribly taxing?’

Caterina was not very tall, yet still she was taller than Isabella, who had to go on tiptoe to kiss her smooth cheek. Caterina was all that was lovely, but Isabella found, as she returned the greeting embrace, that her cousin had grown thin, her shoulders all sharp-edged beneath her sumptuous robe. She felt warm, too, as if feverish and her blue eyes glowed with an unnatural light.

Once again, Isabella was sure she should conceal what had really happened to her on the journey. The danger and the rescue. ‘Not at all,’ she answered with a smile. ‘We travelled in easy stages. I am very glad to be here, though. It was most kind of you to invite me.’

Caterina shrugged, still smiling as she stepped back, her eyes quickly taking in Isabella in a barely perceptible sweep. What could she think of her small, black-haired country cousin? She gave no indication, merely widened her smile, a dimple appearing in the alabaster of her cheek.

‘What is family for, my dear Isabella? You have done me a great favour by leaving your home and coming to stay with me. This house will be less quiet and lonely with you here. But come, you must be hungry after your journey. Paolo, will you fetch a repast for us and tell the maids we require a bath? And now, Isabella, you must tell me how your father fares. He was always one of my mother’s favourite kinsmen. She constantly spoke of how learned and wise he is.’

The page—who must be Paolo—bowed and turned back down the stairs, as Caterina linked her arm with Isabella’s and led her upwards. As Isabella assured Caterina that her father was well and still learned, they passed through that arched doorway into what surely must be Caterina’s own rooms. They lacked the stiff formality of the public rooms of the house, the grand sale, the banquet halls and counting rooms. What they did not lack, though, was luxury.

The marble floors were covered with rare carpets, woven of glowing jewel shades of red and blue, while the walls were hung with tapestries depicting the wedding at Cana, and Diana at the hunt. Any thread of chill that might dare to creep through was banished by those rich, muffling threads. There was little furniture in this room, a few painted chairs and tables, and a lute and a set of virginals waiting in the corner.

Caterina led her through another doorway into the bedchamber, a sunlit expanse where the velvet curtains were drawn back from the leaded windows to let in vast, buttery swathes of light. The beams fell across the floor, covered with yet more rugs, along the immense carved bed on its raised platform. The mattress was draped in thickly embroidered blue-satin hangings and spread with a blue counterpane, but the bedclothes were rumpled, as if Caterina had only recently risen from their embrace. There were carved chests, upholstered chairs, polished-looking glasses and the sweet scent of smouldering herbs from the pierced brass globes suspended from the frescoed ceiling.

Isabella stared around her in amazement. A space more different from her whitewashed chamber at home could scarce be envisioned. ‘I cannot imagine such a house ever being quiet,’ she murmured.

Caterina laughed. ‘I assure you it is! Such a vast, echoing space just for Matteo and me. That is why I go out so often. And why you will, too.’ For an instant, a flicker of shadow passed over Caterina’s face, a cloud on the bright sun. Then, it was gone and she smiled again.

‘Let me show you your chamber, Isabella,’ she said. ‘I had it arranged just for you.’

The room was next to Caterina’s, a smaller echo of it in furnishings and decorations. The bed was draped in dark rose-pink, as were the windows. Two carved chairs, a small table and an empty embroidery frame sat by the hearth and the clothes’ chests were open, waiting to receive her possessions.

‘It looks most comfortable,’ Isabella said. ‘I am sure I will be happy here.’

‘Va bene. If you have need of anything, you have only to ask. I want you to feel this is your home, for as long as you care to stay.’ Caterina strolled over to one wall, hung with tapestries woven with scenes of a Grecian banquet in soft creams and greens. Between them was a painting, not large, but exquisitely framed in gilt scrollwork. ‘And this is one of my treasures. I thought you might enjoy it.’

Isabella drifted after her, completely mesmerized, drawn closer by the lure of the vibrant, unearthly colours. She had never seen anything like it in her life. The scene was a typical one, a Madonna with the infant Christ on her knee, set before a hazy, pale green-and-gold landscape. Isabella saw such subjects every day, in churches and country villas. She herself sketched visions of the Virgin. But never like this.

The blue and white of the Madonna’s robe, her golden hair, the peachy warmth of her skin and that of her child—it glowed with pure, real life. As smooth as satin on its base, there was not a flaw to be seen. There was such an ineffable grace about the scene, an accuracy of line and a delicacy of feeling. The Virgin’s outstretched hand was so fragile in its long grace, so beckoning, Isabella almost reached out to touch her. She curled her own fingers tightly in the folds of her skirt before she could do something so foolish.

Caterina studied the painting, too, her head tilted slightly in unconscious imitation of the Madonna.

‘Is it not exquisite?’ she said. ‘It is by Giovanni Bellini of Venice, using the new method of mixing pigment with oil.’

‘I have never seen anything so beautiful,’ Isabella answered truthfully, vowing to herself to learn more of this new, magical technique.

Caterina smiled. ‘I was told that you enjoy art, cousin. That you are a fine artist yourself.’

‘I am no artist,’ Isabella said. ‘No true artist, like this Signor Bellini. I have had little training. But I do love art. Its beauty is the best of what it means to be human, is it not? It raises us—higher.’

Caterina gazed at her steadily, one golden brow arched, and Isabella felt her cheeks slowly heat. ‘That is well said, Isabella. Art does indeed raise us above the daily struggle of our lives. It helps us to imagine what it might be like to touch divinity.’ She reached out suddenly to clasp Isabella’s hand. Her fingers were as dry and delicate as paper. ‘I know our families have not always been the most harmonious, cousin, but I am so glad you are here now.’

And, suddenly, so was Isabella. Those silly doubts she had on the street were gone. The thieves, the gloriously handsome man who had rescued her—they just seemed part of the dream of the city. An adventure. She glanced back at the painting, that object of perfect, unattainable beauty that now seemed just the merest bit closer. ‘I hope that I can be of some help to you.’

Caterina shook her head. ‘You help me just by being here. We will be great friends, I am sure.’

The chamber door opened behind them, admitting a parade of servants bearing platters of food, ewers of wine and water, even a large wooden bathtub.

‘At last!’ Caterina said. ‘You must be so famished by now.’ She moved away from Isabella’s side, becoming every inch the stern chatelaine as she supervised the servants in their pouring of the bath and serving of the food.

As Isabella turned back to the Bellini for one more glance, her attention was caught by yet another painting. This one hung by the open door, framed more simply but just as lovely. The colours were more muted than the Bellini, giving it an air of ethereal fancy. The subject was Caterina herself, depicted from just above her waist in a low-cut gown of pale pinkish-red. Her glorious hair was piled atop her head in loose waves, anchored with loops of a white scarf. She gazed off somewhere to her right, a half smile on her lips.

Around her neck was draped a heavy gold necklace, in the ominous shape of a serpent with ruby eyes. Was it a symbol of her mysterious illness, her withdrawal from the world?

Startled by the image, Isabella glanced back at her cousin, who was still overseeing the servants. Caterina was smiling, yet still Isabella fancied she saw that shadow lurking. She thought again of her rescuer and the darkness held deep in his sea-green eyes.

‘Now, cousin, you must eat,’ Caterina said, oblivious to any shadows at all. ‘And then I shall loan you one of my own gowns. We have somewhere very important to go this afternoon.’

Somewhere important? Was she to be tossed into this strange new life already, feet-first into cold waters? Isabella’s stomach tightened. ‘Caterina, I think...’

Before she could finish her words, there was a noise from outside the luxurious chamber. The clatter of heavy booted footsteps, dogs barking, the deep rumble of masculine laughter. The door flew open and a golden giant of a man strode inside.

Isabella was sure this was Caterina’s brother, her own cousin Matteo, for he had his sister’s tawny hair. But where Caterina was pale and slight, he was tall and broad-shouldered, exuding an exuberant energy. He wore a plain dark doublet and tall, mud-splattered leather boots, his pack of dogs crowding close behind him as if he had just come in from hunting.

‘This must be our fair cousin, arrived at last!’ he said, his voice booming incongruously in the delicacy of his sister’s chamber. ‘Isabella, Caterina has been able to speak of nothing but your arrival for weeks. ’Tis good for her to have a companion at last.’

‘And I am most pleased to be here,’ Isabella answered, a bit flustered at his sudden arrival. She had only really glimpsed Matteo in the past; he was always a moving blur of laughter and raw energy. Today was no different. He was a large, sunny presence, seeming to take over the whole space.

He seized her hand and raised it to his lips, holding on to it tightly for a moment longer than she would have expected. He had the gift of making a woman, of making anyone, feel they were the one he most wanted to see at that moment. Isabella wondered how she would paint him. As Apollo, dragging the sun behind him? No, Hercules, conquering the world.

For some reason, she thought of her dark rescuer, the mysteries in his eyes. These two men seemed so different, but which would be more dangerous?

‘And so pretty, too,’ he whispered with a laugh. ‘Florence needs more pretty ladies.’

‘No teasing our poor cousin, Matteo,’ Caterina said. ‘I am taking her to Signor Botticelli’s studio this afternoon, so she can meet our friends.’

‘Va bene. Mayhap he will want to paint her, as he has you, sister.’ Matteo threw himself down on a chaise longue and reached for the pitcher of wine. His dogs tussled at his feet as Caterina gave them a disapproving glance. ‘We will find you a husband while we’re here, shall we, Isabella? A rich condottierre, mayhap?’

Isabella laughed. She had long known marriage was not for her. Art was everything. A husband would surely only get in the way. ‘I look not for a husband now,’ she said. She would never repeat her parents’ mistakes, the grief that came from loving too much.

‘You cannot steal her away from me just yet, Matteo, and give her as a prize to one of your friends,’ Caterina said, reaching for a sweetmeat to nibble. ‘There will be time for marriage later.’

‘Sì,’ Matteo muttered. He studied Isabella over the rim of his goblet with a strange glint in his eyes. She had the strangest sense that her cousin, for all his exuberant good humour and charm, was not entirely to be trusted. ‘Later...’

* * *

‘You saw the lady to her destination?’ Orlando asked as his guardsmen came into the sitting room of his lodgings. He stared down at the street below his window. The bustling crowd moved past on their usual early evening errands, full market baskets over the arms of maidservants, courtesans tottering on their high-heeled pattens, gangs of young men with garish-striped hose and clanking swords.

They all went by as if it was merely an ordinary day. As if something hadn’t cracked and shifted, changing beyond recognition.

‘Nay, my lord, she found her party again and rejoined them,’ one of the guards said. ‘She seemed safe with them.’

Orlando watched a lady in black drift past, like a ghost. Or a dream, like the young dark-eyed woman had been. ‘You were not seen by them?’

The man snorted. ‘If we have no wish to be seen, my lord, then we are not seen.’

Orlando gave a wry smile. He glanced back over his shoulder at the cluster of men hovering in his doorway. It was true—they were most adept at blending into any crowd, with their dark clothes and bearded faces. Neither handsome nor plain, too grand or too ragged. Perfect for his own purposes. That was why he employed them, to help him keep an eye on the shifting loyalties of Florence.

And, it seemed, to help him rescue fair maidens.

He reached for a bag of coins and tossed it to them. ‘My thanks. You did a good deed for your souls today.’

The guardsman grinned, revealing cracked teeth. ‘’Twould take more than that to save our souls, my lord.’

Orlando had to laugh. His soul, too, was irreparably stained, beyond hope. Yet there had been something in that lady’s eyes as she looked up at him, an openness, a light that seemed to pull him up...

‘Is there anything else, my lord?’ the guard asked. ‘Shall we find out where the lady is dwelling? Or track down those thieves and finish them off?’

Orlando shook his head. ‘The thieves will come to a bad end soon enough. And the lady is safe now.’

Especially safe from him. He found he did want to know where she was, far more than he should. That light in her eyes had been so fascinating. But he knew that would not be wise. He was much too intrigued with her after only one meeting. It should go no further.

He turned back to the window. ‘I will send for you if you are needed again.’

They left in a scuffle of fading footsteps, the metallic click of their swords and daggers, and Orlando was alone again.

The sudden fight in that quiet square had made his blood hot, made it sing through his veins as it once did when he was a high-tempered youth. Tavern brawls held little attraction for him now. Such fights were a waste of his energy when far more serious matters pressed in around them. But when he came upon those filthy villains circling the lost, frightened lady, the old Orlando had surged back to life and a fury such as he had rarely known of late came back upon him.

And those eyes of hers, the delicacy of her hand as he helped her to her feet, aroused a lust just as sudden and fierce. He had wanted to kiss her, hard and deep, feel her body against his, as the furious rush of life carried them away. The tremble of her fingers, the wary gratitude on her face, held him back. He had done a fair deed; he couldn’t ruin it by scaring her all over again.

Now the anger and the desire had ebbed away, leaving him cold again. But the memory of her wouldn’t be erased from his mind. She wasn’t beautiful, not really, not in a city full of golden courtesans, but there was something much more than beauty in her face. Something he wanted to read.

So, nay—he should not find out where she lived. He should not see her again, for the sake of her as well as himself.

There was a knock at the door and his hand automatically went to the hilt of the dagger at his waist. The guards would not return without his summons. ‘Yes?’

The manservant who usually watched the door below came in with a low bow. He held out a sealed letter. ‘A message from the convent of St Clare. You asked that any word from them be brought to you right away.’

Orlando nodded and reached for the letter to break the seal and hastily scan the neatly penned words. He half-feared every time he heard from the convent that something ill had befallen little Maria. An illness, an accident—perhaps even a kidnapping if Matteo Strozzi discovered her existence. Little Maria was always in his thoughts, his plans.

But the message was only an account of Maria’s progress since he last visited. Her lessons in music, languages and her religious instruction went on well. She was a quick, bright child, as well as a beauty. Just as her mother had once been.

Orlando carefully refolded the letter. His sister’s dark despair, her terrible love for a villain who was nowhere near worthy of her shining spirit, had taken her away from her daughter. Maria Lorenza would never hear her child’s laughter, see her run through the sunshine. Everyone had betrayed her in the end.

Orlando would not.

And he could not afford to be turned from his avowed duty by maidens in distress—no matter how very intriguing they were.

Chapter Three (#ulink_1f446c1b-1b66-5652-a8a0-076420429f06)

The sun was a richer golden colour, almost amber, when Isabella and Caterina left the Strozzi palazzo. The afternoon was on the wane, the siesta of the city just breaking. Shops were opening again, people emerging from their homes to seek out food for supper, amusement for the evening. Young men in bright, fashionable garments and elaborately plumed caps still lounged on the street corners, yet Isabella noticed that they did not stare so insolently as Caterina drifted by. Rather, these noisy youths watched her with wide eyes and mouths agape, as if a goddess suddenly floated into their prosaic midst. The danger she had faced earlier seemed absurdly far away.

And, though she looked most carefully, she did not see the man who had saved her in that deserted courtyard. She began to wonder if he had been a mere dream after all. If this glittering surface was all there really was to the city after all.

Caterina wore blue again, a narrowly cut gown of deep-sapphire velvet slashed with white satin, the sleeves tied with fluttering gold-and-silver ribbons. She sported no jewels, no sparkling diamonds or soft gleam of pearls to compete with the glow of her skin and eyes.

She had loaned Isabella a gown of bronze-coloured silk, trimmed with red ribbons and embroidery on the high-waisted bodice. It was a beautiful garment, crafted in the very latest style, yet still Isabella felt like nothing so much as a country mouse, clad in city finery that fooled no one. She almost laughed aloud at this hazy unreality, the dreamlike state of it all.

Caterina linked her arm with Isabella’s, drawing her closer as they made their dignified progress along the street. ‘It is not far now, cousin. I go here every day. Sometimes I do not even return home until long after dark.’

Isabella was mystified. Caterina had told her nothing of their destination, merely shaking her head with a small smile on her lips when asked. Was it some very fine shop, a cathedral or gallery? Isabella was not at all sure she cared for this uncertainty, not on top of everything else that was so odd about this day. ‘Caterina, will you not tell me where we are going?’ she tried asking again.

‘I told you, it is a surprise. But I promise you, Isabella, that you will like it very much indeed.’

They finally stopped before a building, much like the Strozzi house in size and solid stone structure. The outer windows were shuttered and there were no signs or coat of arms to indicate what lay inside.

One of Caterina’s pages raised the brass door ring, bringing it down on the stout wooden door. After only a moment, the portal swung open.

Rather than another liveried servant, there stood a young man in a paint-stained smock, a smear of dark charcoal along one cheek. He blinked for a second in the fading sunlight, as if startled by the day, before a wide, delighted smile spread across his face.

‘Signorina Strozzi!’ he cried happily. ‘You are here. We have been wondering what was keeping you away this day.’

‘Only the happiest of events, Jacopo,’ Caterina answered. ‘My cousin, Signorina Spinola, has come to stay with me. She is another great lover of art.’

‘The master will be so very pleased.’ The young man swung the door open wider and Caterina led them through. Rather than an open, classical courtyard, as at the Strozzi palazzo, they stepped into utter chaos.

But chaos of the most wondrous sort. The sort Isabella so often lay awake at night fantasising about. Longing for. The chaos of an artist’s studio.

The high ceiling was enclosed in a thick glass skylight, pouring down sunshine on the activity below. Paintings were stacked along the walls, propped on easels, in all stages of readiness from just barely gessoed to completed scenes. People in stained smocks clustered around them, as bees in a summer hive, wielding bright brushes, arguing. The smell of turpentine and tempera paint was thick in her nostrils, heavy and acrid, as welcome as sweet springtime flowers.