[Barbara Samuel] Night of Fire(Book4You) (16 page)

"You will write about that, too, someday," he said, taking her hand.

"Will you?"

He shook his head. "I will write of Cassandra's face, alight with joy over the view."

Cassandra frowned. "You're so extravagant."

He lifted a brow. "You do not like it?"

"No. Extravagance is the mark of rakes."

He laughed. "I am Italian. And a poet."

"It's too much."

"Or perhaps," he said, lifting her hand to his lips, "you need only to grow accustomed to it." His eyes glittered. "For truly, there are not enough words to do justice to your glory, my Cassandra." Only the flare of his nostrils gave away his tease.

As she did a hundred times an hour, she snared on this detail of him and shook her head, half in wonder, half in mock-despair. "I can see I will have to teach you a little English decorum."

"If you must." Something caught his eye. "Look! The spires of Firenze."

But by the time they reached his house in town, a charming Renaissance structure built around an internal piazza, the rain had begun to fall in earnest, and there was no exploring to be done. They retreated to the library, this one grand and richly appointed. "My father's," Basilio said dismissively.

"Must we work?" she asked, one last time, as he pulled out pens to be sharpened and pots of ink. The line of his shoulders made her randy, and she did not care for the prospect of scholarly studies.

As if he knew it, he shed his coat and settled it on the back of a chair. Amusement danced in his eyes.

"My wish was to give you a start to your translation. If you take something else back to England with you, all the better—but the work is what I can give most earnestly."

Back to England
. A pluck of warning told her it would not be so easy to leave him as she had first imagined. To cover that faint, distant dismay, she shrugged in mock ennui. "As you wish."

He laughed, putting his hands on her shoulders and settling her in a big leather chair. He placed a sharpened quill in her hand. "You will thank me one day."

She raised her head, suddenly aware that no man in all her life had ever actively put a pen in her hand and told her to write. Swift, fierce gratitude made her take his hand and put a kiss in his palm. "I thank you now, sir." Then she dropped his hand and waved him away. "Allow me to begin."

His soft laughter was reward in itself.

Rain fell in steady gray sheets all afternoon. Basilio had accounts to go over, and it was a monumental task, yet his attention was snared over and over by the flame of Cassandra, at a table nearby the windows. She did not work neatly. The single page of original Boccaccio was put on a smaller table near the desk to keep it safe from what was to come—a scattering of books taken from his shelves as she looked up one thing and another; the messy growing pile of her own notes, brought with her from the villa in a leather case; a bound book he thought must be a journal.

It surprised him, how much he wanted to crack that book open and read what she'd written privately there. His passion, far from being even momentarily slaked, had taken a new, fierce turn. His feeling for her was so large it seemed his body could not contain it, that others looking at him must see a scarlet flame burning out from him.

Only by the greatest discipline was he able to remain silent, allowing her to immerse herself in the pleasure of her work. He had known that she was quite serious about work, about the world of letters and study, but it surprised him how deeply she concentrated once given the chance. How much pleasure she took in it. Her shoulders, ordinarily so straight, eased. Her legs beneath her skirts fell akimbo, her feet tucked together at the ankle.

Here lay Cassandra's passion. He discovered he held a little jealousy over it, that it could steal her away from him so completely.

But he'd meant what he said about wanting to see her begin that translation she wished to write, and he tried to give her room to do it, watching her only when he thought she didn't notice.

There was great energy in her movements. Her sleeve annoyed her and she unbuttoned the cuff and shoved it carelessly up her arm. She shifted to check some note she'd made, then turned back to write quickly, decisively. Her pen scratched over the paper. Once she raised her head, a thoughtful, distant expression on her face, and asked his opinion on which of two phrases was better. "The second," he said.

"Yes." She nodded seriously. "That's what I thought, too." And away she went again, into her work.

At last he gave up any pretense of accounting and tried instead to write poetry. It was not possible, of course. His brain was gauzy, full of drifting images—all sharp and rich, but too new and hot to handle just yet.

What he could do was let the past few days fill him, allow phrases to present themselves for consideration—fragments of vividness that would one day arrange themselves into some shape. A day when he was not a single burning mass of sense and feeling, but was able to think again.

It made him smile, his chin in his hand, that Cassandra was not as lost as he in all this. But then, his capacity for love was large, larger than most. He did not begin to hope that her feeling would match his.

"Basilio," she said from her post, "if you do not cease staring at me, I shall be forced to give up all pretense of work and kiss you senseless." She looked at her books as she spoke. "And in all fairness,

'twas your idea for us to work today."

"What could I have been thinking?"

"Write me a letter and tell me—for now you must wait until I have completed this, or I shall never sleep tonight."

"Will I post my letter, too?" He lazily admired the curve of her cheek. "Or shall I read it to you… later?"

"That," she said, glancing at him with a brow raised in a little arch, "is entirely your choice."

Suddenly, it did seem something he could do. Dipping his pen, he paused over a fresh sheet, and then, in a rush, began to write:

My dearest Cassandra,

As I write this, you are bent over your translation, and I am besotted with the bend of your white
neck, by the small curls that have escaped your attempt to tame that wild hair, by the seriousness
of your brow as you bend over your work. I dare not say what is in my heart, for this is too new,
and I sense that you were badly wounded and will need time to see that I am different.

But here, in this letter that I will mail to be waiting for you when you return to your house in
Piccadilly Street, I will confess the truth: I broke my betrothal because there will never be another
woman for me as long as you are in the world, and there is but one wish in my mind: that we shall
spend our days together
—
all of them
.

It is not a simple matter, of course. My father is going to be very, very angry with me when he
hears the news. He is likely reading my letter in this moment
—
oh, anger is not a fine thing on his
face
.

No, it will not be simple. And I will not speak of this to you except in this letter, which you will not
see until you return to your home
—
but you are my heart, my love, the very blood that runs in my
veins. It was fated that we should find one another across such vast distances, fated that our
hearts should become one
.

I am so certain of this, that it is not merely passion that binds us
—
sweet though passion may be
!

—
but a union of souls that were born to be entwined, that I am willing to let you leave me, return
to your home, and see that what I say is true. No time or distance or practicalities will dim what
has been born here in these precious days
.

And I am so certain that naught will dim this that I say now, come, Cassandra
—
or if you cannot,
I will come to you. Be my love, be my wife
.

Let us together make a mosaic of joy from our days.

There are no words in any language to express the depth of my feeling for you, so I leave you with
the simplest of them all: Ti amo.

Your Basilio

Smiling, he scattered sand over the page and put down his pen. Cassandra was buried in her work and did not look up, and he left her to it, a bounce in his step as he folded and sealed the letter, then carried it out to a servant to have it posted. Only when he returned to the library did she look up, slightly dazed in that way of scholars. "Did you write a letter?"

"I did. And you shall not have it till you return home."

She inclined her head, intrigued. He loved the look of her red, red mouth turning up a little at the corners.

"Will you not even hint of what it says?"

Now he saw the luminosity of her eyes, falling on his throat, his chest, his mouth. A fresh, rich thrust of desire pushed through him, and he closed the door and turned the lock. "I wrote of passion."

"Did you?" There was a breathy softness to the words.

"Yes." He bent over her, putting his mouth at the bend of her neck. "I wrote of these curls, this curve."

His hand lit on her smooth shoulder, slid across the flesh above her bodice, followed the gentle swell of breasts.

Her eyes drifted closed. "What else?"

He suckled her earlobe, drawing a sigh, and slid his hand lower, just beneath the edge of her bodice. "I wrote of skin like satin."

"Satin? There is an original metaphor." Sharp words, softened by slow diction as she lifted her hands to his side.

"Perhaps it was not satin." He curled his fingers around her breast within the bodice, his thumb finding and rubbing the aroused tip. He dosed his eyes. "No," he whispered. "I wrote of cloud softness and the softness of the wind, whispering through a morning, and the rich weight of—" He could not think. "I wrote," he whispered, kneeling and taking her into his arms, "of love."

She put her hands on his face and kissed him. "You have bewitched me, Basilio. I do not like such extravagant talk and excessive emotion." She kissed him again, slowly pulling away. "Yet now I cannot think how I lived without it."

Then there were no more words, only a fierce, half-clothed coupling in the gray light of a rainy afternoon.

Afternoon slid to evening. The rain did not stop, making the streets a mess of puddles and mud.

Cassandra held up her skirts carefully, allowing Basilio to assist her from the carriage into the opera house. It was a grand place, and busy even in the rain. Cassandra blinked a little at the sound of an entire crowd speaking Italian, which suddenly made her aware of how far from home she was. The women were glorious, sophisticated—and unabashedly sexual beings. As they milled about the hall beneath bright chandeliers, she watched them covertly, astonished and a little shocked, but mainly dazzled, at the way they leaned close to a man, a hand sliding along his sleeve. Or a flash of a dancing eye, cutting sideways in arch knowledge. She admired the flash of their jewels and the cut of their gowns to show every inch of voluptuous or slim or even plump bodies.

Next to her, Basilio leaned close. "You see? We are all extravagant."

"My sister Adriana would love this," she said without thinking.

Basilio grinned. "The wicked sister, yes?"

Cassandra laughed. "Yes. She is… a very sensual person. She would be at home here." In surprise, she confessed with a little frown, "I judged her harshly, I'm afraid."

"You did not understand, that's all."

She nodded, but privately resolved to write a letter to her sister and share all of this with her. Riana would understand—all of it.

Basilio was well-known, and there were steady introductions, so many that the names blurred. They were a courtly lot, dashingly formal and somehow still extravagant. They eyed Cassandra curiously but without rancor, and many of them commented on the upcoming nuptials—which was to be an enormous social event, from what Cassandra could gather.

One matron, short and plump, heard that Cassandra was visiting Basilio, and asked pointedly, "Are you here for the wedding then?"

Amused, Cassandra said, "Yes. I am so looking forward to it."

When she departed Basilio leaned dose, taking her hand behind the cover of her skirts. "I did not think how it would be, Cassandra. I am sorry."

"It's to be expected. I don't mind." It was a lie and she suspected he knew it, the way he seemed to understand everything about her. It was oddly painful to hear the girl mentioned in such glowing terms, to hear about the wedding. It was disconcerting. "We knew at the outset how our story would end."

His lashes dropped, his thumb stroked her hand. "Did we?" he asked softly.

She was spared the difficulty of a reply when another party swarmed over and Basilio stood, bowing courteously, to greet them. Cassandra smiled politely at the introductions, but behind her mask, her thoughts whirled.

She had not understood that she would fall in love with him. Not like this. It felt as if every vein in her body was connected to his heart, as if his hair grew from her scalp. Watching him laugh lightly with what appeared to be long-time friends of the family, she wondered how she would bear to live a day without him in it, after this.

But there was no other answer. He had to marry. And for all her newly discovered bravery, she could not bear to take up the place of mistress in his life, far from her home and family. She could not bear to give up her independence that way.

When he sat down again, he must have seen a hint of her disturbance. "This was a mistake," he said.

"Come. Let's fly to our own world."

She smiled at him ruefully. "Perhaps I do not wish to share you, after all."

With a perplexed frown, he said, "But whatever will we do to amuse ourselves, all alone?"

"I imagine we can find some entertainment." She tucked her hand into his elbow, grateful for even that small reassurance. She was here now. In this moment.

They waited inside for the carriage to be brought around. A few latecomers dashed in from the rain, a party dressed resplendently save for a young girl who exuded misery.