[Barbara Samuel] Night of Fire(Book4You) (18 page)

"Whore!" the beast cried, and made to come after her.

Basilio went mad. With a cry, he leapt on his father, shoving back at him, his fists wild and pure and strong.

"Stop them!" Cassandra cried at the servants. "They will kill each other!"

And then the room was full of people, servants drawn by the noise, men who leapt in and separated the crazed father and son. Cassandra curled close to the foot of the bed, one hand clutched to the blanket over her shoulders, the other to her face, which was already swollen and wet with tears beneath her palm.

Basilo panted in the grip of the servants, his eyes ablaze. "I defy you!" he said, and spat at his father's feet.

The elder count was also bleeding, but his rage subsided now. He narrowed eyes in a piggish face. "Why did your brothers die, and leave me with my one worthless son?" He shook off the arms of the servants.

"You will marry Analise. That is my final word."

He stormed out, and the servants followed. One peered in concern at Basilio, murmuring in Italian so low that Cassandra could not catch it. Basilio shook his head and the servant left.

Then it was only the two of them, the silence echoing oddly after the roaring, screaming chaos of moments before. Basilio sagged, then fell beside her, and she cried out helplessly, weeping into his arms.

She could feel trembling in his body, and clutched him more tightly. "Are you hurt badly?"

"Nothing that will not heal," he whispered, his arms tightening around her. "It is not the first time he has beaten me."

"Oh, God, Basilio, I thought he would kill you."

She trembled, too, unable to think past the immediate seconds.

"Let me see your face," he said grimly.

"It's nothing."

But his fingers slid under her chin, and she raised her head, fresh tears springing to her eyes when she saw the bruises, the split lip, the damage a father had wrought on his own child.

Basilio kissed her cheekbone very gently. "I am so sorry, Cassandra. I knew he would be angry. I did not know he would come here."

She clasped him to her, breathing against his hair, wishing with all she was that they could somehow make a happy ending from this.

Yet she could not allow Basilio to turn his back on that girl. To throw away his birthright, his place in his world. As long as their passion ruled him, he would not think of his mother, his brothers. But honor formed the heart and soul of him, was the very kernel of his being. His duty lay here—duty to his mother, whose land he held in trust, whom he had loved deeply, and to his brothers, whose untimely deaths made him feel an obligation to live in part for them. In time, guilt would eat at him, would eat at the joy they had discovered, at all that was good. Eventually, his lost honor would destroy him.

A swell of pure grief and love moved in her, making her lean close and press her face to his neck as her tears flowed hot and real and honest. "I do not cry, Basilio. Did you know that about me?" She put her hands to his face. "I never weep. And with you, I have wept for love and for joy, and now I weep in sorrow. I do not want to leave you, but I'm not selfish enough to ruin you."

He closed his eyes as she kissed his cheekbone, his brow, his mouth. "In time, my love," she whispered,

"we will rediscover how to write to each other as friends."

She knew she would remember this moment in exact detail all of her life. His shoulders, bare and hot beneath her hands, his eyes dark and full of love and pain.

"I will never love another woman as I have loved you, Cassandra."

"I know." She smiled softly, and lay against his shoulder. They clung together for long minutes, rocking and drawing comfort.

At last, Cassandra drew away. "You must have your wounds tended," she whispered. "And I must find ice." She tried to laugh a little, but it was as hollow as a rotted tree.

He swallowed, his sober, beautiful eyes troubled. "My father will not stay. Hide in your rooms until he goes." He paused, his hand lingering on her face. "I must go out this morning." They both knew why.

She nodded, then very carefully, leaned forward and gently pressed her mouth to his, imprinting it upon her mind, her heart, her soul. She wanted to spill out her love for him, wanted to thank him for all that he'd given to her, wanted to tell him that she would never regret this all-too brief idyll. Instead, she put her hand once more in the thickness of his curls. "You have changed everything about me, Basilio. Thank you."

Forcing a lightness, she added, "Now, help me to my feet and allow me some dignity so I may have a bath and renew my sense of humor, will you?

There was relief in his soft chuckle. "That would depend on whether I am actually able to arise myself."

"Then we shall assist each other."

Cassandra washed and dressed and took time to eat. She would need the sustenance. She gave instructions to the girl who brought her breakfast, then sat down to write a letter. When the girl returned an hour later to say that Basilio had gone out, Cassandra gave her the letter and instructed her to deliver it to Basilio later.

She would have to act quickly.

It was awkward to manage the departure from Florence, when everything she had brought was at the villa. But she sent word to Joan, instructions she knew that Basilio would see were carefully followed.

She had a change of clothes and her leather case of papers. Enough. She would go to Venice and recover herself before she returned to England.

Cassandra wore her violet traveling costume, an ensemble that gave her courage. She squared her shoulders and went in search of Basilio's father.

A little quake of fear struck her knees when she found him in the library. "I would like a word with you, sir," she said in Italian.

He eyed her, then lifted a chin at the servant, who scurried away. "I speak English," he said. "You think my son is the only one with an education?"

"Not at all," she replied, cloaking herself in English coolness. "I was merely being polite."

"What do you want?"

"I have come to inform you that I am leaving Tuscany."

A shrug. What else would she do?

A flicker of hot, pure anger made her stride forward. "I am leaving, sir"—the word carried great irony—

"because I am in love with him, and because if I do not, his honor will destroy him. But I am leaving only with a promise from you."

He snorted. "Promise? You dare—"

"Please, do not begin blustering again. You need hear what I have to say. I do not presume to know why this marriage is so important to you, but I can see that there is more here than a wish that he do your bidding."

He threw down his papers. "Go on."

"I will leave here only if you will honor your son's gifts, and support his wish to write, as well as tend your properties. It is not a gift you respect, but it is a very great gift indeed. And I do not mean just a little nod of your head. And you will never darken his door except in the most dire of emergencies. It's quite plain you hate him."

He glanced her over, a reluctant respect in his eyes. "And if I do not?"

She raised her head and met his eyes. "Then I will return to Tuscany, and I will destroy the marriage—

even if it destroys all three of us in the bargain." She paused. "If you do not think I can, you do not know your son at all."

A blink, a purse of the lips, then the slightest shrug. "How much do you want?"

"Want?" She shook her head, amazed that a man like Basilio could be the issue of such a father.

"Nothing." At the door, she paused. "He had already decided to take Analise as his wife, so do not think you beat him into submission."

She went to the stables, where a carriage awaited. Cassandra allowed the sober, mustachioed driver to help her into the interior, and said in a harsh exhalation, "Go. Before his father has another reason to kill him."

He drove. Cassandra sat very still and straight in the seat, feeling as if her heart were tearing out of her body. She ached to look back yet feared it, as if she were Lot's wife and would be turned to a pillar of salt.

But she could not halt the tears that streamed down her face. In all her life, she had never wept in front of another, but now she did not care. It was real. It burned. Her life would never be the same.

Basilio walked to the villa of the Count diCanio in the hot August morning. He carried a cluster of flowers cut from the garden: late roses and some white thing, and something that smelled good to him. His head ached and his heart was heavy with dread, but he put on a cheerful visage when a servant opened the door to him. He was only an eager bridegroom, seeking to reassure his very young bride.

Analise's mother twittered and fussed over him, but Basilio read relief in her eye. Her papa was not at home, but Analise came down, dressed soberly in black, a fichu tucked into her bodice. "You did not receive my letter," he said.

"No. Was it important?"

He shook his head with a faint smile. "Only a greeting."

She was unhappy and shy, and he did not linger. What a coil! It made his headache worse, and by the time he returned to his own house his stomach was unsettled, and his heart was a dead rock in his chest.

Today, he would have to bid farewell to Cassandra. He could not bear it.

A young servant girl approached him, a look of apprehension on her face. "This is for you," she said, bobbing. Quickly she put the letter in his hands and scurried away.

Seeing Cassandra's writing he tore it open, his heart pounding in dread.

Dearest Basilio,

It grieves me to leave you, but this is best—a quick, sharp parting that will heal more easily than
the tearing I envision for us. I have enclosed a list of instructions for you in regard to my things
and know you will see to them carefully.

And here is my plea: marry this girl, make a life with her
—
it will not change what we have known
together. None can steal that from us. I want to think of you as happy
.

Thank you for making me brave, for returning to me my heart and soul. I will ever remember
these days in Tuscany as among the best of my life. In some ways, we have had the purest and
best of love, and should respect that.

If you care for me even a little, you will not write to me again. If you do, I will burn your letters
without reading them. Allow me my dignity in retreat. Allow this time to be unsullied in our
memories.

I will never forget you.

Cassandra

"No!" He crumbled the letter in his fist and dashed after the maid, taking her arm too fiercely. "When did she leave? With whom?"

The girl's eyes were wide with fear. "Three hours. Guilliame drove her."

"Thank you." He turned and ran toward the doors, heading for the stables to find the wagon-master. He would tell him where Cassandra had gone. Only three hours—he should be able to catch her.

His father emerged from the library, blocking his way. "Do not, Father," he said, his limbs jumping with the need to run after her before she could make this terrible mistake. "I have no will to tangle with you now."

The old man shook his head. "No, son," he said, and Basilio was startled at the use of the filial term.

He frowned, thrown off by this unexpected response. "Then stand aside sir, and allow me to go after her

—we have unresolved matters between us."

"First you must listen to me."

"And what will you tell me?" Bitterness edged his words. "I have just come from Count diCanio's house, where I gave my bride a fistful of flowers. What more do you want me to do?"

The dark eyes were grave, and Basilio unwillingly saw that the lines on his father's face had deepened.

"You have done the right thing."

"Have I?" He stepped closer. "She is a child. She does not want a husband. She wants the cloister, as she has since we were children. And I do not wish that child as my wife. It smells of disaster."

As if he had not spoken, the elder Count turned heavily to the banks of windows. "She was a great favorite of your mother's—a very pretty girl who visited you in Florence. She would have been no more than six, I suppose. You mother liked having her come to visit, for she was bright and sweet and very determined to be a nun, even when she was quite small."