[Barbara Samuel] Night of Fire(Book4You) (8 page)

"Oh," she said. "I see."

"It is entirely political. She is very young, in a convent all her life." He took a breath. "It is only that it would not be right for us, when there is nothing I can offer."

"Sssh. How rare for a man to resist physical pleasure in favor of honor." A faint smile bent her mouth. "I

find I like you all the more for it."

Honor. It tasted like the grave.

On a tiny island off the coast of Italy, a young woman knelt by her cot. Against the graying stillness of evening the song of the nuns at vespers rang out, a sound Analise diCanio found heart wrenchingly sweet.

It was the sound of peace and joy, and she longed to add her own voice to their number, singing praises to God. It was all she had ever wanted.

But it was not to be. In the morning her father would come for her, and spirit her away to their villa in Firenze, where she would begin preparations for her marriage to Count Montevarchi. She did not remember him, but her mother had written a witless letter about the young count's beauty, and the great fortune Analise had found in union with such a charming, good-looking, young, rich man. She'd blathered for so long that Analise had given up and burned the parchment in despair.

She did not wish to be wed. Ever. To anyone. From the time she was a tiny girl, she had only wanted one thing: to be a nun. To serve God as truly and honorably as she was able.

Her father said that her beauty would be wasted in a convent. Her mother said Analise could serve God as a good wife and a good mother, as Mary herself had done. Analise clutched her hands tighter and raised her eyes to the small, plain crucifix that adorned the plain white wall. She knew it was true; that she could serve in marriage, serve by mothering fine children. And if God did not take this cup from her, she would serve where she was placed.

But her heart lived here, on this island, within the cloistering walls where she had discovered the pure, simple joy of morning dew on the herb gardens she helped Sister Maria tend, where the days never varied, where the song of prayers raised in purest harmony pierced her with a joy so deep she sometimes halted, stuck dumb and dizzy by the power of it, her eyes running with tears of perfect happiness.

She did not speak aloud her certainty that she had been born to take her place in this cloister, for that was prideful and a sin, to think she knew more of her heart and her place in the world than her father.

She dared not even speak her passion aloud to the other sisters, though she suspected they knew, suspected they wished they had the power to assist her. A hand to her shoulder when her despair grew so large she could not keep it from her face; the sweet, jaunty whistle that Sister Katarina sometimes chirped for her in the gardens. They knew.

And God knew. He knew her pride and desire and therefore could not be surprised when she whispered, "I belong here. Please allow me to stay." The song of the sisters at vespers floated around her, embraced her like warm arms. "Help me."

Cassandra, made sleepy by the ocean air, retired to her chamber for a nap when they returned to the villa. Lying on her bed, she gazed through the open doors to a small balcony, admiring soft green hills like breasts against the hand of the sky. The smell of the sea came from her clothes and hair. Her limbs were lax from exercise. Sand clung to her feet, though she'd tried to brush them off before she'd climbed on to the bed. Later she would regret the grit, but now she was held by a thick inertia to her spot, head propped on a great pile of gold-fringed pillows.

There was only Basilio in her mind. Basilio laughing, so full of energy and simple happiness as he ran in the surf with a stray dog. Basilio, looking so gravely and hungrily at her when he thought she was asleep.

Basilio, bending close to put his nose against her face.

And he was betrothed. Betrothed.

It startled her how much she wanted to— what? She thought of her hands in his glossy hair, the black curling around her white fingers; thought of the shape of his head in her hands; of the way his face had looked in that moment, thick black lashes downcast, the bridge of his nose red from the sun.

She shifted, her gown swishing over the satin coverlet as she turned on her side. Until now, she'd had little understanding of desire. Perhaps it was because of her husband. Perhaps because she'd heard too much gossip, too many confessions of petty, changeable, and shallow longings. She'd watched her sister Adriana's fall to scandal in bewilderment, unable to fathom why she would risk so much for a man. Any man.

Lying now in a wash of sensory abandon, it seemed impossible that she had not felt it before, not even a tiny spark of it. She had seen it in men's eyes for her. She'd always enjoyed flirtations, finding them flattering and stimulating, especially with clever men.

But she had escaped lust till now.

Her female friends said it was because her brothers and father had set such an impossibly high standard that no other man would ever measure up. Perhaps that was true.

It was also true that she had been introduced to the physical side of love by a man with unnatural and sometimes even brutal tastes. Those memories had cured her of any leanings she might have had toward passion, any temptation she might have felt to take a lover after his death.

And today, even as she'd lifted her hand to put it in Basilio's hair, she'd known a mingling of fear and longing. How ironic that she should discover her passion with a man who was not free to help her explore it.

With a restless feeling, she got up and walked to the balcony. Leaning on the stone railing, she suddenly wished for her old Basilio back again— the lonely, middle-aged poet who'd sent Tuscan sunlight and ocean winds to her cold townhouse in London, who'd brought such music and pleasure to her unchanging world. If she had not come to Tuscany, she might have put her newly discovered bravery to another challenge: maybe written something that tested her, or taken up a new course of study. And she would still have the old Basilio.

With a hollow feeling, she rested her forehead on the backs of her hands, awash with loss.

How could she miss a man who had never existed?

But he did exist. That was the trouble. She thought of his honest eyes, the look of his teeth when he laughed, the control he exercised with her—he was all she had imagined and more.

With a start she remembered the sense of warning, of dread, she'd felt upon seeing him the first time.

Perhaps this entire journey had been a mistake for both of them. Perhaps some danger lurked in their meeting, a danger that could be avoided if she cut the visit short. Perhaps she ought to go away.

Not home—the idea of her staid little garden and staid little life and the same conversations made her shudder. Perhaps she could go on to Venice. She had come so far already—why not?

Urgently, she straightened and went back into the room and began to pull her things out. The trunk could be shipped later—for now she would bring only what she most required. The pile of his letters, bound in ribbon, her comb and brush; she tossed things into a pile, scarcely allowing herself to think, to breathe.

A knock came at the door, and inexplicably, Cassandra felt herself begin to tremble. She folded her hands and stared at the panel of oak that kept danger out, but did not answer. Perhaps whoever it was would think her sleeping and go away.

Another knock. Her fingers twisted tightly.

A letter slid under the door, making a soft swoosh. Unfrozen, Cassandra rushed to pick it up, and her hands trembled so in yearning and fear and despair that she could barely unseal the still-warm wax, marked by his ring.

His familiar elegant hand hurried across the page.

Cassandra,

It is still only you and I, here on the page. Because I know you, and your honor, I know you are
thinking now that you must leave my house.

I beg you: do not go. Stay only a day or two, as you see fit, but do not go now, before I have been
able to show you the basket of little memories I wanted to give you to take back
—
I have given
only plums and the sea. There is still the moon, and the festival in the village tonight, and the
opera, which I saved for last, a rich treat for your imagination. There is more wine to drink,
Cassandra, and laughter to share
.

Please, my friend, stay a little. We are adults of honor, and our meeting was of the minds, yes? We
shall let nothing steal that from us…

B.

She opened the door, her heart pounding, and he stood there, waiting. Even the simple sight of him, his hair tamed now, pulled away from that sculpted face, his dark eyes grave and luminous, had the power to arouse her.

She wanted to kiss him, violently. The baldness of the thought made her ears hot and she spun away toward the bed, bending jerkily to rearrange things. It made her say, "Basilio, I have enjoyed your hospitality very much, but I think it best if I go now."

He rounded the great bed and reached out, capturing the fluttering of her hand in his own. "Tomorrow is soon enough, if you must," he said. "Tonight, let me show you the village and the feast." His smile held edges of melancholy, and Cassandra was pierced that she should have put that in his heart.

Even now, when calm surrounded him like a cloak, when whatever he'd felt on the beach was carefully hidden, Cassandra felt some invisible part of herself flow forward and put ghostly hands on his cheeks, a ghostly mouth against his lips, her breasts against his chest.

Oh, this was impossible! Impossible. She swallowed, blinked the vision away. "Basilio, I—"

"Shh." Slowly, he opened his hand and flattened his palm against hers. Oddly moved by the formality of it, Cassandra met it. A promise. His palm was strong and flat, her own soft and giving, and it seemed to her that the flesh between them began to heat, to burn, as they stood there.

"Only for tonight, Cassandra," he said quietly. "
A
few hours more, that is all."

In his face she saw goodness and passion, intelligence and laughter. A traitorous thought flashed through her: she did not wish for marriage. She only wanted a lover. Why could she not take this one, where she found him, and leave before their sin could lead to pain?

Afraid to look at him and show what was in her immoral heart, she only looked at his hand, a shimmering hunger pulsing through her bones. The air around them burned. It was dangerous. There was some portent in it for them both, but she found herself nodding. "All right. I will stay another day or two."

His hand slid against hers. "You will not be sorry, my Cassandra. I promise."

She took her hand away and met his gaze soberly. "Do not promise what you cannot deliver, sir. You cannot ever know the truth in another's heart. Only your own."

"So it is," he said. Tucking his hands behind his back, he gave a short bow, and left her.

Cassandra sank down to the bed, her hands loose on her lap. Her palm burned oddly and she lifted it, expecting to see some imprint left from his flesh, but there was nothing. Only the pale white flesh of her hand, as it had always been. She closed her fingers over her palm as if to save the impression, and thought again she should have not been swayed.