The Silver Devil (43 page)

As
he turned his head, a gleam of torchlight lit his face, and I saw his
expression clearly; aloof, withdrawn, his eyes like slits of calculation. I
felt as though I watched a leopard debating his next spring, and my heart began
to beat with slow, terrified strokes. Perhaps he was tired of tormenting me
with mere indifference; perhaps he meant to give me a rival—no, a
successor—from someone among this company. It would not be for love that he
sought another partner, for no tenderness softened the cruel line of his mouth;
but he might do it for cruelty, to find an occupation for his empty hands and a
tenant for his bed. I could see the intentness on his face as he deliberately
scanned his followers.

The
dark eyes rested on Lorenzo and lingered, and my nails dug hard into my
palms—it would be fitting, I told myself, that the nephew should salve the
grief of the uncle's death. Domenico's charm would win the boy where Andrea's
blandishments failed. But I could not stay and watch it.

As
Domenico's head turned towards me, as if to savor my reaction, I scrambled to
my feet and went stumbling over the slumped bodies to the door of the room
where the horses were stalled. The hot smell and the darkness engulfed me as I
pulled it to behind me. I can stay here, I thought, all night if I must. Santi
will see what is going on and know why I could not stay in there with them. I
withdrew further into the dark, groping with outstretched hands for the
opposite wall, and then put my back against it, staring unseeingly at the light
that flickered through the cracks between the boards of the door. It would be a
very long night.

I
was still standing there when a flicker of torchlight fell across my eyes, and
I spun around, lifting my arm to shield my eyes. Behind the blaze a voice said
softly, "You did not bring a torch."

"No."
My voice was harsh with fright, wooden and sulky-sounding. "Thank
you."

"Do
you care so much for horses that you come to see them at this time of
night?"

"No,
I..." I felt as though I were suffocating. "I wanted to be
alone."

"It
is private enough here, in all conscience." There was an odd, bitter note
in Domenico's voice, and he jammed the torch into an empty sconce above his
head. The horse in the nearest stall whickered and stamped restlessly, but he
did not even glance at it. I could feel his eyes on me and instinctively drew
back into the deepest shadow.

"Come
here."

An
undercurrent of impatience stirred in his level tone, and his shadow crossed
the band of yellow torchlight towards me. I stood rigid, my voice choked in my
throat, as his fingers touched my cheek, traced the line of my jaw and the side
of my neck, lingering on the pulse that thundered there. I caught my breath as
he loomed so torturingly close: then I glimpsed, between his impossible lashes,
a glint of the expression in his eyes. It was boredom; a black, corroding
disgust and boredom.

In
a spasm of shock I wrenched myself away, evading the touch of his fingers as
though it burned me. His mind was still with the dead; all he wanted was a
human body to charm his senses into oblivion, and I would rather he ignored me,
I thought wildly, than took me out of loathing, as a thing to minister to the
need of his body and nothing more. I had to escape the spell of his voice and
his touch, because he cared no more for me" than he would for a mouthful
of food....

With
every nerve in my body aching to give him what he demanded, I ducked under his
outstretched arm and flung myself towards the door that led to outside, into
the silent farmyard. It creaked open, and I was almost out into the freedom of
the blanching moonlight when his hand gripped my shoulder, his fingers digging
harshly into my flesh. He came up behind me with one silent pace, dragging my
body back against the hardness of his with brutal, inescapable insistence.

With
a cry I struggled and then relaxed against him, too dazed to reason; then both
his hands were on my shoulders and he was spinning me to face him, pushing me
back against the doorjamb so that he could see me in the moonlight. I stared up
at him helplessly; then slowly the strength ebbed from his grip, and his hands
lay on my shoulders like dead things.

He
said at last, in a queer gray voice, "You are dead. They told me you were
dead."

I
could only say, "Not I, Your Grace. Ippolito."

"You
were with him. I sent him back for you."

I
remembered Ippolito's relief when he saw me; how he had ceased to talk of his
unfulfilled errand and spoke only of following the duke. Then
I
had been
the cause of that burst of virulent fury on the battlements of Fidena — and
could I have been part of the cause of this savage, wordless grief?

I
said, "He was killed helping me. I told you."

He
shook his head. "I have not spoken with you."

"I
brought you the news of Ippolito's death. You spoke to me then."

"I
did not know you. I only heard someone saying that Ippolito was dead, and that
he was alone when he died—I thought the Spanish had taken you and killed you
when they had done."

I
said unsteadily, "I have ridden at your back these three days," and
he shook his head again as though he were dazed, his hands tightening
agonizingly on my shoulders.

"If
it is the devil's work, I do not care. If some coven has raised you from the
dead, I will be damned again for this night's work." He spoke so softly I
could barely hear him, the words coming feverishly. His eyes were blazing black
in his intent face as they studied every detail of mine, lingering greedily on
my lips. I felt his arm slide behind me and pull me close, and then with an almost
animal groan of "Felicia..." he bent his head and kissed me
ravenously.

I
was whimpering, half with pleasure and half with pain, when he lifted his head
at last. His hand went to the neck of my doublet; then he looked up suddenly
past me. I felt a rush of cool air against my face, and the next thing I knew
he had half pulled, half carried me into the ruined farmhouse, where the
moonlight checkered its rubble-strewn floor.

The
broken tiles were cold under my back as I felt him undoing the strings which
fastened my doublet and shirt, and his mouth was warm against my breasts like a
hungry child's. I moaned, clawing at his shoulders through the padded tunic,
and he made a sudden sound of impatience and began tearing at the buckles,
swearing viciously under his breath.

Our
skins clung where they touched, sticky with grime, but I held him as
desperately as he held me. The rubble on which we lay, the cold and the smell
of stale sweat—nothing mattered but the urgency of our need for each other. I
lay with my body arched and my legs apart while his kisses invaded and
possessed me, his hands exploring and stroking my thighs. My fingers were
caressing the back of his neck as he raised his head, running lovingly down his
forearms as he knelt over me, his body shining silver with sweat in the
moonlight, like a god's. Behind his head I could see the stars, so cold and
remote compared with the fierce hunger that was taking possession of me.

A
sudden hard thrust and his face blotted out the star-filled sky. We lay locked
together like one single, straining, softly groaning animal; the two-backed
beast, spending its strength upon itself and glorying in the spoil. I forgot
that there was anything else in the world; there was only his strength pulsing
through me, his body like a living wall around me, and the frightening and
wonderful knowledge that, after so long parting, at this moment he was mine and
no one else could lay claim to him. I dreaded the moment when we must separate,
but he lifted me and held me against him so that there was no breaking apart,
only the piercing warmth and a hurting, wonderful -completeness.

When
I slid back to the ground at last the stars seemed paler in the sky. My
breathing was shallow and rhythmic, and my fingers felt foolishly soft and relaxed
as I reached up to touch him.

"Am
I dead, Your Grace?"

He
caught his breath. "No." Then his eyes, scanning me watchfully,
narrowed; one white hand came out and touched the ground beside my head.
"You have cut your hair."

"I
had to," I retorted, startled. "A page with hair as long as mine
would have made a blind man suspicious."

"Why
come as a page?" His voice hardened. "I still have power enough to
protect my mistress."

"I
did not know you still wanted me. I thought you meant to leave me behind in
Fidena and that I must fend for myself."

"Yet
you came." It was the merest breath.

"At
Ippolito's bidding. He sent me after you."

There
was a short silence, and then Domenico said, "My good Ippolito!" in a
tone that was half-tender and half-bitter; it was as if he mocked himself for
his own memories. Then he said in an altered voice, "And you have ridden
among these vassals of mine for three days, and none of them recognized
you?"

"Santi
knows," I answered and was startled by the look on his face.

"Santi!
That..."

I
interrupted quickly, "He helped me keep my secret from the others. I would
never have contrived but for him."

"And
what payment did he ask for this favor?"

"None,"
I returned steadily, "and he saved me from the importuning of Andrea
Regnovi last night."

Domenico
stiffened. "Andrea?"

"Yes.
My disguise was too good—he thought I was a boy." And then the long strain
snapped and I lay laughing in sheer golden relief, with Domenico at first
startled and then beginning to laugh too, and silencing my laughter with his
lips so that both of us sank back again and the cause of our laughter was
forgotten.

There
was a wind running before the sun as I limped back through the horses' unlit
stalls; the unfastened door was banging, slowly and monotonously, until I pulled
it to behind me. I groped my way back to the inner door and into the room where
the men lay sleeping, dark shapeless bundles like old clothes strewn on the
floor. My eyes were accustomed to the dark, and I trod softly through them, my
feet finding tiny spaces between the humped bodies, until I saw where Santi had
spread his cloak for me. I lay down with a little sigh of thankfulness, so
tired that my eyes shut of their own accord, and the shadow that passed me,
soft-footed as a cat, seemed like a part of a dream.

Someone
was shaking me, and I murmured protestingly, burying my face deeper in the
cloak. Someone gripped my arm and pulled roughly.

"Hurry
up, young sluggard, or you'll be left behind!"

I
blinked drowsily and peered up into Santi's dark-browed face. His expression
did not match his sharp words. I wondered hazily why I should feel so tired;
then I moved, reluctantly, and had to bite back a cry. Santi said, "What
is it?" and I shook my head, folding my lips tight.

I
had not known so much pain since the first time, when I had woken torn and
bruised and still bleeding sluggishly. When I got to my feet it was slowly, as
though I had been beaten.

Santi
was watching me carefully, and I knew that the blood was rising in my cheeks as
memories of the night before came flooding back. He gripped my elbow as though
to hurry me and said in a low voice, "I saw you come back last night. Is
all well?"

I
nodded. "I think so, messire. For the moment."

"Good,"
he returned, releasing my arm, "but keep your collar well fastened to hide
those marks." Then he turned his back on me and went away, scowling as
though he had been berating a lazy stable lad in the Palazzo della Raffaelle.

I
crept through the motions of saddling and bridling like a snail, and once or
twice Lorenzo glanced at me in impatient contempt. But gradually as I worked,
the pain abated, until at last I was moving freely; it was only pressure on my
love-punished flesh that still hurt me, and that I could bear. I could not
quite suppress a gasp as I landed in the saddle, and one or two heads turned at
the soft sound—Domenico's, his veiled eyes lit by a suspicion of teasing
laughter, and Andrea's, quick and vigilant. I saw his gaze go from me to the
duke and comprehension followed by a smothered leer cross his girlish features:
well, I thought, there is one who has guessed something. I pray God he has not
guessed it all.

As
the horses clattered out of the farmyard, Domenico twisted in the saddle,
summoning me to his side with a swift flick of his fingers. My cheeks burned; I
had hoped that he would leave me in oblivion at the back of the troop, but I
should have known better. He had flaunted me before his court as his mistress,
and even now he could not resist showing me off as his minion to these poor
remains of his followers. I could hear the nudges and the amused whispers as I
pressed my horse forward.

Baldassare
fell back to let me reach Domenico's side. The duke leaned over lithely, and
his gloved fingers brushed the side of my face where he had left a bruise,
half-hidden by the short strands of my hair.

"Did
you have good rest last night, good boy?"