Sometime later, Alessa glanced up to discover Attilo gone. She searched about, but he was nowhere to be found. Oh Lord, if Benito found out she was alone…
“Attilo!” Where was he?
Alessa drifted away, thinking her cousin had hung back behind the gathering. She looked down one street, then swung her gaze up another. The tall buildings eclipsed the late afternoon light, leaving the streets in shadows. She passed a water carrier who balanced a wood bar across his shoulders and supported a heavy water bucket at each end. He handed her a ladle.
“Drink, signorina?”
Seeing the rusted ladle, Alessa declined politely.
Nearby, one of the gates led to the environs blanketed with lush greenery and trees of many kinds, and castles and estates the likes of which she had seen in Florence. She wondered if nobles lived in those castles. Perhaps a king, or a wealthy landowner looking for a wife.
Or Dante Santangelo? He had mentioned his family’s holdings outside the inner city. She strained to see between the iron bars. She thought about joining the vendors filing out of the city, but, fearing Benito’s ugly wrath, she’d not leave Attilo to explain how he lost her again.
She started back toward the storyteller. Confusion rippled across her brow. He was gone. So was the crowd. Now she wasn’t sure on which corner they had gathered.
Down a lonely street, she noticed a strolling musician. He beckoned in her direction. Alessa twisted left then right, thinking he meant another, but no one was close by. In fact, only a few stragglers remained on the city streets.
“Me?” she asked, pointing a finger to her chest.
The musician’s whimsical smile captured her attention. He glowed, as she imagined an angel would. One more glance over her shoulder convinced Alessa she was truly lost. Perhaps the musician knew the way back to her cousins’ home.
“Your pardon, sir.” He kept moving farther down the ever darkening street. The closer she got, the more aware she was of the terribly tall buildings. They resembled hideous ogres standing ominously over an innocent lamb.
Alessa shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. A haze drifted in, like the mist rolling off the sea. If only the musician would stop long enough to hear her out.
Finally, she caught up to him, amazed to find a boy no older than Attilo beneath the coarse robe. He stood a head taller than she and was just as lean. He suffered from skin rashes, but his soulful eyes drew her into their black depths. Then she realized he wasn’t as young as she first thought. He had seen things with those eyes, knew things she prayed he’d never share. She closed her eyes briefly to block out his troubling mien. Then as if she had been dreaming, he was gone.
“Is this a game?” She turned sharply, looking up and down the street. She searched the empty arches leading to homes. There was no place for him to hide. More than that, how in God’s name had he disappeared, as if he’d been a…ghost?
Suddenly fearful, Alessa retraced her steps over the cobblestone. Naught looked the same. The heavens grew increasingly darker. Disoriented, she wandered aimlessly. Her hands trembled. Her legs did the same, until her entire body shivered as if she’d been left unclothed in the dead of winter.
Running now, the stones biting into the soft soles of her shoes, she tried to focus on something more pleasant. To her dismay, the image of the tutor’s scowling face loomed up, as dark as the sky closing in around her. Whatever he was trying to say, she couldn’t hear his voice. Winds gained in strength. Thunder rumbled overhead, sounding like a horse’s hooves over the cobblestone.
Out of nowhere, someone snatched her off her feet. Her heart raced against the tight band squeezing her ribs. Her middle gave under a sharp pain, stealing her breath.
Lifted higher, Alessa feared her bones would snap. Into the darkness, she rode on the neck of a horse galloping fast and hard. Strangely, she remained secure in the arms of a man she could not see. Was he another ghost? Had her imagination finally driven her over the edge of reality?
Chapter Six
“Unhand me!” Alessa shouted, fearing a French soldier had swept her off the street. If only she knew how to say it in French.
Adding to her misery, rain started to fall. Drops as large as grapes crashed onto her back. It wasn’t long before the heavens opened up with a torrential downpour, soaking her to the bone. Despite her sodden clothing hampering her movements, she found the courage to fight, pounding her fists on the man’s arm. And in spite of her precarious perch, she flailed and twisted. A muffled curse exploded above her head. The man flipped her onto her stomach to stop her brave attempts to get away.
Just when she feared her ribs were about to shatter, the horse ceased its swift gait. Of a sudden, she slid downward, guided by a strong hand grasping her upper arm. Worried the stranger might lose his grip and drop her, Alessa clutched at whatever was close in hand, anything to keep her from falling to the hard cobblestone. Her fingers closed around something brittle. It wasn’t what she hoped for, and she landed on her backside in a puddle of water at the entrance to Fabroni’s shop.
Shivering, she clenched her teeth and struggled to stand. She endeavored to untangle the mess of wet hair from her face. Every breath she took intensified the pain in her ribs, but she was determined to learn the identity of her abductor.
“Almighty! What manner of beast are you?” she shouted above the storm’s fury when finally she pushed the last of her hair aside. Shielding her eyes from the unrelenting raindrops, she gawked up at the dark-cloaked figure. When he pushed his hood back, Alessa gasped.
The tutor’s eyes glowed hotly through the cold. “You be the judge, mademoiselle.”
Alessa stumbled backward and bumped into the door. The gentleman her cousin had spoken of was gone, replaced by a demon more frightening than any she conjured up in her head.
“Why did you not identify yourself before snatching my feet from the ground and brutally handling me upon your horse?”
“Better me than a Frenchman,” came his forceful reply. He threw his leg over the flank of the fine animal and dismounted. “What will it take for you to learn the dangers a woman faces while walking alone in Naples? Did you know where you were?”
Between her aching ribs and the tutor’s misplaced rage, Alessa’s own fury rose. “As my tutor, your rights do not exceed teaching me French.”
He struggled with his mouth, as if he knew not whether to keep silent or speak. His gaze dropped then. Alessa followed his lead, at first baffled by what caused the sudden lustful burning in his eyes. Her cloak had folded behind her, and her wet clothing conformed to the contours of her body. Imagination be damned. Every bit of her was boldly outlined.
She held her breath when the tutor’s hand reached around her arm to release the latch and swing open the door. The meager touch of interior heat instantly warmed her back, but it was the tutor’s piercing look that thawed the chill from the rest of her.
“Take heed, Signorina Podesta. I may be your tutor, but I am not beyond teaching you more than French.”
Alessa shivered from his inference, a suggestion her overactive mind easily enveloped. She wasn’t so dimwitted she didn’t realize what he meant. Biting back the lingering pain, she bowed in a deep curtsey, mocking the man and his propriety. Her knees wobbled and threatened to buckle as she stepped into the shop.
“My liege, I shall heed your deserved warning.”
His low-pitched snarl prompted her to quit jesting and show respect. She appreciated his protection, and she shouldn’t have carelessly tossed it back in his face. A face connected to a body ready to pounce.
With a flick of her wrist, she swung the door between them, relieved when she heard the latch click. That should prevent him from wringing her neck. Pray he didn’t barge through the portal, for she’d not escape his clutches with her sopping wet clothes clinging to her legs.
The thrill of the tutor’s rescue sank in. She had been at his mercy, yet he brought her home. A gentleman, indeed. But the da
rk, unfathomable lust in his eyes reminded her that Dante Santangelo was a mortal man, not immune to temptations of the flesh.
“Oh, Lord,” Alessa moaned. The mere act of breathing beleaguered her with another sharp pain. Pressing a hand to her ribs, she turned for the stairs and shrieked. “Almighty!”
Across the cluttered shop, the entire Valente family lined up behind Fabroni’s workbench. Attilo was there, too, and nary a mark could she see on his face. Pray Benito spared the boy his wrath.
She met the sternness in Fabroni’s eyes and her heart beat a little faster. “I fear I lost my way.” She hoped to quell the rancor before either he or Benito shattered into rage.
Fabroni slammed his hand on the table. His lips compressed far tighter than Alessa believed lips could. Their bloodless line drew her wary attention. She attempted to explain further, but her words became lost when Benito stormed around the table. Her heart pounded heavier than his footfalls. Her hands shot up in defense, covering her face against his fists. She hated cowering or quivering like a frightened rabbit cornered by a hunter. The truth was, she hated pain even more.
“Stop!” Fabroni shouted. His deepened voice resonated to the far corners of the workshop. “Do not lay a hand on her in anger, Benito. I’ll not explain to her father how she came by your abuse.”
Peeking through two fingers, Alessa stared, paralyzed, at the sight of a livid Benito just a few steps away. Her hands trembled as she lowered them to her still smarting ribs. With care, she inhaled and stopped the tears accumulated behind her eyes from falling. But she screamed anew when Benito shoved her aside and yanked open the door.
Attilo came to her rescue and helped her close the heavy door against the sudden strong wind and slanting rain. Her teeth chattered, despite the warm shop.
“May I change into dry clothing before you lecture me?” she asked Fabroni.
“Amalia will see you upstairs and help you into dry clothing. Then I will have words with you.”
****
The candlelight flickered on the table beside her bed where Alessa huddled in dry clothing and a blanket to ward off the icy air. Her knees drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them, she rocked back and forth, waiting, wondering when Amalia would return to fetch her and take her down to face Fabroni’s ire. No longer did she fear physical punishment from her cousin. So far he hadn’t displayed a violent side. Not once did he raise a hand to his wife, and Alessa never saw evidence to say he did so in the privacy of their bedchamber.
A fierce shiver wracked her body, jarring her tender ribs. She could not get warmed and gave a longing look at the dark hearth and unburned logs. She had a mind to set them ablaze herself, if she wasn’t already in trouble aplenty. She’d not let herself fall completely out of Fabroni’s good graces. Another might have already returned her to her father. Fabroni, although flustered, was determined to change her before he sent her home.
At the moment, Alessa had a more pressing matter on her mind. She snuck her hand from beneath the blanket and stared at the rolled missive. She had grabbed it when she tried to save herself from falling off the tutor’s horse. The tightly rolled parchment was so small, all of it fit in her hand. To Alessa’s dismay, it was written entirely in French.
The chamber door opened with the slightest groan. She shoved the missive down her bodice for safekeeping. Until she determined its contents, she’d not condemn the tutor. Neither would she mention the note to her cousins. Their dislike for the French would not bode well for Signor Santangelo, more so because Benito already denounced the man for his knowledge of the enemy language.
Attilo poked his head in, and his wary gaze turned surly. “Come with me.”
Alessa slid off the bed, tossed the blanket aside and held her hand flat against her stomach to quell its nervous motion. In the great room, her cousin stood alone beside a blazing fire. Her gaze veered to the enormous flames, their heat bathing the room and enveloping her like a hug from her mother.
“May I move closer?”
Fabroni nodded.
“Shall I sit?” she asked, wishing her nervous stomach would settle down.
“Sit or stand. Either way, you will hear what I have to say.”
She preferred the advantage of being on her feet. Sitting while she endured a scolding always made her feel small and vulnerable.
“I do not approve of the freedom your father has allowed you. I believe it is the reason misdeeds follow you.”
Misdeeds? She’d ask him to clarify what he meant but the serious set of his features told her further inquiries wouldn’t be appropriate until he had his say.
“I have decided to marry you off posthaste.”
“You cannot! My father would never approve,” Even though Fabroni had previously said her father gave him permission, she hadn’t believe his threat. And she certainly wouldn’t fall for it now.
“A messenger rode out of Naples with a note to your father about your forthcoming nuptials.”
The color drained from her face, leaving her cheeks cool to the touch. “I’ll not agree to a marriage.”
“You have little say, Alessandra. Given your improper writings and your propensity for wandering about the city alone, it is for your own protection to have a husband to guide you.”
She was too shocked to cry. Too daunted to make him see her position on marriage. So she demurred from further comment, but she wasn’t giving in. “I would grant but one request. I ask that my nuptials be delayed until my mother and father arrive.”
His lips pursed in thought. “Whether or not you are married before their arrival depends upon you. Should you misbehave again, I will marry you off in a heartbeat.” Fabroni started to walk away, then paused. “Beginning on the morrow, Amalia will teach you every aspect of woman’s work. I suggest you pay attention, Alessandra.”
“May I inquire about the man you have chosen?” Would it be the tutor?
He turned to the stairs.
“Am I to know his identity?”
“In good time. Now do not bother me on the matter any further.”
Sinking into a chair, Alessa’s fight slipped away. At least he granted her request to have her parents present. She knew her father would immediately put an end to Fabroni’s rash decision. She prayed with little hope she’d not anger her cousin again.
****
Dante scowled at the captain. He was exasperated enough to have lost the king’s message. Did he have to stand and listen to Etienne’s tirade as well?
“Come morning, I will retrace my path,” Dante said.
“What hope have you of finding the missive? Between the people treading about the streets and the rain….” The captain wagged his head. “Pray it did not fall into the wrong hands.”
“Oui.”
“Why did you not read it immediately?” Etienne questioned.
“To have you rant about how I usurp your authority should my eyes be the first upon a message from King Rene?”
“You never abide my rules. Why now?”
Frustration lit a fire beneath Dante’s anger. He could argue with Etienne until the first light of dawn. Or he could walk away and castigate himself for his carelessness. He thought the message would be safe tucked away in a pocket sewn inside his cloak. He still couldn’t figure out how it had fallen out.
Dante stared off at the erratic flames in the hearth. They were in the captain’s private quarters in one of the many buildings the French had taken over. This particular business district housed lowly merchants who sold their goods on the streets. None had shops on the first floor of their homes. Many entertained two to three generations of family under one roof. Of the displaced merchants who were forced from their home, King Rene had generously set them up in another part of town among the slightly better class of merchants.
Cold and wet to the bone, Dante felt miserable. Naught would come of his clashing words with the captain, so he appeased the man. “I will search for the missive at the first light of day.�
�
“Pray you find it, Dante, else this will not fare well for you.”
Etienne’s threats didn’t frighten him. Rene trusted his loyalty. Yet he prayed the message was not found by a Spanish sympathizer. No matter that it was written in French, there were ways to have it translated.
Worst of all, Dante did not cherish being responsible for the downfall of Naples.
Chapter Seven
Alessa crawled across her bed and collapsed. She wanted no more of Amalia’s lessons in woman’s work. She’d had enough of mending clothes, cleaning out the main room’s hearth, sweeping floors, and preparing the daily meals. Her fingers were worn and dry, cracked and bleeding around the nails from the harsh lye soap. Her back was tight, and her legs were too weak to hold up her petite body.
Back home, her mother never forced work upon her. Although their servants did most of the chores, her mother helped out. Perhaps it was true; she was spoiled. That was the way of it with her. Besides, she was more suited to writing than to becoming a scullery maid for the sake of a man’s happiness.
Sitting up, she stared into the semi-darkness. What remained of the late afternoon sun barely crept through the slim spaces of the closed and bolted window shutters. Fabroni had nailed them secure the night she got lost in the storm. He may have stopped her from climbing out the window, but he couldn’t stop her from conjuring up ways to escape his home.
Worst of all, Fabroni ceased her French lessons until she proved worthy of grasping the chores assigned to her. Three days of confinement made her as restless as a caged animal. Her lungs begged for fresh air as much as she craved mingling with the town’s people, to observe and spin what she saw into stories.
Alessa laid back and stared up at the whitewashed ceiling. Above all, she needed to see Signor Santangelo. Not because she missed his handsome face and the unusual color of his eyes. And not because she loved watching his very kissable lips when he spoke. What she had in her possession was most important. The tutor, no doubt, overturned his world searching for the missive.
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