by Renee Rose
He found he could say nothing more. They ate the rest of their meal in a strangled silence, the sounds of chewing and spoons scraping the terracotta plates echoed, becoming louder and louder until they seemed almost deafening. Startling. He shoveled the remainder of his scrambled egg into his mouth and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He pushed his chair back to leave, its scrape another sound that overpowered the room. Nodding at her, though she did not look up, he threw his napkin on his chair and left the villa.
Outside, the sun warmed the tiles, and he walked toward the vineyard to think. Seeing Lucia like that—so injured and fragile, all his resolve to establish his expectations with her had dissolved. He had not imagined she would suffer so much, and it made his heart ache to think he had caused it. He was torn by a desire to go and take her into his arms and soothe her, and his previous intent, which was to carefully explain his logic of the situation to her. He paced through the vineyards, not seeing the plants or their fruit, simply taking step after step as his mind and his heart wove around in separate directions.
His mind won the war. He would very gently explain things to her. He would help her to see it was not an affront to her, but simply a right he planned to exercise on occasion. Resolved, he headed back toward the villa, finding he had walked the distance of several acres.
* * *
How could she return to the dining table and sit across from her husband, as if nothing had happened? She had heard him in there last night. And Ana had confirmed it. He'd taken a puttana. In his own chamber. She felt as if she had died, and her life had stopped completely. Or mayhap she simply wished it. This was not the marriage she had envisioned. Nor was it the one she thought she shared with her husband. This was somebody else's life. She remembered what the chambermaid had said about his first wife and couldn't help but sympathize.
The helplessness of her situation overwhelmed her. She could rant and rave—express the anger that was beginning to boil up within her, but to what end? This was the man with whom she must spend the rest of her life. Her father would not accept her back into his home, not even considering the way her husband had disgraced her. He would tell her it was her cross to bear.
And she could withhold what little she had from Marco—sex or her wine-making knowledge, but again, to what end? To live out her years in a miserable stand-off with him? Or worse, to be put aside, to a nunnery or a dowager's cottage somewhere? No, she must speak to him about this. To explain to him why she could not accept it.
She sat down to lunch with him with resolve, her jaw set so hard her teeth ached.
"My lady."
"My lord."
"You seemed upset this morning. Is there anything you'd like to discuss?"
"Why yes, my lord," she said with exaggerated politeness."I wish you to know I consider it to be a mortal sin to fornicate with whores."
Marco sat back, his face hardening. "A sin?"
"That's right," she snapped. "I'm sure the bishop could fill you in on the reasons why it is considered so."
"My lady," he said firmly. "I am the lord and master of this villa, and I shall entertain myself as I please. It is not for you to set limits upon my pleasure."
To hell with restraining her anger. She snatched her plate of pasta up from the table and stood up, heaving it straight at his head. It hit its mark with a sickening thud. Shock and anger registered on Marco's face and, terrified, she turned and ran away as if her life depended upon it.
She heard footsteps running behind her and then Marco's stern bark, "Go to my chambers."
Her steps faltered, the authority of his tone making it difficult to disobey. She glanced back. Marco had stopped running and stood at the end of the corridor, watching her.
She wanted to race out the villa doors and keep on running, straight to Florence. But that would just make it worse. There was no escaping the punishment that would soon come thundering down on her, sure as the sun would set. Making him give chase just might bring it down on her in front of the entire villa. She veered toward the stairs and ran up them two at a time, scarcely seeing through her tears. She slammed the door to his chamber after she went inside, knowing full well it was ill-advised.
The tears wouldn't stop. She felt nauseous. Marriage was terrible. Horrible. The worst thing that had ever happened to her. She had to live the rest of her life with this man, listening as he entertained whores in his bedroom at all hours of the night, as was his so-called 'right.' And what did he expect her to do? Sit around meekly and be grateful she had a fancy title now?
The door opened, and she stopped the wild pacing about the room to take in the visage of her husband who stood larger than life in the doorway. There was vermicelli still stuck to his shirt, which was smeared with tomato sauce. His head was cut and bleeding from where the plate had struck him, and from the look of it, would soon sport a huge bruise. His face was grim. He picked up his leather razor strap.
She set her jaw and clamped down on her emotions to shut off the tears.
"Take off your clothes and bend over the bed."
Go to hell. But she was unable to defy him directly. Instead, she tore off her clothes as if they represented the marriage, throwing them across the room. It was a childish act of defiance, but it made her feel better. She shucked the chemise a little more reluctantly, glaring at a space on the floor in front of her, her breath short with anger and fear. She wore trewes stuffed with rags to staunch the flow of her monthly courses. Should she take them off? Should she ask him?
She took a breath. "My lord, I—"
"Take it all off. Now." His voice was hard-edged.
"But I—"
"I said now."
She cursed her hands for trembling so badly as she slowly bared herself completely for her punishment. She didn't look at him, though she was sure she could feel his eyes watching her. She bent over the edge of the bed where at least she could hide her face from him. She was humiliated by the thought that he might see blood between her thighs. And he did.
"Oh." The hard edge was gone from his tone. "I see," he sighed. "Is that what you were trying to tell me?"
She nodded into the bed covers.
"I'm sorry."
She burrowed her head deeper into the quilt on the bed, too embarrassed to speak. She heard him sigh again and then without any warning, felt the crack of the strap across her tender bottom. He applied it with vigor and aim, making stripes all the way down until he struck the sensitive flesh at the backs of her thighs, then he whipped his way back up again.
She held her breath, keeping her tears locked in her throat. She would not apologize or beg. He could whip her until she died, for all she cared. And it seemed he might, as he continued to smart her agonized flesh with his strap. The way he flicked it at the end of his swing caused a painful sting as it welted the surface of her bottom, while the force he used ground the pain in deeper, already creating a throbbing ache. She held a mouthful of the quilt between her teeth.
At last the spanking stopped and he spoke. "You're angry about last night."
Tears wet her lashes as the torrent of emotion in her crested. Somewhere, some part of her felt satisfied with that statement of fact he'd just made. Yes. She damned well was angry about last night. At least they both could agree on that.
"Angry or not, you may not disrespect me like that. Do you understand?"
She choked on a sob, no longer able to hold it in.
"I need you to answer me."
Never.
Another sigh. She flinched in anticipation of the next stroke, but felt only a gentle hand on her back. "Lucia, I'm quite certain I can outlast you at this." It was a threat, but his voice was regretful.
She cried, still trying to hold it in, so it created a wild sort of rhythm—the intake of breath fighting with the out-take, with some crazed hiccupping in between.
"Listen, I know I hurt you and that's making you stubborn. Just tell me you understand, and we can move on to discussing the heart of the matt
er."
Never. She felt his fingers burrow into her hair and she tensed, waiting for him to use it to lift her head. But instead, they withdrew again.
"Lucia." He sounded exasperated, almost sorry. He sighed. "Your choice."
She heard the whistle of the belt swinging an instant before she felt the crack of pain it lit again on her blistered backside. Slowly, steadily, he applied the strap to one cheek and then the other, striking the place where she sat over and over again as her legs danced around, trying to move away from the pain he inflicted. She was close to breaking. Already, she was begging him to stop in her head, though her lips still refused to speak to him.
He stopped on his own. "Yes, my lord are the words that will make it stop." There was no anger she could hear in his voice. Disappointment, yes. Maybe even sadness.
He snapped the strap across the backs of her legs twice more before she screamed, then sobbed, "Yes, my lord." Her sobs continued, and now that she was broken, the words she'd been holding back tumbled out. With an element of babbling she continued repeating herself, "Yes, my lord. Yes, my lord. Yes, my lord. I understand.... I will respect you...."
"Shh." He touched her back. Dimly, she was aware of him pressing something soft between her legs— must be the rags—oh the humiliation of it! He picked her up and walked on his knees to the head of the bed, where he leaned his back against the wall and held her, curled in his arms.
She sobbed into his chest for a long time. The tears wouldn't stop flowing, nor could she slow the frantic heaving of her ragged breath and moans. She was too exhausted to even try to recover her emotions. It was like the draining of a sieve—a steady, inevitable pouring of emotion that will always find a way out. Marco didn't say a word, but his hands were gentle on her—he stroked her back, her hair, her arms.
It was comforting. Deeply comforting, she realized, as her sobs subsided into terraced breaths, and she became more aware of her situation. The man who had caused her such pain—both emotional and physical, was the same who now soothed her. Though her mind rebelled at that, her body would not have parted from his for anything in the world.
At last, she pulled her cheek away from his chest and found a piece of vermicelli stuck to it. She peeled it off and threw it on the floor, daring to dart a quick glance at Marco. He was studying her with a look of concern. Her eye caught, she couldn't look away now, and he stroked her hair out of her eyes and caressed her cheek softly with his thumb.
"I'm sorry I hurt you, cara mia. It was not intentional. I promise you, I will never be so careless with your heart again."
She couldn't breathe as the world swooped around her, and she tried to orient herself to the words he had just spoken. And though she'd been quite certain she had cried every last tear her body could hold, she found she was wrong. A fresh batch made its way down her cheeks, the shaky breaths starting up automatically to support them. Not wishing to cry anymore, she groaned and pressed her face into his messy shoulder again. He wrapped his large palm behind her head and used it to press her even closer to him.
"I know, tesoro mio," he murmured. "I hurt you. I want you to know it was not meant to be an insult, or a rejection, or any reflection on you at all. I was just...exercising my rights." She felt him shrug as he spoke the last words. She found she did not feel angry at that statement. Just tired. Overwhelmingly exhausted with the whole situation.
"I underestimated the effect it would have on you, cara, and for that I am truly sorry. It was most certainly a mistake."
Her world swung around again, but when it righted itself, she felt better. His words were a healing balm to her raw emotions. He understood. He seemed to know the magnitude of her distress. He admitted he'd acted in error. And he apologized. It was everything she had needed to hear, but had never expected from him. Why could he not have said this at the table? Before she'd thrown the damn plate that caused her such a blistering?
"Look at me, piccola."
She peeled her face off his stained shoulder and met his eyes.
"Give your heart to me again, and I promise I will treat it with the respect and honor your love deserves."
She caught her breath. A tear rolled out of the corner of her eye, and she brushed it impatiently with the back of her hand. Her throat tightened, and she could not speak. Instead, she simply nodded.
Marco bent to kiss her forehead. "Thank you."
She reached up to lightly touch the cut on his head. "I'm sorry."
"It's forgiven," he said immediately. As if reminded he'd already exacted payment from her backside for it, he ran his hand lightly across her welted skin, then patted her there gently. She curled in tightly to him, not wanting to ever be separated from his body again.
Chapter Four
The smell of the water in Venice was foul. Even in the evening, the heat made him sweat under his collar. From his gondola, he had an excellent view of all the ladies who were more than likely working that night. He looked to see if any of them caught his eye. Having given his word to Lucia that he would not offend her with his whoring, his trip to Venice provided the means to satisfy his habits without hurting her.
He'd done his best to reassure her after they'd had it out. Instead of his usual disappearing act, he'd attended her in the vineyards, taken walks with her in the evenings and had asked her to show him the changes she'd made decorating the villa. He'd invited her to sleep with him in his bed, despite the fact she still had her monthly courses, giving her the closeness she seemed to need.
In retrospect, he'd regretted whipping her until she'd submitted. She'd been upset and with good cause. And while it was necessary to punish her behavior, he should have allowed more for her stubbornness.
But he hadn't wanted to let her up when she was still angry, or she'd have been even more resentful than when they started. Now it seemed to him that taking a break, or even talking things through while she was still in position, might have been more productive. In the end, he'd apologized for whipping her too long, and she seemed to have forgiven him, as she was even more sweet and submissive than ever before he left.
"Buonasera, Signore," one of the puttanas called out to him. Her dress was a gaudy blue, and the paint on her lips too red. But she would do. He gestured to the gondolier, and he poled the gondola over to the side of the canal. Marco stood up, balancing himself to hand the woman down into the canal boat.
She purred, making inane conversation with him as her hands slid over his chest, up and down his thigh and along his arm. He gave the gondolier directions to his apartments and closed his eyes, trying to remember how he used to feel when he was about to bed a whore. Because at the moment, the only feeling he could dredge up was obligation. But to whom? Himself? He supposed to her, because she expected payment now.
The sex was uneventful. She was artful, practiced, and even attractive, and he came twice under her ministrations. He sent her off with a few coins and the promise he'd send for her again during his stay in Venice. Then he poured himself a glass of wine and drank it all down at once. He poured another. It was a Dante wine. Of course.
Why had bedding a whore been so important to him? What had he gained? An orgasm, sure. That always satisfies on some level. But what was the real itch he was scratching?
This was about exercising his rights, his freedom. This was really about the unspoken quarrel he'd always had with his first wife, Isabella. He was the man, the master, and he could choose to entertain himself as he pleased. Whether she'd liked it or not.
Except he really wasn't pleased. And this was a secret from Lucia, so he wasn't proving a point or teaching her a lesson. He was trying to prove something to himself, it seemed. He threw back the second glass of wine and poured a third. Hell. He didn't need to do this.
He left Venice with a sour taste in his mouth. He had admitted to himself he'd rather be with Lucia. He wanted to see her bright eyes and dimpled smile. He wanted her long slender arms twined around his neck, her head thrown back, eyes rolling. He wanted t
o hear her moaning his name when she came.
When the carriage finally arrived back at his villa, he found his eyes scanning the property for her. She didn't hear him return, else she certainly would have greeted him at the front door, like Pedro. "Where is my lady?" he inquired, accepting a glass of wine from a servant.
"Outside, on the terrace, I believe, my lord. Shall I fetch her?"
He waved Pedro away. "Thank you, no. I'll go myself."
She was not on the terrace. Nor in the vineyard, that he could see. He walked around to the garden, but she was not there, either. As he walked back toward the terrace, the door to the shed burst open and Lucia came flying out of it, clutching the bodice of her dress and looking flushed. As he started to call to her, he froze. Standing in the doorway to the shed stood Arturo, looking as disheveled as Lucia and holding her hairpiece in his hand.
With long strides, he cut the distance to Arturo and, cocking a fist, smashed his jaw with all the raging force he could summon.
* * *
She screamed Marco's name. Her throat burned with it as she stood there, watching as if in slow motion, Arturo's head snapped back and smacked the paving tiles with a crack of bone on stone. Marco remained frozen, his fists clenched, watching the fallen man. She too, was frozen. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart unable to beat. Only Arturo moved. He rolled to his side and groaned, rubbing his jaw.
He staggered to his feet and pointed at her. "Your wife is a whore, my lord."
With a snarl, Marco came to life, lunging for the man, who this time was better prepared to dodge and duck his blows. Marco managed to land a second blow to his gut, and when the man's head came down, he grabbed it and brought his knee up to smash his nose. Arturo dropped to the ground a second time.
Lucia's feet came unglued from the pavement, and she took a few steps forward, but without looking at her, Marco held a hand out to halt her advance. She obeyed the gesture. She felt sick. Rubbing the marks on her throat where Arturo had choked her, she felt as if she'd plunged into a timeless abyss—watching the violence unfold before her, unsure what Marco believed had happened.