Christina sighed. Costanzia’s routine was as relentless as her will. It was yet another day when the girdle of orange stones fastened around her waist seemed so much more weighty than it was in truth.
A large tub had been set in the smaller courtyard and maids were pouring hot water into it. Christina heard footfalls on the stairs and knew there would soon be a pounding upon the door. Then the key would turn in the lock, and the women would all be marched down to the courtyard to bathe, in order of Costanzia’s preference.
Christina had not entertained a man the night before, which suited her well but had not pleased her patroness. She would be one of the last to bathe, no doubt. She did not care. She had not liked the look of the one man who had approached her, a gleam in his eye that hinted at violence. She had lied—again—about her courses.
There was a delicate balance to be managed between her ethics and her safety, and not for the first time, Christina wished she had other options. For years, she had had two: stay in this bordello or flee. To run meant starving in the streets or being hunted by Costanzia’s enforcers. They were brutal and quick with their knives. Any escaped woman caught by them would be so scarred that she could never work as a whore again.
Then she would starve.
She supposed leaping from the window offered a third choice, but it was no more appealing.
Christina shivered and wrapped her arms around herself as she turned from the window. The current favorite, Flavia, was snoring softly on her pallet when Christina returned to hers. She watched the other woman sleep, admiring her beauty. Flavia’s ebony hair cast over the pillow and her lips were parted, as if in invitation even while she slumbered. The woman was luscious and bold, nigh irresistible to the patrons of the house.
Flavia deserved her slumber. She had an audacity about her that Christina tried to emulate. It was a kind of armor to laugh at disapproval, to flaunt one’s charms, to even cultivate a lustful reputation.
Christina and Flavia were of an age and often displayed together for contrast. Flavia, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with her red lips and lush curves, drew the attention of many men. Christina, auburn-haired and green-eyed, more slender but of a similar height, attracted others. Flavia was bold and daring, challenging men outright, while Christina was more demure, perhaps appearing to have a dozen secrets. When they stood together, it seemed no man could keep himself from staring. Costanzia profited mightily from the view.
At least she did as much when Christina did not lie.
The two women were different in more than coloring, though. Christina was a reluctant member of this household, and one who would never reconcile herself to her duties. Whoring was better than starving to death in the street, but only by a narrow margin. There had been nights when she would have argued the other choice. Flavia, in contrast, had sought out this life, determined as she was to make her own decisions without marrying. She swore she would never be beholden to man and intended to establish her own house. Her ambition had already intrigued Costanzia, who without a daughter of her own, might well be seeking an heir.
Christina, in contrast, sought an escape.
The lock was turned, a fist hammered upon the door as it was opened, and Costanzia herself strode into the chamber. “Arise, all of you!” she cried and the sleeping women were awakened with a jolt. “Flavia, you are first to the bath, my beauty,” Costanzia continued in a coo, tickling that woman under the chin. She rapped a younger girl on the shoulder. “Teresa, if you do not yet have your courses, you will see Raoul for a potion.”
Christina prayed that she would not be singled out. Costanzia strode up and down between the pallets, dispatching directions, praising the profitable, scolding the old and the unchosen. Christina’s heart beat loudly as the older woman approached.
It sank to her toes when Costanzia paused directly before her. “And you,” the patroness said softly. Her tone sounded threatening, and Christina dared to peek at her face, only to find those dark eyes narrowed. “You have forgotten your very good fortune, my dear,” Costanzia said, her voice as hard as her gaze. “I do not need mouths to feed who do not bring in coin.”
“I cannot help that he chose another…”
“Can you not?” Costanzia mused, and Christina wondered what she had heard. “On this night, you will ensure that you are chosen. I do not care what you have to do to see it done.”
Christina knotted her hands together. “Of course.”
“In fact, you will be occupied the entire night, or in the morning, you will be on the streets. There are nights for which you have not yet earned your keep.”
Christina’s lips parted in dismay. The entire night?
“Are we understood?”
Christina nodded and bowed her head in agreement, as much to disguise her anger as to feign compliance. By all that was holy, there had to be a way out of this hell.
She had but one day and night to find it.
* * *
The best house of courtesans was located with relative ease, for Wulfe asked in the marketplace by the port. Sailors always knew where to find whores. The boys, too, sought information, and by the time they conferred in the mid-afternoon, one answer was clear.
He should seek the establishment of one Costanzia.
The canals and bridges were confounding, and the directions less clear than might have been ideal. Wulfe became convinced that Venice was a burg designed to aid the trade of thieves, for it seemed a warren of crooked streets with a hundred places for a villain to hide and await his prey. Worse, many of those alleys ended abruptly with a wall or a canal. The houses were shuttered tightly on the street level, and he glimpsed that the lowest floor of the richest ones sheltered docks on the bigger canals. They all had at least two stories overhead, often with high arching windows, and he imagined that people preferred to be away from the water.
It did have a foul smell when the breeze stilled.
They finally located the house in question and were questioned before the heavy door was unbolted. The patroness came halfway down the flight of stairs on the far side of the foyer, her garb appearing as rich as the men in her employ looked dangerous. She was shrewd-eyed but well-mannered, and what he could see of the house was in good repair. Wulfe noted that once she must have been a beauty and wondered whether she had labored upon her back in her youth. She certainly was direct. A short conversation ensured his preferences were made clear and his coin was good, then the patroness gestured graciously that he should follow her up the stairs.
The door was locked audibly behind them.
Wulfe was astounded by the generous proportions and richness of the room that nigh filled the second floor of the house. Sunlight shone through high, arched windows and there was a view of the harbor, the sea sparkling blue. Velvet draperies hung alongside those windows, their dark hue unmistakably costly. A long table was laid with fine cloths and rich fare, and young boys poured generous goblets of wine. The women were both numerous and beautiful. Some stood and chatted with each other, several played lutes, more than one lounged and granted him encouraging smiles. They did not look to be starved or bruised, and he decided that, in this case, rumor had provided the truth. They all wore girdles of stones that were clearly not gems, their hues revealing that they must be wrought of glass. Was this jeweled belt a mark of the house?
In truth, Wulfe did not care.
Indeed, his mood improved by the moment. It must be that the company was amiable, for he had no taste for luxury.
“A maiden?” the patroness suggested, gesturing to a pair of young girls. They flushed and dropped their gazes as if shy, but Wulfe did not doubt that their maidenheads had already been sold repeatedly.
“I have little fondness for innocence,” he said, for it was true. He liked to be with a woman who knew her body and her desires, as well as one who could anticipate his own. “Teaching is not a pastime I care to pursue abed,” he clarified, and the patroness gave a throaty chuckle.
“Ah! A ti
gress, then,” this Costanzia countered, gesturing to a woman who might have seen thirty summers. “Flavia will make you roar!” There was a slyness in this Flavia’s expression that Wulfe did not find alluring. She might take more than he wished to surrender. Her hair was dark and her smile was knowing, and truly she had curves enough to tempt any man.
But not Wulfe.
The patroness noted how his gaze slid past her suggestion and snapped her fingers for other women to come forward. “You are early this day, sir, which gives you the finest choice. Of course, given the time, I must assume that you desire companionship only for the afternoon.” She clapped her hands when the women did not move quickly enough for her taste, and Wulfe caught a glimpse of one at the far end of the room.
She was exquisitely beautiful, her hair like red-gold silk. She wore it loose and the length of it gleamed, falling as it did to her hips. The color of her hair was rare in this city, where most of the other women had tresses of dark brown or black. She was taller than most of the other women, as well, slender and elegant in the way that Wulfe preferred. She was dressed in gold and green, the richness of her garb not unlike that of a noblewoman. Wulfe knew that the neckline was more revealing than would have been the choice of any aristocrat, but as she walked toward him at her mistress’ summons, he could imagine that a queen approached him.
There was a reluctance in her manner that he admired as well. Not for him the harlot who threw herself at his feet, willing and eager for his touch and his coin. Perhaps this one merely took her time. Perhaps she had the confidence that once a man looked upon her, he would wait. Wulfe did not care. He was entranced by her grace, by his own impression that she did not belong in this place.
Or by the way her smile hinted at mysteries that would not be confessed.
He supposed the rich garb revealed that she earned well for her patroness, but preferred not to consider that. Her full lips tightened slightly, as she followed the other women. He thought he spied both defiance and resignation in her expression, but then she lifted her head and smiled at him.
And there was the key. Hers was not a genuine smile, for its light did not reach her eyes. Her lips curved in sensuous welcome, but her gaze remained wary, another hint of that reluctance.
Wulfe understood immediately that this life was not her choice, and with that realization, his own decision was made. Indeed, he felt a strange affinity with this woman, though he did not know even her name as yet. He knew what it was to put aside one’s own desires to serve those of another. He knew what it was to feel trapped, and to have few options. He knew what it was to make the best of one’s circumstance, regardless of the price. Indeed, he did that hourly on this quest.
Wulfe also knew what it was to await a better choice, with as much patience as could be mustered.
“This one,” he said, gesturing to the beauty who had claimed his attention. He did not care that he was interrupting the patroness as she listed the charms of her women.
“Ah, Christina is a popular choice,” she acknowledged, even as the woman’s gaze rose to meet Wulfe’s own. Her eyes were a bewitching shade of green, thickly lashed and not without intelligence. Was she surprised? She halted before Wulfe, more gracious and lovely than any woman he had ever seen. He liked that he could not discern her thoughts, that she kept some part of herself in reserve.
He understood that habit, as well.
Costanzia looked between them. “You may find her price high,” she warned, more than a little gleeful.
Wulfe cared only for the lady he had chosen. Christina held his gaze, as if knowing her own worth and perhaps not expecting him to pay it. Aye, there were shadows in those wondrous eyes, shadows that told of disappointment.
Perhaps from men.
Perhaps from a man.
Wulfe felt an unexpected valor rise within him and heighten his need.
“Name it,” he said, unable to imagine what Christina had seen of the world. He doubted it had all been good and wished to surprise her.
The patroness did as much, clearly expecting Wulfe to haggle. He did not, though, for he never tainted the acquisition of any desire with such mean bargaining. His purse was not so light as that. He exercised restraint and saved his coin, so when he indulged, he could acquire the woman he desired most. It was better to savor pleasure seldom and have one’s true desire, than to indulge frequently and compromise.
“That, of course, is only for the afternoon,” the patroness added slyly.
“And for the night as well?”
A flicker of interest shone in her eyes as Christina considered him anew.
“Triple,” the older woman said crisply. “For there are ships in the harbor.”
Christina lowered her lashes, evidently anticipating his refusal.
“Triple,” Wulfe agreed so readily that he was certain the patroness regretted not asking for more. He cared only for the way Christina’s gaze flew to his face again. She was surprised, and he was glad. He was more glad that she seemed to be pleased. He smiled outright at her, paid the patroness, then offered his hand to the lady he so desired.
He kissed her hand and saw her eyes narrow slightly. “I assume you have a private chamber where our pleasure might be pursued?”
“Of course, sir,” she said, and he liked that her voice was both rich and husky. She spoke in the same Venetian dialect as her patroness, but not so fluidly as one born in this city of cities.
“Wulfe,” he corrected, and she nodded acquiescence.
“Wulfe,” she said, smiling ever so slightly as she gripped his fingers, turned and led him toward the display of food and drink. The patroness stood back, smiling with satisfaction as she counted the coins again, but Wulfe was interested only in the alluring Christina.
Where was she from? What had brought her to this house? Wulfe was surprised by how much he wished to know.
Indeed, his frustrations faded already, and the pursuit of pleasure had not yet begun.
* * *
Christina did not believe for a moment that the Templar was truly different from any of the other men who visited Costanzia’s house, but it was harmless to hope otherwise. She had not yet bedded a Templar, after all, and there was something intriguing about his determination to have her for both day and night.
The order was pledged to defend pilgrims, which was almost sufficient to make her smile. Would this knight defend her, if he learned that she was a pilgrim who had lost her way?
Though she teased herself, the prospect was worthy of consideration.
Might he help her?
How could she convince him to do so?
This Wulfe had no shortage of coin—at least, he had not before his arrival in this place—and there was a resolve about him that she admired. He was easy to look upon, a man who clearly earned his way with hard labor. He was broad and tall, fair of hair and resolute in every way. His face was tanned, which only made his hair look more golden and his eyes more pale. There was a scar on his cheek, the mark of an old and deep wound, but otherwise, he appeared to be hale. His manner was crisp and he did not linger over his choices. Christina admired decisive men.
Indeed, if her father had been more decisive, she might not have found herself in her current circumstance.
But there was naught to be gained by regret, or by bitterness. What she needed was change.
Was Wulfe the solution she sought? If naught else, it appeared she would not be cast out to starve with morning’s light. She found herself greedy for more. Christina preferred not to talk overmuch with her patrons, choosing instead to render the debt and be rid of them. It might be wise to adapt her strategy on this night.
“Have you journeyed far this day?” she asked, slipping her hand into his elbow as if they strolled at some fine celebration.
Wulfe slanted a glance her way. Their silvery hue was not quite blue and not quite grey. She imagined that they might change based upon his mood, shifting from the hue of ice to that of the sky. “Of what impor
t is that? I am not tired, if that is your concern.”
Christina smiled with a serenity she did not quite feel. “I merely make conversation.”
Some of her vexation must have shown, or else he was particularly perceptive, for Wulfe almost smiled. His eyes did twinkle, and the sight tempted Christina to smile in truth. “I knew there was aught different about you,” he said, humor in his tone.
“Indeed?”
“Indeed.” He surveyed the room, and she sensed that he took an inventory of its occupants and contents. “I have journeyed only from the harbor on this day, for our ship arrived on the morning tide.” He met her gaze and his eyes were more blue than they had been. “We sailed from Acre, before you ask, upon the last ship to depart before the Saracens attacked.”
“It is true then,” Christina said. She realized that her grip had tightened upon his arm only when Wulfe put his other hand over hers. His skin was warm, but it was the protectiveness of his gesture that made her heart leap. “We had heard that the Latin Kingdoms were besieged.”
“And many of my order lost, as well as those sworn to the Hospitaliers,” he said, a frown drawing his brows together. He must have lost comrades.
“What of the Holy City?”
Wulfe took a breath, delaying his response, and she feared for his words. “Strong when we left, but expecting an assault.”
“Surely it can be defended?”
“With so many knights slaughtered and the King of Jerusalem himself captured?” His expression turned grim. “I fear there will be bad tidings before there are better ones.”
“Yet you left Outremer,” she said before she caught herself. “Why?”
“Because I was so ordered, and the rule forbids that a Templar should disobey an order.” He turned a steely gaze upon her and his expression made her shiver. It was easy to believe that he had slaughtered infidels when he looked like this. “It would be better for me to die.”
How could he cite the rule of the order when he stood in a brothel? Surely the rule forbade his custom here.
The Crusader's Heart Page 2