Night of Fire

by Barbara Samuel

  But he pressed his face into her neck. "Oh, God."

  "Basilio, I do not understand your horror in this."

  Heavily, he raised his head. "I am bound to protect her, bound by a promise to my mother. If I do not marry her, her father will sell her to the highest bidder—and there is one who should not have her. He is cruel and has already had three young wives." His mouth tightened. "She cannot marry him."

  Horror crawled on her skin, remembered pain and humiliation. "Basilio, you cannot allow that." Fear made her sharp. "I told you I would not marry, ever. Why did you do that?"

  He took her hand and put it to his lips. She had been thinking of him as boyish in his joy, but she saw now that he was not a boy at all, but a man who lived vividly, a man bound by duty and honor. "Because I believe in love at first sight," he said quietly. "And so do you."

  She fell forward against his chest. "Yes," she whispered. "I do."

  His big hand curved around her neck. "In the morning, I will see what I might do to put this back the way it should go. Tonight belongs to us."

  Chapter 9

  Basilio made love to her slowly, lingeringly, in the cold damp night. The rain pattered steadily, slapping the windows and the roof, as he imprinted her upon his mind—the twining of their fingers, illuminated by soft candlelight; the shape of her ear against his mouth; the curve of her ribs beneath his hands.

  They did not speak, for it would have broken the illusion that both of them wished to hold close: that these were not the last hours of their too-brief idyll. Afterward they lay close together, bodies pressed tight beneath a shelter of heavy quilt.

  After a long time, she said quietly, "This has been so beautiful, Basilio." She raised up on one elbow, a hint of a smile turning up one side of her mouth. Her hair tumbled wildly around her face, down her back, and his heart caught at the simple beauty of her slim white shoulder. "We've been wonderfully wicked, haven't we?"

  "Yes."

  "And think of this: now I will always be perfect. And you will live like a god in my memory."

  "A stallion, I think."

  She laughed. "The god of stallions."

  He took up the game. "And I won't have to see you throwing up when you have a belly full of baby." But when he said it, he wanted to see her then, her breasts heavy with milk. It pierced him to know how much he wanted that, and he quickly added, "Or watch you laugh when you don't have any teeth."

  Her brows lifted. "And I"—she pinched his side—"won't have to see you fat as a pigeon."

  "And I will never have to endure you calling for me like a shrew. 'Basilio!' " He made his voice shrill and raw. " 'Basilio.'"

  "Ugh!" She slapped his arm lightly. "Not even at my worst would I sound like that."

  "No? And how would you sound?"

  Her tongue darted out, touched her lip, slipped back. In a throaty, sexy tone, she said, "Oh, Basilio, come here."

  "Come… where?" he said, and slipped a hand down her back, curling around a buttock, and grinned.

  She laughed and fell against him with a sigh. "It's no use, Basilio. I will miss you desperately."

  "As I will miss you." He thought with regret of the letter Analise had missed, lying on a table in the cloister. An agony of missed chances. "If I ask you a question, will you promise to answer me honestly?"

  She looked at him. "Yes."

  "Would you have married me?"

  "No," she said, but lowered her eyes. Raised them. "Oh, I lie. It would have frightened me— but yes, I believe I would have. It appears I was not meant to be a married woman." She smiled sadly.

  "Perhaps now you will see there is a man who can be your husband." He swallowed, twisting a lock of her hair around his finger. "I do not like to think of you old and alone. You should have children."

  A flicker crossed her eyes. She shifted, hiding her face. "My work is important to me," she said. "And no man but you has ever begun to understand that. In marriage, a woman loses herself, loses all that she has worked to gain. Why would I bind myself that way?"

  He couldn't answer her.

  "I am not given to extravagant words, Basilio. I cannot say it the way you do." She raised up, sitting naked with her hair as her cloak, her hands folded before her. She gazed at him with that odd composure for a very long moment, then reached out to touch his face.

  She took a breath, her face sad and soft. "But I loved you before I saw you, as if we are two sides of a coin. That will not happen again, and having known it, I will not settle for less." A single tear glistened in the corner of one dark eye, and she bowed her head. "I'm glad to have known it with you. I do not regret it, not even a little."

  With a violence of love, he rose and kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her. There was nothing else.

  Basilio awakened suddenly a little past dawn, woke suddenly and completely, and then lay there, not knowing what had drawn him from his sleep.

  Cassandra lay in his arms, her hair scattered over his chest, and he put a an open palm over the scattered strands, bemused by the fierce pleasure it gave him. One of her legs was flung over his thighs, and her head was deeply cradled in his shoulder. He had never loved a woman like this. In gratitude, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

  Then he heard a shout from below. No, not only a shout. A bellow, a crash. His limbs tensed, recognizing the voice before it fully penetrated his sleep-glazed mind.

  He sat up urgently, bringing Cassandra with him. "Wake up," he cried, reaching for his breeches on the floor with suddenly unsteady hands.

  Sleepily, she peered at him. "What is it?"

  Yanking up the breeches, he heard the bellow-ing coining closer and looked around madly for something for her to put on. "Cassandra, take the blanket, and run to the balcony." Outside his door, he heard the rage in his father's voice, and urgently, he pushed her. "Go, Cassandra. Hide."

  "I don't—"

  "Go!" he cried.

  Cassandra clutched the coverlet to her as the door burst open, scooting backward in the bed instinctively as a man, crimson-faced and enormous, roared into the room. "You dare!" he cried, and his great hammy fists clutched Basilio's hair. "You dare defy me?"

  Basilio grabbed his father's wrists. "Father! Listen!"

  The man shook free. "You cub!"

  One of the enormous fists slammed into Basilio's face, and Cassandra cried out, "Stop!"

  Basilio wrenched around and slammed his hands into his father's chest, shoving him back. "Listen to me!"

  But his father punched him hard, in the face, and Basilio reeled backward.

  She saw the madness in his eyes as he rallied. "Do you still beat me like a child?" he cried in disbelief, wiping blood from his lip. "Do you not see that I am a man, and one younger and more hale than you?"

  His father made a gesture that needed no translation, fingers wiggling him closer. The great jaw jutted out, and with a roar, Basilio hurtled across the room, his shoulder catching his father's chest.

  "Basilio, stop!" Cassandra cried again, terrified at the difference in their sizes. His father was a bear of a man, stout and burly, and far beyond reason. He bellowed again like a baited bear, and batted Basilio with that enormous, powerful fist.

  Cassandra rose in place, clutching the cover to her. Basilio saw her and held out a hand, as if to keep her in her spot as he narrowed his eyes at his father.

  His voice was dead calm. "You can beat me. You can even kill me, but you cannot make me obey you.

  It will be my choice, Father, to marry Analise or not."

  "What?" The crimson in the man's face went mottled, and Cassandra thought his head might explode. He surged toward his son, and she had never seen such pure, unadulterated hatred in her life. She had not believed Basilio when he spoke of his father's hate; now she believed. The huge fists rained down on his head, his shoulders, his face. Basilio's blows were less frequent, but landed more squarely—to his jaw, his gut— but size won out. Basilio would be beaten to death by this bear.

&n
bsp; "Stop!" she screamed. Without thinking, she caught the blanket around her and rushed toward them, vaguely aware that two servants had crept into the room. One grabbed for her ineffectively as she moved to intervene, but she slipped free.

  "Stop!" she cried again, nearly sobbing in fear that this enraged beast would kill Basilio before her eyes.

  She flung herself between them—

  And caught an agonizingly powerful blow squarely beneath her eye. The force of it sent her sprawling, stunned and grasping madly at the blanket that barely covered her.

  "Whore!" the beast cried, and made to come after her.

  Basilio went mad. With a cry, he leapt on his father, shoving back at him, his fists wild and pure and strong.

  "Stop them!" Cassandra cried at the servants. "They will kill each other!"

  And then the room was full of people, servants drawn by the noise, men who leapt in and separated the crazed father and son. Cassandra curled close to the foot of the bed, one hand clutched to the blanket over her shoulders, the other to her face, which was already swollen and wet with tears beneath her palm.

  Basilo panted in the grip of the servants, his eyes ablaze. "I defy you!" he said, and spat at his father's feet.

  The elder count was also bleeding, but his rage subsided now. He narrowed eyes in a piggish face. "Why did your brothers die, and leave me with my one worthless son?" He shook off the arms of the servants.

  "You will marry Analise. That is my final word."

  He stormed out, and the servants followed. One peered in concern at Basilio, murmuring in Italian so low that Cassandra could not catch it. Basilio shook his head and the servant left.

  Then it was only the two of them, the silence echoing oddly after the roaring, screaming chaos of moments before. Basilio sagged, then fell beside her, and she cried out helplessly, weeping into his arms.

  She could feel trembling in his body, and clutched him more tightly. "Are you hurt badly?"

  "Nothing that will not heal," he whispered, his arms tightening around her. "It is not the first time he has beaten me."

  "Oh, God, Basilio, I thought he would kill you."

  She trembled, too, unable to think past the immediate seconds.

  "Let me see your face," he said grimly.

  "It's nothing."

  But his fingers slid under her chin, and she raised her head, fresh tears springing to her eyes when she saw the bruises, the split lip, the damage a father had wrought on his own child.

  Basilio kissed her cheekbone very gently. "I am so sorry, Cassandra. I knew he would be angry. I did not know he would come here."

  She clasped him to her, breathing against his hair, wishing with all she was that they could somehow make a happy ending from this.

  Yet she could not allow Basilio to turn his back on that girl. To throw away his birthright, his place in his world. As long as their passion ruled him, he would not think of his mother, his brothers. But honor formed the heart and soul of him, was the very kernel of his being. His duty lay here—duty to his mother, whose land he held in trust, whom he had loved deeply, and to his brothers, whose untimely deaths made him feel an obligation to live in part for them. In time, guilt would eat at him, would eat at the joy they had discovered, at all that was good. Eventually, his lost honor would destroy him.

  A swell of pure grief and love moved in her, making her lean close and press her face to his neck as her tears flowed hot and real and honest. "I do not cry, Basilio. Did you know that about me?" She put her hands to his face. "I never weep. And with you, I have wept for love and for joy, and now I weep in sorrow. I do not want to leave you, but I'm not selfish enough to ruin you."

  He closed his eyes as she kissed his cheekbone, his brow, his mouth. "In time, my love," she whispered,

  "we will rediscover how to write to each other as friends."

  She knew she would remember this moment in exact detail all of her life. His shoulders, bare and hot beneath her hands, his eyes dark and full of love and pain.

  "I will never love another woman as I have loved you, Cassandra."

  "I know." She smiled softly, and lay against his shoulder. They clung together for long minutes, rocking and drawing comfort.

  At last, Cassandra drew away. "You must have your wounds tended," she whispered. "And I must find ice." She tried to laugh a little, but it was as hollow as a rotted tree.

  He swallowed, his sober, beautiful eyes troubled. "My father will not stay. Hide in your rooms until he goes." He paused, his hand lingering on her face. "I must go out this morning." They both knew why.

  She nodded, then very carefully, leaned forward and gently pressed her mouth to his, imprinting it upon her mind, her heart, her soul. She wanted to spill out her love for him, wanted to thank him for all that he'd given to her, wanted to tell him that she would never regret this all-too brief idyll. Instead, she put her hand once more in the thickness of his curls. "You have changed everything about me, Basilio. Thank you."

  Forcing a lightness, she added, "Now, help me to my feet and allow me some dignity so I may have a bath and renew my sense of humor, will you?

  There was relief in his soft chuckle. "That would depend on whether I am actually able to arise myself."

  "Then we shall assist each other."

  Cassandra washed and dressed and took time to eat. She would need the sustenance. She gave instructions to the girl who brought her breakfast, then sat down to write a letter. When the girl returned an hour later to say that Basilio had gone out, Cassandra gave her the letter and instructed her to deliver it to Basilio later.

  She would have to act quickly.

  It was awkward to manage the departure from Florence, when everything she had brought was at the villa. But she sent word to Joan, instructions she knew that Basilio would see were carefully followed.

  She had a change of clothes and her leather case of papers. Enough. She would go to Venice and recover herself before she returned to England.

  Cassandra wore her violet traveling costume, an ensemble that gave her courage. She squared her shoulders and went in search of Basilio's father.

  A little quake of fear struck her knees when she found him in the library. "I would like a word with you, sir," she said in Italian.

  He eyed her, then lifted a chin at the servant, who scurried away. "I speak English," he said. "You think my son is the only one with an education?"

  "Not at all," she replied, cloaking herself in English coolness. "I was merely being polite."

  "What do you want?"

  "I have come to inform you that I am leaving Tuscany."

  A shrug. What else would she do?

  A flicker of hot, pure anger made her stride forward. "I am leaving, sir"—the word carried great irony—

  "because I am in love with him, and because if I do not, his honor will destroy him. But I am leaving only with a promise from you."

  He snorted. "Promise? You dare—"

  "Please, do not begin blustering again. You need hear what I have to say. I do not presume to know why this marriage is so important to you, but I can see that there is more here than a wish that he do your bidding."

  He threw down his papers. "Go on."

  "I will leave here only if you will honor your son's gifts, and support his wish to write, as well as tend your properties. It is not a gift you respect, but it is a very great gift indeed. And I do not mean just a little nod of your head. And you will never darken his door except in the most dire of emergencies. It's quite plain you hate him."

  He glanced her over, a reluctant respect in his eyes. "And if I do not?"

  She raised her head and met his eyes. "Then I will return to Tuscany, and I will destroy the marriage—

  even if it destroys all three of us in the bargain." She paused. "If you do not think I can, you do not know your son at all."

  A blink, a purse of the lips, then the slightest shrug. "How much do you want?"

  "Want?" She shook her head, amazed that a man
like Basilio could be the issue of such a father.

  "Nothing." At the door, she paused. "He had already decided to take Analise as his wife, so do not think you beat him into submission."

  She went to the stables, where a carriage awaited. Cassandra allowed the sober, mustachioed driver to help her into the interior, and said in a harsh exhalation, "Go. Before his father has another reason to kill him."

  He drove. Cassandra sat very still and straight in the seat, feeling as if her heart were tearing out of her body. She ached to look back yet feared it, as if she were Lot's wife and would be turned to a pillar of salt.

  But she could not halt the tears that streamed down her face. In all her life, she had never wept in front of another, but now she did not care. It was real. It burned. Her life would never be the same.

  Basilio walked to the villa of the Count diCanio in the hot August morning. He carried a cluster of flowers cut from the garden: late roses and some white thing, and something that smelled good to him. His head ached and his heart was heavy with dread, but he put on a cheerful visage when a servant opened the door to him. He was only an eager bridegroom, seeking to reassure his very young bride.

  Analise's mother twittered and fussed over him, but Basilio read relief in her eye. Her papa was not at home, but Analise came down, dressed soberly in black, a fichu tucked into her bodice. "You did not receive my letter," he said.

  "No. Was it important?"

  He shook his head with a faint smile. "Only a greeting."

  She was unhappy and shy, and he did not linger. What a coil! It made his headache worse, and by the time he returned to his own house his stomach was unsettled, and his heart was a dead rock in his chest.

  Today, he would have to bid farewell to Cassandra. He could not bear it.

  A young servant girl approached him, a look of apprehension on her face. "This is for you," she said, bobbing. Quickly she put the letter in his hands and scurried away.

  Seeing Cassandra's writing he tore it open, his heart pounding in dread.

  Dearest Basilio,

  It grieves me to leave you, but this is best—a quick, sharp parting that will heal more easily than the tearing I envision for us. I have enclosed a list of instructions for you in regard to my things and know you will see to them carefully.