by Speer, Flora
Deprived of Andrea’s company, and of the freedom that might have given physical release to her growing impatience with her mother’s restrictions, she grew ever more irritable. After a week of confinement during some of the best weather of the season, she had had enough. One afternoon, while her mother and Valeria were occupied in the kitchen, Rosalinda crept out of the house and headed for the stable.
“Are you going out, too, Madonna Rosalinda?” asked the stableboy. “Madonna Bianca left over an hour ago.”
Hiding her surprise at this news, Rosalinda saddled her horse and headed for the place in the woods where she had last seen Niccolo Stregone. Though she did not know it at the time, she chose the same route Bianca had taken and thus she also avoided the guards. Rosalinda was certain she would find Bianca in the little clearing by the waterfall and she thought she knew why.
She believed that Bianca was hoping to discover some trace of Stregone, or of the two men for whom Stregone was searching because, like her sister, Bianca was sure one of those men was Andrea. It was very unlike Bianca to defy their mother’s orders to remain at the villa, but then, Bianca had been acting strangely since well before the day when she had taken Rosalinda into the wood to show her the waterfall.
Rosalinda found Bianca’s horse tethered to the same sapling they had used for the purpose during their last visit to the forest. Dismounting, Rosalinda secured her own horse before setting out on the overgrown path to the waterfall. Not wanting to frighten Bianca, she moved as quietly as she could. When she stepped into the clearing, the couple standing beside the pool did not hear her. Rosalinda stopped dead, her jaw dropping in astonishment.
Bianca was wrapped in the embrace of a dark-haired man who was kissing her with unabashed enthusiasm. The man’s hands roved down Bianca’s spine to catch her hips and pull her closer. Rosalinda remembered how it felt to be held like that, with the beloved man’s hardness pushing against her feminine softness.
Though she knew Bianca ought not to be meeting a man alone and unchaperoned, and she did wonder how Bianca had managed to discover any suitable man while she was living the sheltered existence they had shared for years still, in those first moments, Rosalinda was happy for her sister. But as she watched them she was struck by something tantalizingly familiar in those broad shoulders and that dark, curly hair. An icy finger of doubt touched Rosalinda’s heart.
“Bianca?” Rosalinda moved nearer as the embracing couple began to separate. The man lifted his head, smiling a little at Bianca, before he turned to see who had spoken. He displayed not the least bit of embarrassment at being caught in so intimate a posture with an innocent young woman. But was Bianca still innocent? It would seem she was not.
Rosalinda stood rooted to one spot, frozen where she was by a double betrayal so heart-wrenching she thought she would die from the pain of it. It was all she could do to force one accusing word past her lips.
“Andrea!”
“Madonna?” His smile turned to an expression of perplexity. Then, incredibly, he smiled at her as if he were entirely blameless of any wrongdoing. “I do not know you, but I think you must be my Bianca’s sister.”
“Not know me? Your Bianca? You villain!” Sheer, flaming rage broke the spell holding Rosalinda. She took a menacing step forward. “How can you speak so to me after our last meeting?”
“You called me Andrea,” the young man said. The strangest expression now appeared on his face, as if he had been offered a hope in which he dared not believe just yet.
“Rosalinda,” Bianca cried, “you don’t understand.”
“Indeed, I do not,” Rosalinda said. She was close enough to touch the pair. She stared at the man before her, at his curly black hair and his warm brown eyes, at the neatly trimmed beard that covered his lower face, and at his mouth. Something was wrong with his mouth. The corners quirked upward, as if he laughed often and easily, and there was more than a hint of sensuality in his full lower lip. She did not remember that line of Andrea’s lip. Andrea’s mouth was firm and serious because, although there was wonderful humor in him, he was at heart a serious person. Those were not the same lips that had blazed a trail of blistering passion across her body. Looking at his mouth, she knew the truth.
“You are not Andrea,” Rosalinda said.
“What?” Bianca cried. “Rosalinda, what are you saying? Of course it is Andrea. Look at his ring.”
“Did you embrace him because you thought he was Andrea?’’ Rosalinda did not bother to look at her sister. Her eyes were still on the man she knew, and yet did not know. “You should have looked more closely, Bianca. The ring on this man’s finger is set with a sapphire, but Andrea’s ring is set with a ruby. Moreover, Andrea gave his ring to me before he left after his visit in March. I have it now, pinned over my heart as proof, if I needed proof, that this person truly is another man.
“Where is Andrea?” Rosalinda demanded of the man who looked so much like her love. “What have you done with him?”
“Do you mean he is alive?” The young man’s face was lit with a joy that could not be counterfeited. “He must be alive, for you spoke just now of seeing him in March. Only tell me where he is and let me go to him!”
“He is your brother, isn’t he?” Rosalinda said. “You and he are twins. Andrea neglected to mention that detail when he spoke of you, but then, he was careful never to provide any information about his family or the life he lived before he arrived at Villa Serenita. Always, he deflected my questions.” Rosalinda paused, wondering if Andrea had been able to deflect her mother’s inevitable questions, or Bartolomeo’s.
“Twins?” Bianca gasped, apparently wrestling with this novel concept. “Andrea has a brother? You are not Andrea, after all?”
“Are you disappointed, sister?” In Rosalinda’s voice was all the pain and anger she felt. The man standing before her had not betrayed her, but Bianca had. She returned her attention to the man. “You have not told me your name. From my sister’s reaction, I suspect she does not know it, either.”
He sent a fleeting, intimate smile Bianca’s way before grasping Rosalinda’s arms. Holding her tightly, he said, “My previous caution seems unnecessary now, since you and your sister are obviously not my enemies. I am Giovanni, but I am called Vanni. Is my brother alive? Is he well? You must tell me. I have been searching for some trace of him for months.”
“Not searching so intently that you could not take time to dally with my sister,” Rosalinda snapped. Seeing his chagrined expression, she took pity on him. “When last I was with Andrea, he was both alive and well, but I have not seen him or had any word of him since he left our villa in late March.”
She watched disappointment cloud Vanni’s handsome face. How could Bianca have thought he was Andrea? Born identical twins, their differing characters and spirits had marked their features in such a way that Rosalinda had no difficulty telling them apart. She rather liked Vanni, responding to him in a positive way because he was outwardly so similar to Andrea, but she knew she could never love him. Andrea was and always would be her only love.
“What is your family name?” she asked him.
“Andrea did not tell you? Then I think I should follow his cautious example and not do so, either. Not without his permission, since he is the elder by an hour,” Vanni said with a charming smile.
“More secrets.” Rosalinda scowled at him. She couldn’t help it. She did not like the lack of trust implied in holding back such a basic fact, and she began to wonder anew why Andrea had never told her anything about his family except that he had a brother. “Andrea thinks you are dead. He has your dagger. He discovered it, dripping with blood, where he thought to find you, and so he assumed the blood was yours.”
“So that’s what happened to it,” Vanni said. “I lost it in a fight.”
“With Niccolo Stregone?” Rosalinda asked.
“Yes.” Vanni went still, his eyes dark with anger and a flash of some other emotion. “Do you know that devil?”
“I was afraid of that.” Vanni’s open face was a study in conflicting feelings. His natural buoyancy and his great relief at learning his brother was alive warred with anger and a determination that sat upon him as if he found it difficult to maintain such a serious emotion.
Rosalinda was about to ask him if he was still traveling with the companion Stregone had mentioned when her question was answered before it could be spoken. A tall, large-boned man stumbled into the clearing, limping on a bloody leg and clutching a sword in one hand.
“Francesco!” Vanni ran to support him. “Is there danger? Have you been in a fight?”
“No. I heard voices raised in anger and thought I should arrive prepared.” Francesco looked from Bianca to Rosalinda. In a wry tone he said, “You do have a tendency to attract lovely women, my lord. May I assume these two ladies are not planning to attack you and, therefore, it is safe for me to put up my sword?”
“You will remember Madonna Bianca,” Vanni said with a graceful flourish of one hand in Bianca’s direction. He extended the motion toward Rosalinda. “This is her younger sister. Madonna Rosalinda, this is my companion, the great condottiere, Francesco Bastiani.”
“What happened to your leg?” Rosalinda asked.
“I slipped on some loose stones and fell a hundred feet or so down a rocky slope,” Francesco Bastiani replied. “As you can see, Madonna Rosalinda, my clothes are torn and I am sure I will be sore tomorrow from the bruises, but I was fortunate enough to roll most of the way downhill, so I am not badly injured.”
“You mean, you were quick enough, and clever enough, to think of rolling down the hill to save yourself,” Rosalinda said.
“A man does learn a few tricks in a busy life like mine.” The condottiere’s grin was a flash of even, white teeth in his dusty face.
Rosalinda grinned back at him. There was an open, honest quality in him that touched a responsive chord in her own straightforward heart. Looking at Francesco Bastiani, she made a quick decision, which was made easier by her certainty that her mother would approve of what she was about to do.
“Have you been living in the forest?” she asked.
“We have, madonna.” Beneath the grime, Francesco’s face was pale, and Rosalinda saw the lines of strain and fatigue around his eyes.
“You cannot stay here any longer, not with Stregone searching for you,” Rosalinda said. “Gentlemen, you are to go to Villa Serenita with us. If you have no horses, you may ride with me, Signore Francesco, and Vanni may ride with Bianca. I feel certain she will not object to that arrangement.”
“You are more than generous, madonna,” Francesco said, “but our presence at your villa could place you and your parents in danger.”
“My father is dead.”
“My condolences.” Francesco bowed, his face solemn. “All the more reason why Vanni and I should not intrude on three ladies who are living alone.”
“We have guards to protect us from creatures like Niccolo Stregone,” Rosalinda told him. “Signore Francesco, I want you to meet my mother and our friend, Bartolomeo. I think the three of you will have much to discuss. We will be happy to provide you with a bath and clean clothing, and Valeria will tend to your injuries. The guards all say she is better than a doctor.”
“You would seem to have an interesting household, Madonna Rosalinda. However, I still question whether Vanni and I should inflict ourselves on you.”
“Question all you want, Francesco,” said Vanni. “For myself, I intend to accept Rosalinda’s invitation. I am weary of sleeping on the ground and of trying to catch fish for dinner. Besides, I think Bianca will be pleased by my presence, won’t you, my dear?”
“I will be happy to know you are safe with us,” Bianca said at once.
Noting the shadow in her sister’s eyes, Rosalinda thought it was caused by guilt, and well deserved guilt at that. She would have a few choice words for Bianca once they were in private.
It was difficult for Francesco to mount Rosalinda’s horse. She could tell his leg injury was painful, but he made no complaint. Once Rosalinda was in the saddle, he placed his good foot on hers, accepted the hand she offered and, gritting his teeth so tightly that Rosalinda could hear them grinding together, he swung himself upward on the third attempt.
“It is fortunate that you ride astride, Madonna Rosalinda,” he said once he was seated behind her with his arm around her waist.
She thought he was a splendid man. She judged his age as somewhere near her mother’s and she thought he had courage equal to Eleonora’s. Rosalinda knew Bartolomeo would recognize Francesco Bastiani’s toughness and courage at once, and she rather thought her mother would, too. Sparing not a thought as to whether Vanni was safely mounted behind Bianca, Rosalinda kicked her horse’s sides and headed for home by the same route she had traveled earlier. Francesco said nothing throughout the ride. Rosalinda believed he was silent because he was in pain and was conserving his strength.
Miraculously, they were not stopped by the guards, though Rosalinda had a story prepared to explain why she and Bianca were bringing two unknown men home with them. How she was going to explain her absence from the villa to her mother she had not decided.
The two horses arrived in the stableyard at the same time, and when the stableboy ran out to take the reins, Rosalinda was ready with the explanation she had concocted.
“Signore Andrea has returned with a friend,” she said to the stableboy. “Unfortunately, they had an accident along the way, and their horses had to be destroyed. Give this gentleman a hand to dismount.” She waited, holding her horse steady, until Francesco was on the ground, before she leapt lightly down.
“Come along, Bianca, Andrea,” Rosalinda called. “Mother will be eager to see Andrea again.” Without waiting for a response from the others, she took Francesco’s arm on the side of his injured leg in such a way that he could lean on her without appearing to do so.
“We will go through the garden,” she said to him. “It is the quickest path into the house.”
“As you wish, Madonna Rosalinda,” Francesco said. The skin around his eyes was white, his face was paler than before, and his reddish blond hair was damp with perspiration, but he went with her as readily as if he were not in great pain.
Eleonora was in the garden, cutting lavender flowers for drying. As she cut, she laid the long stems into a flat basket slung over her arm. The bracing fragrance of the lavender mingled with the scents from her other herbs made the garden a delightful place to be on that early evening. The sun was sinking toward the mountains, casting long, purple shadows over the land, and the air was soft and warm, with a slight breeze to blow away the last of the midday heat. Above the villa, a lone eagle soared on the wind in wide, easy curves.
Eleonora was wearing a large-brimmed hat to keep the sun off her face, and she had an apron wrapped about her oldest dress, which happened to be a blue that had faded to the same shade as her eyes. Hearing footsteps on the gravel path, she turned to face those who had come to join her.
“What is this?” Eleonora demanded. “I thought both of you girls were inside, resting.
“Andrea, you have returned sooner than I expected. It’s good to see you again.” Eleonora took a step nearer to the group just entering the garden, then halted, clutching the cutting knife in fingers gone white at the knuckles. She held the knife like a weapon, pointing it directly at Vanni. “You are not Andrea. What have you foolish girls done? Who are these people you have brought to our home?”
“Madonna.” Vanni swept her a low bow. “As
you can see by my appearance, I am Andrea’s twin brother. I come here, at the invitation of your daughter, Rosalinda, to ask if you know where I can find my brother, whom I have believed dead since last summer. Having just learned that he is alive, I am eager to see Andrea again.”
“I am sure you are.” Eleonora’s speculative gaze swept from Vanni’s smiling face to Francesco’s more somber one. “And you, signore? Are you also looking for a lost brother?”
“Mother,” Rosalinda began a protest against the sarcasm in Eleonora’s voice, but Francesco cut her off.
“Madonna Rosalinda has suggested that you and I might have much to discuss on the subject of Niccolo Stregone,” Francesco said.
“That murdering intriguer.” Eleonora’s lip curled in disdain at the name of Stregone. “That false, faithless dwarf.”
“Just so, madonna. It would seem that you and I have something in common. As for my brother, I know where he is and do not need to search for him. Thanks to Stregone, he is dead and buried, as is my sister. I will not sicken you by recounting what Stregone did to them before killing them.” Francesco’s pale face was grim. He swayed a little, then pulled himself upright.
“You are injured,” Eleonora cried. “Come inside at once. Bianca, run and find Valeria. Tell her we will need her healing skills and describe this man’s injuries to her. Then search out Bartolomeo and bring him to me.”
“Come with me, Vanni.” Bianca took his hand.
“Vanni will remain here,” Eleonora said. “I want to talk to him.”
“By your leave, madonna,” Vanni said, “I would much prefer to go with Bianca. You will get more sense out of Francesco than out of me, anyway. Anything you wish to ask me after you have spoken to him, I will be glad to tell you.”