She heaved a breath, and turned toward the ogling onlookers.
“Dear friends,” she began, as she led Sansone closer to them, “please have a care to meet another, a very dear friend, Sansone Caivano.”
For a shattered second, no one moved, no one spoke.
“It is my very great pleasure to make your acquaintance, signore.” Isabetta stepped out first, dipped him a curtsy, offered him much more than just a smile, one filled with knowing mischief. “I know how—”
Any more words gurgled to a halt in her throat as she looked more closely upon his face.
“I know you—well, that is,” Isabetta stammered, wide eyes blinking, “I have seen you before. I believe you accosted a carriage I rode in once.”
Sansone chuckled from deep in his throat. “Ah, sì, that would be me, Signora Fioravanti.”
“You know me?” Isabetta’s brows jumped.
“I know you all, in my way.” He grinned sheepishly at Viviana. “I fear my entry today had much the same lack of grace,” he said, tossing a quick, skeptical glance at the others.
“Think nothing of it, signore. Were it not for you we could all be imprisoned still, or worse, deceased.”
“That was you?” Mattea squeaked.
“What is that you say?” Fiammetta finally spoke, but it was not to greet the man.
Together, Viviana and Isabetta told them all of Sansone’s part in saving Lapaccia; though small, it had been crucial; as Isabetta said, it had saved them all.
“I owe you my life as well, it would seem, signore.” Lapaccia stood before him, her graceful curtsy belying her age. “I hope I can repay you in some way.”
Sansone gently lifted her up and bowed his head nearer to hers. “You already have, Mona Cavalcanti.”
“Signore,” was all Fiammetta said as she dipped a shallow obeisance. There was a price there yet to be paid; Viviana knew it.
“It is well to have another male among us,” Leonardo bowed to Sansone, who returned it.
“I am most honored to make your acquaintance, maestro,” Sansone replied.
Leonardo inched closer to Sansone, lowering his voice, but it was not so low that Viviana could not hear his words.
“Was that you out there? You who yelled?”
“It was.”
“And?”
Sansone shook his head. “I lost him in the crowd, I fear. But I know his dark coloring and the size of him. I will search for him, of that you can be assured.”
“Sansone is a great condottieri,” Viviana said with blustery pride. “He—”
“Was,” Sansone said simply. “I was a soldier.”
Viviana quirked him a look. “Was?”
Sansone nodded. “I have seen enough of battlefields and war. I have let it be known. There is more to life and I have a mind to live it. My days of a roving maker of war are over.”
More giggles came from Carina and Patrizia, for his words and the look he cast upon Viviana’s face said much of the life he had in mind. She felt her face flush, trying to hide her emotions as she told of Sansone’s prowess and military victories.
“You are indeed accomplished, signore,” Carina said. “Marcello will be well pleased to hear his mother is so well cared for and protected. I feel certain that when Viviana introduces you to him he will be profuse in his gratitude.”
Viviana stifled her gasp; a fear she had yet to address—to realize—had been allayed as soon as it came. She should have thought of it herself—if Carina knew of Sansone, so too would Marcello. Perhaps Carina would have said something, thinking Marcello already knew of Sansone and his mother’s relationship. But the young woman’s words, her graciousness, assured Viviana of Carina’s silence at the same time that it compelled Viviana to make the man known to her sons.
Viviana bestowed Carina with a grateful glance, her gratitude twofold.
“I certainly feel better protected to know of you, signore.”
“Sansone, if you please,” the man said, “all of you.”
“Yes, Sansone,” Isabetta said. “We are all well protected with you ever near. I am certain the worst is behind us.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Devastation and ecstasy, both are weapons of great power.”
The morning light fought its way through the stubborn fog.
With her head tucked in the crook of his arm, eyes just opened from a fit of sleep, Natasia found a peace that had eluded her for many a day. She had looked for it—searched for it—in the beauty of her husband and his love.
“How do you fare this day, dearest?” Pagolo asked, kissing the top of her head as they lay still wrapped within the linens in which they had slept. “Is everything as it should be?”
Natasia felt the small twitch of her lips; men could talk of war and death as if they spoke about the price of bread, but oh, how they dreaded speaking of a woman’s body parts and their functions.
“All is as it should be. Within my body at least,” Natasia assured him, rubbing small circles of assurance on his bare chest. “I feel once more at full strength.”
“I am sure you would have recovered even sooner if you had not gone to paint.” The small part of her husband that was fretful over what the Disciples did found its voice in his. He must have heard it himself, for he quickly tried to disguise it, kissing her disheveled hair once more. “You are strong; it is well.”
His faith in her was far stronger than her own.
Turning her head upon the linens, she faced him. “I am so sorry, dearest.”
Her lip quivered, threatened; she bit it. She could cry no more; she had shed enough tears to fill the Arno River to overflowing.
“You have naught to be sorry for. God will bless us when he feels the time is right. I have no doubt.”
Pagolo kissed her deeply, sensually. Lifting his face up only enough to touch the tip of her nose with his, Pagolo’s eyes slanted, brows rising mischievously. “It only means we must try more.”
Natasia did laugh then, and then more as he rolled atop her, smothering her dimpled face with his angelic kisses. Both knew it was still too soon; the promise of it was enough.
“Signore?” The call came with a discreet knock upon the bedchamber door. “The carriage is here.”
Pagolo dropped his weight off her, back onto the bed, staring at the brocade canopy above them. “The carriage is here and I am not even dressed. See what you do to me?” His impish eyes flicked from her face to his protruding body part.
Natasia laughed again; there might come a day when such an appendage struggled to protrude, but it would not matter, for he would always make her laugh, always make her happy. She only hoped she could do the same for him. The burden that she might not grew heavier upon her shoulders every day.
Pagolo rose and began to dress. Natasia studied him all the while, lost in her own thoughts of him, and of more. He was the love she had dreamed of as a child; he was that, and more. If he knew, would he leave her? If he knew what she did, would he do worse?
“How long will you be gone?” she asked, pleasing herself with the curves of him, and the edges too.
“I shall be back before you are back in that bed. My mission in Poggibonsi is a quick one.”
His mission, for Il Magnifico no doubt, reminded her of her own.
“And what will you do while I am gone? Are you to your work?” Pagolo asked, struggling into his camicia. Natasia rose, and, with the linen sheet wrapped about her person, helped him tie the laces at each shoulder.
It pleased her greatly for him to call it that, to give it the respect of the word.
“Indeed I am,” Natasia leaned back slowly with a low moan, kneading her lower back, and began her own morning ablutions. “We begin the bottom tier today. I am quite eager for it. I love to paint serene landscapes.”
Pagolo stopped, the laces of his breeches still in hand. “You will be careful on the scaffolds, will you please? Use those Viviana made, not Fiammetta.”
This time
they laughed together as they made their way to the kitchen, where Pagolo grabbed a slice of bread.
“I will see you soon, dearest.” He made to kiss her, then pulled back. He stared at her—into her, before lowering his lips to hers. Natasia opened her eyes, studying him even as she kissed him. It was more than a kiss goodbye; it felt like a probing question, and a declaration as well. She took the last to be the truth of it, musing on the rest.
• • •
With one foot on the step, one hand on the door sash, Pagolo called out to his carriage driver.
“Turn right on Corbolino and a right on Benci,” he instructed, hefting himself up.
“But, signore, that won’t take us—”
“Just do it, per favore,” Pagolo demanded. “Then stop near the corner of Porciaia.”
“As you say, signore,” the driver agreed, despite his crooked lips and narrowed eyes.
They sat for minutes, but not many. Pagolo kept one eye on the small slit of the nearly closed curtain. If he breathed, it did not feel like it.
His hand cramped with its tight hold upon the curtains; a wraithlike fist compressed his chest ever tighter. At last, Pagolo saw what he waited to see, and then what he had hoped not to see.
The fine carriage could be no other, with its fringed red velvet curtain and its gilding, a wedding present to Natasia from her parents. Like every day his wife went to the church to paint, she traveled there by carriage. This day, it passed by where his own carriage sat, heading north. Santo Spirito lay to the south.
“Take me away,” Pagolo called, rapping his knuckles upon the door. “Take me to Poggibonsi.”
As the carriage began jostling along once more, Pagolo dropped his head into his hands.
• • •
“I do not think I have seen a finer widow’s gown in all my life,” Lorenzo said to Isabetta by way of greeting. He wore the creamiest black leather Isabetta had ever seen; it seemed to flow over his body rather than sit upon it.
So, she thought, his work begins where it left off.
“Grazie, Magnifico.” She dipped him a fine curtsy, feeling far less anxious than she expected. “It was gifted to me by Mona del Marrone.”
Lorenzo sniffed. “I wager she did not wear it very long.”
Isabetta could not restrain the twitching of her lips. “I believe it made her itch.”
Lorenzo tossed back his head with a fine laugh. “I do not wonder. Though I would wager you look far lovelier in it than she did.”
“Viviana is a beautiful woman, Magnifico. I can only hope to aspire to her grace.”
Lorenzo must have seen the rise of her hackles, for he bowed to her words.
“Shall we begin?” she asked, taking her seat upon the settee, opening her sketchbook.
“No work until we drink,” Lorenzo said, pouring two crystal glasses of ruby wine, crossing to her with a swish of fine leather. The masculine smell of it found her.
“It is early for me for such a strong brew, but if you insist…”
“I do.” He sat down beside her before handing her the wine.
Isabetta bent forward, stretching to place her sketchbook on the table before them, just out of her reach. When she sat back, Lorenzo had shimmied to within inches of her. His scent wafted closer, the aroma of valerian musk, civet, and man. The tangs did not repel her.
She drank a long draught, tipping her head back, revealing her neck. Did she do so on purpose? She would ask herself later. Did she come here knowing—wanting—something to happen? Another question for another time.
He needed no more of an opening. Once more Lorenzo leaned toward her, the tip of his long nose brushing against the tender skin beneath her ear, inhaling deeply. He laughed, a deep, throaty laugh.
“Your skin prickles, Mona Fioravanti. Do you find me prickly?”
Isabetta, though she didn’t realize it, shook her head. “If you are going to smell my neck, I believe it only right that you call me Isabetta.”
“Hah!” Lorenzo guffawed, even as he inched closer, his hard thighs now rubbing against hers, their warmth passing from his leather to her silk. “Then you must call me Lorenzo when we are alone.”
“Are you ever alone, Lorenzo?” she asked, daring to turn her face to his.
His dark eyes lost their smile as they looked upon hers. “You see a great deal, Isabetta.”
“So I have been told,” she smirked with a shrug.
Isabetta took another sip of wine, licking a droplet from her lips.
Lorenzo groaned. He was undone; she could see it in the glaze in his eyes. When his lips fell on hers, when his tongue demanded entry, she gave it.
His hands came quickly to her waist, but oh so expertly; she quivered at the touch. With a leer that begged for a slap, Lorenzo took her glass—one she had nearly tipped over—and placed them both on the table.
Lorenzo stood up, hovering over her, looking at her from the very depths of him.
“I will not force you, Mona Isabetta. Nor will I expect anything from you merely because of who I am.”
Isabetta’s gaze never left his face. She rose slowly. Even more slowly, Isabetta removed the pins holding her hair, allowing the long buttery tresses to fall in waves around her.
“You need not force me to do anything…Lorenz—”
His mouth was on hers before her words were finished. She closed her eyes to the feel of his lips, his hands, not knowing which were which, not caring. With a groan of her own, she surrendered herself to him, to the moment.
• • •
What began on the settee, ended on the floor, but not before Isabetta cried out with the relief of need long unsated.
Their naked bodies, filmed with sweat, slid slowly against each other merely for the languid feel of it.
“You have not slaked your need in quite some time, Isabetta, have you?” Lorenzo asked her, nuzzling his face between her tender breasts.
Isabetta laughed, Lorenzo’s head bouncing as she did. “Does it show that readily?”
Lorenzo propped himself up on one elbow, his hair a tangle, face florid, lips spread wide. “Either that or you are extremely passionate.”
Isabetta stared at his lips, thinking of the pleasure they had brought her, licking her own. “Would it be so terrible if both were true?”
In answer, Lorenzo kissed her again, long and hard. She returned it in kind.
“Kiss me like that again, and we shall never leave this room.”
Isabetta laughed again. Then…
“Oh no!” she cried, jumping up, gathering her clothes, attempting to put them on hurriedly. “My work! I must get to my work. Stand up, Lorenzo, strike your pose.”
With a roguish grin across his face, he did as instructed, completely naked. “Does this meet your requirements, madonna?”
“Actually…” Already she was an artist again, albeit a well-sated one. The lines of his body, the hard edges of the muscles of arms and legs, the sensual curve of the lower back to the upper buttock, ignited her other passion just as well.
They spoke a little as she worked, talked of their lives. Isabetta tried her best not to show any reaction as Il Magnifico told her of his father’s early death, his fears when he had to step into the role of the leader of the Medicis. It was a notion she never would have imagined.
“You have risen far higher than your father,” she said softly, hand rustling on the page. “You hold great power. Power!”
“What?” Lorenzo’s head spun about as if a threat had appeared.
“We need your help, Lorenzo.” Isabetta put down her charcoal. “Da Vinci’s Disciples need your power.”
He listened almost devoid of reaction as she told him of the crowd, of the heckling wherever they went, ending with the rock that had struck her and the one that had demolished the church window. At that, he did react.
Lorenzo came to her, kneeling before her, oblivious to his nakedness, kissing the bruise he must have seen already. “I will take care of it. I will
take care of you. On that, you can be assured.”
The concern and care writ across his face touched her heart. She caressed his face with the touch of a feather. She knew what she had done was not unfaithful to the husband she had been so faithful and loyal to, yet she would be lying to herself if she did not admit to a twinge of guilt. She had lain with a married man. True, Lorenzo had rarely been faithful to his wife, no matter how many children they created together. He had, in fact, a mistress, Lucrezia Donati, a love from the days of his youth, though many believed it was a love unconsummated—a delusional notion.
She pushed such thoughts to the ignored corners of her mind, for his words, such noble words—“I will take care of you”—made it easy to do. When was the last time she had heard that from a man?
Isabetta stood up and once more removed her clothing.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“The brush struggles for truth, but some mysteries even it cannot solve.”
Are they statues or are they real?
It was the first thought to burst into Viviana’s mind as she approached Santo Spirito; her dread of pushing her way through the angry throng had made itself known from the moment she awoke. That dread took flight as she stood at the very back of the crowd, which seemingly grew larger with each new day, looking at the additions to the scene this morn.
Though they might look like statues, the four soldiers were very real.
“I must paint them one day,” said she to herself, blinking against the sunshine glinting off their armor.
With their silver breastplates atop the bright red, white, and gold full-length farsetti with finely slashed sleeves worn above stripped balloon breeches, and their kettle hats with ostrich feathers dyed to match, these four men of the Otto di Guardia were resplendent with mighty pageantry. Splendid and deadly, as their scroll-hilted swords and their finely tipped lances testified. Their faces were impassive, save for the threatening sneers with which they surveyed the riotous crowd below them. What had once been a political police force during the days of the Cosimo I had evolved to a criminal one after the assassination of Giuliano de’ Medici. These men were the fiercest of the fierce, garnered from all ranks of the military.
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