She was suddenly tired of the road, of being saddlesore and sleeping in uncomfortable beds with flea-infested bedding, shared with two of her female servants, for warmth rather than economy. One of them snored and the other stole the blankets in the night.
“Are you sure that’s not for me?” she asked, more insistent this time.
“Quite sure. Look, my name is on the letter.”
Marco’s smile spread across his face. Whatever it was, he was pleased with himself. Lucrezia was getting impatient, but Lorenzo looked like he was going to hurl himself from the saddle and tackle Marco to the ground to pry the letter from his brother’s hand.
With exasperatingly deliberate movements, Marco slid his thumb beneath the wax seal and broke it apart. He opened the letter, frowned, held it up as if needing to coax more light from the overcast sky.
“Well?” Lorenzo demanded.
“You’d better read this, Brother. I don’t want to embarrass myself by fumbling over words in front of the two of you.”
Marco held it out, grinning, and Lorenzo snatched it away. The younger brother read it over and his face turned red.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Lucrezia said. “Will you hurry up and read it aloud?”
Lorenzo read it. “I, Tomasino di Lucca do hereby grant permission for my daughter, Lucrezia d’Lisle, widow of the Duc Rigord Ducy d’Lisle of Paris, to marry Lorenzo Boccaccio di Firenze. They may be officially betrothed by authority of the Holy Roman Catholic Church while en route to Italy, with the official marriage to be performed in the cathedral of San Martino in Lucca the following summer.” He stopped, took a deep breath. “And then there’s a whole bunch of stuff here about your family and other things I’m sure you’ll want to read, but . . . look!”
Lucrezia grabbed the letter and skimmed it over to verify it was true. She felt faint with happiness.
“Marco, you clever . . . you kept this a secret,” she said. “Lorenzo, we’re betrothed!”
“Not yet you’re not,” Marco said. “Don’t forget that bit about the authority of the church. We need a priest.” He scanned the road up ahead, and the wagon train struggling to get through the mud. “We’re not going to make it to the village by nightfall, you know. I see you’re scheming to spend the night in each other’s arms, but it will have to wait until tomorrow.”
“The devil you say!” Lorenzo said. “Come on, let’s go.”
He dug his heels into the ribs of the tired horse, which balked at the surprising command, then broke into a trot. Laughing, Lucrezia followed. She almost lost her father’s letter before slipping it into her gown against her breast where it couldn’t flap away. She caught Lorenzo as they galloped past the startled muleteers at the front of the caravan.
Marco shouted for them to wait, then, yelling with exasperation, raced to catch up. He brought up the rear while Lucrezia and Lorenzo raced down the road toward the village. She felt like a girl again, young and foolish and giddy. Lorenzo turned and grinned, then urged his horse faster.
Betrothed. Tonight she would be in his arms, their bodies entwined. She and her love. A man who adored books, who had promised her a library to rival the pope’s. A man who loved her, who would make a home with her in her beloved Italy.
I’m going home, she thought. Going home.
-end-
From the Author
Thank you for reading The Wolves of Paris. If you enjoyed the book, I always appreciate a quick review at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or wherever you purchased the book, which helps readers discover my work.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
The Wolves of Paris Page 28