Betrayed by His Kiss

by Amanda McCabe

  He looked up to meet the blank eyes of a marble Madonna. Her sad calm, her offered hand, reminded him of Isabella. He wished he could take her hand, let her save him, but that was gone now.

  ‘Uncle Orlando!’ Maria cried in her sweet, high child’s voice. ‘You’re here at last.’

  He turned just in time to catch her in his arms as she threw herself at him. She was so small, light as swansdown in his embrace, but she healed him just a bit with her smile. He had avenged her and her mother at last, just as he had vowed to do.

  Why then did he feel so very empty?

  Maria wound her little arms around his neck. ‘Will you stay here this time, Uncle Orlando? At least until the summer?’

  Orlando laughed wryly as he kissed her cheek. ‘I will stay here, Maria.’ He could not go back to Florence, not now. He had to make a new life, for himself and Maria. They were all they had now, each other.

  A life where he would never see Isabella again. And somehow he knew the black chill in his heart, the chill Isabella had warmed all too briefly, would never leave him again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Any pupil of Botticelli is certainly most welcome at Fiencosole!’ Signor Salle, Botticelli’s protégé and now court artist to the lord of the town of Fiencosole, led Isabella down a long corridor lined with half-finished frescoes. A few apprentices scurried up and down ladders, bearing palettes and baskets. ‘As you can see, there is much work to be done. His lordship wishes to cover the whole palazzo with art.’

  Isabella tilted back her head to examine a scene of a banquet. Classical gods in diaphanous draperies gathered around a table laden with glistening fruit and spilled ewers of wine, while fat little cupids flitted around their laurel-crowned heads. It was a bright scene, full of laughter.

  Hades would never fit in there. Nor would she, in her new black gown and veil.

  ‘I fear I am no pupil of Botticelli, signor,’ she said. ‘Merely an amateur. I was most fortunate he befriended me. But I am happy to help you in any way I can. I can mix plaster, grind colours...’

  Signor Salle laughed. ‘He says you can do much more than that! But forgive me. He also writes that you need rest and clean country air after a sad loss. I see you are in mourning.’

  ‘Thank you. My cousin was killed in the—troubles in Florence. I am very grateful for your hospitality. Work will be very beneficial, I think.’

  Work—and taking her revenge, as a Strozzi should. She just had no idea how to get close to Orlando now that she was here in Fiencosole, or even if he did indeed reside there. She had no experience at this revenge business and little stomach for it. But there was no one else to do it.

  She wandered to an open window and stared down at the courtyard below. The lord of Fiencosole walked there, a tall man with long, greying dark hair straggling from beneath his cap and a velvet robe draped around his spare figure. Crowds of people and dogs trailed after him. A small city Fiencosole might be, but it had more than its share of courtiers and petitioners, swelled by the ranks of those fleeing Florence.

  Her task would not be easy.

  Signor Salle peered over her shoulder. ‘Ah, his lordship has returned from the hunt. He will want to meet you.’

  ‘Should I not change my garb?’ she asked, studying the fine embroidered silks of the ladies.

  ‘You are in mourning, signorina. Everyone will understand. And he will want to hear the latest news from Florence.’

  The latest news from Florence. The last Isabella had seen, glimpsed from behind the curtains of Caterina’s carriage as they left the city, were bodies dangling from windows of the Pazzi house. Blood on cobblestones. She had to turn away before she could be sick.

  Now Caterina was safe in her convent, thinking Isabella on her way to her father’s villa. And so she would be, once she accomplished her grim duty.

  Or perhaps she would have to enter a convent herself and spend the rest of her life doing penance for her sins.

  She remembered Orlando again, his smile in the moonlight, his quiet beauty as he studied the cathedral from their loft. Why, oh, why could he have not been what he appeared? Why did he have to cast her into this nightmare?

  ‘Thank you, Signor Salle,’ she said, turning away from the window. ‘You have been most kind.’

  He led her down the stone steps at the end of the corridor and into the garden where the courtiers were clustered. Their laughter sounded foreign after the bloody visions of Florence, the smells of the flowers and their perfumes thick and strange.

  Isabella scanned every face, but Orlando’s was not among them. She would have to find time to examine every inch of the town, whose spires and rooftops could be glimpsed over the ivy-covered garden wall. He could not hide for ever, she knew every detail of his face and form all too well.

  The man she had thought he was, the man who had kissed her on the terrace, would not hide. But then, she realized with a sharp pang, that man had never actually existed.

  ‘Signorina Spinola! We welcome you to Fiencosole,’ the lord said as she curtsied before him. ‘We are eager to hear of the newest art in Florence...’

  As he asked her more questions, Isabella suddenly had a prickling, icy feeling at the back of her neck. As discreetly as possible, she glanced behind her, shielding her face with edge of her black veil.

  Orlando stood there in the gateway to the courtyard.

  At first, she was frozen with the shock of actually seeing him there. The warm day felt suddenly icy and she didn’t know what to do. Where to hide.

  But he didn’t notice her there. From the concealment of her veil, Isabella studied him carefully. He wore dark garments, as he always did, and his glossy black hair was tousled by the breeze. When he impatiently pushed it back, she saw his classically handsome face was marred by a new, ugly red scar. The wages of the evil that happened in the cathedral?

  And yet he was smiling. Smiling. Isabella couldn’t believe he dared to do so. Then she saw what he smiled down on—a little girl who held on to his hand.

  Isabella’s heart seemed to squeeze in her chest and she couldn’t breathe. The girl looked like a tiny angel in a pale blue gown and hooded cloak, her red-gold curls tumbling around her shoulders. She held tight to Orlando’s hand, bouncing in excitement, and it was obvious they were close.

  Was she—could she be his daughter?

  Isabella pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. If he had a child, how could she do what she promised Matteo she would? How could she bear to? Yet how could she forget her vow?

  Her stern resolve wavering, she turned sharply away from the sight.

  ‘I hope you will attend our masked ball tomorrow night, signorina,’ his lordship said suddenly, jerking her attention from Orlando and the child, and her own confused thoughts. ‘I know you are in mourning, but I have some of the finest musicians to be found outside of Florence. Music can lift the spirits, just as great paintings can, I always say.’

  A ball? Where she could hide behind a mask and find out more about her quarry? ‘I would be honoured to attend,’ Isabella murmured.

  ‘Excellent!’ he said, clapping his hands. ‘And perhaps you can inspect my artworks in progress, and tell me how they compare to Signor Botticelli’s work...’

  He and his courtiers continued on their path through the garden. And when Isabella glanced back, Orlando and the little girl had disappeared.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Isabella could hear music as she made her way down the curving marble staircase and along the winding halls of the palazzo, a merry passamiento that seemed to mock her dark, confused thoughts. She kept seeing Orlando, his smile at the little girl. And Orlando, standing over her cousin’s body at the cathedral. Which was the real man?

  She paused next to a silver-framed Venetian looking glass to adjust
her mask. She almost didn’t recognize herself in her new costume, a classically draped gown of diaphanous apricot and cream, caught at the shoulders with golden brooches like an Aphrodite or Artemis. Her hair was covered by an elaborately curled blond wig, bound by a gold wreath of laurel leaves. Her features were concealed by a gold satin half-mask, her lips tinted red.

  If she did not even recognize herself, then surely Orlando would not either. If he was even there at all...

  Her stomach clenched and she feared she would be sick.

  Give me strength, she silently begged. Strength to do what she had to do. What was right.

  And yet—what was right? The sight of the little girl had changed so much, had made her doubt. Surely she would know what to do when she was face to face with Orlando.

  Isabella turned in a flurry of skirts and rushed towards the noise of the music, which flooded out through the open doors of the grand salon. Small the city of Fiencosole might be, but its lord lived well in his court. Turkish carpets were laid over the cold stone floors and intricately carved cameos looked down from roundels high on the mottled stone walls, watching the party.

  She stepped through the salon doors and into a summer wonderland. Botticelli’s painting come to life. Garlands of dark green ivy and pale flowers twined around the thick marble pillars and damask-draped tables held gold and silver platters of pasta, roasted chickens and pheasants, fish garlanded with lemons, towering white cakes of beaten eggs and sugar. Pages in miniature silver chitons scurried past, keeping goblets filled with ruby-red wine.

  Isabella examined the musicians who played with great gusto in their gallery above the crowd. The dancers twirled and spun past in an intricate pattern, their classical robes pale against the greenery as their arms linked and broke apart again. She watched each face carefully, trying to see past the masks. How very deeply she wanted to find Orlando—and yet how she dreaded it, too.

  She took a goblet of wine from one of the pages and sipped at its sweetness as she made her way around the edge of the dancers. She studied every face, every manly figure, yet none of them was Orlando.

  ‘Signora!’ A tall, obviously ale-shot Adonis suddenly grabbed her arm and twirled her around. ‘Dance with me, my goddess!’

  Isabella laughed. She was certainly in no dancing mood, but if there was one thing she had learned in Florence it was how to hide her emotions. ‘I cannot dance tonight, signor.’

  ‘Everyone must dance on such a night as this.’ He twirled her around as Isabella tried to slide out of his arms and everything around her turned blurry.

  As she spun, she suddenly caught a glimpse of darkness amid the brilliant colours of the dance. She pushed the Adonis away and swung around frantically to see what it was.

  Orlando stood in the doorway. He wore a mask like everyone else and his dark hair was brushed severely back, but she was sure it was him. No one else had strong shoulders like that. He turned and left before even joining the dance and Isabella ran after him, frantic.

  At first he was lost in the knots of people who milled around the corridor, partaking of the delicacies and flirting together. Isabella glanced one way, then the other, trying to move around the courtiers without elbowing them aside and causing a scene. Finally she glimpsed him turning through a doorway and ran after him.

  She slid around the corner to see him making his way down a narrower, tapestry-lined hallway, where the merriment of the party was muffled. He moved quickly, as confidently as ever, yet she sensed something more—careful about his steps.

  ‘Signor!’ she called.

  His shoulders stiffened and his hand flew to the hilt of the dagger at his waist. He spun around in one graceful movement, like a cat, to face her. She could see nothing of his expression behind the mask, but she thought he went very still with surprise. At least he didn’t leave.

  Yet now that she faced him again at last, she didn’t quite know what to do. She tried to remember Caterina, the way she had smiled at Giuliano, the way she swayed towards him and glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. That was how to be alluring.

  Isabella drew in a deep breath and made herself smile. She walked slowly towards him, hoping her gown flowed enticingly. Hoping he didn’t leave again and make her chase him down.

  He watched her move closer, his hand still on his dagger.

  ‘Leaving before you even have a dance?’ she whispered, keeping her voice low and rough. She slumped so she seemed shorter and hoped her wig and face paint was enough in the dim light. She had learned how to behave like another person entirely. It had to be enough.

  He gave her a strange, small smile. ‘I fear I am not in a dancing mood, signora,’ he said, politely.

  ‘You cannot be persuaded at all?’ she asked. She reached out to gently touch his velvet sleeve—and then she realized her great mistake.

  This was not merely some monster of her imagining, the villain of the chaos in the cathedral. This was Orlando, the man who had kissed her, who she dared dream about. Her poetic hero, who climbed balconies for her. He hadn’t changed so much since he held her on the terrace. He smelled the same, felt the same.

  Had the same effect on her.

  Nay! she thought sternly. She pushed away the rush of feelings and made herself remember instead the blood and panic of the cathedral.

  He laughed roughly. ‘I came to the ball as a favour to my kinsman.’

  ‘Your kinsman?’

  ‘The lord of this house.’

  Ah, so that was why he came to Fiencosole, to shelter with his kinsman from Florentine wrath. But who was the little girl? And why had he killed Matteo at all?

  ‘But I fear I must retire now,’ he said. He took her hand and raised it to his lips for a quick salute. It was light, impersonal, not at all like the way he once touched her, yet it still made her shiver. ‘Thank you for your kind invitation.’

  Isabella couldn’t let him leave. Not until she had more answers. She held on to his arm. ‘It is too lovely a night to be alone, when there is such music and wine to be had...’

  Suddenly, a loud, drunken group tumbled through the doorway into their private corridor. Isabella impulsively grabbed Orlando’s hand and pulled him with her behind the shelter of a tapestry.

  ‘Signora...’ he said, laughing.

  Isabella was desperate to keep him from leaving. ‘It’s too beautiful a night to be alone with one’s thoughts, isn’t it?’ She pressed him to the stone wall, her hands against his shoulders. Beneath the fine satin of his doublet, he felt so hard, so strong. Yet he didn’t push her away.

  His eyes darkened behind his mask. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘No one of importance,’ she answered. ‘Just someone trying to lose myself behind these masks, signor. I think you would understand that.’

  His whole body grew taut under her touch. ‘Signora, I don’t comprehend you.’

  Isabella stared up at him. In his eyes she saw none of the darkness she expected, only curiosity. Wariness. Not knowing what else to do, she went up on tiptoe and kissed him.

  At first it was only desperation to keep him with her that drove her, but as soon as her lips touched his, as soon as she tasted him, she remembered the intoxication of his embrace. The fire that always caught between them. His arms closed around her and drew her closer, and she gasped as she felt the touch of his tongue on hers. It was wondrous, perfect, as if she had suddenly come back to where she belonged.

  It was horrible, because she knew what she had to do. Yet she couldn’t quite let go of him, not yet.

  So he did it for her.

  ‘Signora!’ Orlando pushed her away. His hands on her arms were gentle but very firm, not letting her closer, but not making her go away either. ‘I know not what game you play. You are most interesting, but I fear my heart is far away from here tonight.’

  His
heart was far away? Could he mean...was it...?

  She let him go, her hands suddenly too numb to hold on to him. He bowed and left her there behind the tapestry. She listened to his footsteps grow fainter on the marble floor and leaned her forehead against the cold wall. She closed her eyes and tried to make her whirling thoughts stop.

  Yet now she had even more questions than before and no answers at all.

  She took a deep breath and left her sheltered spot. A page was hurrying past, a ewer of wine in his hands.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she called. ‘Which chamber belongs to that man in the black doublet...?’

  * * *

  Orlando tossed his discarded doublet atop the clothes’ chest at the foot of his borrowed bed and reached for the goblet of wine left on the table. He finished it in one long swallow, but the rich brew could not banish the strange mood of the night. The memory of the masked woman’s eyes, so endlessly dark, deep as the night outside. Something about them haunted him.

  He poured himself more wine and went to peer out the window. The hour grew late and the party had spilled out into the garden. Lanterns hung from the trees, casting an amber glow over the costumed figures dancing over the grass. They looked like the ancient, frozen scenes on Grecian urns.

  Their laughter drifted up to him, yet it could not touch him, couldn’t penetrate the armour he had built again around his heart. Isabella had torn it down with her dainty, paint-stained fingers, with her smile and the innocent glow of her eyes. For one brief moment, he had glimpsed sunlight again, hope.

  That was ripped apart that terrible day in the cathedral. He had his revenge—but he had lost his heart. Now he had to take care of his niece, secure her future. It was for Maria alone that he kept moving forward.

  He stared down at the dancers and found himself wondering if one of them was the masked woman who had kissed him so suddenly. Yet there was none with that colour of gown. She seemed to have vanished as suddenly as she appeared, which was fortunate. He had no time or inclination for the arts of Eros now.