Florentine Enchantment

by Judith B. Glad

  Florentine Enchantment

  By

  Judith B. Glad

  Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon

  2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-218-6

  Florentine Enchantment

  Copyright © 2016 by Judith B. Glad

  Cover design

  Copyright © 2016 by Judith B. Glad

  Photo: © Can Stock Photo Inc. / ladyligeia

  A slightly different version was

  previously published as Heart of Stone

  All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five (5) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Published by Uncial Press,

  an imprint of GCT, Inc.

  Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

  Florentine Enchantment

  When I arose that fateful Sunday the sun was already high in the sky, and the air held a stillness full of heat to come. The morning air was scented with olive oil and oregano, sun-warmed grain and acrid native shrubs.

  I dressed carefully, not wanting to give the wrong impression. Anyone looking like a tourist in Firenze was always at risk from the pickpockets, the villainous guides, the unscrupulous shopkeepers. I was particularly vulnerable because I am English, blonde, and alone.

  My father was minor nobility, a third son, with an income sufficient to allow him to reside in Italy, talent adequate to earn a small reputation for his portraits, and intellect enough to marry my mother, a yeoman-class woman with a knack for frugality and a face to rival the legendary Helen's. Unfortunately, her face was her misfortune. It attracted the eye of an unprincipled Italian count who kidnapped her and carried her away to a clannish village outside of Rome. I was but three years old, so I remember her only faintly.

  By the time my father found my mother, she was pregnant with the count's child. Father took lodging in the village near the count's estate, and hoped for her release—but she was released only to God. She died in childbirth, and the babe along with her. We remained in Italy, for my father had no reason to return to England. As long as he was here, there was a chance he might someday have his revenge on Count Ettore Maurizio.

  I grew up in the streets of Milano, one more child among a swarm of street urchins. Father was mildly interested in my welfare, but far more concerned with my education. I learned to read by chance, but I learned of art through rigorous and constant study. To further my education, Father took a notion to remove to Firenze when I was fourteen.

  For some reason, he had the notion that our lives would be better there. They were not. He died within five months, victim to some mysterious malady that turned him into an old man before my very eyes, and then killed him.

  Father had not been particularly prudent, but he did leave me the suite of rooms in which we lived. The thin purse I discovered in his bureau held coins enough to feed me for a few weeks, but after that I would be forced to work for my food.

  Father had taught me well. While I am no more than competent with a brush or pen, I have an eye for excellence. When we moved to Firenze, he apprenticed me to a dealer in art, an unheard of position for a female. I was required to cut my hair short and wear men's clothing at work. Signore Mussacchio explained to anyone who questioned my youth and effeminate appearance that I was castrato, due to an unfortunate accident in my childhood. At fourteen this was to my taste, for I loved the comfort of trousers, the freedom of being a boy instead of life under the restrictions of girlhood.

  But now that I was eighteen and a woman, my masculine persona chafed my soul. As long as I remained Signore Mussacchio's castrato assistant, there would be no man for me. I was fated to die a virgin, unwanted, unloved.

  The events of my childhood had taught me that life goes as fate commands, not as one wishes. Choosing to make the best of the life I had, I pledged myself to art. But perhaps I did not entirely relinquish my dreams of love, for on Sundays I donned skirts and went about town as Miss Lucy Raymond, proper English spinster. This masquerade was made easy by the fact that my flat had a secret egress from the bedchamber. Apparently it had once belonged to Carbonari sympathizers or other revolutionaries who preferred to act clandestinely. Whatever its prior purpose, it allowed me to emerge as a woman without arousing interest in my neighbors.

  Firenze abounds in art, from enormous sculptures wrought by hands guided by God to small medallions set into rude brick walls. No palazza, no via, no piazza is without its art, from faded fresco to sparkling mosaic to heroic marbles and bronzes. My favorite place is the Piazza della Signoria, where the whole world passes by, if one only has the patience to watch. I spent many a contented Sunday afternoon there.

  Among the sculptures in the piazza is one created by the master, the incomparable Michelangelo Buonarotti. David. An enormous marble, streaked with winter rains, discolored by smoke and mildew, larger than life, yet somehow alive. He is beautiful. His feet rest on a square pedestal higher than my head, his hands are as long as my forearms. His face—oh, that beautiful, masculine face, with its far-seeing eyes and lines of human suffering—his face is the face I see on the streets of Firenze each day, narrow, spare, with deep-set eyes and thick, curling hair.

  As I always did, that fateful Sunday I paused at the mouth of Via Dei Calzaiouli. There I stood for several long moments, letting my gaze slowly move across the piazza, anticipating my first sight of him. I had only to stand there for warmth to begin smoldering in my belly, for the tenderness of my female parts to make itself known. My body knew what I did not. The role of a woman, a woman ripe for her man.

  I, who had never been in love, who had never been kissed by a male other than my father, knew desire. What I did not know, what I would never know, was what it was to be desired.

  Cease this self-pity, I told myself. You have the freedom to seek a lover, should you choose.

  My problem was that the men I met whom I found attractive, the men who eyed me with interest, were not interested in me as a woman. They had seen, had desired, the fair-haired young castrato—not the woman hiding inside his trousers.

  I let my gaze drift past the loggia, seeing but paying little attention to the Cellini bronze, the Donatello marble, the other works of supreme artists. The massive sculpture of Hercules was only part of the scenery, unimportant to me. It was David my eyes sought, David I drank in the sight of.

  He stood across the piazza on his black marble pedestal, foursquare and firm. I walked toward him, ignoring the crowd, the babble of a dozen languages around me. As I drew near, I raised my chin, letting my gaze linger over his feet, strong white feet, able to walk all day and into the night. His ankles were slim, yet sturdy, his calves well shaped. I saw the veins in his calf, the sinews connecting lower leg to knee. His legs were long, lean, sturdy.

  Have I told you of his magnificent body, of the strength of his arms, his legs? Of the beauty of his naked chest, his uncovered shoulders? Do you know what a real man looks like, how the muscles lie close to the body, so that every movement becomes a symphony in efficiency? His right leg holds him upright, while the lef
t relaxes. His left arm is lifted, holding a sling, with which he will defend himself—or me—from harm through the long, dark night.

  His penis hangs softly, but I could imagine how it would grow under my touch—swell and grow into a shaft of velvet-clad steel—rampant, ready. For me.

  My mouth dried at the thought, butterflies fluttered in my middle. I imagined his hands on my shoulders, his fingers touching my cheeks, my eyelids, my lips. I felt his mouth upon mine, not cold like stone, but hot. Wet. His tongue invaded me, swooped between my teeth, tangled with mine.

  My knees grew weak. I trembled. The smoldering warmth flared into flame, consuming me. Perhaps I cried out.

  "Signorina, you are ill." A strong arm encircled my waist, a hard body supported me.

  I smelled sweat and tobacco, a faint aroma of wine, as I was lowered to the pavement and propped against the pedestal supporting my love.

  The eyes staring into mine were brown, soft like a doe's, ringed with thick, long lashes of sooty black. The face was familiar—like so many I saw daily in the streets, a poor replica of my David's. The hand cupping my cheek was hard with callus, but gentle, tender in its touch.

  "No, I am not ill," I said, but my voice betrayed me. It quavered with the aftermath of my helpless passion.

  His smile was quick, fleeting. "Of course you are not ill. Merely overcome with beauty. I saw you, saw how you could not take your eyes from...him...from David." He glanced upwards, a quick lift of his head. "He is indeed one to make a woman tremble, no?"

  "I love him," I said, then bit my tongue. "I mean, I love the artistry, the beauty of the sculpture. It is incomparable."

  "Sì. But he would be much prettier were he flesh and blood. Here, let me help you stand. I will give you wine and bread and you will feel much better."

  I allowed him to assist me to my feet, thrilled at the service. Had I been clad in my usual coat and trousers, he might have extended a hand to haul me upright. Instead he slipped his strong arm about my waist and lifted me, holding me close against his body until my feet were firmly planted on the pavement.

  Standing close to him, I smelled again the male scent of him, and it rekindled the heat in my belly. I wanted to put my arms around him, to press my mouth against his, to bite him, taste him, eat him.

  He smiled down at me, and I saw the face of my love.

  "But you are beautiful," he said, as if surprised. He dipped his head and kissed me lightly.

  I should have pulled away, but instead I leaned into him, pressing my lips more firmly against his, opening them slightly, so that my tongue could creep forth to sample the flavor of him.

  His hands clutched my upper arms and pushed me away. For an instant I thought I glimpsed pain on his face, before he said, "No, mio amore, you must not." He stepped away, putting an arm's length between us. "Come. Let us refresh ourselves. You will feel more yourself when you've eaten."

  I felt more myself than I could remember, but I said nothing, just let him lead me across the piazza to the small café on the corner of Via dei Cerchi.

  We whiled away the early afternoon at a table near the window, where we could watch the crowds in the piazza. His name was Vido Buonarotti.

  He laughed when I asked him the obvious question. "I have no idea who my father was. I chose that name myself, for I admire the man immensely."

  Perhaps it was the wine: spicy, a bit sweet, and all too easily sipped, no matter how often Vido refilled my glass. Perhaps it was the weather: hot and still, as if the world was waiting for something wonderful. Most likely it was the man: tall and handsome and attentive, seeing me as a woman. A desirable woman.

  Yes, he desired me. I knew this even before he said, "I have a small room, humble and nothing elaborate, but a place where we may be alone. Will you come with me, mio amore?" He nibbled my fingertips as he spoke, sending shivers of ice down my spine, despite the sun now directly shining on the café's window.

  I looked into his eyes and saw I could trust him.

  I looked into his eyes and knew that I loved him.

  You may laugh. How can one fall in love in a few hours? Such a ridiculous notion.

  Or is it? I have read of love expressed only in words, without the lovers ever meeting face to face. I have heard of love at first sight.

  I know it can happen, because it happened to me.

  We walked across the piazza arm in arm. For the first time since I came to Firenze, I passed by David without my heart stuttering, without my loins heating. I still loved him, would always love him, but only as I would love any beautiful thing. He was nothing but cold, hard marble.

  Vido was alive.

  His room was a tiny cellar behind the Loggia dei Lanzi, little more than a hole in the wall, large enough for a narrow cot and not much else. A high barred window let in faint light. "Oh, Vido," I said, letting pity color my voice, "this is no place for a man like you. Let us go to my—"

  His fingers across my lips stopped my words. "I cannot, sweetling," he said, his voice husky. "I must not go away from this place."

  My next question went unasked, for his lips covered mine, and his tongue speared between my lips.

  How can I describe the thrill, the deep, swirling delight I felt at that moment? No daydream, no prurient fantasy had prepared me for the taste, the sensation of a man's insistent tongue fencing with mine, sliding along the edges of my teeth, licking at the corners of my lips.

  Vido held me gently, his strong arms caging me within. I could have escaped. Perhaps I should have, if love without marriage is a sin. I am glad I did not for, as I learned later, there could be no marriage for us.

  He nibbled at my lips, laved my cheeks with his tongue. Nipped my earlobe and ran the edges of his teeth down my throat to the edge of my high collar. I stood helpless and completely at his mercy, caught up in senseless passion, in pleasure so intense, so all-consuming that the roof could have fallen in upon us and I might not have noticed.

  His beard scraped my face, and I delighted in the small pain. When I opened my eyes, I saw the glimmer of his, dark and close to mine. There was power in those eyes, a compelling demand for all I could give him. And more.

  My knees buckled...or did he lift me? I found myself supine on the narrow, lumpy cot, my bonnet lost somewhere, my skirt scarcely hiding my legs, and his hands at the tie of my collar. The air, hot a moment ago, felt cold as he laid the delicate lawn fabric back, exposing my upper chest. His lips touched me, touched skin where no man had ever ventured before. Each light kiss bought him closer to the top of my corset, to my aching breasts.

  I was no innocent in the ways of men and women. No one who has studied the great works of art as I have could possibly be. I knew that men liked to fondle women's breasts, that their penises grew large and erect when they were in the throes of lust. I knew that their ultimate goal was to push themselves into a woman's most secret part. Clearly they derived enjoyment from the act, but I was not sure that most women did. To me it seemed that the woman's reward for allowing such an outrageous invasion of herself was the possibility that a child would result.

  I would have liked a child, although I have no idea how I would have cared for one, given the nature of my employment.

  But I digress, as did my thoughts that day. For after he had thoroughly explored my upper chest with his hot, wet mouth, Vido stood and looked down at me. "You must go," he said, and I heard sorrow in his tone, read it in his shadowed eyes. "I cannot do this."

  I felt as if I had been slapped. "Why?" I quavered.

  "Because there is no future for us. No future for me with any woman. I am...I cannot..." He turned away with a jerk. "Just go," he said, his voice muffled. "Please."

  I sat up. In the dim light of his tiny room, he was little more than a dark shape just beyond my reach. As he stood unmoving, I thought about what had just happened. He did not want me to go. I knew that in my heart of hearts. Yet he felt compelled to banish me. Out of a sense of duty? Of sin? Or something else?

&
nbsp; Why was he sending me away? A bad man would have taken his pleasure with me, would have promised me anything to win my surrender.

  Vido is a good man.

  With shaking fingers I pulled the edges of my open bodice together. The three tiny buttons below the tie fought me, stubbornly refusing to fit into their loops. I could not look down to see what I was doing, for I could not take my gaze from his back. He seemed to vibrate, and I knew that he was holding himself tightly against temptation.

  What if... I thought. What if I refuse to let him sacrifice his desire for the sake of duty, of decency? What if I were to take what I want, as a man would?

  I stood, took one step so I stood just behind him, our bodies not quite touching. "No," I said, my voice not quite steady. "No. Vido, I will not go."

  "You must." His shoulders shook. "I can offer you nothing."

  "You offered me an afternoon of love. I will settle for that." One more step and I was pressed against his taut body. I slid my arms around his waist. With uncharacteristic daring, I spread my fingers across his hard abdomen and reached lower. His penis was a hard bulge in his trousers. "Isn't that uncomfortable?" I touched lightly, tracing its shape—long, hard, straining the coarse fabric that confined it.

  His long fingers encircled my wrists like manacles. "Don't!" He pulled my hands away from his body, held them out to the side.

  The action pulled me even closer to his back. Pulled me fast against his buttocks. I rubbed myself against him, lay my face between his shoulder blades. "Vido," I crooned, "love me. Even if only this one time. Please love me."

  I was not begging. What I spoke was a polite demand.

  I felt the shudder that shook his sturdy frame. Slowly he pulled my hands back against his body. "I cannot resist you," he whispered. "Oh, mia Lucia, I cannot resist you."

  He turned within my arms.

  He enveloped me within his.

  With exquisite gentleness, he cupped my face. His lips touched mine softly, his tongue teasing along the seam.