by Diane Nelson
He looked around with interest, as if viewing the space for the first time. While his own taste favored a certain level of austerity, Cosimo preferred the ornate flourishes so unique to the Florentine elite. In truth, it had been years since he'd seen his ancestral home. Much of his adult life had been spent in the service of rulers like Carlos, or prowling the halls of power in Rome and Venice. As his father's personal envoy, he represented his homeland, yet he was as rootless and adrift as any vagrant. It took the grief of his child's death, and the potential of the woman waiting for him in his quarters, to underscore how much he'd missed in his life. Like all of them, he felt the press of time.
A large window overlooked the small gardens to the rear of the palazzo. In the distance, clouds boiled over the rolling hills, dark and ominous, a fitting tribute to his mood.
"Nicolo." Cosimo's voice had an edge to it.
Nico waited for his father to join him, delaying the inevitable. The man already knew but he would need to hear the words.
"Father, I-I…"
Cosimo took his arm and led him to a bench seat near the fireplace, bidding him to sit. He'd rather pace the room but his father would want to look directly into his eyes, to assure himself that his son was not trying to hide the truth. The elder settled himself stiffly and glared dry-eyed for a long moment.
Nico opened to the probing, laying bare all he knew, all he understood. He spoke quietly and succinctly about that day, about his older brother's final breath and what had passed between them. Holding back nothing he shared his pain, the animal rage and the final act of revenge.
Before he could continue, trying to make sense of the impossible for his father's benefit, Cosimo interrupted.
"Is she worthy, boy?"
"Yes, father, she is worthy."
Cosimo rose and wandered back to the window, now streaked with rain coming down in torrents.
"You see, my son, the heavens shed tears for us."
Nico joined him, the two men staring sightless, lost in their own thoughts.
Cosimo said, "He's not really gone, you know." He touched a hand to his heart, then reached over and pressed the palm against his son's tunic. "He lives in you, he always has."
"Sometimes, Papà, I wish it were not so."
"We seldom get what we wish, boy. Now tell me what you know before the pain takes me to my bed. My time on this earth grows short and there is still much to do."
Nico quickly recapped the dangers and opportunities as he understood them, then waited while Cosimo processed the new information.
"I will not lie to you, boy. I am distressed about Stefano and I fear for his immortal soul if we leave him in Friedrich's hands."
"You knew the rumors, father. Why did you send him in the first place? Surely there were other options."
"Yes … and no. You know how rumors operate, little lies and half-truths, sometimes more but often less than the reality. I had no proof, no indication that my boy would be…" he choked on the words, "…a willing accomplice." Cosimo rubbed a hand across his eyes.
Nico asked, "What do you wish me to do?"
"You will go to Friedrich's and bring Stefano home."
"And if he does not wish to come?"
Cosimo grinned and said, "You are a negotiator. Convince him."
"And what about…?"
"Not today, my boy. I wish to retire. You will bring me the Frenchwoman in the morning…" He held up a hand and muttered, "Yes, yes, I know she's not French, but allow me that small anchor. What you bring to me is an improbability, something for which we could all burn at the stake."
Nico escorted his father to his bedchambers and bid him good evening but before he left Cosimo said, "You do believe her, don't you." It was more a statement than a question.
"Yes, Papà, I do."
"Then the danger is real."
"Very real. But I shall make sure our family is safe. You have my sacred trust, Papà."
Nico hurried through the darkening house. An odor of simmering stew wafted from the kitchens, reminding him they hadn't eaten since morning. Though his stomach rumbled at the tempting aromas, he hastened up the stairs. He needed to speak with Veluria, to prepare her for her meeting with Cosimo. He trusted her but his father did not. She would have to earn his consideration, otherwise the man would hold her hostage, even in the face of a disaster he'd envisioned in nightmares.
Nightmares made manifest by the appearance of beings out of time and place, like avenging angels, ready to wreak vengeance on the folly of those who sought to harness history to their own ends.
No stranger to retreat, he knew this time it was not an option. Be that as it may, he had no intention of letting history gain the upper hand.
****
Veluria indulged in the luxury of a bath, soaking away the grit and grime of travel over rough roads. Her subconscious followed the interplay of energies between Nico and his father, using her abilities to interpret emotion, intent, desire, if not actual words. That was an intimacy she enjoyed only with Nico, albeit at the whim of a very erratic gift.
Drying herself with plush cloths, she slipped into a silk robe left for her by one of the maids. She chuckled to herself. Even in a time when both men and women were far shorter than people in her time, she was still diminutive even by those distant standards. Bunching the robe about her waist, she tied it off with a soft cord to keep the hem from tripping her as she glided across the ceramic tiled floor.
Nico's quarters were simple and elegant. A large bed commanded one end of the long, narrow room, a wardrobe and chest on the west facing wall and a writing desk and chair by the tall bank of windows that let in the morning sun.
Someone had come in while she bathed and lit candles, their flickering shadows on the stark white walls giving the room an ominous air, though the intricate wooden paneling on the ceiling softened the effect. As in Venice, thick oriental rugs gave the space warmth and character. It was very much a man's room, lacking any feminine touches.
Nico entered the chamber in a rush, but paused long enough to take in her still damp hair hanging in clumps about her shoulders. She felt suddenly frumpish and awkward, why she wasn't sure.
She was about to ask him how his meeting with Cosimo had gone but the man brushed past her and began to disrobe. She watched with interest, her belly aflutter with possibilities. Though not nearly as tall as Antonio, he was still an imposing figure at close to six feet, well-muscled, his chest peppered with sandy brown curls.
When he approached, she bowed her head and asked, "Is this the time? Will you finally find comfort in my arms?"
Nico pulled at the cord, loosening the robe and slipping it off her shoulders. He ran his fingers through the damp tresses, separating strands until they lay straight down her back.
He tilted her head up with a single finger and solemnly said, "No, madam. Not today."
A surge of disappointment and dismay flooded her veins but before she could voice the question … the complaint … he scooped her in his arms and carried her to the bed.
There was no mistaking his interest, the feral look in his eyes—the blue of the Aegean replaced by darkening pools of lust—and a hunger so intense it threatened to consume her. For all her training and experience, she knew that this time would be her first for he would command her body and own her soul and she would willingly submit.
He hissed, "Look at me."
As if she could take her eyes off him … yet she hesitated, the frisson of fear at what she was about to do sent a thrill of anticipation down her spine. He touched her cheek, the intimacy and gentleness so profound she could have cried from the sheer joy of it. Leaning in he brushed her lips, tenderly at first, then demanding as his tongue explored her essence, probing with punishing force until she gasped and fought for a breath.
He hissed, "Do you understand now?"
Slowly he lowered his huge frame over her, nudging her legs apart, his cock pressing on tender flesh as he teased and withdrew. She thrust he
r hips, seeking him, yet he denied her, a smile playing on his lips. She had no idea what she was supposed to understand, and she didn't care.
"It's not comfort I want now."
"What do you want?"
"This…" He slid inside her, her body in tremors as it stretched to accommodate his thick length. "I want this."
Lifting her hips, he thrust, driving deep, again and again, until she moaned as the spasms gripped her in waves of pleasure. She wrapped her legs around his waist and rocked until he roared his release, spilling his hot seed deep into her womb.
Nico lay back on the pillows and drew her close, nestling her head on his shoulder. He murmured something but she couldn't make out the words. Eventually his light snoring was all she needed to drift to sleep.
When next she woke the candles burned low. The rain had stopped sometime during the night. She turned over, prepared to settle back against the man who would rock her world only to find him staring at her with a devilish grin on his face.
He traced the planes of her face with his lips, exploring every inch of flesh, with such exquisite gentleness her body practically vibrated from the sensation.
Nibbling at her ear lobe he husked, "Tell me what you want."
Want? What did she want? No one had ever asked her that. Not ever. And it was not a simple question. She knew what he asked. But would she be able to live with the consequences of her answer?
Are you strong enough, M'lady?
Yes, Nico. I am strong enough for this.
Then tell me, what do you want?
You, Nico. I want you.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Nico cursed under his breath. "Damn it, woman, hold still."
"Why don't you call for your housekeeper?" She grunted as the stays tightened about her ribcage. "Do you even know how to do that?"
Brushing his lips along her shoulder, he murmured, "I know how to do many things…" He spun her about and stared admiringly at the soft mounds of flesh. With his thumbs he traced the edge of the corset, eyes growing dark with passion.
Veluria knew they kept Cosimo waiting, she could feel the twinge of irritation. It would not do to make yet another bad impression. Their first meeting had been … perhaps inconclusive was the correct term, not quite the sparring match she'd anticipated. However, everything had changed since that fateful day in Venice. She needed her wits about her, otherwise she and Cosimo would act at cross-purposes.
Yet she found it nearly impossible to concentrate with Nico's lips and hands stroking and prodding with devilish insistence.
A knock on the door left Nico sputtering, "What!"
"Sir? It's Paulo."
Her lover's face split in a huge grin. They'd not seen nor heard from his man since he'd been dispatched to court. Nico grabbed her robe off the bed and hastily placed it around her shoulders. In two strides he reached the massive door and yanked it open, pulling his friend into a bear hug.
Before Paulo could extricate himself Veluria wrapped her arms about his waist. The man's ears turned red from embarrassment.
Stuttering, Paulo said, "Um, s-sir… May I have a word?" He looked from her to Nico and backed out of the suite.
Nico raised his eyebrows at her but she nodded and waved him off. The door shut quietly leaving her to wonder what was going on. It had nothing to do with Cosimo, of that she was sure. The urge to eavesdrop was strong but she would no longer risk violating Nico's privacy. The playing field had changed dramatically, though her lover would not recognize that term. When she made her decision, when she gave this man her heart, she could only guess at the consequences.
That the Sisterhood would disapprove was a given but what they would do about it was unclear. There were simply no precedents. She mentally keyed onto the word 'salvage' as her guideline. It indicated that not everything was cast in stone and that alternate outcomes might be possible if she made the correct choices—and whatever those choices might be they included Nicolo de' Medici.
As Nico came into the bedroom he instructed Paulo, "Find as many good swordsmen in town as you can. We leave tomorrow, first light."
"Yes, signore." Bowing he gave her a quick smile and turned to leave.
"And Captain," Nico's voice was thick with emotion, "thank you. For everything."
Paulo stiffened, pride and embarrassment warring across his grizzled features. He muttered, "Sir," and beat a hasty retreat.
Nico came into the room holding a bundle of clothing. "Paulo brought this back from my hacienda in Madrid." He handed the crumpled clothing over. "He thought you might need it."
Veluria took the soiled dress and laid it carefully on the bed, her anxiety and need to examine the hidden pockets ramping up until her brow beaded with sweat. She'd been certain she would never see her precious talisman again.
Was now the time for full disclosure? She'd given this man her heart. Was she also prepared to reveal all of her secrets?
Nico wrapped his arms about her and whispered in her ear, "You won't find them there." He laid a hand, palm up, onto the fabric, her stiletto looking small in his huge hand. "A beautiful, elegant weapon for a beautiful, elegant woman."
Them, he said 'them'. He knew.
"Yes, I know everything, my love."
He unfisted his left hand. On it lay the device in the shape of a cross embedded with tiny gems, each one part of the encoding, the technology, that would take her, take them … home.
When he laid the crucifix on the bed, her hand reached reflexively for it but she stopped, fingers hovering over the device. She thought she'd made her choice—it had seemed so easy when she'd been convinced there were no other options. Giving her heart was one thing, giving up her life's work, her purpose, was something else entirely.
This was not the right time to confront that choice. She feared it would leave her open to error. Every decision, every perturbation, pushed them down a path that shut out all other probabilities. She could change history, she could not change fate.
Nico said, his voice harsh and unyielding, "Know this. Whatever happens, you are mine." He pinched her arms once, hard, then released her and hissed, "Get dressed. Cosimo awaits and I have much to prepare."
Terrified Veluria cried out, "Nico?" but he advanced to the door and left without a backward glance.
Her body quaked with fear and loathing. By leaving the possibility open that she could and would return to her own time and place, she'd hurt him grievously. He knew better than she that he had no place in her world, that his very existence would be anathema.
Swiping at the tears pooling on her cheeks, she dressed and prepared to meet the one man who could derail everything.
****
Cosimo said, "Come in, my dear." He waved to the bench, "Please. Be seated."
The man was smaller than she remembered, somehow diminished in stature, the burden of his son's death and the events to come weighing heavily. The lines about his rheumy eyes spoke to pain, yet she never doubted his fierce resolve to protect what was his.
She folded her hands in her lap and waited while he poured a goblet of wine and attended to the polite forms. She gratefully accepted the wine and sipped it while allowing her gaze to sweep the room, taking the measure of the man through the treasures displayed so casually about the space.
She said, "Nico…"
"…will join us shortly." He sat in a chair opposite and gave her a calculating look. "My son has told me what he knows." She blanched at the implication of that emphasis on 'he'. Cosimo continued, assured of her undivided attention. "Now, my dear, it is time to tell me what you know."
A thousand warning bells went off all at once, her head splitting at the deep drilling, the unmitigated brutality of the assault, far worse than what she'd experienced so many weeks ago in the tunnel by the canal. The goblet fell from her hand, the red wine pooling like blood about the hem of her skirt. Fingernails gouging into her palm, piercing the skin, releasing thin streams of viscous blood to drip on her skirt, she was helple
ss to gainsay the man's powers.
Like Nico he demanded but unlike his son, who had gently peeled away each layer, taking the time to understand and assimilate the knowledge, Cosimo rampaged through her senses like an angry bull, smashing her barriers apart like so much fragile glass.
Dear Reverend Mother, stop this!
Allow it, child.
No! It hurts, it hurts so much…
Be strong, my child. Your trials have yet to come.
An eternity, or an instant in time, passed—she could not be sure. Then it was over. She expected to feel ravaged—raped, violated—but nothing quite described the turmoil, like angry seas tossing a small craft after a wicked storm. Her gut bubbled and boiled and she feared she would vomit from the bile rising to her throat.
Cosimo cradled her head and crooned soft words she could not understand. If he were attempting to comfort her, he failed miserably. Her soul yearned for Nico's touch, his love—only that could calm her battered spirit.
Have I destroyed that too, as I've destroyed everything I've touched in this world? Stefano, Antonio… Lost to me, to the ones who love them.
She did not hear Nico enter the room. He tore his father's hands away from her head and drove the older man back until he landed with an audible thud on the ornate seat. She couldn't see her lover's face but his voice was thunderous.
"What have you done?"
"What I had to, boy." The old man's voice wavered slightly but he stared up at his son with resolve.
"If you've hurt her…"
Cosimo glared at her with a mixture of fear and awe. Even Nico was surprised at the man's expression. With a pleading note, his father said, "Let go of me."
Nico complied and moved to stand behind her. She still could not see Nico's face, nor could she read whatever passed between father and son, a communication so private, so intimate, she had no means to interpret what it meant.