Rafaelle shaded his eyes against the setting sun. “It looks like there is a road running near the beach. It goes around the point there instead of over it. Good, good. What did Luciano call it, the Capo di Vado?”
She found a grassy spot and sat down. It felt good to just relax for a moment. Her feet hurt, her back hurt, her hands hurt, and she rather thought her hair hurt. Even so, she studied the land and sea before them. “How far from the town are they going to come in, do you think?”
“If I were Harley, I’d aim for a point just beyond the Capo there. It’ll make it more of a trip for us, about four miles, I’d say, but safer for the landing party.” He sat down next to her and draped an arm over her shoulders. “I don’t think it’ll be a problem for us. Horses or a carriage would help immensely, though. We’ll see what Luciano can dig up.”
Chiara bent her head and leaned her cheek on his shoulder, even as she examined the coast curving out to the point. The hand over her shoulder played with the edge of her blouse. The other brought her hand to his lips. Her thoughts danced like water thrown into a hot pan. “Maybe…maybe he could arrange for us to, uh…” What was she going to say? “…Uh, be able to ‘steal’ them.”
“Umm.” Gently, he pulled her closer and buried his face in her hair.
“We should…”
“Hush, you talk too much.” His hand turned her face towards him. “I have better uses for your mouth.”
Rational thought blew away on the light breeze as his mouth descended on hers. The kiss started light as that breeze.
Chiara felt sure he would understand her, accept all that she was, had been, and would be. No one, she thought, could kiss with such tenderness, such consideration, such understanding unless it came from the well-spring of their being. He must love her.
Closing her eyes, she turned towards him, and his arms closed around her. He deepened the kiss, and his mouth gently pried hers open. It surprised and excited her, fueling the small flicker of desire within her instead of satisfying it. His tongue invaded her mouth, stroking and tasting.
Surprised, her eyes popped open, and she pulled back a fraction of an inch.
He watched her. “All right?”
She blinked. Was she all right? Merciful heavens, she was wonderful. Instead of responding, she parted her lips and kissed him.
His arms tightened, crushing her to him. She should have objected, but she only wanted to be even closer to him. Clothes and shoes and sunshine and people kept them apart.
A wolf-whistle from the top of the ramparts confirmed the last. Reluctantly, he drew back. “I’m afraid this isn‘t the time or place. Let’s go.” He jumped to his feet and offered her his hand. The assist up grew to a hug. He looked over his shoulder. A head leaned over the fortress wall. Rafaelle waved as they walked off.
Some time later, they knocked at the Dallapiccola’s door, and the same little maid answered.
Dinner was almost ready, and Chiara headed toward the kitchen to help. Returning with a plate of pasta, she found Bruna draped over Rafaelle, rubbing her considerable curves over him.
“…and I can show you a very good time.”
Rafaelle made no move to extricate himself. For a moment, Chiara stood there, stunned. He looked down at Bruna, one eyebrow lifted.
Catarina clattered through the door, platters in each hand. “Bruna, come help!”
Chiara roused from her paralysis and continued on to the table. Bruna slowly broke away from Rafaelle, but trailed a finger down his chest. She sashayed over to the kitchen door, favoring Chiara with a challenging smile. Rafaelle watched her go, never moving or changing expression. Chiara wondered what he was thinking. Could he possibly court her so tenderly in the afternoon and encourage that slut in the evening? Numbly, she placed her tray on the table and returned to the kitchen for the next load.
When she returned with the last platter, the table groaned under numerous plates and elbows. She, Catarina, and the cook took their seats last. Rafaelle sat next to the head of the table, the place reserved for the immediate family and guests. Bruna tried to entice Rafaelle to sit next to her, but Luciano requested he and Chiara sit on either side of him and Catarina, as mistress of the house, next to Rafaelle. Bruna, one place down from Chiara, continued to regale Rafaelle with hungry glances. Cousins and other members of the household filled in the rest of the spaces.
“Where are Taddeo and Nico?” someone asked.
“Busy,” Luciano growled. The questioner opened his mouth to ask the obvious question, but the scowl on Luciano’s face stopped him. Bruna, just now noticing the absence of two of her brothers, looked from her father to Rafaelle. Chiara watched her toy thoughtfully with a string of spaghetti.
Conversation proceeded to range from the weather to a sick cat to general grousing about the French troops. Chiara couldn’t wait to leave.
Dinner finished, Catarina shooed Chiara away when she offered to help wash dishes. “It is bad enough that a guest in my house serves the meal. You will not clean up. While it is still light, go out and enjoy the garden. Go! Go!”
Obediently, she wandered out to the neat, walled plot behind the house. Flowers bloomed here and there, but mostly the immaculate beds held vegetables and herbs. Tomatoes, their fruit still mainly green, filled one bed. Summer squash splayed over hills of dirt, their green-striped zucchini playing hide and seek with the over-sized leaves. Chiara bent to pick a leaf from a potted plant. She crushed it and sniffed. Mint—no wonder it was potted. Mint tended to be a bit like Napoleon. It took over where it could. She dropped the leaf and continued walking toward a bench in the far corner.
Footsteps, masculine ones, sounded behind her. She ignored them and concentrated on a patch of basil.
Chapter 15
The footsteps sounded familiar, but she didn’t turn around. He stopped a few paces away.
“You can’t really think I have any interest in her. I assure you I have more… fastidious taste in females than that.”
Still studying the basil, Chiara remained silent and shook her head. After a moment, she burst out, “You let her paw you and practically fuck you right there!” A small snicker behind her had her whirling.
“I love a woman who says exactly what she thinks.”
Chiara sliced her hand through the air.
“And yes, I did let her paw me. I did not solicit the attention, but short of throwing her against the nearest wall, there wasn’t much I could do until someone came in. I was going to try to discourage her gently.”
Chiara snorted.
“But firmly. As a member of the household, she could make the next few days unpleasant for us if I rejected her too harshly.”
“You didn’t exactly look in pain!”
Rafaelle pursed his lips and let his head drop to the side as he considered her. “A woman’s hands on a man can have certain…effects on the body of a man that are not entirely voluntary. I was doing my damnedest to make sure no hint of that involuntary reaction reached her. In all humility, I believe my self-control was exemplary. There is only one woman’s hands I want on me, and she is now standing right in front of me looking angry enough to spit rifle shot.”
Chiara looked down and scuffed at the ground with her toe. “I suppose I know, knew, that she was the instigator. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
A single finger touched her chin and lifted her face up. “But it still bothers you.”
“Yes.”
Examining her face, he said, “I’d say my intrepid warrior maid is pouting.”
She stalked away to examine the pepper plants. “You didn’t have to let her!”
“Do you doubt my commitment?”
Several seconds passed before she said, “No.”
“And I just tumbled off the turnip wagon.”
She knew he was still watching her.
“I want to have your godfather marry us tomorrow.”
Wide eyed, she whirled back to face him. “Here? Now? Tomorrow?”
“Well, not here or now. I was thinking tomorrow in the Sistine Chapel at the Palace.”
“But, but…the banns haven’t been read.”
“He’s the Pope. He can do anything he wants to.”
“I have nothing to wear.”
“Ah, every woman’s universal excuse. However, while I look forward to making that statement a reality in the privacy of our bedchamber, I must say that your peasant garb is quite fetching.”
“He’s Catholic.”
“Yes, and he’s not an Englishman. I’ll overlook his shortcomings. We can have an Anglican ceremony when we get back if you wish. But I think I need to clarify my intentions in a most definitive manner. Besides, it will protect me from being raped by Bruna.”
Chiara burst out laughing. “All right. Tomorrow afternoon. I’ll speak to him in the morning. Try not to get too grubby during the morning.”
“Let’s go tell Catarina and Luciano. They can stand with us.”
When Chiara trudged upstairs to prepare for bed, Catarina continued her hasty wedding preparations. Chiara argued for restraint, but the older woman would have none of it. Only the best possible at such short notice would be acceptable, including Catarina’s elegantly embroidered bodice. Finally, Chiara gave up.
She ached. The walk loosened up some of the stiff muscles, but now they ached with a vengeance. The hard, little bed called her name, a siren song in homespun. Sleep beckoned, and she sank happily into its arms, a smile on her face despite the soreness.
Tomorrow would be her wedding day. It wasn’t the wedding every English society girl envisioned, but it would be hers to cherish. It would be perfect. Rafaelle loved her and accepted her. Plus, he was good and gentle and kind. He was handsome, too.
Everything was perfect.
Rafaelle’s shoulder ached a bit. He couldn’t tell if it was from moving dirt all day long or from Luciano’s congratulatory pounding. Either way, it felt good to be able to lie down and go to sleep.
Tomorrow he wouldn’t be sleeping alone. In retrospect, it was probably a good thing the unseen man on the wall whistled at them. He didn’t think Chiara would appreciate having her virginity taken in full view of Napoleon’s soldiers. Besides, his plans would require much more time than they’d had at the Priamar.
He rolled on his back and put his arm under his head. The bed in the sparse little chamber did not even fit him, let alone two people. He hoped he could talk Catarina into slightly larger accommodations.
For his wife. He savored the word. She would be very different from the recent run of FitzHenry wives. She was virtuous, faithful, and honorable. Tomorrow she would be his.
The morning passed in a daydream for Chiara. Fortunately, Catarina assigned relatively light, mindless tasks to her.
Finally Catarina hustled her into a small chamber. Pointing to a motley assembly of brushes and powders and other fripperies, she ordered, “Make yourself ready.”
In a daze, Chiara brushed her hair, strangely surprised at its color. She washed her face and straightened her clothes as best she could. Catarina’s bodice fit with plenty of room to spare, but its needlework was unsurpassed.
Catarina bustled back in. Taking one look, she pinched Chiara’s cheeks. “Holy heavens, child, you look like you’re going to a funeral, not a wedding.”
“I’m just…just a little overwhelmed, that’s all.”
“I’m not surprised,” Catarina raised both eyebrows. “Getting swept off your feet will do that to you.” She looked closely at the younger woman. “Are you happy?”
Chiara thought about Rafaelle. “Oh, yes. Just overwhelmed.”
“Va bene.”
The foreigners finally got to see Sixtus IV’s Sistine Chapel. Catarina led her to a small side chapel festooned with flowers. Luciano’s doing at his wife’s prompting, Chiara guessed. Along with Padre Barnabà and Luciano, Rafaelle stood at the altar. Once she saw him, nothing else mattered. They spoke the vows quickly, for the ceremony was simplicity, itself. She thought she would later remember a fog of their common language, French, because that’s all she remembered, even immediately after they speaking the lines that bound them together. Only Rafaelle slipping a plain gold band on her left hand and his gentle, impassioned kiss seemed real.
Everyone signed the Marriage Certificate. Padre Barnabà carefully folded it and gave it to Chiara. She tucked into the pocket inside her skirt. He then shooed them off with a smile and a blessing. He didn’t want to confuse his French guards with a major change in routine.
The four of them walked back up the narrow, steep streets to the house. The dining room overflowed with people and food. Every member of the household clapped and cheered the new couple, except one. Bruna sat sullenly, her back to the newlyweds.
To Rafaelle, the toasts, the food, and the bawdy jokes seemed to go on forever. Finally, he stood up. In broken Italian smattered with French, he thanked his hosts and their household and announced that the bridal couple was going to retire. The jokes went from bawdy to crude. Chiara looked pained, and he, for the first time in his life, felt embarrassment at the lewd banter. Quickly, he escorted her upstairs to his room.
Once inside, he turned to throw the wooden bolt. “If anybody comes through that door,” he growled, “the house better be on fire.” He turned, gathering Chiara into his arms, and simply put his lips on her hair. “I thought dinner would never end.”
He glanced at the bed then averted his eyes and his thoughts. Not yet, but soon. He took a moment to give thanks that Catarina replaced the bed with a larger one, as promised. Chiara looked at it a little apprehensively.
“Don’t worry.” He tilted her chin up with a finger as much to look in her eyes as to prevent her from focusing on his aroused body just yet. “The first time everybody’s nervous. We’ll go slowly.”
Her shy smile entranced him. “I trust you. I love you.”
He caressed her cheek. “And I you.” Kissing her softly, he intended to move slowly and gently, her mouth opened beneath his. His tightly reined desire burst its traces. His embrace tightened, his hardened body nestled in her belly. His tongue teased her lips, seeking entry but her mouth remained closed. Looking up, he thought he saw a faint wisp of panic in her eyes.
He left off her mouth, trying another tack. Running his hands down her arms and to her stomach, he found the front lacing of the borrowed bodice. Slow down, he told himself, slow down. Spook her tonight and she’ll be saddle-shy forever. He slipped the ribbon bow and began loosening the cross-lacings. His fingers felt as big as sausages and as unwieldy as the largest ship of the line. He looked up at her. Owl-eyed, she nevertheless found a small smile for him. Slack ties allowed the bodice to slip down over her slim hips. Undoing the buttons on the waistband of the skirt allowed it to follow the bodice to the floor.
She drew a breath. Time to slow down, he thought with a few nibbling kisses, but her peasant-style blouse quickly followed the skirt.
She reached over to deal with her sleeve knife, but he forestalled her. “Uh, uh. This is my prerogative tonight.” She swallowed but dropped her hands to her sides. He smiled and kissed her nose. “You can have your turn next time, I promise.” He unbuckled the knife sheath, tossed it up, and caught it thoughtfully. Then he stepped over and placed it on the floor near the head of the bed. Stepping back, he looked at the pouch hanging from a slim belt around her waist. “Handy things, pockets,” and unfastened it.
All that was left was her chemise.
Feeling a little like a child wanting to keep his mysterious present and yet open it immediately, he ran a finger over her collar bone. He could feel the rise and fall of her breath, deep and a little unsteady.
If truth be told, he felt a little unsteady. This woman, seemingly perfectly tailored for him, was his. He intended to go slowly, but desire rode him hard, and he didn’t know if he would wind up being as gentle as he intended.
With one hand, he untied the bow of her chemise’s neckline. As he started to p
ush it off her shoulders, her hands came up to guard her breasts. “Chiara, your body is mine to cherish and worship. This will give us both pleasure. Trust me.’
She searched his face and dropped her hands. The chemise quickly followed. Perfection, he thought.
As he drew her into his arms, she ran her hands over his chest. “I seem to have you at a disadvantage, good sir.” A cheeky grin played on her lips.
His hands ran down her back to her buttocks, and he lifted her against him. “Soon remedied.” Carrying her the few feet to the bed, he stood her next to it as he bent to pull away the covers. Switching his hold, he picked her up once more and laid her in the bed. While he admired his handiwork, he stripped as fast as possible. Waistcoat, shirt, neckerchief, pants, no, shoes first if he didn’t want to be hopping around the room with his pants around his ankles. Things flew helter-skelter, so long as they were off.
Finally, he stood before her, naked. Her gaze held a touch of fear—that’s natural, he thought—but she obviously liked what she saw. He felt he could scale impossible mountains and conquer kingdoms. Still, almost hesitantly, he stepped to the bed.
He slid between the sheets, his leg brushing her silky thigh. Her fingertips brushed the still-angry stripe from Thibaut across his chest. He reined in his mind, even if he couldn’t do anything about certain parts of his body. He rained light, little kisses on her face; butterfly kisses a nanny once called them. Her mouth was soft, pliant, but there was a hint of wariness around her open eyes. That had to change. His wife wasn’t going to be the first woman who didn’t receive pleasure from him. He ducked his head to taste the hard berry already crowning her breast. His tongue explored the delicious meal as her fingers laced through his hair. She drew an audible breath. Good. The other berry was just as sweet.
“Rafaelle!”
Responding to her plea, he kissed his way up her throat to her mouth. Before he returned there, he saw her eyes close in surrender to the pleasure. Excellent. This time he demanded that her lips separate. His tongue invaded her mouth, luxuriating in the soft skin inside her. He tasted her uniqueness and a hint of the spiced apple they’d shared for dessert. His hand drifted down over her belly to the tops of her thighs. Her legs locked firmly together. He smiled to himself. That wouldn’t last long. For a moment, he played with the thatch of curls he found there. A gasp sounded deep in her throat. He lifted his head a fraction of an inch to gaze down at her. “Open for me, my sweet.” Wide eyes stared back at him. “I’ll be very gentle.” For a moment, her thighs remained locked then he felt the tension dissipate. Perfect. He used his leg to gently lever hers apart and his hand slid in between to find the soft petals guarding her body’s core.