[Barbara Samuel] Night of Fire(Book4You) (15 page)

With a low groan, Cassandra suddenly arched upward, hard, and pulled him into her, her arms and legs fierce and sure. "Oh!" she cried breathlessly, "you were right. It does feel wonderful."

Basilio finally allowed himself to move. And when she met him gladly, he managed to keep control for a little while more, just a little, till he coaxed her over the edge once more, and he was at last free himself to let go.

It was not like anything he had known, but a deep, almost agonizing pleasure that spread from his groin through his legs and up his spine, and into his arms, and his mouth. He kissed her with a kind of roar, and she took his hair in her fists and locked her arms tight around him and arched high, taking him, all of him, crying out his name.

He dropped his head into her neck, shattered, his hands trembling, his chest heaving. And not only from exertion, but from a wild burning emotion in him—a fierce and pained recognition that he had nearly let her go, his Cassandra.

Cassandra lay against him, spent and sated, a languorousness in her limbs that she had never dreamed existed. His hand covered her breast. "I have never felt this, not in all my life, Cassandra." His voice was slow, and she closed her eyes.

"Nor have I," she whispered around that thudding in her chest. She rolled to her side, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Basilio—" She stopped, hardly knowing what to say. "It is a terrible thing when a writer has no words,"

she said at last. "But there are none for what I'm feeling now."

His hand cupped her cheek. "All the words that ever come from me hence will have Cassandra in them."

His lips twitched faintly. "Cassandra's breasts and Cassandra's eyes and"—he rose to one elbow, bent over her, his hair falling around his face in that heavy extravagance— "Cassandra's legs and Cassandra's kiss…"

She did not trust excess, in anything. "You do love to show off."

"No," he said soberly, and he put his hand on her belly. "I am a most earnest poet who yearns to express what cannot be said. If the perfection of moments is the purpose of our lives, then I must surely be close to death, for I cannot imagine a moment more perfect than this."

"Basilio—"

"I am most sincere, Cassandra. My heart is alive with all the songs, and my soul weeps with pleasure, and my body cannot think of anything else. You are rare, and I am blessed."

Her heart, already full, burst entire at that. She put her hands in his hair and pulled him down to her, letting her lips and her hands express her feelings in the oldest way. She kissed his mouth and his brow, his chin and his eyelids. She kissed his throat, and the lobe of his ear. "There is no other man in the world but you," she said at last. "None."

"And no other woman but you."

And somehow, they were making love again, and this time Cassandra felt not even a tiny nudging of fear.

In her freedom, she was wanton and drunk on him, and even screamed, which made him laugh. Then they were both laughing, and that was even better.

Spent at last, they curled amid the covers and pillows, cradled close, and shared cheese and cool well water.

"Now we shall tell stories," Basilio said.

"Stories?"

He lifted one eyebrow wickedly. "We have not got to the third day. Or is it the fourth?"

"Certainly we've made it to the fifth or sixth by now."

"Then tell me a tale, Cassandra." His hands moved on her back, easy and smooth. "I cannot remember what sort of tale is to be said for the fifth or sixth day."

Somehow she could not recall, either. She slid a little closer, pressing her hips close to his. "There was a woman who lived in London, who had lost her courage in a terrible marriage, and had come to believe the only good men God had ever made were her brothers and father."

He gazed down at her, his thick-lashed eyes very sober. "And what happened to her?"

"A letter arrived from a stranger in a faraway land: a letter that brought with it the scent of the sea and olive trees. The images and words were very beautiful, and the woman wanted to know more about any man who had such beauty in him. She thought he must be a middle aged scholar, balding and sincere."

Basilio's eyes crinkled. "She did not imagine him to be the most virile and handsome of all men?"

"Oh, not at all. Quite dull, really, since the woman's experience had taught her virile, handsome men often had little else to recommend them."

"Ah, poor thing. She should have traveled to Italy, where she could have found a fine stallion."

Cassandra laughed low in her throat. "Are you telling my story?"

"No, no. Please continue."

"So she wrote to her balding scholar and painted a picture of herself that would reassure him: a widow who'd made her own way and cared little for the conventions of society. Over the months they shared many letters, telling their deepest thoughts to one another, secrets they had not shared with any other. It was safe, you see."

"Yes." The word was a whisper.

"But all of that changed when the man challenged the woman to be brave and see his country, and she recklessly took his invitation."

He pushed against her a little, wickedly. "And then she discovered a virile stallion."

She shook her head. "She discovered a man who was beautiful inside and out, when she had despaired of ever knowing such a man."

He kissed her and she kissed him back, stroking his body, his back and arms and hips. "Thank you, Basilio," she whispered.

He tugged her close to him, and exhausted, they slept.

Cassandra awakened to puddles of buttery light flooding into a room she did not quite recognize. She grew aware that she was entirely naked, and that she was not alone, and in a startled remembrance, turned over. Basilio lay on his belly, his long, vigorous body wholly revealed. One knee was cocked and his hands were flung over his head, and his hair, thick and black, fell on his sleeping face.

Such a violence of emotions rose in her that she had to close her eyes, and breathe, and then open them again. A shadow of beard had grown on his lip and chin, making him appear older, yet his luxuriant hair and lashes made her see the boy he'd been. His body was sturdy and strong, with weight across the shoulders and suppleness down his long back. He was in no way fat, but she liked the substantial look of him, his healthy robustness. The curve of buttock to thigh seemed suddenly vulnerable, and she wanted to cover him protectively, but realized with a smile that she, equally bare, was as vulnerable as he. Together they would remain revealed.

The freedom pleased her, and with an odd sense of her own self, she rose and walked to the table clothed only in her hair. She had never been naked like this in her life, simply walking from one place to another with nothing on, not even in a private room, all alone. It made her feel wild and free and brave to do it, to stand by the table in a bar of sunlight and see her own breasts touched with light, even to see the beautiful glitter in the hair on her belly and thighs, glinting red.

She poured water and drank it, resisting the voices that warned her she was a wanton, wicked thing for enjoying this, for loving the feel of her own flesh on her own bones. Defying them, she put the glass down and stretched her arms above her head, revealing even more to the kiss of sun.

When she turned back to the bed Basilio had shifted position, his head at the foot of the bed where his feet had been, his head propped on his hands. He smiled sleepily. "I cannot imagine a more dazzling sight."

Given leave, she raised her hands again and whirled in a circle for his pleasure, then dashed back to join him, tackling him happily, her arms around his shoulders, her breasts pressed into his back. "I am a goddess," she cried. "That's what you've done for me."

He laughed, wiggling a little as she brushed her fingers down his side, discovering to her delight that he was quite ticklish. "Stop that."

"Are you one of those men who awakens in an ill-temper?"

"No." He looked at her above the curve of his elbow. "I am only very ticklish." He lay his head on his arm and reached for her. "Today we travel to Firenze for the opera, and perhaps we will have time there this afternoon to work."

"Work? I have no desire to work. Especially not in Florence!"

"Ah, but we must." A lift of one dark brow. "It is my duty to see that you spend time with Boccaccio while you wander his world." He brushed hair from her face. "And I will attempt to capture the wonder that is Cassandra in my humble poetry."

"Must we sit inside? Is there not some fine piazza?" She frowned, suddenly realizing that she was perhaps indiscreet. "Oh! Do you wish for me to remain hidden? Is your betrothed there?"

A flicker of something in his eyes, then it was gone. He looked at their hands, tangled together. "She is no longer my betrothed, Cassandra."

"What?"

"I could not be so dishonorable as to give my love to you while another believed me inviolate." He raised his dark, sober eyes. "She wishes to be a nun, and I wrote and told her to take her vows, and wrote my father to break the betrothal."

Cassandra went very still. "I will not be a wife, Basilio. Only your lover."

His lips curved and he lifted her hand to kiss her palm. "I know."

But she saw that he did not believe her, that he believed she could be charmed to his view, soon or late.

"Do not make me say this again, Basilio."

"I should not have told you."

She slipped her hand from his grip, frowning a little. "Perhaps not."

For long moments, there was silent awkwardness between them. Cassandra thought to pull the sheet over her shoulder, but only sat with her back to him, reluctant even now to hide her newborn freedom.

She narrowed her eyes on the seductive view through the long doors, and let the breeze that lifted the curtains touch her face. Some of the sheen had burned off the moment, but she would not allow it all to be stolen. Impishly, she turned. "Do you wish to keep your lover, sir?"

He grinned and tossed hair from his face. "I do, my lady. What service may I perform to prove my word?"

"Take me to Firenze and woo me with opera and open
-piazzas
."

"Firenze can be easily done. But there is rain coming. Perhaps we will be forced to find entertainment within my house."

"Rain? How do you know?"

He leaned back, splendidly beautiful in his nakedness. "I can smell it."

Cassandra inhaled, and there it was, soft and salty, but distinct. Letting her head drop on to his arm, she sighed. "Well, I suppose if the reward is high enough, I might be persuaded to work."

"Ah. Have you some particular thing in mind?"

She only laughed, low in her throat, the sound so wicked she could barely believe it came from her. "Oh, yes," she whispered, pressing close to kiss him. "Very particular."

His eyes turned liquid. "I shall look forward to that very much."

The drive to Florence was not long. They rode in a richly appointed carriage with those dashing horsemen alongside for protection, and Cassandra peered out the windows with a sense of enchantment.

She drank in the landscape and the little villages and Gothic churches, the trees and the wildflowers she had never seen, and even the changing light as the sky grew dark and ominous with rain, the clouds squatting heavily over the rounds of the hills. "Look how far you can see into that valley," she commented, amazed at the glazing of light and shadow that could reveal the pale and paler shapes of hills beyond the first.