[Barbara Samuel] Night of Fire(Book4You) (34 page)

Cassandra looked down the road with a pang. "I must marry," she said aloud, realizing the truth of it only as the words came from her mouth.

"Marry your poet?"

"Marry Robert Wicklow. If I do not, Basilio will throw away everything he holds dear, and he will hate himself, then me, and we'll be more miserable than we are now."

Phoebe touched her arm. "I see."

"It would shock you to know what has transpired between us," Cassandra said, an edge of defiance in her voice.

"Would it?" The words were mild. "Do you want me to be shocked?"

Cassandra smiled, caught. "For once in my life, the answer to that is no. I wish it could be honorable, that we could simply embrace one another and love with all our hearts. But it cannot be, and my honor requires that I let him go."

"So you intend to marry."

"Yes."

"But is that fair to the man you intend to marry?"

Cassandra thought of Robert's assurances, then lifted a shoulder. "I will tell him the truth and allow him to decide if he wishes to accept my bargain."

Phoebe was silent for a moment. "And can you be a faithful wife?"

Cassandra took her hand. "I can."

"Then it sounds a very… sensible decision, Cassandra. I hope it will make you happy."

A small, bitter smile. "My happiness will flee with Basilio."

"I never thought to see you in love."

"Nor did I," she said softly.

Cassandra returned to London only a half hour behind Basilio, and immediately sent a servant with a note for Robert. She had a bath and changed her clothes, and by the time he arrived, looking perplexed and curious, she was firmly in control.

"What is it, Cassandra? I came as soon as I could. Are you all right?"

"Please sit down," she said. "Would you like port? Tea?"

"Port at this hour, certainly."

Seeing him did not test her resolve—in fact, quite the opposite. He was tall and good-looking in a hale, solid English way that would age well. She enjoyed his company, his wry humor. Bedding him might at first be a little awkward, but she felt quite certain he would not be cruel. She settled across from him and folded her hands. "I have a proposition for you," she said, and laughed. "It's awkward, so I'm simply going to spill it straightaway."

He nodded, puzzlement still on his brow.

"You said the other day that you had hoped I might…" It was harder than she thought to do this. Bloody awful, actually. "That you had feelings for me."

A glint of light in his eye. "I believe I hung my heart on my sleeve and more or less asked you to consider marriage." He sipped his port, looking at her carefully. "Dare I hope you might be considering my suit?"

"You also said that you would require no declaration of love from me. Did you mean it?"

"Are you in some sort of trouble?"

She laughed a little. "Not in the way I think you mean. But in another way, trouble looms and I would like to prevent it."

"I see." He placed his glass carefully on the table. "Is it the poet?"

She was startled into honestly. "Yes. How did you know?"

"He looks at you as if he will burst into flames—but it was the way you spoke of him that gave you away.

You are in love with him."

"I am," she said quietly. "And I fear tragedy if it is not halted. He is honorable. If you and I are married, he will return to Italy with his wife and we will all be saved."

"And you will be yoked to a man you do not love."

Her spirits plummeted. "I suppose it was naive of me to think you would find this appealing." She shook her head. "Forgive me."

"You misunderstand, my lady," he said. "I meant what I said, that I would not require a declaration from you. There is enough comfortable respect between us that the marriage would be sound. But I am stolid enough to require faithfulness in deed. You would not see him again."

"Of course. No, I do not wish to see him."

His chin lifted. "I would require it be a true marriage. You will sleep in my bed."

She smiled gently. "That will not be a hardship."

It pleased him, and he lowered his eyes, as if to hide his pleasure. "Is it possible there will be a child from your lover?"

"No."

"Good. I would have taken it as my own, but the coloring might have given us away."

Bless him
. "Are you agreeing?"

A slow grin spread over his wide mouth. "Cassandra, I've been tortured with dreams of you from the moment I first saw you. For the chance to lie naked with you even once, I would leap from London bridge."

She blinked. "Oh! I did not—that is—I—"

"I shocked you."

She laughed, covering her hot cheeks with her hands. "A little. But that is all to the good. I do not wish the bargain to be one sided."

"I think I shall have the best of it, in all."

Nearly dizzy with gratitude, Cassandra resolved he should never have cause to think otherwise. She rose and held out her hand, very sure. "Then sir, you shall lie in my bed tonight."

His eyes burned as he rose. "An honorable man would insist upon waiting."

She smiled, very slowly, and only raised one brow. He took her hand and kissed it, then pulled away.

"Ah, no," he said with regret. "I will wait." But he put his hands on her face, gently—and to Cassandra's surprise—trembling slightly. "Tonight I only ask a kiss."

Which she gladly granted. It was not Basilio's kiss, but neither was it her husband's. It was rich and skilled, and she could grow to like it in time. That would be enough.

Life was what one made of it.

Analise believed in signs. Her life had been guided by them, and now she prayed earnestly for an answer to the dilemma that faced all three of them. A dilemma that she had put into motion when she had lacked the courage to stand up to her father.

The world did not put much value on visions or prayers or signs, but Analise knew they were real and important methods of communication.

She remembered, as clearly as if it had happened this morning, the vision she had received as a girl. She had been kneeling in the garden, putting flowers on the feet of the Virgin, when a soft yellow light covered the landscape. Dazzled, Analise raised her head and saw a most beautiful Lady sitting on a rock nearby.

She was not at all ghostly—even now, Analise could recall details about her that were as real and solid as the rings on her own fingers. The Lady wore leather sandals on her slim brown feet, her belt was made of cleverly woven hemp, and a silver ring circled one finger. Her hair flowed to her hips, loose and dark, and the ends lifted in the breeze Analise felt in her own hair. The woman smiled, the gentlest, most benevolent smile, and asked if Analise knew who she was.

Analise had known. She was the Mother. The Virgin. Mary. And all those names seemed too small to encompass the wisdom, the power, the joy that had come from her, so she had become simply the Lady.

The Lady said that Analise had been chosen for a special task. There would be tests and trials along the way, and she would need to be very strong, very devout. But if she were true to the callings as they were given, she would serve a great purpose. And all Analise had to do in the beginning was to go to St.

Catherine's on Corsica. Analise had wept with joy—to be a nun!

When she had encountered resistance, the Lady had made Analise's palms bleed—right in front of the village priest, who saw to it that she could go to the nunnery for her education.

The Lady had done so much for Analise, and what had Analise done in return? Quailed like a baby in the face of her father's disapproval!

Walking briskly along a busy thoroughfare, Analise probed her heart for the truth of that vision. She was not, as many believed, insane or strange. If she had imagined the vision, it was a very thorough envisioning. No, even all these years later, she believed it was true.

A man stood on a box and bawled out some message Analise could not understand, but the power of his delivery captured her attention, carrying it away from her own troublesome thoughts. She paused, wondering what caused him to be so angry.

A woman, her brown hair bound up in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, pushed a piece of paper into Analise's hand. She shook her head in protest—she could not read it, so it would be a waste—but the woman bustled away, her cape billowing around her shoulders. Absently, Analise looked down at it.

Some English words, and then—a bright heat of recognition—the numbers written in a style she recognized, a scripture number.

A sign.

Urgently, she hurried toward home, the paper clutched tight in her hands.
St. John
, it said: 15:23.

Basilio was restless, unable to settle to any task. He knew he ought to be making plans to return to Italy but could not seem to take that step. He could not keep himself from hoping to see Cassandra—no, not only see her; to touch her, kiss her—one more time. That vain wish kept him in London, hoping that she might appear at the pleasure gardens, at some rout or ball, some dinner party. He did not go so far as to attend her salons, though he was sorely tempted.

Analise seemed strange and distant these past days, as well. He would come upon her and find her staring out the window with a frown, as if troubled by some dark thought, but whenever he asked her, she only gave him that sweet smile and brushed his inquiries away. He did not think she was eating well, either.

One evening, to please her, he accepted an invitation to the opera. She enjoyed the music and the beauty of it, and it was written in Italian, which would please her. Dutifully she wore the gown he'd had made for her, allowed the maid to put up her hair, and even allowed her neck to be draped in a strand of delicate sapphires that glowed against her pearlescent skin. He kissed her hand when she came down. "You're very beautiful tonight, my dear," he said, though he was disturbed by the sharpness of the bones in her face and along her shoulders. The gown gaped a little over breasts that were not as full as they'd been.

He frowned. "Are you eating at all, Analise?"

A flutter of one hand. "Of course." She brushed at the gown. "I am pleased you like it. I wanted you to be proud to be seen with me."

He tucked her small hand into his elbow. "You could wear your oldest rags, Analise, and I would still be proud of you."

Suddenly there was a flash of something in her face. The sorrow disappeared, the vagueness, and her astonishingly blue eyes danced. "So I could."

Puzzled, he led her to the waiting coach.

She seemed to perk up at the opera, leaning forward, engrossed in the drama played out. Basilio could not quite find the same measure of excitement, for he found his eye constantly searching for a headful of flaming red hair, listening for that robust laughter.

At last he found her—ensconced in a box with a man Basilio recognized from the salon, a tall, droll-humored Englishman. He leaned to his companion. "Who is that, with Lady Cassandra?"

James said, "Ah, Robert Wicklow. They've just announced their engagement. A very fine pair, are they not? 'Course, he's only a tradesman, but she has little enough to bring to marriage aside from her beauty."

Basilio only heard
marriage
. He made a soft, dismayed sound, and caught himself quickly. With a perfunctory smile, he nodded. "Very nice."

But Analise felt the wind of his unease, and following his gaze, saw Cassandra with her fiance. A soft, almost translucent expression of pleasure crossed Analise's face. "There is a poem for the writing," she said to Basilic "Look how she shines in the darkness."

He looked at his wife, alarmed, but she only lifted those enormous blue eyes to his face, guileless as always. He thought of what she had said to him, that the only mystery about her was that she was exactly what she seemed to be. "You like her, don't you?"

"Yes. She appears to be very strong and unconventional, does she not? And yet she is very gentle and good, too. I think she has not been happy, or maybe only rarely."

Basilio nodded, and forced himself to smile. "What a wise young thing you are." He heard himself add,

"That man is her fiance."

"What?"

"Yes. James just told me they are to be married."

"No." Analise rose. "I do not think so."

Alarmed, he took her hand. "Where are you going?"

With that queer, wise smile, she pulled out of his grip. "Only to powder my nose, sir. Do not fret."

She patted his hand like a much older woman, and left the box, her skirts swishing along the floors.

Basilio forced himself to look only at the stage, but the lure of Cassandra was at the edge of his vision.

Guilt ate at him, burning in his chest and belly—guilt that Analise was fading right before his eyes and he could not make himself return to Italy, guilt that he had behaved badly all around.

And now, whatever gift of freedom he'd delivered to Cassandra by loving her would be lost, because of his selfishness. Because Cassandra, to ensure that Basilio would not make some grand gesture and spend the rest of his life hating himself over it, was willing to trade her freedom for marriage.

He had to stop her.

In the torchlit hallway behind the boxes, Analise moved silently, praying for guidance, slowing at the curtained entrance to each of the ones she thought might be right until a nudging told her to halt. Brushing the curtain to one side a little, she peeked in and saw the shine of Cassandra's red hair. "Sir," she whispered. "A moment, please."

The Englishman, startled, looked around. Cassandra turned, too, and her eyes widened at the sight of Analise. Afraid Basilio might guess what she was about, Analise scowled and gestured for Cassandra to turn around. With some confusion, the man rose and came out into the hall.

It was only then that Analise realized she had no English to tell him what he must know—that he must not marry this woman. She stared up at him pleadingly, and he politely peered back, waiting patiently.

"Lady Cassandra," she said at last. "Basilio di Montevarchi, the Count." She put her hands up in front of her, palms facing, and then slowly put them together, enfolding her fingers tightly, and raised them to her lips and kissed them. She put her locked hands over her heart.