[Barbara Samuel] Night of Fire(Book4You) (37 page)

"Very well," she said. "Anything that can make you grin is worth the viewing. I shall not take long."

Joan hurried her into her favorite green brocade, and helped Cassandra arrange her hair. Donning a cape against the cool wind, she hur-ried back down. Julian helped her into the waiting coach just as the first long streamers of sunset pinked the edges of the sky. "No hint at all of what we're doing?" she asked.

"No." He patted her hand, and a sudden sense of anticipation caught her chest.

When they halted, Cassandra scowled. "A coffee shop? Isn't this Gabriel's haunt?"

"It is."

And busy, too. She saw through the bow-fronted window that there was a crowd within, men in coats and hats, shoulder to shoulder. "We'll be crushed!"

Gabriel had been watching for them evidently, for he appeared at the door, holding out a hand to draw them forward, his lean figure nearly blazing with excitement. "Hurry. It has already begun!"

"What has?"

"Just come with me." He drew her into the hot, strong smelling throng. Cassandra could see nothing in the smoke and gloom, and whatever might have been visible was blocked by shoulders that all seemed to be at the level of her eyes or above. An approving roar and round of clapping arose as they entered, and Gabriel used the sudden movement to push through the forest of bodies. Julian came behind, smelling of something spicy and sweet, a scent she was grateful for in the press of bodies. A man stepped back onto her toe and she winced, her frustration growing. She halted. "Julian! Is this really—"

He only pushed at her, and at the same moment Gabriel took her arm and pulled her through the last blockade, to an area around a table upon which a man stood, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

She halted, dizzy, and closed her eyes, then opened them again.

It was still Basilio who stood there. Basilio, his hair caught back in an elegant queue that could not entirely tame the wilderness of black curls. Basilio, as beautiful as any sculpture, his long legs and virile shoulders even more dear than they had been upon her first sighting of him. Basilio, his dark eyes shining as he stared at her. She put a hand up to cover her madly pounding heart, and heard the room settle in anticipation as he smiled and lifted the paper and began, in his lilting voice,
And now, at last, I speak love freely,

Shout it boldly, whisper it sweetly.

Not hidden in plums or sonnets to light,

Sing it loudly, murmur it deeply,

Not woven in rhyme or the color of night,

My love's name, color of fire,

color of night, color of light, color of all

Cassandra,

Cassandra, Cassandra.

Julian pushed her or she would never have moved, horrified that tears were streaming over her face in public, tears of revelation and joy and relief. Yet once moving, she could not stop. He leapt down and ran to her, and all around them was a cheer, clapping, celebration. She halted as he took her hands, his face full of laughter and love and joy, and whispered, "Oh, Basilio, this is so excessive."

"The excess of excessiveness," he agreed, and hauled her into his embrace for a kiss of sweetness and power, of passion.

She allowed it for one moment, then grew aware of the dozens and dozens of eyes fixed upon them.

"Please," she protested. "We must retreat to some private corner, or I shall die of the embarrassment."

"Of course," he said, and as if he had prepared for such a reaction, led her to a room near the back.

Cassandra heard Gabriel soothing the hungry crowd. "Only give a moment!"

In the quiet corner, lit dimly with a single tallow against a dark mirror, she looked at him. There was wear on his face, new depth of maturity etched into the hollows of his cheeks, around his mouth. His eyes, dark and beautiful, held a quiet sobriety she had not noticed before. "I wish to ask you first if you can forgive me, Cassandra," he said, touching her fingers with his thumb. "I was not the warrior you deserved, but a boy in search of rescue."

"What… how
…
?"

"In a moment, but I need you to understand that I have grown to a full man now. Not only poet, but warrior. You shall never lack for anything, not love, or honor… or husband."

"Analise?"

"I have something for you." From within his coat, he drew out a letter. Cassandra sat down to read it, peering hard at the writing to make it out in the bad light.

My dearest Cassandra,

I have you to thank for granting my heart's desire, for though I do not write to you from my
beloved convent in Corsica, I do write from such a haven in France, where I am to take my vows
in a matter of months. Here I am free to sing the praises of God from morning until night, and all
through my sleep.

I return to you your husband, who kept me chaste and whole for my own marriage to God. My
father, in thanks for Basilio saving my life, has persuaded the elder Montevarchi to accept his
son's choice of wife, so you shall not be poor and he shall not suffer the loss of his obligation to his
family.

Thank you for allowing him to protect me this way. May your love bring you the same joy my own
has brought to me.

Analise

Cassandra raised a shaking hand to her mouth, and looked at him. It seemed impossible that after so long, after so much, it should just be… done. "You are not married any longer?"

"No. It was annulled in France. Very quickly."

Still, she could not seem to bring her mind around the fact that he was standing here, though her body seemed to recognize it more quickly than she. A liquid heat moved in her knees, her hips, tingled over her breasts and throat and into her lips. She found her gaze on his mouth, those full-cut and sensual lips. In a sudden wave of erotic vision, she saw his body nude, pressed into her own, and she had to take a breath against the overwhelming lust.

"If your feelings have altered, Cassandra, I will understand. Either way, I thought you deserved to know that she is well and happy."

She nodded, her lungs too airless for speech.

"I brought you something," he said, and pulled out a handful of plums.

Cassandra half-laughed, and tears sprang to her eyes. "I do not want plums," she said clearly, and plucked them out of his palms. Clean and strong, those hands, with their powerful fingers.

With a soft breath, she bent her head and pressed a kiss to the heart of each, imprinting her lips upon the lines of life and heart.

"What do you want, Cassandra?" he whispered.

"You," she said. "Only you, Basilio."

With a cry he came to her, putting his arms around her, kissing her, kissing her face, her mouth. "Oh, God!" he cried. "I have died a thousand times the past few days. I was so afraid that you would not have me after so much."

Cassandra laughed, filled with such giddy happiness it was like gold in her blood. She gave a whoop of purest happiness, like a pirate of her childhood games, and squeezed him to her. "I love you, Basilio. I love you, I love you."

And there he was, suddenly back again, her prince of laughter, her joyous poet. His eyes blazed, and his smile burned brilliantly, and his laughter rolled out into the fire-colored day. "We must marry immediately," he said. "I wish to lie with you, man to wife."

"Oh, yes," she whispered. And suddenly she was weeping, laughing, both of them were, in amazement and relief. She put her head on his shoulder and breathed in the scent of him, and knew there were things that would have to be worked out—Italy and England. Time in both, perhaps.

But just now, none of that mattered. He embraced her tightly. "At last I can write poetry that has your name," he said. "The only name worth speaking is Cassandra, for it is the name of my only love. My wife."

She kissed him, and a wild open sense of perfection filled her suddenly, a sense of seeing all of creation, a world of light, and all the people rainbows within it.
Thank you,
she thought.
Oh, thank you so much.