Rose Red (10 page)

Through the mist of mounting emotion,
Rosalinda sensed that she must not give way to the carnal lure
Andrea was offering. What was happening was her own fault. She had
begun it by rushing into his room and by not leaving the instant
she discovered that he was undressed. The urge to reveal to him all
that her mother had said to Bartolomeo had been a foolish one.
Frantically, Rosalinda sought for a way to warn Andrea and keep him
safe, while not betraying her mother or harming Bianca’s future
prospects. Then she saw the path she must take between her two
desires.

“My mother told Bartolomeo that she has
decided how she will require you to repay her kindness and her
hospitality,” Rosalinda said, keeping her eyes wide open and on
Andrea’s face. “She will soon seek a great favor from you. She is a
deep thinker, Andrea. There are many levels to every sentence she
speaks and every action she takes. Think long and carefully before
you decide whether or not to agree to do what she asks of you.”

“Is that all?” he said when she fell
silent.

“I beg you not to tell her what I have just
revealed. She will be angry with me if she learns I have repeated
portions of a sentence that I overheard because I was where I
should not have been.” It was an evasion, but it was the best
Rosalinda could do with her wits spinning from Andrea’s seductive
attentions.

“She will not learn of our conversation from
me,” Andrea said.

“Thank you.” Rosalinda stepped away from him.
“I ought to go. I should not have stayed as long as I did.”

“You are right. But I cannot regret that you
came to see me,” he said. “Nor that I kissed you.”

Rosalinda feared her knees would give way.
She longed for Andrea to kiss her again and to touch her. And he
knew what she was feeling. She could see that he knew.

“Go now,” he said in a harsh whisper. “For if
you stay any longer, if I so much as brush against you with the tip
of one finger, I will keep you here until I have ruined both of us.
Please, Rosalinda, leave me.”

Rosalinda fled from him, running to her own
room, thanking heaven and all the saints that she met no one on the
way.

She had gone to his chamber as an innocent
girl, fond of him and fearing for his safety. She left his room
with a new awareness of her own womanly urges, yet unable to
fulfill them. Rosalinda ached to feel Andrea’s arms around her once
again. She burned for his touch. And she wept for a loss of
innocence and trust that she did not fully understand.

She left behind her a man as confused and
unhappy as she was. For a few weeks, Andrea had lived in a state of
pure friendship with Rosalinda, until his improved health had
allowed him to feel desire again. He was not ashamed of kissing
her, for he alone would bear the burden of containing his longing
to have more than just a kiss or two from her. What shamed him was
the cold-hearted way he had used her to learn what he wanted to
know about her mother’s plans for him.

His weeks in the mountains had been a
cleansing experience and, later, he had been almost glad to be sick
unto death, for mountains and illness both had required of him only
physical strength and his natural, determined reaction when faced
with a challenge.

But now he had leapt back into a dishonest,
treacherous world, and he had dragged Rosalinda with him by
tempting her with sexual desire. And, having recognized Eleonora as
a woman born to that world outside the mountains and familiar with
its dangerous rules, Andrea wondered if either he or Rosalinda
would ever be safe again.

Another week passed, during which Andrea grew
healthier by the day. After Bartolomeo suggested it would improve
his strength if he began a regular program of sword practice with
some of the men-at-arms, Andrea began to work out in the muddy
practice yard or, when the snow prevented that, in the cleared
space in one of the barns that the men used as a substitute
practice area.

It was a pleasure to return to manly
pursuits, and Andrea found that the vigorous exercise relieved some
of the tensions he was feeling. He was soon on excellent terms with
Lorenzo, who acted as captain of the men-at-arms under Bartolomeo’s
command. As for Bartolomeo, despite the lines on his face and the
streaks of silver in his black hair, he remained hard of muscle and
sharp of eye. Bartolomeo practiced regularly with sword and dagger,
frequently besting the younger men, who all respected him. So did
Andrea respect Bartolomeo, for his loyalty to Eleonora and her
daughters, as well as for his skill with weapons, and the two of
them developed a cautious friendship.

Honor, as
well as his position as a guest at the villa, required that Andrea
stay away from Rosalinda and not compromise her by giving in to the
desire he felt for her. Therefore, he was forced to keep his
emotions under a tight rein. He was also on constant guard lest
Eleonora spring her plan on him, requesting of him the favor
Rosalinda had spoken of with such fear. So far, Eleonora had kept
her own council – and, most likely, Bartolomeo’s council, too, for
Andrea did not believe that Bartolomeo’s suggestion that he begin
working with weapons was made purely out of concern for his
health.

On the second day after he was permitted to
take up a sword, which he borrowed for practice and returned
immediately afterward, Andrea asked Bartolomeo for his two daggers
back. Since they were at that moment in the practice yard,
Bartolomeo promised to return the daggers later, saying they had
been put away for safekeeping. However, the week passed and the
daggers were not yet returned. Andrea was cautious about pressing
the issue, lest Bartolomeo imagine he harbored some evil
intent.

Andrea chided himself for his suspicious
thoughts, while at the same time sensing that they were far from
foolish. On the surface, Villa Serenita was a pleasant place, its
tranquility maintained for the sake of Bianca and Rosalinda.
Beneath that placid surface, plans were being formulated. Andrea
knew it was so. He had grown up in a similar atmosphere, and he
recognized it.

Each evening Andrea joined the ladies and
Bartolomeo in Eleonora’s sitting room. There they discussed the
girls’ lessons, and Andrea chuckled to himself at Rosalinda’s
impatience with Latin verbs. He played chess with Bartolomeo and
found the man a formidable opponent. When Bianca or Rosalinda asked
him, Andrea played the lute and sang for them. He was careful never
to give any indication of preferring Rosalinda over Bianca.

As the
holy season of Christmas drew near, the snows continued, piling up
around the villa and its outbuildings, forcing postponement of any
thought of leaving. For Andrea did want to leave. If he did not go
soon, he was afraid his ever-present desire for Rosalinda would
lead him into an indiscretion that would only hurt her. He had
nothing to offer her – or more accurately, to offer her mother – in
return for a more honorable connection with the woman he wanted. To
acquire the wealth and position he would need in order to make an
honest offer for Rosalinda, he would have to return to the world
outside the mountains.

Moreover, Andrea had made a solemn, silent
vow that he would discover what had happened to his lost
companions. With each day that passed, with every bit of new
strength he could feel in his rapidly recovering body, he grew more
eager for action. All he required was a few days of clear weather,
and a suitable excuse for going.

“I cannot stay in this sitting room, at this
table, a moment longer!” Rosalinda, too, was growing restless from
forced inactivity. Ignoring Bianca’s scowl, Rosalinda looked up
from her slate to gaze through the window with longing.

“You cannot ride when the snow is so deep,”
Bianca protested. “Please, Rosalinda, pay attention to your lesson.
If Mother comes in and discovers you are not working, she will be
annoyed.”

“The sun is shining and here comes Andrea
from his sword practice,” Rosalinda said. “Let us at least walk
along the terrace, or to the stable and back. The path is well
broken by now, with the men tramping out there every day. I can’t
think Mother would object to that.”

“Well, perhaps, just for a short time.”
Bianca sent a thoughtful look toward the tall, muscular figure now
making its way to the terrace steps. Even wearing a worn and
patched green doublet that Bartolomeo had contributed as suitable
only for sword practice, Andrea in restored health was a sight to
catch the eye of any woman.

“I’ll get our cloaks.” Rosalinda was gone
from the room before Bianca could change her mind.

Bianca put down her quill and stoppered the
ink bottle. By the time she stood at the terrace door, Rosalinda
was back with their outer garments.

“I told Valeria where we would be. Mother is
closeted with Bartolomeo in his office.” Rosalinda pulled open the
door just as Andrea arrived on the terrace. “Come with us, Andrea.
We are going to take a bit of exercise.”

“Oh!” Bianca cried out when she slipped on
the ice underlying the latest fall of snow. Andrea caught her,
steadying her, and she grabbed at his arm. “Andrea, I can’t walk
alone. I will have to hold on to you.”

“Pah!” laughed Rosalinda. “Where’s your
courage, Bianca? Take advantage of the ice and slide on it, as I
do.” On those words, she gave herself a push with one foot and went
skidding across the terrace, stopping only when she reached one of
the large urns at the top of the steps and flung her arms around
it.

“I am sure I could never do anything so
dangerous,” Bianca said. “Rosalinda, you will break your neck.”

“Not I!” Rosalinda took a few running steps
before launching herself into another slide, this time back across
the terrace toward the house. She stopped just short of the sitting
room door. Bending, she scooped up a handful of snow. *’Bianca,
Andrea, arm yourselves!”

“That is a declaration of war!” Andrea’s eyes
were sparkling. “Madonna Bianca, I must ask you to release my arm
so I can defend myself. Will you fight on my side or with your
sister?”

“
Fight? I
– I’m not sure.” Bianca took her hand from Andrea’s arm and stood
unsteadily on the slippery terrace. With a loud whoop, Rosalinda
let a loose handful of snow fly toward her sister. It glanced off
Bianca’s cheek, the gentle impact shattering both the makeshift
missile and Bianca’s primness.

“You can’t do that to me and escape
retribution!” Bianca yelled. In an instant, her own scoop of snow
was in her hand and she threw it at Rosalinda.

For the next few minutes, a barrage of
snowballs went back and forth between the sisters, with Andrea
caught in the middle, fighting two opponents. Before long all three
combatants were covered with snow. Then Andrea lost his footing on
a patch of ice. His arms flailing wildly, he fell backward into a
snowdrift. At once the laughing girls joined forces to bombard him
with chunks of white.

“I surrender!” He was laughing so hard that
he could not get up. “But I fear I am sorely wounded. Gentle
victors, help me to stand.”

Rosalinda took one of his hands and Bianca
the other. Together they exerted all their strength to lift Andrea.
At exactly the right moment, he gave a jerk on each arm and the
girls went flying face first into the snow bank, Rosalinda on one
side of him and Bianca on the other. Dragging themselves free of
the snow bank, the three of them sprawled on the terrace, howling
with laughter. Even Bianca was wiping tears from her cheeks,
leaning her back against the urn plinth, for once unafraid and
unconcerned about decorum.

From the sitting room door Eleonora watched
them, with Bartolomeo close behind her. Eleonora’s gaze went from
the rosy-cheeked Rosalinda, who was laughing uproariously, to the
paler Bianca, trying to catch her breath between giggles, to
Andrea, brushing snow off his knees before he gallantly offered a
hand to help Bianca.

“Take care, Andrea, that your hands and feet
do not freeze again,” Eleonora said mildly, before leaving the
doorway with Bartolomeo following in her wake.

* * * * *

That evening, after the ladies had retired
for the night, Andrea went to Bartolomeo’s office.

“I would like my daggers back now,” he said,
being careful to keep any hint of threat or impatience out of his
voice.

“They are put away, under lock.” Bartolomeo
looked up from the manuscript on which he was working.

“I will wait while you get them.”

Bartolomeo looked at him for a while longer,
then took up a ring of keys and went to a heavy wooden chest that
stood in one corner of the room. There he paused.

“You do not really need a dagger while you
are here,” Bartolomeo said.

“You wear one,” Andrea said in the same quiet
tone of voice. “Like any man, I feel undressed without my knife.
Those daggers are among my few belongings.”

Another long look passed between the two men
until Bartolomeo nodded and opened the lid of the chest. Drawing
out the daggers, he handed them to Andrea.

“I notice they are almost identical. Why do
you have two of them?” Bartolomeo asked.

“This one is mine.” Andrea slid the knife
with the red enamel-and-gold hilt into his belt. He kept the other
knife in his hand, looking down at its blue enamel-and-gold hilt.
“This belonged to my brother.”

“How did you come by it?”

“I found it,” Andrea answered shortly.
Bartolomeo said nothing to break the silence that followed the
abrupt words. Finally, taking a deep breath, Andrea explained. “My
brother would never have given it up without a struggle. Finding it
covered with blood, in a place where I knew he had recently been
because I was following him and trying to catch up with him, I took
it as evidence that he must be dead. I have kept it, as I know he
would want me to do, until I can plunge it into the heart of his
murderer.”