Rose Red (9 page)

“Then, at last, I will force the Guidi into
exile, as I was once forced to leave my home,” Eleonora went on.
“And I will imprison that miserable wretch of a dwarf, Niccolo
Stregone, for the rest of his life! Since the Guidi have already
conveniently killed the treacherous duke of Aullia for me, and
doubtless the duke’s entire family with him, we can forget about
them. Perhaps I will grant the governorship of Aullia to Andrea.
But only if he first shows skill in managing my army.”

“Raising an army will cost you all the money
you have deposited with the House of Nardi,” Bartolomeo objected.
“If you lose this gamble, you will have nothing left with which to
make another attempt. And Andrea may not be willing to fall in with
your plans.”

“He will if I wait until the perfect moment
to approach him. That young man has the necessary spirit,” Eleonora
said. “You have heard how he bandies words with me, how clever he
is. And how careful to keep his own secrets.”

“Those same secrets may defeat us before we
begin,” said Bartolomeo.

“Have you lost your courage, old friend?”

“No, but I do worry about your daughters,
whom I love as if they were my own children. Knowing you, I am
certain that you have thought of what will happen to them. If
Andrea is all that you believe he is, then gratitude for his life
or not, he will surely demand one of those girls in marriage in
return for helping you.”

“Let him but help me regain Monteferro for
Bianca and her future children, and I will marry Andrea myself if
he asks for me!” Eleonora declared with a laugh.

“Your late husband always said that you were
far better than he at planning and intrigue.” Bartolomeo’s voice
was tinged with admiration. “I do believe Girolamo was right about
you.”

“I have waited so long for Fortune to show me
the way to regain what rightfully belongs to my daughters,”
Eleonora said. “Now that I see the way to do it, I will not be
thwarted. Bartolomeo, dearest and most loyal of friends, the day
will soon come when we will return to Monteferro in triumph!”

* * * * *

Rosalinda burst into Andrea’s room without
knocking. Startled, he spun around to face the door, one hand going
to his waist, reaching in vain for the dagger Bartolomeo had taken
away. More tired after his busy day with the barber and the ladies
of the villa than he cared to admit, Andrea had divested himself of
doublet, shirt, and shoes. Clad only in his borrowed hose, which he
was about to remove, he took a surprised step backward when a
delicious armful of a girl flung herself at him.

“Andrea.” She clung to him, her soft cheek
pressed against his bare chest. “Oh, take care! I am so afraid for
you.”

“What is it? Is there some danger?” He was
instantly alert, silently cursing the absence of his only weapon.
Still, he could not stop his arms from closing around Rosalinda or
keep himself from breathing in the rose fragrance she wore. The
effects of her closeness and the rose scent were immediate. The
sudden flush of heat emanating from those portions of his body now
in direct contact with her soft form told him that his recovery
from starvation and illness was progressing remarkably well.
“Rosalinda, what is this about? Do you need protection?”

“No. You do. But it’s not an attack. It’s my
mother’s plans for you.”

Her arms were locked around his waist. He
could feel her trembling. Her head fit perfectly into the angle
between his shoulder and his neck. He dared to let his lips brush
across a loose strand of curly hair.

She stayed where she was, clutching his
waist, until she ceased to shake. Andrea thought she must be aware
of his body’s quickening eagerness. She was too close to him not to
notice it.

With a deep, shuddering breath, she lifted
her head and moved back a little. Her eyes were wide and soft, a
luminous silver-gray, and they were bright with tears. Never had
Andrea seen such beautiful eyes, or such thick, long eyelashes. He
wanted to kiss each faintly shadowed eyelid. More than that, he
ached to press his own mouth to her rosy-red, softly parted
lips.

With one hand he stroked the lock of dark
hair that had come loose from her braid, smoothing the silken
strands of it, pulling the hair down the side of her cheek and
under her chin. He had seen noblewomen wearing their long hair that
way, drawn under the chin and up again on the other side, to twist
the end of the lock into braids and pearl-encrusted ornaments. In
Florence, Aullia, and Urbino it was the very latest style. Or it
had been, during the previous summer....

“Andrea?” Her voice was a faint whisper on
his ear.

He saw the innocence and confusion on her
face and knew she had never before experienced the emotions that
must be unsettling her now. He tried to remember himself, remember
where he was, and what was at stake, but all he could see, all he
could think of, were Rosalinda’s eyes, those silvery pools of
light. And her mouth. Her lips were much too tempting to ignore.
Slowly, he lowered his head and put his mouth upon those lips.

Sweetness beyond anything he had known or
dreamed of in the past coursed through Andrea. Rosalinda’s lips
trembled beneath his. He could tell she did not know what to do,
which meant no other man had claimed those perfect lips before him.
Carefully, mindful of her innocence, he led her to a new awareness
until she opened to him and let him taste the wet heat of her inner
mouth. She tasted of cinnamon and rose petals.

Her arms wound around his neck, a motion that
lifted her breasts, pushing their gentle curves hard against his
chest. Andrea tightened his embrace, one arm across her shoulders,
while the other arm moved lower, to pull her hips nearer, against
the burning ache he was hard put to control. He could feel a slight
shifting in her stance as she accommodated herself to the new
sensations, to her first hint of what it meant to be a woman who
was desired by a virile man.

She was as reluctant as he to end the kiss,
but Andrea was fast approaching the limits of his control. He eased
her away from him, while still keeping his arms around her so she
would not feel deserted or unwanted. For he did want her. After his
long abstinence, his body hungered not just for a woman, but for
Rosalinda. Only Rosalinda. He thought he would die from his
compelling desire for her.

Andrea considered his half-naked state of
undress, and eyed the inviting bed with its fresh linen sheets
turned back, and he groaned. And for a moment, with a rough motion,
he pulled her hard against himself once more, before he let her
go.

“Andrea?” Her fingertips grazed his cheek,
outlined his lips, moved to his chin and lingered there. “Dear
bear.” Her smile was tremulous.

“I am no bear,” he said, his voice husky with
repressed desire. “That was no bear hug. I am a man. At the moment,
an overeager man who feels himself growing weaker with every breath
he takes.”

“Valeria has warned me that you are not yet
fully recovered,” she said. She glanced toward the bed. “Do you
want to lie down?”

“There is nothing in this world I want more
than to lie down there,” he said. “But only with you.”

“
Oh.” Her
silver eyes grew large and round and Andrea saw comprehension flood
into her gaze. “Oh,” she said again, with new understanding.
“Andrea, I am sorry. I did not mean to – yes, I did. I wanted you
to kiss me. But I did not want to embarrass you.”

“I wanted to kiss you, too,” he said, charmed
by her innocent honesty. “But it would not be wise to do it again,
and certainly, it would be unwise to do it here, in my bedchamber,
while I am unclothed.”

“I understand. I do. Mother has explained to
Bianca and me –“ She stopped, her face lowered, her hands
fluttering among the folds of her skirt.

“Do you know how adorable you are?” Andrea
asked. “Standing there in confusion, gnawing at your lower lip,
with your cheeks bright red, you are irresistible.” He took a step
toward her, closing the distance he knew he ought to keep between
them. “I long to gnaw upon your lip as you are doing,” he
whispered.

“You do?” Andrea watched the play of emotion
across her blushing face as she considered that possibility. Her
small, pointed tongue came out to lick across her lower lip.

Andrea’s blood began to boil in his veins. He
could endure no more temptation. It was not Rosalinda’s fault. She
did not know what she was doing to him. Andrea flung away from her
to the window. He put both hands on the sill, holding on tight to
prevent himself from reaching for Rosalinda, from drawing her back
into his arms. He cleared his throat loudly and took several deep
breaths. When he was calmer, he turned again to face her.

She stood where he had left her, but he could
tell that she, too, had used the interval to calm herself. Her
hands were folded, one over the other, at the high waistline of her
dress in the typical noblewoman’s pose he had seen countless times
before, in other places. Her cheeks were still rosy pink, but she
was no longer blushing. He noted that a certain softness lingered
in her eyes.

“So formal,” he murmured.

“I thought formality was what you wanted,
Andrea.”

“Formality would be best,” he said. “It will
help to keep me from violating you.”

“If you did, it would not be a violation.”
Her voice was quiet and perfectly controlled, yet her eyes were
glowing.

“When you came rushing through that door,” he
said, keeping his distance from her, trying to think about
something other than the surprising sweetness of Rosalinda in his
arms, “you were greatly disturbed by something your mother said or
did. Why did you come to warn me, Rosalinda?”

“I heard Mother and Bartolomeo talking.” She
stopped rather abruptly and began to chew on her lower lip
again.

“What did they say that frightened you enough
to send you flying to my room and into my arms for protection?”

“I was frightened for you, not for myself,”
she said.

“‘Why?”

Rosalinda stared at him. Her first thought
had been to warn him of her mother’s plan to place him at the head
of a mercenary army and send him to take back Monteferro. On such a
quest, Andrea might well be killed. And while she knew from
listening to Bartolomeo’s tales that men craved the opportunity to
perform feats of great valor, she thought Andrea had suffered
enough. There was a terrible sadness in him. During the worst days
of his illness, he had spoken as if he believed he ought to be dead
along with the family and friends he had lost. Sent into battle, he
might well seek death. She could not let that happen to him.

And yet,
telling him in advance of her mother’s scheme was, in a way, a
betrayal of her mother, and of Bianca. Her beloved sister longed to
return to Monteferro. Bianca was the rightful heiress of that
city-state. She deserved high honor and respect, and a brilliant
marriage to a man who would love and appreciate her and, for her
sake, keep Monteferro – and Bianca – safe and happy.

“Rosalinda?”

Andrea was standing very close to her. She
could feel his warmth. Rosalinda caught her breath, afraid he would
kiss her again and make her feel all those wonderful, forbidden
urgings of her youthful body. At the same time, she was afraid he
would not kiss her, for she longed to have his lips on hers. She
thought about his mouth and the plunging heat of his tongue, and
her heart began to pound harder. Still, her mother’s training
exerted a strong influence over her, forcing duty to do battle
against romantic longing.

“I don’t know what to say,” she faltered.

“Say what you came to tell me.”

“I really should not. Mother would be furious
with me if she knew I was here, or that I overhead what she
said.”

He looked hard at her for a moment, and she
saw something change in his face, as if a sheer veil had been drawn
across his features to hide his deepest thoughts from her. The
notion came to her that he did not entirely trust her. She was not
used to dissimulation or to any kind of intrigue. At Villa Serenita
there was no need for either. But Andrea had not grown up at Villa
Serenita, and she saw in him now the difference between them
because of their separate upbringings. And then he smiled at her
and was her Andrea, her dear bear, once again.

“Rosalinda.” His mouth drew nearer; his
fingers caught in her hair to hold her face close to his. Rosalinda
held her breath as Andrea’s lips quickly brushed across hers. While
she stood entranced, his hand slid out of her hair, across her
cheek, and down along her neck to her shoulder. With his eyes
holding hers, he let his hand move lower, until it covered her
breast. He pressed gently, holding the high, firm roundness against
his palm. His thumb and one finger moved across her nipple.

Deep inside Rosalinda a flame leapt up,
burning brightly. She could not move, she could not even breathe,
but she was sure Andrea could see in her eyes that she was on fire
with an unnamable need. He took his hand away from her breast and
rested it on her shoulder again, but that did not stop the flame
inside her.

“Tell me what your mother said that so upset
you.” He spoke softly, but his words were a command.

A flash of intuition told Rosalinda that this
was the sort of thing nobles did in great palaces. They played
games of power and desire. She had heard her mother speak with
disgust of such practices, but until this hour she had not guessed
how seductive the game could be.

Valiantly, Rosalinda fought against her
desire to have Andrea put his hand on her breast again. She wanted
his other hand on her other breast at the same time. She wanted him
to pull her into his arms and hold her so tightly that she melted
into him until they were one.