[Barbara Samuel] Night of Fire(Book4You) (32 page)

Emotion was a woman's downfall
. She repeated the litany to herself, thinking how much he'd undermined that resolve in her life. He'd awakened her to the splendor of the senses, given her permission to be as passionate as he was, freed her to do something as wild as run madly through the halls and old passageways of the old castle.

With a little gulp, she started to laugh at her behavior. It began as a little chuckle, but then Basilio appeared, breathing hard, a lock of hair loose on his cheek.

Seeing her, he leaned on the doorway. "Thank God. It would have been rather humiliating to faint dead away in front of your sisters." With a mock gasp, he fell, sprawling on the floor, putting his hands over his heart. "Here, I must only humiliate myself in front of you."

The laughter had crept in deeper and wider, and by the time he fell on the floor Cassandra was howling, her hand over her mouth, the other around her ribs. She had no idea why it slayed her so, but she roared with laughter.

"You looked like a goat, you know," he said from the floor.

"No, no! A sheep!" she cried, and made a baaing noise.

He leaned on one elbow, chuckling. "I've never seen a red sheep." He lifted one dark, arched brow lasciviously. "But I would be more than pleased to be wolf to your sheep."

Cassandra caught her breath and sighed, wiping her eyes. "I have no idea why I bolted that way."

"I have that power over women, you know."

"They run, do they?"

"They lose their minds."

"Ah. So I shouldn't be too concerned that I've also lost mine."

Sitting up, he crossed his arms over his knees and looked at her, a straight and honest gaze.

And there he was, her Basilio, so simply, completely himself. She took a breath. "You have no idea how much I missed you. All those months."

"Oh, yes. I do."

"Why did you come here?"

"To chase you." He smiled ever so slightly.

Cassandra stood. "My sisters will be dying of curiosity if we do not go down immediately."

"Let them wait a little," he said. "I will not move from here until you listen to me."

She put a hand on her hip. "It is rather difficult to take you seriously when there are cobwebs in your hair, and I know your bottom is going to be as dusty as a baby's."

"Would you like to help me clean up?"

It felt so normal, so ordinary to be with him. She sank down next to him, shaking her head, and took his long, beautiful hand into her lap, holding it between her own. She touched the half-moon nails one by one, and traced the lines over his palm. "I am only free to be totally myself when I am in your company, Basilio. What accident of fate caused that to happen?"

"I do not know," he said. "In this moment, I am more myself than I have been since you left Tuscany." His mouth quirked. "I have no answers. But when I know you are close enough in the world that I can look into your face, I don't have the strength not to do it."

"And here we are, back to the beginning." That loose curl on his cheek called for her fingers to smooth it into place, but she resisted.

"Not quite. For it came to me that there is no crime in our loving one another as long as we are chaste."

His liquid eyes were clear. "In honor, we are free."

"So simple," she said quietly. "And so very difficult."

"I am kissing you now," he said softly. "And you are kissing me in return. Our eyes kiss. And our hands.

We know."

Her heart caught. "Yes," she whispered.

"In time, I must return to Italy—but until then, Cassandra, can we not be chaste in body and passionate in spirit? I can't bear to be away from you, to waste these days we do have."

She had not thought it was possible for her to love him more, but the rush inside filled her, making her dizzy. She swallowed. "How much time?"

A wash of regret crossed his face. "Probably only a week or two."

"All right, then. We will not waste it."

He smiled and stood, tugging her to her feet. "Come. It will be better if we do not spend too many minutes in private, tempting places. Introduce me to your beautiful sisters."

"Can you stay the night here?"

He paused to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. "No, but we have the afternoon. You can show me your home."

"I'd like that," she said.

"Do you have your seashell collection here?"

She laughed, surprised that he remembered. "I do."

"Then after your sisters have satisfied their curiosity, you can show them to me."

If she had been free, she would have kissed him then. Instead, she only tugged his hand, and they went back the way they had come.

As she worked in her garden that day,

Analise thought and thought how to discover Basilio's secret love and begin to put it together. The key, she suspected, lay in his poetry. But how could she unlock the English when she barely had enough of the language to greet people? Who could translate it for her?

The first and obvious solution was a dead end: Lady Cassandra was not at home. Analise pursed her lips in the carriage, holding Basilio's book of poems in her lap, trying to think what next to do. Surely someone in this city spoke Italian and English, and would not mind translating the poems for her.

The coachman waited patiently for her instruction, and while Analise puzzled over the problem, a man on a horse rode up, tall and swarthy and a little daunting-looking. With him was a man she recognized: Cassandra's brother, Lord Albury, equally severe and straight, his blond hair shining in the low gray day.

He leapt easily from his horse and gave the other man his reins, then dashed up the steps to Cassandra's door. Drawn by the stillness she'd glimpsed in him that day at Court, Analise opened the coach door.

"Sir!"

As she climbed down, Lord Albury turned. She was struck by the simple elegance of the movement, and reached inside herself to see what appealed about that. As she approached he did not speak or move, only waited, and she thought perhaps it was the fact that he seemed completely aware—of himself; of the other man, who must surely be his half-brother; of the passersby and the taste of the wind. An unusual quality, particularly in an English lord, most of whom struck her as all too eager to drown away any impression of anything.

Analise struggled for words of English. "Hello," she said. His height and air of lethal grace made him a bit intimidating, and his gray eyes were as still as a pond at dawn. "Do you speak Italian?"

"Very little," he said in that language, but gestured to the other man, who dismounted and came over with an easy expression. And, she thought with an inward smile, some mischief about him. She liked him instantly.

The dark-haired man grinned and gave a short bow. "How may I help you?" he asked in her language.

She showed him the book she carried in her gloved hands. "I am seeking someone to read me these poems in my own language. Where might I find such a person?"

His expression sharpened. "Are you the poet's wife? The Countess?"

"
Si
." She smiled. "Do you know his work?"

He nodded slowly, then looked to his brother. Analise had the sense that they were both a little disturbed. "Will he not read it to you?"

"He would, if I asked," she said calmly. "For reasons of my own, I would like to know what they say myself."

"I see. A moment, if you please."

"Of course."

The men went a little way down the walk, their heads bent together. Lord Albury's hands were clasped loosely behind his back, while his brother gestured gracefully with one hand. In form they were much alike, with long limbs and broad shoulders, and she saw a likeness in their high cheekbones and beautifully sculpted mouths, but their coloring made them an extraordinary pair. She smiled. The ladies likely swooned at the sight of them.

At last Lord Albury nodded, and they returned. "Have your driver follow me," the dark-haired brother said. "I know a woman who might help you." He turned to the driver and gave him an address, then turned back to Analise. "Tell her Gabriel St. Ives sent you."

"Thank you." Before he could leave, she asked, "Are you the Lady Cassandra's brother, too?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"She spoke of you."

A flicker of surprise went across the pale green eyes. "You know her?"

"She and my husband are acquainted," she said. "They are both writers, you know."

"Yes," he said. There was a faint wrinkling of his brow, then all expression was gone. "I do."

And in that short pause, Analise knew. It was so obvious that she felt a fool for not recognizing it before.

Who else would Basilio love but a woman who was as passionate as he, who loved words and the world, as he did?

Lifting her chin against the press of emotion in her chest, she managed a smile. "Thank you for your assistance, sir."

He bowed in a courtly fashion. "The pleasure was mine."

The carriage moved, and Analise leaned back against the plushly appointed cushions and probed the emotion in her. Was it betrayal? Sorrow? Jealousy, perhaps?

No, none of those things. It was fear. A new, sharp, and terrible fear. She had been imagining a mild-mannered creature, an Italian beauty from the stage, perhaps, a woman unsuitable to Basilio's station.

She allowed the driver to take her to the address Cassandra's brother had given them, and took the poems inside to the severe-looking middle-aged woman who answered the door. When Analise gave her Gabriel's name the woman fluttered a little, and color touched her sallow cheeks, and Analise could not help but smile.

They sat together in a room that expressed the beauty the woman lacked—appointed in rich reds and lacquered blacks, with touches of brass and gold. It was a very sensual place, and as the woman began to read and translate Basilio's poems, Analise thought it was a perfect backdrop for it.

If there had been any doubt lingering in her mind that Cassandra was indeed the woman who held Basilio's heart, the poems removed it. Every word was drenched in the colors of the woman—the russet and red and gold of her hair, the whiteness of her face. And although not even one line said anything sexual or even anything about women, there was such voluptuousness to their spirit that Analise found her ears hot.

"Oh, my," the woman breathed. "This is extraordinary work."

Analise nodded. "It is, indeed." And all at once, she was filled with an inexpressible sense of joy. Of alignment.

Yes. She loved them. They loved her. They loved each other. Somehow their lives had been entangled, and Analise did not believe in coincidence. There was a reason, and it was left to her to discover it.

Cassandra let everything go for the space of that afternoon—all guilt, all sorrow—and let herself enjoy the company of this man who had so transformed her life. They walked the grounds of Hartwood, up the hills and across green meadows dotted with sheep, and settled on a hilltop beneath an ancient oak that was said to have magic in it. Basilio put his palms against it, whistling in admiration. "I have never seen such a tree!"

"I thought it was alive, when I was a child. That I could hear it speaking." She grinned.