Seduction (10 page)

He didn't catch her eye, or speak. He stared, hard, at her mouth.

Caterina's hands clenched under her apron, pressing right into her lap. Into that secret warm place which felt every night as if it were coming alive. Her lips felt hot and swollen as he looked at her mouth. She could hear the breath rushing through it, and see the pulse pounding in his powerful neck.

A phantom hovered into view, and when his eyes flicked sideways it was like a match blowing out.

‘Sister Caterina!' Sister Agnes crooked one white finger. ‘To Mother at once, please!'

‘The fact that he is deaf and dumb does not excuse you communing with a man out in the garden, sister. And we know Sister Beatrice poured pestilence in your ear. The only way to prevent you falling into the hands of the devil is by nightly flagellation and prostration.'

‘And my work?' Caterina stood to attention in the dusty parlour that smelt of mouldy lavender.

‘We will let you return to the garden, but you will not speak to him. He's here by patriarchal licence. Our sister convent in Venice sent him.' Sister Agnes and Mother Mary exchanged looks. They were like salt cellar and pepper pot, silhouetted against the window.

‘It's a shame he's not blind, devoid of all the other senses as well,' hissed Mother Mary, her voice as sharp as the little black whip with three tails she had just handed Caterina. ‘Because we cannot allow you to stray off your path, sister. You have heard the Voice calling you to purity.'

‘He's the only man for the job, despite what happened in Venice. Because if we don't get our liqueur out to the markets there will be no roof over our heads.' Sister Agnes pressed her palms down as if to suppress such worldly concerns. Thin, white, hairy legs, Caterina guessed, under that worn old habit. Legs that had never spread open above a man's face. Oh, she might have had pretty eyes once, but after years of denial they were hard, blue, and veined as marbles. ‘Meanwhile you will continue your nightly penance.'

Across the garden Zorzi would be toiling in her wine house, processing her grapes. His arms, with the muscles flexing under the skin, and his hands, those eyes gleaming in the wine-drenched shadows. And away over the hills Beatrice would be singing and dancing and fucking all she pleased.

The setting sun spiked through the stained glass in a sudden single ray like a warning and Caterina suddenly saw what the other nuns saw. Herself, illuminated by a heavenly light. She dug her nails into her hand.

‘This is my chance to prove my purity to you.'

Caterina stopped to prop up a vine that had been beaten down by the summer storm and started to weep at all the neglect. In the end they had betrayed her. Kept her in solitary, away from the others and away from the garden, for a whole month.

‘What did Beatrice tell you?' she had asked faintly when she was released from her cell by Sister Agnes. A month of contemplation and flagellation had crushed her. ‘What am I supposed to have done?'

But it seemed they were all deaf and dumb, too. Nobody had spoken to her as they paced the cloister, even though it was communication time.

She licked her dry lips. ‘She tell you we kissed, or fondled, or worse? Or did she tell you what she used to do with those dancers when she was on the road, what she was going to do
the minute she got out of here? I'll tell you what I've been contemplating in there, shall I?'

But the words had stayed in her head. The words, and the thoughts that had buzzed, louder than before, when she'd been alone, straining up at the little slit of a window to see sun or moon or Zorzi, or lying face-down on the cold stone floor of the chapel in front of all the others.

She'd slapped the little cat o'nine tails across her bare shoulders and flinched with pain, then pleasure, gasping at the sharp sting on her skin diffusing into intense, invigorating heat. And yes, before the dawn prostration she'd pleasured herself, and while she'd done it she'd seen Zorzi's fierce green eyes, how he stared at her mouth, his muddy fingers wrapped around the vines, and what they might do to her, how they might feel taking hold of her, pushing up her clothes, straying up her legs, further in, and further, it was a habit she had not been able to break, her fingers pushing open the soft damp lips every night, poking at the secret hole that seemed to nibble and close around her fingers.

And then last night she had taken the thick leather handle of the whip, still warm from her flagellating, and eased it inside, oh so gently, back and forth in a little rocking rhythm, careful not to hurt herself, opening her knees wider to feel its brutal length, a scream bunching up in her throat as it touched a tiny bud that sent flares of excitement through her, gripping at her so hard that she squealed and pulled it quickly back out and tossed it across the room as if it were a snake . . .

‘Zorzi is not going fast enough. He needs help with the packaging. We'll have to entrust you to him, after all.' Sister Agnes gave Caterina a big crate of empty bottles, unlocked the garden gate and pushed her out into the rain. ‘Then, thank God, his work is done.'

Caterina stumbled under the weight of the crate. ‘What did
he do in Venice that was so awful, sister?' She cleared her dry throat. ‘I mean, will I be safe in there with him?'

‘He took another sister's chastity.' Sister Agnes puckered her lips in so tight they looked like a cat's arse. ‘Nothing you need to know about in detail, except that he is the devil and she was a very weak soul. This is your Garden of Eden, sister.'

Caterina was drenched when she got to the wine house. The rain thundered down on the roof but inside it was baking from all those hot dry nights, and she stood in the doorway panting.

Zorzi was bent over a barrel, turning the tap and studying the dark-red liquid pouring into a big jug. The sweet potent aroma made Caterina dizzy. She put down the heavy crate with a loud rattle and arched her aching back. He'd been out in the rain. His black hair curled on his neck. His wet shirt stuck to his spine and ribs. She could see muscles flexing as he breathed. Oh God! She could imagine that big body rearing up over the prostrate form of the sister in Venice, hidden in their vineyard, the busy canal just the other side of the wall, the boat that brought him every day rocking on the dirty green water. Her imagination homed in on the image of those strong arms propping him up as he tilted his buttocks, clothed in those blue trousers – she couldn't allow herself to imagine them naked, how they would look, round, firm, tanned, taut, tensing between the nun's white open legs, her brown apron and skirt askew, her arms outstretched as she offered herself like a sacrifice . . .

Silently he turned the tap off and squatted there on the dusty floor, sniffing the liqueur expertly before taking a deep swig.

Caterina's legs trembled as she went to stand in front of him. He swilled the liquid round his mouth, staring calmly up as if he had been expecting her, then swallowed. She massaged her fingers, strained from carrying the crate. His hair was wet, and a drop was elongating at the end of one curl, ready to fall onto his forehead. The silence and the heat and the still-falling rain
hummed in her ears. All those nights of deprivation in solitary and her good intentions shrivelled because of the way he was looking at her. He studied her knees, which were on a level with his face, the his gaze travelled up her legs, resting briefly on her lap, where she was kneading her fingers, before moving up over her bound chest to her blushing face.

‘I'm here to help you,' she croaked, and coughed. He waited, staring, again, at her mouth. She touched her lips, and they felt as if they were burning. ‘They've punished me by keeping me silent for a month. Like you, I suppose!' She felt laughter sliding dangerously inside her, and waved her hand around the shed. Her sleeve brushed his hair. He started to smile. She took the labels she'd designed, reluctantly approved by Mother Mary, out of her pocket. The outline of a nun from the back, curvaceous in a ridiculously tight-fitting habit, reaching up to pluck a grape. He glanced at the image. ‘I'm renaming the wine La Religieuse. Means nun, in French.'

He nodded. He stood up and came very close to her, then paused for a moment, waiting, maybe, for her to move away. But she didn't. She couldn't. She could feel the wall of warmth between them. The way he stared at her mouth as if he wanted to eat it. Then he lifted his hands and she held her breath, waiting for him to touch her. But instead he sketched her hidden curves with his big hands, tracing the same shape as her design, and she gasped as her nipples tingled in response.

The rain drummed on the roof. The drop fell off his hair onto his nose. Her veil was weighted with water. Zorzi took the hem of it, squeezed water out of it. Heat radiated out of him, even at arm's length. Caterina's mouth was open as she tried to breathe, and as he looked again at her mouth he yanked her veil right off and held it up disdainfully. Caterina slapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the shriek. She tried to grab at the veil, but he tossed it behind the barrels. As she flailed frantically for it he blocked her way. She put her hands up to
hide the roughly chopped, hideous remains of her blonde hair, but he took hold of both wrists in one hand, wound a rogue strand of her hair round the finger of the other and rubbed it under his nose as if it were a herb or a petal. She could see her reflection, two miniature Caterinas in each of his dark eyes.

‘Oh, God,' she croaked, as he tugged at her hair and her scalp prickled. ‘I used to love my hair being stroked. I haven't been touched since – I've never been touched –'

His hands started to slide down her neck, lifting her wet collar away from the clammy skin there, and stroking her with his fingertips where her own pulse was hammering. Sparks of electricity seemed to crackle off her. He stared at her neck, her throat, down at her apron and the rough blouse underneath it. She looked down as well. The march through the rain had made the rough linen cling to her torso. Zorzi smiled slowly and instinctively Caterina pushed her shoulders back to thrust her breasts out.

His fingers moved round to flick open her top button at the base of her throat.

‘We need to do the bottling.' Caterina tilted her head away. ‘They'll check.'

He shrugged, took his hands away and picked up the jug. Now her neck felt cold. He pushed the jug against her mouth, the same place where he'd drunk, and tilted it until she was forced to drink. The wine was strong, and delicious. Some of it spilt down her chin, trickling where he'd opened the button. She wiped her mouth, giggling quietly, and felt the alcoholic haze spreading through her. He smiled and took a great big swig. Now his lips were red, and wet with wine.

Shards of excitement jabbed at her again. Having felt him touch her once, all of her was clamouring to feel one flick of his fingertips again. He was so close she could count every bristle pushing through the dark skin on his chin. She focused on his mouth.

His hands came back to her shoulders, and they started to massage the bones so that she was forced to relax. Her neck went limp and he undid the next button. And the next. But when the buttons were nearly down to her waist, she tried to cover herself. How repulsive she looked, her breasts bound beneath bandages. And sure enough, he stopped and reached behind him for something.

‘That's right, Zorzi. We must stop.' She turned to do up the buttons, but he pushed her hands away, pulled open her blouse and started to cut, with his shears, at the bandages underneath. Now she was shivering with excitement and fear. Her knees were buckling. A pulse was throbbing deep between her legs. Her sensitive breasts tightened and started to swell, rising up like dough as the bandages loosened, cut into shreds, and dropped to the floor. Now they were offered, pale and soft in the shadowy wine house. Her nipples hardened, dark and red. He pushed her shirt further down her shoulder and traced the ridge of her collar-bone, treading his fingertips across the exposed skin and under the shirt again, threatening, no, promising, to creep down towards her breasts. Caterina was helpless now, her breath coming in uneven gasps of longing.

His features became blurred and fused in front of her. She closed her eyes, letting her head droop backwards as the soft caresses lulled her. He came closer, their knees colliding. He bent towards her shoulder and she could feel his breath hot on her skin. She moved her head round to meet him so that his mouth bumped up against hers. They both waited, mouths just touching. Her breath stopped totally then. She couldn't move away. Her lips softened and parted. He rubbed his mouth against hers. She slid her hands round him and up his back and she felt a quiver run down between his shoulder blades. Her hands pressed harder onto him. She was as desperate to touch as to be touched. He flicked the tip of his tongue against her teeth, and then around the inside of her lips, and he tasted of
wine and so masculine, salty, sweet, wet, warm. She pushed her tongue in and his lips closed around it, trapping it, sucking it in between his teeth, so that her face was moulded into his and her breasts and body were pressed against the length of him.

This would be enough, she thought. This kissing is heaven. Perhaps if this is all, I won't have sinned. But it was like setting a taper to a candle as they sucked on each other. She was smouldering from her feet upwards.

She thought he was murmuring something, but that was impossible. He was pulling off his shirt as they kissed. He took her hands and placed them on his back and she squealed with the warmth of his skin. She stroked it, and scratched it, and he responded by reaching down and lifting up her skirt.

What was left of her sanctity struggled up and she battered weakly at his chest. ‘No, Zorzi. I can't. The bell will go soon and what work have we done?'

But he lifted her and dropped her onto a pile of old hessian sacks, some empty, others full of crackling leaves. He stood and looked down at her. He was massive against the rainy daylight. They were enclosed in the darkness. Everything was wicked, and dangerous. She realised, as she lay there, that she looked like the sacrificial nun she imagined he'd seduced in Venice. The thought made her wriggle despite all her efforts to remain still.