Shadowheart (46 page)

Elena gripped the loose fabric of his sleeves, in dread that he would pull away and turn from her again. She looked up at him, drawing him toward her with a steady pressure. He set himself against it.

“Warrior,” she murmured, lowering her lashes. “Will you make me command you?”

He gave a harsh laugh. “My queen.” He jerked her close. He slid his hands up to her throat. “You want me?” His voice had a break in it, almost wistful.

She reached up and tangled her hands in his hair, tugging at it. “I will drag you before the priest,” she said fiercely.

He stared down at her. His hands barely touched her skin, resting lightly over her pulse “Nay, I cannot.” He stepped back, breaking from her. “Go back. They are not so half-witted as to elect another. They’ll fall into turmoil if they try, and Franco will step in.”

“Then let them fall!” She sucked in her breath. “They can read Ligurio’s words as well as I. If they cannot live by what he taught, without me to remind them every moment, then let them fall to Franco!”

“No. You will not let that happen now.”

“I have done it,” she hissed.

“You must go back!” He turned. “I should never have shown myself. It is dead, Elena. I am dead to you. Go back.”

“No!” she cried. “Why are you doing this?”

He stared down at the clay mug and bowl beside his pallet. He kicked out with a savage suddenness, sending them both smashing into shards and splinters against the wall as the bundle of blanket and pallet unrolled across the floor. “Because I cannot be near you and not have you!” he shouted. “I am a man, not some block of stone, though God knows I have tried to be.”

His voice died away in the empty room. A goat bleated in the piazza. Its bell tinkled, soft above the sound of his uneven breathing.

“I told you that I have renounced the office,” she said quietly. “There is nothing the council can do to keep us apart now.”

“The council be damned,” he said. “It is not them.”

“What then?” she demanded.

“I thought that I would be absolved,” he said tightly.

“You said—”

“I don’t know how that creature could forgive any sins,” Allegreto sneered. “He screamed at the clerk—I thought he would have killed the man for speaking my name. And then he looked around at me and turned red in his face and shook like a demon had his throat. He made some sounds and went out, and the clerk told me it was done.”

She wet her lips and shook her head, knowing nothing to say.

He leaned his shoulder heavily against the wall. “Elena, it was like an audience with the Devil,” he said between his teeth. “I think it was the Devil.” He stared at the floor as if he saw into the Abyss. “I don’t think God will come to me, not even in the Holy Father.”

“No,” she said faintly. “It cannot be so.”

“I want you to go back,” he said. “There is one thing true in my life, and it is what you have done in Monteverde. Do not let it fail.”

“And leave you here as if it made no matter? As if you were some rag that I have cast off and forgotten?”

“Yes. Forget me.”

“Oh, God.” She closed her eyes and gave a laugh. “As well command me to forget to breathe,” she whispered.

He made a wordless curse, turning toward her. He spread his hands like a man who did not know what to do with them.

Elena walked forward to him. She took the loose cloth of his tunic in her fists and buried her face in his chest. “I will live with you in iniquity if you will not let us wed.”

“No,” he said. “I will not drag you down to Hell with me.” But his arms came up around her, searching into the coil of her braids, denying what he said.

She lifted her face for his kiss, knowing it would come. She opened her mouth and arched her body into his, greedy for the feel of him, for the hard way he dragged her against him, for his taste and his heat, for everything they did together in shameless sin.

“It is too late.” She her lips drift over his. “Take me down.”

“I cannot bear it.” He released an agonized breath, turning his head a little away. But still his body denied his words. She could feel him hard for her; in the empty chamber, his hands pulled at her skirts, taking them upward to the curve of her back. He let them fall and ran his palms up her sides and under her breasts. He set her back, but only to look at her, his gaze hot.

She lowered her lashes, Jezebel and Delilah, and traced her fingers along the skin below his ear. He gave a harsh breath, leaning into her hand. His mouth held a derisive curl. Then he closed his eyes and bared his teeth like a man wounded, gripping his arm around her and pulling her down with him, one step away from the wall and to the floor.

She spread her legs as they went down to the pallet, rose on her knees over him in a tangle of skirts and blanket. He leaned back on his hands, thrusting his tongue in her mouth. She held his face between her palms and raked his searching tongue with her teeth. His heavy groan vibrated under her, against her breasts. He arched his head back as she drew her teeth down his throat, tasting him, kissing the pulse beneath his skin.

He held against her, resisting as she pressed forward, shoving at his shoulders. She slid her hands down his arms, feeling the shape of his dagger and the arm-guards beneath the cloth. He lifted himself to turn her beneath him, but Elena locked her hands in his and kissed him, leaning her weight on him until he gave way and let her push him down.

For a moment she hung over him, holding his arms spread, her hands braced on his wrists.

He looked up at her, his chest rising and falling, darkness and male heat at her command. His shaft pressed against her naked thigh under her skirts, with only the thin veil of his tunic between them.

She leaned forward over him. She felt the tunic fall away. The tip of his cock touched her bare skin. He shuddered under her. In full clothing the contact was intimate and secret, hidden between them.

“Elena—” His arms tightened where she held him. “The others are outside.”

She smiled. “They cannot see,” she whispered wickedly.

“Hellcat.” He swallowed, panting.

She spread her legs and pushed down on him. “Come into me.”

He strained, his body arching upward for release, but she did not let him go; she held him pinned as she rolled her hips to take him deep inside. She licked her tongue across his lips and held herself just above him, feeling the muscles across his chest work as he shoved himself up into her.

She sat back then, bringing his hands to her breasts, closing her eyes and reveling in the thick intrusion, in the sharp sensation in her belly from holding him at such a slant. Through her gown and shift he brushed his thumbs across her nipples, the nails raking; even through the fabric it sent a surge of lust to the place they were joined. She looked down through her lashes. “Serve me,” she murmured.

He plunged his hands under her skirts, running his palms up her bare thighs to her hips. He held her down as he thrust upward, moving in her in a way that brought her instantly to gasping. She licked her lips and whimpered, riding herself down on him, feeling his legs come up behind her to force him deeper, so deep that it exploded at once with a cry of ecstasy from her throat.

He rolled with her, pulling her under him down on the pallet. He came over her and thrust inside again, ramming up hard in her body. He braced above her, his throat exposed, the muscles taut as he took her without any mercy, as she had never given him, a quick and violent assault against the hard pallet. She arched up and felt a throbbing climax come on her again as he groaned and held himself forced deep, a sound of agony and pleasure. He jerked and shuddered, his teeth bared, and then dropped his head to her shoulder.

Elena clasped her arms about him. Her ability to reason slowly returned—she saw the room again; the painted ceiling above, the web of shadows on the wall from the branches outside. She held him in her, as if she could keep him that way, and feared when he pushed up on his elbow.

His hair had fallen loose. It brushed her cheek, and she turned her face into it, breathing deeply.

He bent down and brushed his lips gently at her forehead. “You see,” he said softly. “I cannot be near you.”

Elena squeezed her eyes shut. Then she opened them and stared up at him. “I see only that you lie when you say you love me. That you will use me and then abandon me like a lover with a whore.”

“No,” he said.

“How not?” She pushed at him, struggling to sit up. “I am in sin like the lowest prostitute, to lie with you as we have done.”

He let her go, sitting with his back to the wall. “Then go and repent of it,” he said.

She pushed down her skirts and cast him a fierce glance. “Not without you,” she said. “I have waited for you.”

“Oh, you have not been such a fool.” He scowled. “Do not tell me—all this time—you have kept to that thoughtless promise?”

“All this time.” She pushed herself to her feet, shaking her hem. “Yes, I am such a fool.”

He sprang up. “You have not confessed since we were here before? It is nigh two years!”

“I am steeped in mortal sin,” she said violently. “I hope that I am! Haps then I
will
see you in another life, since you must go away from me in this one. And it will not be in Heaven.”

He put his hands on her shoulders. “Do not jest of such a thing. Go into the church and do it now!”

She tore away. “Willingly! If you will go before me.”

He stepped back against the wall.

“The priest here is a good man,” she said despairingly. “If you spoke to him—”

He closed his eyes, resting his head back with a slight uneasy laugh.

“Allegreto—you asked me this once—if I would spare my own soul at the cost of what I love.” She lifted her chin as he opened his eyes. “I did not know my answer then. But I know it now.”

He stared at her, a lock of his dark hair falling down over his temple. His breath grew shallow and uneven, like an animal in distress.

“I will risk eternity for you. What will you do for me?” she asked softly.

He looked down at her beneath his lashes, standing frozen, his body pressed back against the wall. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and opened them, as if he tried to see what was before him, and could not make it clear. “Must I go in the church?” he asked ruefully. “I’ll be struck down by lightening bolts.”

All the air seemed to slide out of her. She had not known that she feared to breathe. “Then let them strike me, too,” she whispered.

“Elena.” His voice cracked. “Help me.”

He strode toward the church as if into battle.

Elena had gone before him, to find the priest and make sure he would hear a confession at once. Mad and murderous the Holy Father might have been, but none could doubt the sanctity of the sweet and patient old man who clasped her hands in his blue-veined fingers and smiled with honest joy to have the privilege. She thought he knew Allegreto well; there was a perceptiveness in his face when he looked at her, though he asked no questions.

The priest stood watching for them from the porch. Allegreto went up with light steps, but his determination seemed to desert him at the door. He paused uncertainly. The old man stepped forward and took him by the elbows. He pulled Allegreto close with a strength that belied his age and pressed a kiss of welcome on either side of his rigid jaw.

Elena stood back. Allegreto looked around for her with an expression that was suddenly distraught, as if he had just realized where he was, but the priest held his arm and guided him slowly under the portal and into the nave as if he could not find his way alone. In truth, she did not think he could have.

The priest knelt. Allegreto went to his knee, his head bent, and hastily crossed himself. There were no bolts of thunder or explosions of wrath. There was only the twitter of common birds from outside, and the cool silence of the church, and the harsh sound of his breath, halfway to weeping with fear.

After a moment the old pastor rose, pressing his hand under Allegreto’s elbow. As if he guided a blind man or an untutored child, he took him down the church toward a corner near the altar.

It was too poor a place to have a screen for privacy. Elena made her own obeisance and waited by the font, far enough away that she could hear only indistinct murmurs. She saw the priest touch Allegreto’s shoulder. He dropped suddenly to his knees, his hands gripped together. He bowed his forehead onto his fists. His shoulders were shaking.

In Elena’s life she had gone through the ritual many times, heard the exhortations and suffered the examination of all her venial sins, even resented the persistence with which the priest at Savernake had insisted on prying into her every thought. But she had never been afraid. She had never thought that Hell awaited her.

She watched Allegreto, too far to catch what he said with her ears, but hearing with her body what his body spoke— courage and despair and shame—his mumbled words tumbling over one another as he began:
Forgive-me-father-for-I-have-sinned.
… He bent down nearly to the floor, his face in his hands.

She tried to say a prayer to aid him, but she found no prayer. She only watched, her fingers clasped hard, as the priest looked over his head and listened. The old man did not flinch all through it. He asked no questions. He seemed like a gnarled tree robed in dark vestments, standing still and crooked against the background of the simple altar and the cross above.

What mortal sins and murders that he heard, what of vengeance and wrath and hatred, it caused no horror or despair on his face. The confession fell in uneven torrents, like a storm beating against an enduring wall, words and hesitations and outbursts. Elena felt love and grief rise up in her until it spilled over into tears and she could not see either of them clearly anymore. Only light and shadow.

She did not know how long it lasted. Finally the broken sound of Allegreto’s voice drifted to a whisper, and then to silence.

The priest said nothing for a long time. Elena blinked and cleared her eyes. Allegreto sat on his knees, leaning his mouth on his locked hands, rocking himself a little.