The Promise (26 page)

She knew he would not forget her. That, at least, was something. Still, she loved him too much to risk the affection he felt for her now becoming something more.

“Günter, you are not being fair. You know why I must go.”

He hesitated. “Alonsa, we need to talk. There are things we have left unsaid, things that—”

She put a hand over his mouth. “No. Do not. I cannot be persuaded, and it only makes the parting more difficult. Please, go. Do what must be done, for both our sakes.”

He pressed his lips together, nodded his head curtly, and turned on his heel. In a moment, he was gone.

Alonsa felt a great emptiness engulf her, and a dark shadow passed over her heart. She nearly called him back, but stopped herself at the last moment.

What good would it do? Fate held him hostage, and the price of his freedom was her love. She had to let him go. Even if her heart died in the doing, she had to let him go.

She turned away, determined she would cry no more.

Günter stared up at the gold-lettered sign over the small but respectable inn:
L’Albergo delle Quattro Navi:
The Inn of the Four Ships. He knew he would find Robert inside, and yet a part of him did not want to enter.

He had hoped Alonsa would change her mind; that in the end, she would choose to stay with him. It seemed it wouldn’t happen. So, as promised, he had to let her go.

For now, at least.

When his contract ended next month, rather than renew he would leave the military life forever and join her in Toledo. He had a little coin saved, and there was the small inheritance from his grandfather. It would be enough to purchase a property on which to start a family, in either Toledo or Wittenberg; he did not care which. He wouldn’t leave her again.

He had spoken with Robert on the ride to Genoa, and Robert had pointed out that Günter had skills many traveling merchants would value highly. He could protect their merchant trains from the bandits along the trade routes. They would pay handsomely for the service, and the daily danger would be far less than his current profession, though not without some risk. Still, an added bonus was that the merchant season only lasted for a few months out of each year; Alonsa could accompany him, and the remainder of the time he would spend at home with her. Mayhap it would be enough to ease her fears about the blasted curse.

He had worked it all out. For the first time in his life, he had intentionally made plans for the future instead of trusting his fate to the winds. Now, because of her, the idea of home and hearth appealed to him. Martin, as usual, had been right. He had only been waiting for the right woman.

Time grew short. He had made the trip to Genoa longer than it should have been, to spend more time with Alonsa. Now he had to return to Pavia and let his woman flee. And that is what had brought him to Robert: to claim the favor promised, one greater than Robert may have intended. Nevertheless, he knew as a gentleman and a knight, Robert would honor his promise or die trying. They had that, at least, in common.

Reluctant still, Günter pushed open the door of the inn and stepped inside.

Alonsa pressed the new straw stuffing deeper into the clean ticking she had insisted the innkeeper provide. She had no intention of spending her last nights with Günter on a bed infested with the vermin of the previous guests.

Satisfied, she dusted her hands off and looked over to where he sat contemplating the small fire in the grate and strumming his cittern. He hummed the haunting melody of the song she had heard him singing in the forest.

She sat back on her heels and listened, her heart thrumming in tune with the strings. A deep melancholy engulfed her while she watched him in the firelight, his freshly washed hair shining like molten bronze, his strong, gentle hands calling forth the music of the angels, his eyes half-closed as though he listened to the muses in his head.

She would always remember him this way, she realized, and felt the time they had left together slipping through her fingers like the white sands on the beaches of Toledo. She wanted to squeeze tight, to hold every grain, but of course that would only make them slip faster away.

“Günter,” she called softly, and he looked at her.

“Will you sing it for me now?”

He nodded. “I will.”

She went to him, sat at his feet as he began.

He had chosen the fluid, melancholy rhythms of her homeland instead of the set tunes of the madrigal for his song. His clear voice and evocative lyrics wove a spell about them while he sang of a warrior and the woman he adored, of giving and receiving. Finally, he sang of a love that would not end, either in this life or the next. As he strummed the last note, he looked beyond her, beholding a vision no other could see.

Silence reigned for a long time. She wiped away the tears trembling on her lashes, and she at last gathered the courage to speak. “You wrote this?”

He nodded and flicked a glance at her.

“Yes.” His gaze moved away, and she had the same odd feeling that had whispered to her the day he said he would never love her.

He set the cittern down carefully. “What are you thinking?”

“I love—” she stopped.

His head jerked up.

“—it,” she finished weakly.

She had nearly blurted out the truth.

I love you, and the song because it is yours.

She would not say those words, would not make the parting any more difficult than it must be, would not ask for something he could not give and she could not accept.

His jaw tightened, and he looked away again, into the fire. He laughed, the sound bitter and brief.

“Well. Such praise. Consider it a wedding gift, since we had to give back the ring.”

She clasped her hands in her lap. “I need no gifts from you. I thank you, even so. Never will I forget it.”

He stood, reached for her, and pulled her to him. His eyes bored into hers, and she could feel anger in his firm grip.

“Surely you can do better than that.” He smiled tightly. “A man doesn’t give a song like this one to his wife every day. A little more gratitude, I think, is in order.”

He ground his mouth against hers.

She did not understand his anger, or why he wished to punish her, but so desperate was she for his touch, she did not care. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed herself into him, and kissed him with all her soul. He groaned in response, swept her up in his arms, and carried her to the pallet.

He lowered her down onto it, kissing her desperately, burying his hands in her hair. Pulling back, he gazed at her, the look filled with hunger, yet so troubled.

“Alonsa, I—”

She stopped his lips with a kiss.

“No words,” she whispered. “No more words.”

He stared at her for a long time, then slowly nodded his head.

He touched her. With his hands, with his mouth, with his body. Their passion rose sweet and intense, desperate and searching. He tugged her clothing aside, and it seemed to melt away with his own. He pressed his length into her, penetrating her with little ceremony. She arched to meet him, fraught with need, silent with desire. Her thighs gripped him as he moved; his hips flexed in rhythm.

She said with her body, with her caresses, what she could not say with words. He answered her thrust by thrust, kiss by kiss, searching, probing, stroking. He lifted up, pressed deep in a rhythmic crescendo …

Her cry of release poured out. Still he did not stop, but drove more deeply, jaw clenching, his eyes burning bright as the sun. Finally, he closed his eyes, gripped her hips in his hands, and shuddered. He yielded, the surrender a reluctant one, his quaking strength subsiding only after long, hard moments.

In the quiet that followed, while she felt his breath against her and heard his soft groan, Alonsa prayed for something she had never before wished: a child, with his eyes and gift for music. A child, so if the worst should happen, a part of him would live on in this world. Even if Günter survived, she would never see him again. A child was the least God could do for her in consolation. She sent the prayer heavenward in the futile hope it might be heard.

Afterward, Günter rolled until he lay beside her. She rested her head on his chest, and they stayed that way, spent, perspiring, not speaking. His heartbeat slowed beneath her ear. The fire died in the grate, and the room became cool and dark. When she shivered, he tugged the blanket around her, and with one warm hand beneath it, stroked her skin. The other he curved under his head.

Finally, into the darkness, he spoke. “I am leaving at first light.”

They were not the words she had expected to hear. She stared up at the cameo of his face in the dark, stunned. “Why?”

“I must go back. I have tarried too long. I am expected.”

She rose up on one elbow, clutched the blanket to her bosom in despair, her hair spilling over her bare shoulder.

“But the ship does not leave for a sennight. I thought—”

She had thought she had days with him. Now it was mere hours. She could bear the parting if she had the time to store up memories, but this—this was a sudden sort of death.

“Why?” she asked again.

He looked at her. “Why not?”

Why not, indeed?

She turned from him, the sharp practicality of his question striking her like a slap in the face.

He spoke to her back. “There are things to be done. Timetables. The men are counting on me. I must go back.”

“Of course. I understand,” she mumbled. She refused to cry. She had sworn last night she would cry no more, even if the tears filled up her heart.

“I brought you to Genoa safely, as I promised.” The blanket rustled beside her when he turned. “You do not need me anymore.”

“No,” she lied.

He remained silent for so long that she thought he had drifted off to sleep. Then he moved, and his staff pressed between the smooth curves of her thighs.

“Except for this,” he said, shifting her, probing her, his voice dark and hard. “You still need this.”

“Yes,” she choked out, and did not lie.

His fingers moved down and settled between her thighs. She tried to resent him, tried not to want him again, but even in this, she could not succeed. He soon had her gasping and turning to him, frantic for release. She dug her nails into his back; her head thrashed on the pillow.

Would she never be free of this desire? Must he prove to her over and over that she would remember him forever? Her emotions spiraled out of control, a confusing swirl of love, bitterness, and desperate desire. She gripped his hair in her hands, pulled his head down to hers, and bit his lower lip. She heard his sharp intake of breath, his passionate groan.

“I hate you,”
she hissed as she reached her peak, tears blurring her vision.

“And I you,” he growled, and followed her over the edge.

W
HEN
G
ÜNTER ROSE IN THE WEE HOURS OF THE MORNING
, he did not bother to wake her. What would be the use? Last night, they had refrained from saying that which needed to be said, and this morning would be no different. He dressed silently, opened the door, and turned to look at her one last time.

Had she meant what she said to him, about hating him? Could it be she felt nothing in her heart for him, only her body? Could it be Beth all over again, his betrothed who had broken his heart too long ago even to remember? Compared to this, his feelings for Beth had been a paltry thing. How foolish he’d been then, how naive. How had he ever mistaken those green feelings for love?

His hand gripped the doorframe; his knuckles went white with the strength of his desire to go to Alonsa, even now, to force her to acknowledge the truth.

She loved him. She had to. He loved her far too much for it not to be true.

He watched her while she slept, still and pale. Her rich brown hair spilled across the snow-white pillow; sleep smoothed out the little lines of worry she perpetually wore between her brows. Her sweet body made gentle peaks and valleys out of the blanket. She stirred a little, then licked her lips and fell still once more.

He loved watching her sleep. He could look his fill and not have to hide his longing from her, not have to pretend he felt no love. He knew, like a miniature image worn close to his heart, even if he never saw her again, he would take this picture of her peaceful and dreaming with him to his grave.