“It’s true I’m still reeling at the idea of nuns as burglars.”
“Those weren’t real nuns,” he said. “And it wasn’t a simple robbery. What is this about, Bonnard?”
She shrugged, and picked up a bottle from the floor.
He moved to her. “How stupid do you think I am?” he said. “I know something is going on here. What are you hiding? How can I help you if you won’t tell me anything?”
“Where did you get the idea I needed help?”
“A pair of nasty brutes assaulted you last week, supposedly for your jewelry—”
“Supposedly? Aren’t you sure? You told me that the one who was captured said it was an attempted robbery.”
“A few days after that attack, your house is searched,” he said. “How much more evidence do you need that something is wrong? Why should someone make off with your husband’s letters?”
“And my emeralds,” she said. “Maybe something alarmed the naughty nuns when they were ransacking my dressing room, and they simply snatched up what was at hand. They might have mistaken the letters for bank notes.” Maybe they thought they were passionate love letters and they could sell them to the scandal sheets. If so, they’re in for a disappointment. They’ve stolen a lot of boring boasting and name-dropping—”
“Francesca.”
“It’s none of your affair!” she snapped. “I don’t want your help!”
“You’re behaving like an idiot,” he said. “Are you pregnant?”
The bottle shot toward his head. He ducked. It struck the back of a chair, and toppled to the floor, unbroken. It must be a heavy little bottle. If he hadn’t ducked, it might have cracked his skull open.
“Pregnant?” she cried. “Pregnant? Why not ask if it’s coming to that time of the month?”
“Well, is it?” he said.
“You stupid, stupid man! I’m not pregnant. It’s not coming to that time of month. I’m tired and dirty and I want a bath. And some sleep. And I want you out of my house. Va via!” She flung up her hand in that provoking backhanded gesture of dismissal.
He shook his head and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and its cavorting mythological beings. Hadn’t he told her, a moment ago, that she needed a bath and rest?
He strode to her, and scooped her up in his arms.
“Put me down,” she said.
“I’m going to give you a bath,” he said. “I’m going to throw you into the canal.”
Francesca did struggle but it was pointless. The brute who’d tried to strangle her was three times her size, and he’d struggled with this man to no avail.
She remembered how easily Cordier had subdued him, how effortlessly he’d tossed him into the canal.
“You wouldn’t,” she said.
He didn’t answer, only strode out of the bedroom and down the portego toward the canal-facing windows. With their balconies. Directly over the canal.
“Can you swim?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?”
“Cordier,” she said.
“The water is cool and refreshing at this time of year,” he said. “Exactly the sort of thing you need to clear your addled little head.”
She was addled, she knew, and she’d been an utter bitch as well.
She laid her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m…emotional, I know.”
“No, you’re insane,” he said.
“I don’t want to care for you,” she said.
He kept on walking. “Honeyed words will not work,” he said. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“Oh, very well, then,” she said. “Drown me. It’ll be a relief.”
“No, it won’t. You know how to swim, you said. Besides, you’re beautiful. A romantic Venetian is sure to fish you out before the tide carries you out to sea.”
She tightened her arms about his neck. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Don’t be angry with me.” She felt the tears trickling from her eyes. Again. This was horrible, worse than she’d supposed—and she’d thought she’d supposed the worst.
She was afraid of losing him. She must be mad. She hoped she was. The alternative was too ghastly to contemplate. Five days! She’d met him only five days ago!
“I’m immune to tears,” he said. “I’m doing this for your own good.”
“I’m g-going to s-scream for help,” she said. “The s-servants will c-come to my r-rescue.”
“They’ll have to be deuced qu-quick,” he said mockingly.
They’d reached the portego windows.
“Cordier.”
The arm under her knees shifted slightly, and he put his hand on the window handle.
“You won’t do it,” she said.
“Watch me,” he said.
She was aware of heads popping out of doorways. “The servants won’t let you,” she said.
“Yes, they will,” he said. “They’re Italian. They’ll understand perfectly.”
He opened the tall window and carried her through it. The balcony was narrow. It wanted only a step to carry her to the edge. He set her down on the wide stone railing.
She locked her hands behind his neck. “If I go down, you’re going with me,” she said.
He reached for her hands.
He’d have no trouble getting free of her.
And that was the trouble.
She let go of him and quickly, before she could think twice, turned.
And jumped.
“Merda,” she heard him say.
It did not take very long. Merely a lifetime while James’s heart stopped and he blinked in disbelief, while he uttered the one word and pulled off his shoes. Merely a lifetime passed while he plunged in after her.
He caught hold of her before she could swim away—or attempt it: a considerable challenge, given the impediments of skirts and petticoats and stays. He dragged her the few feet to the water gates, wrenched them open, dragged her inside, rose, hauled her upright, and shook her.
“Don’t ever.” Shake. “Do that.” Shake. “Again.”
She stood, dripping, looking up at him, her green eyes so soft, filled with the ghost.
“Don’t look at me that way,” he said.
“I’m not,” she said.
He pulled her into his arms. He kissed her wet forehead, her nose, her cheeks. He dragged his hands through her sopping hair while he waited for his heart rate to return to normal. It wouldn’t, just kept thudding unevenly, with panic and anger and he didn’t know what else. He didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t know how to feel in control again.
Then his mouth came at last to hers and he kissed her, like the drowning man he was. It was deep and hot and ungentle, and she kissed him back in the same ferocious way.
She was bold and unafraid and shameless—the exact opposite of what he wanted. Nonetheless he wanted her, and the fierce kiss left him weak in the knees.
Yet all the while he was still himself, still aware of where they were. He knew he couldn’t let his brain go weak as well. Not now. For her sake he must keep his wits about him.
Oh, yes, and for king and country, too.
The last thought was as bracing as a slap in the face.
He drew away. “I should have stayed where I was and waved good-bye,” he said. “‘Ciao,’ I should have said. I should have waved and thought, good riddance. That’s what I should have done. You are nothing but trouble.”
She flung her arms around his waist and held him tightly.
Then he was done for, king or not, country or not.
“You smell like canal,” he said. “You really need a bath.”
“So do you,” came her muffled voice from his waterlogged coat.
“How big is your bathtub?” he said.
“I’m a great whore,” she said. “What do you think?”
It was only a short distance to the bathing room, which Francesca had created from one of the cozy rooms on the mezzanine, between the andron and the piano nobile. The tub was very large, as befitted a courtesan, but she had not yet entertained a man here while bathing.
A small window let in light from the courtyard. Even when the sun was at the best angle this room was one of the darker ones in the house. A servant was lighting candles as they entered. He’d already lit the fire in the fireplace.
The light flickered over what she thought of as a most luxurious cave.
The tub stood to one side of the fireplace. A Roman-style couch stood on the other. Soft towels, neatly folded, stood in heaps on tables nearby.
She’d furnished the room in the style she’d seen on mosaics from Roman times, to go with the frescoes. Instead of the putti and saints and martyrs prevalent elsewhere, the flickering candlelight here revealed gods and goddesses, nymphs and satyrs, food and wine, dancing and lovemaking. Incense burned in the braziers, as it had done in the old days of the Republic.
This room was private, a refuge. She never brought company here.
The servants had already prepared it for her, though. In the circumstances, it was irrational as well as inconsiderate to make them labor again, this time hauling water all the way up to the piano nobile. She was cold and wet. Cordier was cold and wet…and what did it matter if she let him into her sanctuary? What was the point of trying to keep him out of any corner of her life?
“You’re full of surprises,” he said, looking about him. “I’d expected to see a tub wheeled into your boudoir or bedroom.”