The devil to pay, p.10
The Devil to Pay, page 10
“I’m well,” Cara protested weakly.
Renata handed her a small, inlaid wooden box. “He sent you these, to wear with the dress. Look.”
Cara’s mouth formed a silent O of surprise as she lifted the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of silk, was a set of the most exquisite bracelet and earrings she’d ever seen. “I can’t wear these!”
“He said to remind you about swearing allegiance—”
Cara growled and inspected an earring. A pendant of finely wrought gold surrounded a red stone like a polished pebble. Ruby, she supposed. It caught the light and flashed with a fire that was breathtaking. She’d never owned anything so fine.
Why would he bedeck her in such finery? What game was he playing? Reluctantly, she put the bracelet on, turning her wrist this way and that to admire the effect. She hadn’t worn earrings in so long that the holes in her ears had almost closed up; her earlobe throbbed as she pushed the drops into place. They hit the side of her jaw when she moved her head.
Renata helped her into the dress and deftly fastened her hair with a comb, but when Cara tried to leave the room the servant caught her shoulders and steered her towards the door that led to del Sarto’s chambers instead of the hallway.
“You’re dining in his rooms tonight,” Renata said airily.
Cara stepped through the door and narrowed her eyes at the scene before her. Dinner had been set on the table. Candles glowed in the sconces. Compared to the bustle of the great hall, or even his study, it was intimate, private, a scene set for seduction.
It was a battlefield. And as his home territory, she was immediately disadvantaged.
He was waiting. He’d changed into a doublet of navy velvet, so dark it seemed to absorb the light. His thoughtful gaze swept from her head to her feet and Cara felt a tingle run through her. Did he think she was beautiful? It would be better if he didn’t.
He waved her over to the table. “Come. Sit down. I’d like your opinion on something.”
She noted the wicked twinkle in his eye with suspicion as he reached forward, uncovered a plate, and offered it to her with a blandly innocent look on his face. She glanced down at the offering and just knew her face was reddening with embarrassment.
The tray contained a collection of what could only be described as pale white breasts, each with a puffy red nipple standing pertly to attention on top.
“Our discussion on foods the other day got me thinking. I asked chef to conjure up something to amuse our guests. These are called ‘minni di virgini,’—virgin breasts. First baked by Sicilian nuns. They’re marzipan covered in custard and finished with a cherry. Quite realistic, don’t you think?”
The monster was clearly relishing her embarrassment. Refusing to be outdone, Cara lifted one to her mouth, took a tentative bite, and had to suppress a moan of pleasure. She’d always had a soft spot for desserts and these were tooth-achingly sweet. Del Sarto’s lips quirked at her enthusiasm. He chose one himself and bit into the rounded curve. Her own breasts tingled. She licked a patch of icing off her bottom lip and his eyes followed the move hungrily. When she’d finished, he pushed forward another plate and she smiled. “I’m sensing a theme.”
“‘Capezzoli di Venere.’ Nipples of Venus,” he said. “Roman chestnuts in brandied sugar, toasted almonds, and grated nutmeg.”
Cara closed her eyes, savoring the delicious sweetness. Oh good Lord! These things were so good they should be outlawed.
“I don’t know how you stay so thin if you eat like that all the time,” he teased.
“Sweets are my weakness. Everyone at Castelleon knows I’d give my right arm for a slice of cook’s lemon cake.”
Bianca, her maid, swore the only thing better than cook’s lemon cake was making love. Cara didn’t have any experience of the latter, of course, but she secretly doubted anything could give more pleasure than the cake—however accomplished the lover. She met del Sarto’s stare. “You’re trying to shock me, my Lord.”
He didn’t bother to deny it. “I find it amusing. I see you’re wearing the earrings I sent you.” He reached out and touched one, making the bauble swing, then rose and padded over to a side table. He picked up a velvet-covered box and opened it with a careless flick. “I want you to wear this too.”
Cara’s breath caught. A huge ruby swung from an intricate golden latticework of chains to form a necklace.
He pulled her to her feet and stepped behind her. “This is known as the Black Prince’s ruby. Although, technically, it’s a spinel.” The hair on the back of her neck rose as his fingers brushed a wisp of hair aside to fasten the clasp.
The central stone nestled like a pigeon’s egg between her breasts and she shivered at its coolness even as it warmed, absorbing the heat of her skin. Her gaze met his in the mirror on the opposite wall and she watched transfixed as he skimmed one finger idly along her collarbone, then lower still, tracing the neckline of her dress, skating over the top of her breasts. Soft as snowfall, hot as hellfire.
“This once belonged to a Moorish Prince of Granada. He was stabbed to death while negotiating a truce with Don Pedro of Castile.”
She murmured a wordless exclamation of protest, both at the gruesome story, and his feather-light touch. His fingers stroked back and forth, their subtle magic at odds with the history-tutor dryness of his tone. The gems in the necklace glistened against her skin like little drops of blood. Flustered, she raised her hands to undo the clasp, but his fingers stilled hers at the nape of her neck.
“Leave it.” His voice was low and hypnotic. “Don Pedro made an alliance with an English knight known as the Black Prince, who demanded the stone in exchange for his services.”
“All your stories contain mercenaries,” she managed weakly. “How did you get it?”
“The Black Prince took it to England where it was added to the crown jewels. When Henry Tudor won the crown in battle seven years ago he gave it to me for services I rendered him in France.”
“Such a violent history.”
He smiled and dipped his head. “Perfect for such a violent woman.” His lips grazed the bare flesh of her shoulder.
For the briefest of moments Cara closed her eyes and savored the sensation, then she jerked away. “Stop that! You only do it to control me.”
He dropped his hands and stepped back, releasing her from the sensual haze he’d woven so effortlessly. Air rushed back into her lungs.
“But of course. It’s much easier than having you clapped in manacles, although the idea holds a certain appeal.” The twinkle in his eyes was wicked.
“I don’t like being manipulated,” she said coldly.
“I enjoy it too much to stop.” He gestured to her neckline. “Wear those tomorrow evening. As my hostess, you should reflect my magnificence.” The self-mockery in his tone was evident.
“We are both to be paraded in public as your prized possessions?”
He laughed at her cynicism. “Precisely. You’ll also be expected to start the dancing. I need to know you won’t embarrass me.”
Cara frowned. “I can dance.”
He held his hand out. “Prove it.”
She studied his long, elegant fingers and shook her head.
“Afraid?” he taunted.
“No,” she lied. “There’s no music.”
“That doesn’t matter. Follow my lead.”
He caught her hand in his and raised them to shoulder height. His free hand settled on the curve at the bottom of her spine; his touch burned all the way through the thick fabric of her dress.
Where were the hundreds of servants when you needed them?
She kept her gaze on his tanned throat as he moved, guiding them both through the intricate patterns of a tessera, and marveled at the way they floated together so effortlessly. She was usually a stumbling mess on the dance floor, but his lithe ability transferred itself to her as if by magic. The only sound was the whisper of their feet on the wooden floor.
She felt oddly safe in his embrace, despite the undeniable thrill of danger, as if her body recognized that he was strong enough to shield her from the worst the world could throw at her. A haven in a storm.
But his protection came at a hefty price.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly.
She raised her eyes and the air between them thrummed, tight as a bow string.
“Will you be coming to my bed tonight?”
He’d stopped. They stood, their bodies touching, her breasts to his chest, his hard thighs against hers. Blood pounded in her ears. She felt as if she were hovering on the edge of an abyss, and desperate to fall. She’d wanted him for years. All she had to do was say yes—
Sanity came to her rescue. She stepped back from his hold. “No. You don’t truly want me. This ‘bargain’ is just a game for you, a diversion.”
His eyes glittered. He grabbed her wrist, drew it downward, and placed her hand directly onto the throbbing bulge at the front of his breeches. She gasped as she felt the hardness of him through the material.
“No game.” He rocked his hips, pushing himself against her palm. “Will you honor your part of the bargain?”
She was drowning in his eyes. “No!” Her voice was a mere croak. “I—"
He stepped away, and the loss of his body against hers was like a physical ache. He crossed to the door, opened it, and gestured for her to leave. He seemed neither surprised nor disappointed at her refusal. “Then I’ll bid you goodnight.”
Cara let out a shaky breath at the unexpected reprieve. She swept past him as quickly as her shaking limbs would allow.
Back in her own room she glanced in the mirror and barely recognized herself. The gems of the necklace sent shimmers of red across her heated skin. With fumbling fingers she unfastened the catch and let it fall onto the table, pulling off the bracelet too with a sense of relief. She tried to remove the earrings, but they hurt her ears and she gave up in frustration. It hardly mattered if she left them in. She’d barely sleep a wink anyway.
Chapter 19
The first guests began arriving just after breakfast. Cara watched from her window as a seemingly endless procession of horses and carriages wound their way over the city bridge and up to the front gates.
Each of the great houses appeared to be vying to outdo the others with the extravagance and number of their party. Richly clad couples were helped out of the carriages and ushered into the hall, attended by scores of servants and luggage. Her stomach dropped. They were all so polished and sophisticated. She’d rarely entertained guests, save those military friends of her father’s who’d visited Castelleon. She was woefully ill-equipped for tonight.
A new gown had been laid out on the bed. It was midnight-blue velvet, so dark it was almost black, with a squared neckline and a narrow waist that flared out into a full skirt at the hips. A thin silk under-dress with a ruched bodice provided a little extra modesty, but not much.
She fidgeted as Renata fussed with her hair, weaving a thin gold ribbon into her braid, then suffered through the application of eyeliner and sneezed when Renata whisked a hare’s foot covered in powder over her nose. Finally, Renata fastened the ruby necklace around her throat, pushed the bracelet over her wrist, and stepped back to admire her handiwork.
Cara risked a glance in the mirror. Her eyes glittered with excitement, their odd color turned to a haunting, mossy green by the darkness of the dress. Her hair didn’t look like its usual bird’s-nest, either. She gave Renata’s arm a little squeeze of gratitude.
The older woman glanced out of the window to see the latest arrivals and sniffed. “Oh, wonderful. The Canozzis.”
Cara peered over her shoulder. A beautiful woman descended from a coach, closely followed by a much older man. They were both dressed in the height of fashion. Cara caught the briefest glimpse of pale blonde hair and alabaster skin before the woman hastened up the steps, leaving the gentleman in her wake to order the outriders and oversee the unloading of numerous traveling trunks.
“Is that her husband?” she asked, surprised.
Renata snorted. “Yes, poor devil. A word of warning, my lady; Vanessa Canozzi is nothing but trouble.” She turned away before Cara could ask more. “I’ll see you later.”
When Cara made her way to the festivities she found del Sarto hovering at the bottom of the staircase, looking as darkly elegant as usual in a black velvet doublet with high collar and slashed sleeves. His eyes never left her as she descended the steps, and Cara bit her lip as she waited for his verdict.
“You’ll do.”
She let out the breath she’d been holding. “Such flattery!” she chuckled. “Remind me not to let it go to my head.”
He ignored her sarcasm and led her into the great hall, which was already crowded. Her fingers tingled at the contact. She tried to pull away but he held her fast and bent his head toward her ear so as to be heard over the din of conversation.
“Let me tell you about some of our guests, before you start a war. The Sforzas of Milan, over there, are the traditional enemies of the Medici of Florence, to your left.”
“And you’ve put them in the same room? That’s either very brave or very stupid.”
“They’ll behave. We all play the game when we have to.”
“Who’s that weaselly man over there?” Cara indicated a tall, well-dressed gentleman surveying the assembled crowd with an alert air. “He’s been watching me since we arrived.”
“Don Michelotto, Cesare Borgia’s right-hand man. He’s one of the most lethal assassins in Italy. We should be honored he’s left Cesare’s side to come spy on us.” He caught the man’s eye, bowed, and received a polite nod in return.
“Aren’t you worried, having him here?” Cara said.
“I’d rather have him as an invited guest than loitering around, uninvited, in the shadows. ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer,’ they say.” He pressed up against her, sending a hot thrill through her body. “Don’t worry. You’ll be perfectly safe with me.”
She almost snorted at that blatant untruth. Safe was the last thing he was.
“Now, who else is interesting?” he asked. “Some of the Borghese family are here, from Siena. That’s Niccolò over there.” He indicated a man of around sixty, deep in conversation, as he guided Cara smoothly through the throng, his hand pressing the small of her back.
A well-dressed, slightly older woman approached them. “Ah, now here’s someone you’ll be interested to meet,” he murmured. “Caterina Sforza, Lady of Imola and Countess of Forlì. Since her first husband was murdered she’s ruled as regent for her first-born son, Ottaviano.” He bowed low as the woman reached them. “Caterina! Let me introduce my honored guest, Signorina Cara di Montessori.”
Cara curtseyed. The woman smiled. “Enchanted! You are Ercolo di Montessori’s daughter, are you not? I heard about his passing. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Cara inclined her head. “Thank you.”
The woman’s forehead wrinkled. “Aren’t you the— ”
“—girl who blew up the monastery?” Cara finished with a rueful smile. “Yes, my lady.” She held her hands up. “Guilty as charged. That’s going to be on my gravestone, I think: ‘Cara di Montessori. Destroyer of holy places.’”
Del Sarto’s lips quirked. “You’ll be thrilled to learn that you share many of the same interests. Caterina’s intrigued by experiments in alchemy.”
The older woman nodded. “Absolutely! Alessandro, leave us alone. Stop hovering like some dreadful bird of prey.”
He bowed again. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies.”
The Countess drew Cara gently away by the arm. “My, my. He does seem very protective of you, my dear!”
“Believe me, he’s just as possessive of his horse,” Cara sniffed. “More so, in fact.”
“Nonsense! I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” The older lady winked. “As if he’d like to eat you up!” She laughed at Cara’s expression. “Forgive me, I’ve embarrassed you. I’m told I’m too outspoken, but I’m far too old to be subtle. Now tell me, what exactly did you use to bring down a monastery wall? I’m compiling a record of all sorts of alchemical experiments. It’s a little hobby of mine.” She regarded Cara’s nose with a dubious eye. “I’ll give you a wonderful recipe for improving those freckles of yours in exchange.”
Cara couldn’t take offense; the woman was trying to be helpful. “I made Chinese black powder, which is a mixture of sulphur, charcoal and saltpeter,” she said. “You grind each ingredient separately then add just enough boiling water to wet it and mix. Let it dry, wrap it in paper, and store it until you need it. And—obviously—don’t keep it near heat or flames!”
“What a remarkable education you’ve had my dear!” the Countess said approvingly. “So much more interesting than some of these empty-headed geese one meets nowadays who only think of the cut of their gowns.” She waved a hand, dismissing a cluster of giggling young women by the fire. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I see Borgia’s odious little lackey, Don Michelotto, is here. Much as I hate to talk to anyone connected with the Borgias, I know he’ll have the recipes for several new poisons I can include in my little book of secrets.”
Chapter 20
Vanessa Canozzi was furious.
As was her custom, within half an hour of her arrival her loyal servants had apprised her of all the important gossip. And the only subject on everyone’s lips was Il Diavolo’s female ‘houseguest’.
Vanessa checked her reflection in the mirror, searching for imperfections. She smoothed one pale blonde hair back into place and peered closely. No, still no wrinkles to blemish her perfect skin. Her pale blue eyes hardened. How could Il Diavolo possibly prefer anyone else? It was inexplicable. She glanced down at her perfect, soft creamy breasts swelling indignantly above her bodice. It just didn’t make sense. By all accounts, the little mouse barely had any breasts to speak of, and Il Diavolo had made it abundantly clear how much he enjoyed her ample bosom.
