The devil to pay, p.9
The Devil to Pay, page 9
Several figures were tending to the garden; some kneeling to weed the borders, others gathering fruit with a sense of calm purpose. All the workers had some form of disability. Some had obvious injuries, like missing limbs, while others seemed less seriously hurt, at least physically. Not every wound was visible from the outside. Mental scars, Cara knew from experience, were often harder to heal than physical ones.
A row of chairs had been set in the shade of one of the arched porticos. Four or five less able invalids reclined in cushioned comfort, watching the others.
“This is like the garden at St. John’s,” Cara smiled at the memory. “Father Giovanni has a passion for gardening. He’s the one who taught me all about healing plants. Together we improved the vegetable patch and added a rose garden in the middle of the cloisters.”
After the flood she’d caused had drained, that was.
“Then you’ll recognize the herbs they grow here.” Francesco snapped the head from a dried flower.
Cara glanced sideways at him. “I assume you’re showing me this to prove del Sarto isn’t all bad?”
“He’s a hard man to know, my lady.”
She raised her eyebrows at the understatement. She’d never met anyone more infuriatingly guarded than Il Diavolo.
“He’s loyal.” Francesco continued. “He never leaves an injured man to fend for himself. Those who can’t work, he supports here, in the hospital. The men love him because he’s a ‘come on’ kind of commander.”
At her frown, he explained. “The kind who says ‘come on’ and gallops forward into battle, instead of ordering ‘go on’ and staying safe at the back of the line. He’s always the first into—and last out of—a fight. He drinks the same water, eats the same food, sleeps on the same hard ground. They’d die for him, if he asked them to.”
Cara was touched by this impassioned speech. Her father’s men had felt the same way about him.
Francesco took her silence as a sign to continue. He turned and caught her eye. “Don’t judge him too harshly. If he’s done something you don’t like, you can be sure he has good reasons.” Clearly deciding he’d said enough on the subject, he bent to pick a silvery sage leaf from the nearest border. He crushed it in his fingers and inhaled the scent. “That salve you made for him worked wonders. His shoulder has definitely improved.”
She smiled at the compliment.
“Perhaps you could find time to take a look at some of the injuries here? Just seeing your face would be enough to lift the spirits of most of them.” Francesco flushed as he realized he’d complimented her.
Guilt crushed her. If she were staying at Torre di San Rocco she’d relish the chance to use her healing skills. She’d been nursing the cuts and bruises at Castelleon for as long as she could remember. But she wasn’t going to be chatelaine here. She wasn’t staying around long enough to help anyone. She gave Francesco a noncommittal smile as she followed him out of the courtyard and up a narrow spiral staircase. “Now where are we going?”
“The bell tower,” he explained over his shoulder. “It’s the best view of the city from up here.”
Cara blinked as they emerged into the bright sunlight and when her eyes adjusted she studied the countryside laid out below her. Fields of still-green barley undulated like shimmering seas in the wind, punctuated by lines of darker cypress pointing skywards. She turned her eyes west, towards Castelleon. How was it faring without her? What atrocities was her uncle subjecting her people to? How on earth was she going to get home?
Her worries distracted her all the way back to the keep. As they re-entered the courtyard, however, she roused herself enough to notice a group of laborers had erected scaffolding around the horse chestnut tree and were pruning it.
Francesco noted the direction of her gaze. “His lordship thought it was growing too close to your window. He was worried the tapping of the branches might disturb your sleep.”
His innocent expression and laughing eyes belied his words. He must have been told of her ignominious escape attempt.
Cara managed a strained smile. “How kind. He thinks of everything, doesn’t he?”
Chapter 17
That afternoon Cara entered the study, prepared to leave if he was there, but the room was empty save for a crackling fire. She bypassed the imposing desk that dominated the centre of the room and crossed to the large bay window, which claimed a view over the main entrance and the bailey beyond. Choosing a few books at random, she settled herself against the plush velvet pillows and began to read.
Some time later she jumped at the sound of the door. It was her gaoler.
“Renata said I could come in here,” she said, starting to rise. “I’ll leave if you want.”
Del Sarto strode forward, darkly handsome in white shirt and leather doublet, as if he’d been riding. He settled his narrow hips against the desk and crossed his arms and Cara had the unnerving sensation of being trapped in a cage with some wild beast; tame for now, but likely to strike at any moment. Idiot that she was, she found it thrilling rather than terrifying. Unable to sit still under his cool scrutiny, she got up and started to walk about the room. “You have a wonderful library. Thank you for letting me use it.”
He inclined his head. “Think of it as a reward for your continued good behavior.”
“Must everything be an exchange?”
He shrugged. “It’s the basic principle of commerce.”
She refused to get into a discussion on the subject. Having perused the shelves earlier, she’d begrudgingly realized that he was far from the ill-read boor she’d imagined. “This is a far greater selection than the library at St. John’s. Have you read every one?”
“Only the ones with pictures,” he mocked. “Too many words give a poor soldier like me a headache.”
She ignored his sarcasm. “I’ve heard accounts of the Medici library in Florence. People say it’s astonishing.”
“It is, I’ve seen it. Lorenzo used to send agents out to retrieve books from all over the world, especially the East. My ships brought them back.”
Cara ran her fingertips over the spines, impressed by the scope of subjects. Military history, maps, medical tomes. A large section concerned with warfare, naturally. She drifted to the far wall, where drawings of different castles had been hung. “Where’s this?”
“A place called Crac de Chevalier. In Syria.”
“Have you been there?”
“No, but studying fortifications is an interest of mine.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Mine too.”
“What an unusual young lady you are.” Somehow he made it sound more like an insult than a compliment. “I expect you’ve already made a thorough study of San Rocco’s defenses?”
She shot him a jaunty smile. “Of course.”
“I’m also assuming—since you’re still here—that you’ve found no weaknesses. Care to suggest any improvements?”
“And help fortify my prison?” she snorted. “I think not. If I do find an escape route, you’ll be the last to know.”
His lips twitched. “I stand forewarned.”
She returned to the window seat and plopped onto the pillows.
“What are you reading?” he asked.
She turned a book over so he could see the cover. “Chrétien de Troyes. It’s a courtly romance. A concept I doubt you’re familiar with.”
He made a face. “Did you find that in here? It must be Renata’s. She loves all that nonsense.”
“You should read it. It’s very instructive. Full of examples of how to behave towards a lady.”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t go as far as to call you a lady, sweeting. Female you might be, lady you are not.” He pushed away from the desk and stalked forward. Snatching the volume from her fingers, he flicked it open at random and began to read aloud.
“‘Through their kisses and caresses they experienced a joy and wonder the equal of which has never been known or heard of. But I shall be silent . . . for the rarest and most delectable pleasures are those which are hinted at, but never told.’ God, how nauseating!” He crossed the room and drew a different volume from the shelves. “This is better.” He handed the book to her.
“Machiavelli? I found him fawning and pompous.” In truth, the man’s witty, acerbic commentary on court life was one of her favorites, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “He advocates winning at any cost.”
Del Sarto rolled his eyes. “I bet you’re one of those idiots who think warfare should be conducted honorably.”
“And why shouldn’t it be?”
“A chivalrous man on the battlefield is a dead man. There’s no fair play involved. Remember our chess match?”
Cara sniffed. “I do. And I still believe brains are preferable to brawn.” She shot his lean, muscular form a scathing glance.
He shook his head. “Brute strength is always preferable. Your brains didn’t get you very far in the bailey, did they?” His eyes dropped to her mouth, as if she needed to be reminded of her humiliating defeat. “But if you’d care to try again, I’d be happy to oblige.” His slow smile was knowing, cynical. Her lips tingled in awareness.
He searched the shelves again, prowling around with the fluid grace that characterized him, then selected four or five volumes and placed them on the desk in front of her. They had odd, exotic sounding titles, like ‘The Ananga Ranga’, and ‘The Perfumed Garden for the Soul's Recreation’—obviously an Arabic work—by someone called Sheikh Nefzaoui. Cara wrinkled her forehead. Perhaps they were about horticulture?
“You want something instructive? Read those,” he said.
Intrigued, she drew the topmost book towards her. It seemed to be from the Orient. Vertical lines of incomprehensible script ran down from the top edge next to a beautifully painted image of a man and a woman seated together under a flowering pagoda in a garden.
The wicked twinkle in his eye should have alerted her, but she opened it without thinking. At first she was so engrossed by the intricate, detailed brushwork of the illustrations that she failed to notice the actual subject matter. As soon as she did, however, she blushed beetroot-red. Painted on thin paper, with a silk border, each of the Chinese pictures were extremely explicit images of lovers, engaged in all manner of sexual positions. Absolutely every inch of their anatomy was depicted in graphic detail.
She slammed the book closed.
He chuckled. “What? I’m only broadening your education. I doubt the monks were particularly instructive in this matter. Did you see the one with the fruit? Feel free to take them to your room, if you want a closer look in private.”
Cara knew her face was burning. “You’re disgraceful!”
He shrugged, unabashed. “Everyone does it. Well, maybe not the monks. I bet they never had anything like that at St. John’s. At least, not out in the open. Don’t look so shocked. You’ve spent half your life around soldiers. Didn’t you ever talk about it with the camp followers or the servant girls?”
She couldn’t believe they’d got on to the one subject she never wished to discuss with him. “No!”
He sighed. “Pity. You might have learned something useful.”
Alessandro chuckled at Cara’s obvious mortification. She was so much fun to tease. The thought made him pause. Fun. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used the word. Since his return from Spain he’d almost forgotten what it was like to interact with the world and enjoy it. She brought out the playful devil in him, made him laugh, without even trying. He enjoyed her company, her quick wit and her unexpected reactions.
He wanted to reach over the table and kiss that frown of disapproval from her lips. To hear her sigh with pleasure. Ah, the things he was going to teach her.
She deserved more than the few nights’ pleasure he could offer her, of course, but that was all he had to give. To any woman.
“So, if it’s not erotic manuals, what do you like to read?” he asked.
She folded her hands primly in her lap, as if even touching the offending books might be contaminating. “I prefer the classics.”
He tilted his head to read the spines of the books she’d piled next to her. “Ah. Ovid’s Metamorphoses.”
“You’ve read it?”
“Absolutely. It’s full of women escaping the nefarious clutches of the gods. Like that girl Daphne who turns herself into a tree instead of making love with Apollo. That was a bit drastic, if you ask me. What’s so bad about being loved by a god?” He caught her gaze again, unwavering, and enjoyed the jolt to his pulse he experienced whenever she looked at him directly. “If she just stopped running, she’d find she enjoyed it.”
As predicted, she flushed, and Alessandro cursed the effect it had on him. He couldn’t recall a time when he’d been so innocent. Perhaps never. He’d killed his first man and had his first woman before he’d turned fifteen. Things had been going downhill ever since. And yet even when he was with Cara he felt more alive, more lighthearted, than ever before.
The strength of his desire for her intrigued him. He’d had far more experienced, sophisticated women. Women more beautiful than her. But he’d never been interested in much more than their bodies, in the pleasure they could give and receive. He’d certainly never wanted to spend much time with them fully clothed.
He smiled. “Even your saintly Ovid writes smut. There’s a copy of his Ars Amatoria around here somewhere.” He crossed back to the shelves, found the slim volume on the shelf, and tossed it to her. “Here you are.”
She caught it automatically, along with the next one he sent sailing towards her, and frowned down at the title. “Lysistrata? Never heard of it.”
“The Greeks are usually deadly dull, but that’s hilarious, I promise you. A bunch of Greek women hate that their men are always away on campaign. So they stage a revolt and refuse to have sex until the men promise to come home for good. It’s a brilliant strategy.”
Cara set the Aristophanes down on the table and lifted Chrétien de Troyes. “I’d like to borrow this one, please.”
Alessandro rolled his eyes but gave a permissive wave of the hand.
“And this.” She picked up the Metamorphoses.
“Fine. But you have to take the others too. In the spirit of broad-mindedness.” He crossed back to the table and swept up the naughty books along with her other choices and before she could offer any resistance he preceded her out the door and handed the pile to a nearby servant. “I shall be chivalrous enough to have them carried up for you, milady.”
Chapter 18
Cara couldn’t help looking at the awful books, of course, once she was alone in her room.
Ovid’s ‘Ars Amatoria’ seemed to be advice to women on how to deal with men. The author wryly suggested taking both young and old lovers, and exhorted women to make the most of their best bodily feature when making love by choosing the most suitable position. Her face flamed as she read about the various sexual positions he described—most of which she’d never even considered. And naturally she couldn’t help wondering what position she’d have to adopt to make the best of herself. Her breasts were small. Her hair was a disaster. Her skin would never be the porcelain-white favored by the fashionable women of court. Her legs weren’t so bad, though, even if they were muscled from riding.
There was no harm in reading about these things. Ignorance was something she deplored, after all. And reading about a battle was not the same as being in one, just as reading about lovemaking was no substitute for, well, practical first-hand knowledge.
It wasn’t as though she was never going to have sex. She might as well have all the relevant information to hand. The problem was, she kept imagining del Sarto as her partner.
When she reached Ovid’s discourse on a man’s fingers pleasuring a woman, she threw the book aside in dismay and picked up his ‘Metamorphoses’ instead. This was guaranteed to be far more soothing. Except she kept thinking about what he’d said about it. His damned argument made a warped kind of sense. She was running from him like Daphne from Apollo.
Would it really be so bad? To be loved so fiercely and so well? Surely, if one were going to have a lover, he might as well be the one you wanted. Even if it was only for a limited time.
Her stomach gave a funny little quiver.
She had to stop thinking about it. About him.
About Him in relation to It.
She frowned down at the page before her. Del Sarto was ruining everything, making her question her own ingrained sense of right and wrong. The man had enough charm and guile to seduce a nun—and she’d never even made it to novice.
He was her nemesis, the most irritating man she’d ever encountered. She disagreed with everything he stood for. Everything he was. And unlike her father, or the soldiers or the monks, he was the only man she’d ever met she couldn’t meddle with. He was impervious to her demands and tricks, her wheedling and cleverness.
It was, admittedly, gratifying to have found such a worthy opponent, but del Sarto was simply too dangerous for her peace of mind. The sooner she left Torre di San Rocco the better.
Cara glanced up guiltily as the door opened, but Renata was too busy with what she was carrying to notice her shamefaced flush. Cara slid the offending copy of Lysistrata under Chrétien de Troyes. She was not going give into her near-insatiable curiosity and ask what the author meant by a sexual position called ‘the lion-on-a-cheese-grater.’
Renata was carrying yet another gown. She laid it on the bed and stroked it lovingly, as one might a favorite pet. “Look at this! Pia’s done a wonderful job.” She noted Cara’s flushed cheeks and placed a hand on her forehead. “You look a bit feverish. I told him it’s not good for an energetic girl like you to be cooped up inside.” She bustled over to the casement and opened the window.
