AllFreeNovel
Share Us
This time he went slowly, exploring and memorizing her.
This time he drank in every inch of skin he exposed and touched. This time he savored the scent of her and let it burn into his memory. This time he learned by heart every curve his fingers traced: the sweet arc of her neck, the slope of her shoulders, the soft fullness of her breasts and the way they fit his hands. He traced the perfect contours of her waist and hips, the luscious swell of her bottom. He followed the gentle turns of her long legs, sliding down to trace the shape of her feet.
He kissed her toes, her ankles, her knees. On upward he went, to the soft, sweet place. While he pleasured her with his mouth and his hands, he memorized the scent of her and the taste of her and the sound of her: sighing with pleasure…laughing a little, too…then crying out softly when she came.
He slid up, kissing her as he went, imprinting her in his mind as he went, while he made it last as long as he could. Finally, when the last thread of his control began to slip, he entered her, and they rocked together, slowly, sweetly. She kissed him, her fingers moving gently over his face and neck. Her mouth followed where her hands went; and these kisses and her touch, so loving, stabbed him to the heart a hundred times.
He kissed her in the same way. His were traitor’s kisses, but tender for all that, most unfortunately for him.
And when at last their bodies pulsed together, he surrendered with more regret than he ought to feel or wanted to feel. He let himself be swept away, on the silvery tide, for the last time.
For the second time in less than a day, Francesca slept like the dead. She might have gone on sleeping, if she hadn’t felt him stirring beside her. Then she became aware of the noise outside.
While she was still half-asleep, he was up, pulling on his trousers and moving to the window. “That bitch,” he said. “Is she mad? Or…Ah, I see.”
Francesca came fully awake. After some fumbling about, she found her shift. Pulling it over her head, she hurried to the window.
Across the canal, flames were leaping from the ground floor of the Palazzo Neroni.
“Good God!” She stared in horrified disbelief for a moment. Then she turned away and began hunting for her clothes.
“Stop it,” he said. He grasped her upper arm and drew her upright. “I was fooled, too, at first. But your house is not going to burn down. They daren’t risk that. It’s a diversion.” He led her back to the window. “Look. They’ve used some sort of incendiary device. Fireworks, perhaps. It’s meant to make a lot of show and noise. Wakes people up in the dead of night and throws them into a panic. Your servants will all be running this way and that, leaving the place unguarded, and—”
“What are you saying?” she said. “We can’t stay here. Someone could be hurt.”
“It’s a diversion,” he repeated carefully, as though to a child.
Francesca thought he meant to say something else but he paused, his gaze upon her but seeing through her or past her. Then he nodded. “It’s a trap, very possibly. The last thing you want to do is hurry over there. Someone may be waiting for exactly that.”
“For me,” she said.
“Yes.”
Simple panic about her servants and house gave way to a darker, more insidious feeling. She felt as though the ground beneath her was shifting, and she wasn’t sure where to step, where it was safe to step. “What do you mean?” she said. “Why me? What do you know of this?”
“I’m going to tell you,” he said, “and you’re going to hate me.” He released her arm.
“Cordier.” She felt sick. She’d trusted him. She wanted to trust him still. And yet she couldn’t shake off the feeling that she stood on uncertain ground. What had he to tell her? She remembered the first night, the night he’d killed a man too easily.
“But before I tell you,” he said, “I need to steal your clothes.”
“You what?”
He didn’t answer and she could only stare, trying to make sense of what made no sense. Of all the answers she’d awaited, some good, some intolerable, this was the last, the very last she could have imagined.
She stood, mouth agape, while he hurriedly gathered up her clothing from the floor. He straightened, clutching the garments to his chest. “I have to be you,” he said.
The sick dread washed away. She wasn’t sure whether she ought to laugh or cry. She knew of men who liked to dress in women’s clothes. Some were extremely virile. Even so, she was not happy.
“They won’t fit,” she said.
He hugged the garments to him. “We’ll make them fit.”
“Cordier, you’re nearly twice my size, and that’s my second favorite gown!”
He looked down at the clothing he held in the way a child might jealously guard a favorite toy. “I wasn’t worth your favorite gown?”
“My favorite gown is ruined! You threw it—with me in it—into the canal!”
“I didn’t throw you,” he said. “You threw yourself.”
“You looked as though you were going to throw me,” she said.
One side of his mouth quirked up and he looked like a boy, the wickedest boy who ever lived. He crossed to her, still clutching her garments. “God, I’ll miss you,” he said. He kissed her hard. Her body melted, and most of her mind with it. But something wasn’t right. He’d distracted her, about the dress. A diversion?
He drew away. “I’ll be back soon,” he said.
“Tell me where you’re going,” she said. “Tell me what you mean to do.”
“It will take far too much time to explain.”
“No, it won’t. I’m not an idiot, Cordier.”
But he was already through the door. She went to the threshold, and watched him stride down the portego.
“Cordier,” she said.
“Later,” he said.
She swallowed an oath but she refused to run after him in her shift, and let all his servants gawk at her…for free. Not that running after him would stop him doing whatever he meant to do.
“Don’t you dare spoil it,” she called after him.
James had donned women’s garments before. But those had been carefully selected, cut to fit large women and adapted to his height and broad shoulders.
Bonnard’s gown was far too small, smaller than
he’d realized until he was down in a musty office off the andron, trying to get into it.
“We’ll have to cut it, sir,” said Sedgewick.
“You can’t cut it,” James said. “She’ll kill me. This is her second favorite gown, and I’ve already ruined her favorite one.”
Sedgewick gave Zeggio that aggravating look. “Sir, we haven’t time to unstitch it,” the valet said too patiently.
“No, no,” said Zeggio. “To remove the sewing is unnecessary. Here is what we do, signore. Very easy. We leave undone the part where she keep her breasts.”
“The bodice,” said James.
“So. Everything there we leave it open. Then I think it is possible to bring it up, so, from the floor.” He made a gesture descriptive of pulling a garment up over the hips. “Here”—he indicated his hips—“you are not so big as here.” He gestured at his chest and shoulders. “Recall, it is not needed to see all of the gown. From here is enough.” He indicated the area from his waist down. “Enough to show the color and to cover your legs, to hide the pantaloni. You put the shawl over your head, over the top of you, and no one can see that the neck of the dress is around your middle. It is night time. Even with the moon, how much can they see of you, when you are inside the felze?”
“Good point,” James said. He should have thought of it. He should have seen instantly what to do about the gown. He was used to thinking on his feet.
“You’ll be able to move easier, sir,” Sedgewick said. “Want your arms free, for when they try to kill you.”
Of course James needed his arms free. He knew that. The whole point was to trick the villains into attacking him—and the gown was bound to be spoiled anyway.
What difference would it make? She was going to hate him no matter what he did.
Ah well. For king and country. One more time.
They’d locked her in.
After she’d reentered the room, a servant brought Francesca a tray of food and drink. When he left, he closed the door behind him. She assumed he was shielding her scantily clad body from the household’s curious eyes.
