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Easy enough for a man of Enzo’s frame to say. But Fiore kept that thought to himself.
Enzo continued. “The largest horses are often the gentlest. It’s the same with hounds,” he added, gesturing to Vittorio, who had sat silent behind them all the while and merely wagged his tail when he gained his master’s notice. “Creatures that are confident in their own size and strength can go forth without the fear that might elsewise cause them to shy and snap at shadows.”
Fiore supposed he could accept that theory. A sly smile drew across his lips. “It would seem this rule holds true for certain people as well.”
For Enzo was both the tallest and the gentlest man of his acquaintance.
And as the rosy blush bloomed again over Enzo’s sharp features, it seemed Enzo had likewise arrived at Fiore’s conclusion.
The ideal moment had obviously arrived for a kiss. Fiore drew nearer and reached for him.
Enzo recoiled as another hacking cough bent him double and wrenched him out of Fiore’s grip altogether.
Again, Fiore froze. Fabio did not. The horse reared and bolted back to its herd, none of whom seemed pleased with the sudden eruption of noise. Vittorio leapt to his feet but stood his ground, glancing between Fiore and Enzo, his pathetic whine just audible above the sound of Enzo’s coughs.
Enzo braced against the fence with both hands. He leant down to do so, which brought his shoulders within Fiore’s reach. This freed Fiore from his paralysis—he could do something at last, though his palm kneading slow and soothing circles between Enzo’s shoulder blades hardly seemed enough. Still, the coughs grew quieter, less frequent, less violent, until at last they’d diminished to the point where Enzo could draw himself upright and accept the water flask Fiore again uncorked for him.
“Forgive me,” Enzo wheezed. “My own folly.”
Fiore could only hope Enzo forgave him for his impotent efforts to help him in turn. He swallowed down the howling void of his own inadequacies with a smile he hoped appeared sympathetic. “Perhaps we might withdraw from the field?”
Enzo nodded, though with evident sorrow writ on his handsome features. Fiore, having just escaped a long indoor convalescence himself, could well understand his reluctance.
“I could read to you,” Fiore blurted before he could halt his ungoverned tongue. “Or play the lute, if you’d rather.”
He just barely escaped voicing the truth—that he’d do anything, absolutely anything at all, if it could ease Enzo’s misery by one jot.
Despite what paltry offerings of entertainment Fiore had laid out for him, Enzo smiled.
Fiore didn’t question his luck—though he knew his failings didn’t deserve a smile of sincere gratitude, and certainly not one so hopeful and handsome as Enzo had granted him.
The disparity in their heights made Fiore almost the perfect size to act as a living crutch for Enzo. Fiore felt queerly comforted to have Enzo’s bulk for his burden as they entered the lodge. On their way they passed the shadowy specter of the manservant Carlotta, who spared them a blank glance before disappearing on her own unknown venture. Fiore didn’t have the presence of mind to question it before he and Enzo had returned to the self-same bedchamber where their adventure had begun. There he could at last assist Enzo in shrugging off his wrapping-gown and slipping off his shoes.
A knock fell on the chamber door.
“Enter,” said Enzo. His voice rang out clear and strong without a trace of the reedy weakness from the field. Fiore’s heart sang to hear it.
The door opened to reveal the chirurgeon.
Every muscle in Fiore’s body tensed to run and drag away Enzo alongside him. As the chirurgeon approached the bedside, these instincts turned toward seizing the pitcher of water on the nightstand and smashing it against the chirurgeon’s face to keep him back—but Fiore resisted those as well. Instead he fixed a close-lipped smiled over his clenched teeth and forced himself to remain rooted in his place at Enzo’s side. If nothing else, at least Enzo wouldn’t have to face the chirurgeon alone.
Not that Enzo seemed particularly bothered by facing the chirurgeon. A sincere if wan smile graced his handsome scarred features as he greeted the chirurgeon like an old friend. Vittorio, who had followed them into the chamber and now lay sprawled on the floor by the bed, likewise took no alarm at the chirurgeon’s entrance. By comparison Fiore made a poor guardian, unable to recognize friend from foe and snarling at all who ventured near his Enzo.
The chirurgeon plied termometro and stetoscopio. Enzo’s pulse remained strong and steady; the fever had not returned. Their tour of the lodge grounds had not been a bad idea necessarily, according to the chirurgeon, but retiring indoors nonetheless had proved the correct course regardless. A little rest, and then Enzo might venture out of his chambers again. Perhaps even so far as the library. Such a declaration ought to have cheered Fiore. But his tension eased only when the chirurgeon withdrew altogether and shut the door behind him.
Then Enzo turned his scarred smile upon him, and the sight of his handsome and contented features banished the remainder of Fiore’s chirurgical anxieties.
Fiore, desperate to do something to aid Enzo, snatched up the lute again from where he’d set it aside just that morning.
“I did promise you some music, after all,” Fiore said, trying to make his smile match Enzo’s.
Enzo leaned back against his pillows and settled in to listen—the very picture of perfect contentment.
Even with lute in hand, Fiore remained painfully aware that he could do nothing of any real use to assist in Enzo’s recovery. His presence in the lodge was at best superfluous. Amidst doctors, servants, and family, a courtesan had very little to offer a duke—particularly when the duke in question wasn’t well enough to even consider carnal pleasures. Fiore didn’t mind spending a quiet afternoon with Enzo. Indeed, he found he liked it rather more than he probably ought. But it made him nervous all the same.
As his fingertips found their familiar places on the strings and neck of the lute, he let his thoughts fall away into the music and tried to appreciate the moment for what it was rather than vexing himself over what he felt it ought to be.
Yet no music could soothe the snarling beast within him even half so well as the sight of Enzo’s dark eyes falling shut and his bandaged chest steadily rising and falling in serene slumber.
