Rose Red Read online

  “I have waited so long for Fortune to show me the way to regain what rightfully belongs to my daughters,” Eleonora said. “Now that I see the way to do it, I will not be thwarted. Bartolomeo, dearest and most loyal of friends, the day will soon come when we will return to Monteferro in triumph!”

  * * * * *

  Rosalinda burst into Andrea’s room without knocking. Startled, he spun around to face the door, one hand going to his waist, reaching in vain for the dagger Bartolomeo had taken away. More tired after his busy day with the barber and the ladies of the villa than he cared to admit, Andrea had divested himself of doublet, shirt, and shoes. Clad only in his borrowed hose, which he was about to remove, he took a surprised step backward when a delicious armful of a girl flung herself at him.

  “Andrea.” She clung to him, her soft cheek pressed against his bare chest. “Oh, take care! I am so afraid for you.”

  “What is it? Is there some danger?” He was instantly alert, silently cursing the absence of his only weapon. Still, he could not stop his arms from closing around Rosalinda or keep himself from breathing in the rose fragrance she wore. The effects of her closeness and the rose scent were immediate. The sudden flush of heat emanating from those portions of his body now in direct contact with her soft form told him that his recovery from starvation and illness was progressing remarkably well. “Rosalinda, what is this about? Do you need protection?”

  “No. You do. But it’s not an attack. It’s my mother’s plans for you.”

  Her arms were locked around his waist. He could feel her trembling. Her head fit perfectly into the angle between his shoulder and his neck. He dared to let his lips brush across a loose strand of curly hair.

  She stayed where she was, clutching his waist, until she ceased to shake. Andrea thought she must be aware of his body’s quickening eagerness. She was too close to him not to notice it.

  With a deep, shuddering breath, she lifted her head and moved back a little. Her eyes were wide and soft, a luminous silver-gray, and they were bright with tears. Never had Andrea seen such beautiful eyes, or such thick, long eyelashes. He wanted to kiss each faintly shadowed eyelid. More than that, he ached to press his own mouth to her rosy-red, softly parted lips.

  With one hand he stroked the lock of dark hair that had come loose from her braid, smoothing the silken strands of it, pulling the hair down the side of her cheek and under her chin. He had seen noblewomen wearing their long hair that way, drawn under the chin and up again on the other side, to twist the end of the lock into braids and pearl-encrusted ornaments. In Florence, Aullia, and Urbino it was the very latest style. Or it had been, during the previous summer....

  “Andrea?” Her voice was a faint whisper on his ear.

  He saw the innocence and confusion on her face and knew she had never before experienced the emotions that must be unsettling her now. He tried to remember himself, remember where he was, and what was at stake, but all he could see, all he could think of, were Rosalinda’s eyes, those silvery pools of light. And her mouth. Her lips were much too tempting to ignore. Slowly, he lowered his head and put his mouth upon those lips.

  Sweetness beyond anything he had known or dreamed of in the past coursed through Andrea. Rosalinda’s lips trembled beneath his. He could tell she did not know what to do, which meant no other man had claimed those perfect lips before him. Carefully, mindful of her innocence, he led her to a new awareness until she opened to him and let him taste the wet heat of her inner mouth. She tasted of cinnamon and rose petals.

  Her arms wound around his neck, a motion that lifted her breasts, pushing their gentle curves hard against his chest. Andrea tightened his embrace, one arm across her shoulders, while the other arm moved lower, to pull her hips nearer, against the burning ache he was hard put to control. He could feel a slight shifting in her stance as she accommodated herself to the new sensations, to her first hint of what it meant to be a woman who was desired by a virile man.

  She was as reluctant as he to end the kiss, but Andrea was fast approaching the limits of his control. He eased her away from him, while still keeping his arms around her so she would not feel deserted or unwanted. For he did want her. After his long abstinence, his body hungered not just for a woman, but for Rosalinda. Only Rosalinda. He thought he would die from his compelling desire for her.

  Andrea considered his half-naked state of undress, and eyed the inviting bed with its fresh linen sheets turned back, and he groaned. And for a moment, with a rough motion, he pulled her hard against himself once more, before he let her go.

  “Andrea?” Her fingertips grazed his cheek, outlined his lips, moved to his chin and lingered there. “Dear bear.” Her smile was tremulous.

  “I am no bear,” he said, his voice husky with repressed desire. “That was no bear hug. I am a man. At the moment, an overeager man who feels himself growing weaker with every breath he takes.”

  “Valeria has warned me that you are not yet fully recovered,” she said. She glanced toward the bed. “Do you want to lie down?”

  “There is nothing in this world I want more than to lie down there,” he said. “But only with you.”

  “Oh.” Her silver eyes grew large and round and Andrea saw comprehension flood into her gaze. “Oh,” she said again, with new understanding. “Andrea, I am sorry. I did not mean to – yes, I did. I wanted you to kiss me. But I did not want to embarrass you.”

  “I wanted to kiss you, too,” he said, charmed by her innocent honesty. “But it would not be wise to do it again, and certainly, it would be unwise to do it here, in my bedchamber, while I am unclothed.”

  “I understand. I do. Mother has explained to Bianca and me –“ She stopped, her face lowered, her hands fluttering among the folds of her skirt.

  “Do you know how adorable you are?” Andrea asked. “Standing there in confusion, gnawing at your lower lip, with your cheeks bright red, you are irresistible.” He took a step toward her, closing the distance he knew he ought to keep between them. “I long to gnaw upon your lip as you are doing,” he whispered.

  “You do?” Andrea watched the play of emotion across her blushing face as she considered that possibility. Her small, pointed tongue came out to lick across her lower lip.

  Andrea’s blood began to boil in his veins. He could endure no more temptation. It was not Rosalinda’s fault. She did not know what she was doing to him. Andrea flung away from her to the window. He put both hands on the sill, holding on tight to prevent himself from reaching for Rosalinda, from drawing her back into his arms. He cleared his throat loudly and took several deep breaths. When he was calmer, he turned again to face her.

  She stood where he had left her, but he could tell that she, too, had used the interval to calm herself. Her hands were folded, one over the other, at the high waistline of her dress in the typical noblewoman’s pose he had seen countless times before, in other places. Her cheeks were still rosy pink, but she was no longer blushing. He noted that a certain softness lingered in her eyes.

  “So formal,” he murmured.

  “I thought formality was what you wanted, Andrea.”

  “Formality would be best,” he said. “It will help to keep me from violating you.”

  “If you did, it would not be a violation.” Her voice was quiet and perfectly controlled, yet her eyes were glowing.

  “When you came rushing through that door,” he said, keeping his distance from her, trying to think about something other than the surprising sweetness of Rosalinda in his arms, “you were greatly disturbed by something your mother said or did. Why did you come to warn me, Rosalinda?”

  “I heard Mother and Bartolomeo talking.” She stopped rather abruptly and began to chew on her lower lip again.

  “What did they say that frightened you enough to send you flying to my room and into my arms for protection?”

  “I was frightened for you, not for myself,” she said.

  “‘Why?”

  Rosalinda stared at him. Her
first thought had been to warn him of her mother’s plan to place him at the head of a mercenary army and send him to take back Monteferro. On such a quest, Andrea might well be killed. And while she knew from listening to Bartolomeo’s tales that men craved the opportunity to perform feats of great valor, she thought Andrea had suffered enough. There was a terrible sadness in him. During the worst days of his illness, he had spoken as if he believed he ought to be dead along with the family and friends he had lost. Sent into battle, he might well seek death. She could not let that happen to him.

  And yet, telling him in advance of her mother’s scheme was, in a way, a betrayal of her mother, and of Bianca. Her beloved sister longed to return to Monteferro. Bianca was the rightful heiress of that city-state. She deserved high honor and respect, and a brilliant marriage to a man who would love and appreciate her and, for her sake, keep Monteferro – and Bianca – safe and happy.

  “Rosalinda?”

  Andrea was standing very close to her. She could feel his warmth. Rosalinda caught her breath, afraid he would kiss her again and make her feel all those wonderful, forbidden urgings of her youthful body. At the same time, she was afraid he would not kiss her, for she longed to have his lips on hers. She thought about his mouth and the plunging heat of his tongue, and her heart began to pound harder. Still, her mother’s training exerted a strong influence over her, forcing duty to do battle against romantic longing.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she faltered.

  “Say what you came to tell me.”

  “I really should not. Mother would be furious with me if she knew I was here, or that I overhead what she said.”

  He looked hard at her for a moment, and she saw something change in his face, as if a sheer veil had been drawn across his features to hide his deepest thoughts from her. The notion came to her that he did not entirely trust her. She was not used to dissimulation or to any kind of intrigue. At Villa Serenita there was no need for either. But Andrea had not grown up at Villa Serenita, and she saw in him now the difference between them because of their separate upbringings. And then he smiled at her and was her Andrea, her dear bear, once again.

  “Rosalinda.” His mouth drew nearer; his fingers caught in her hair to hold her face close to his. Rosalinda held her breath as Andrea’s lips quickly brushed across hers. While she stood entranced, his hand slid out of her hair, across her cheek, and down along her neck to her shoulder. With his eyes holding hers, he let his hand move lower, until it covered her breast. He pressed gently, holding the high, firm roundness against his palm. His thumb and one finger moved across her nipple.

  Deep inside Rosalinda a flame leapt up, burning brightly. She could not move, she could not even breathe, but she was sure Andrea could see in her eyes that she was on fire with an unnamable need. He took his hand away from her breast and rested it on her shoulder again, but that did not stop the flame inside her.

  “Tell me what your mother said that so upset you.” He spoke softly, but his words were a command.

  A flash of intuition told Rosalinda that this was the sort of thing nobles did in great palaces. They played games of power and desire. She had heard her mother speak with disgust of such practices, but until this hour she had not guessed how seductive the game could be.

  Valiantly, Rosalinda fought against her desire to have Andrea put his hand on her breast again. She wanted his other hand on her other breast at the same time. She wanted him to pull her into his arms and hold her so tightly that she melted into him until they were one.

  Through the mist of mounting emotion, Rosalinda sensed that she must not give way to the carnal lure Andrea was offering. What was happening was her own fault. She had begun it by rushing into his room and by not leaving the instant she discovered that he was undressed. The urge to reveal to him all that her mother had said to Bartolomeo had been a foolish one. Frantically, Rosalinda sought for a way to warn Andrea and keep him safe, while not betraying her mother or harming Bianca’s future prospects. Then she saw the path she must take between her two desires.

  “My mother told Bartolomeo that she has decided how she will require you to repay her kindness and her hospitality,” Rosalinda said, keeping her eyes wide open and on Andrea’s face. “She will soon seek a great favor from you. She is a deep thinker, Andrea. There are many levels to every sentence she speaks and every action she takes. Think long and carefully before you decide whether or not to agree to do what she asks of you.”

  “Is that all?” he said when she fell silent.

  “I beg you not to tell her what I have just revealed. She will be angry with me if she learns I have repeated portions of a sentence that I overheard because I was where I should not have been.” It was an evasion, but it was the best Rosalinda could do with her wits spinning from Andrea’s seductive attentions.

  “She will not learn of our conversation from me,” Andrea said.

  “Thank you.” Rosalinda stepped away from him. “I ought to go. I should not have stayed as long as I did.”

  “You are right. But I cannot regret that you came to see me,” he said. “Nor that I kissed you.”

  Rosalinda feared her knees would give way. She longed for Andrea to kiss her again and to touch her. And he knew what she was feeling. She could see that he knew.

  “Go now,” he said in a harsh whisper. “For if you stay any longer, if I so much as brush against you with the tip of one finger, I will keep you here until I have ruined both of us. Please, Rosalinda, leave me.”

  Rosalinda fled from him, running to her own room, thanking heaven and all the saints that she met no one on the way.

  She had gone to his chamber as an innocent girl, fond of him and fearing for his safety. She left his room with a new awareness of her own womanly urges, yet unable to fulfill them. Rosalinda ached to feel Andrea’s arms around her once again. She burned for his touch. And she wept for a loss of innocence and trust that she did not fully understand.

  She left behind her a man as confused and unhappy as she was. For a few weeks, Andrea had lived in a state of pure friendship with Rosalinda, until his improved health had allowed him to feel desire again. He was not ashamed of kissing her, for he alone would bear the burden of containing his longing to have more than just a kiss or two from her. What shamed him was the cold-hearted way he had used her to learn what he wanted to know about her mother’s plans for him.

  His weeks in the mountains had been a cleansing experience and, later, he had been almost glad to be sick unto death, for mountains and illness both had required of him only physical strength and his natural, determined reaction when faced with a challenge.

  But now he had leapt back into a dishonest, treacherous world, and he had dragged Rosalinda with him by tempting her with sexual desire. And, having recognized Eleonora as a woman born to that world outside the mountains and familiar with its dangerous rules, Andrea wondered if either he or Rosalinda would ever be safe again.

  Chapter 5

  Another week passed, during which Andrea grew healthier by the day. After Bartolomeo suggested it would improve his strength if he began a regular program of sword practice with some of the men-at-arms, Andrea began to work out in the muddy practice yard or, when the snow prevented that, in the cleared space in one of the barns that the men used as a substitute practice area.

  It was a pleasure to return to manly pursuits, and Andrea found that the vigorous exercise relieved some of the tensions he was feeling. He was soon on excellent terms with Lorenzo, who acted as captain of the men-at-arms under Bartolomeo’s command. As for Bartolomeo, despite the lines on his face and the streaks of silver in his black hair, he remained hard of muscle and sharp of eye. Bartolomeo practiced regularly with sword and dagger, frequently besting the younger men, who all respected him. So did Andrea respect Bartolomeo, for his loyalty to Eleonora and her daughters, as well as for his skill with weapons, and the two of them developed a cautious friendship.

  Honor, as well as his position as a gue
st at the villa, required that Andrea stay away from Rosalinda and not compromise her by giving in to the desire he felt for her. Therefore, he was forced to keep his emotions under a tight rein. He was also on constant guard lest Eleonora spring her plan on him, requesting of him the favor Rosalinda had spoken of with such fear. So far, Eleonora had kept her own council – and, most likely, Bartolomeo’s council, too, for Andrea did not believe that Bartolomeo’s suggestion that he begin working with weapons was made purely out of concern for his health.

  On the second day after he was permitted to take up a sword, which he borrowed for practice and returned immediately afterward, Andrea asked Bartolomeo for his two daggers back. Since they were at that moment in the practice yard, Bartolomeo promised to return the daggers later, saying they had been put away for safekeeping. However, the week passed and the daggers were not yet returned. Andrea was cautious about pressing the issue, lest Bartolomeo imagine he harbored some evil intent.

  Andrea chided himself for his suspicious thoughts, while at the same time sensing that they were far from foolish. On the surface, Villa Serenita was a pleasant place, its tranquility maintained for the sake of Bianca and Rosalinda. Beneath that placid surface, plans were being formulated. Andrea knew it was so. He had grown up in a similar atmosphere, and he recognized it.

  Each evening Andrea joined the ladies and Bartolomeo in Eleonora’s sitting room. There they discussed the girls’ lessons, and Andrea chuckled to himself at Rosalinda’s impatience with Latin verbs. He played chess with Bartolomeo and found the man a formidable opponent. When Bianca or Rosalinda asked him, Andrea played the lute and sang for them. He was careful never to give any indication of preferring Rosalinda over Bianca.

  As the holy season of Christmas drew near, the snows continued, piling up around the villa and its outbuildings, forcing postponement of any thought of leaving. For Andrea did want to leave. If he did not go soon, he was afraid his ever-present desire for Rosalinda would lead him into an indiscretion that would only hurt her. He had nothing to offer her – or more accurately, to offer her mother – in return for a more honorable connection with the woman he wanted. To acquire the wealth and position he would need in order to make an honest offer for Rosalinda, he would have to return to the world outside the mountains.