The Knight's Kiss

by Nicole Burnham

  “No,” she argued, but to his ears, the words came out sounding like she wanted to convince herself more than him. “I’m never lonely. I have an incredible family. My father and I get along wonderfully, and—”

  “It’s not the same, is it?”

  The question hung in the air for a split second before he saw the truth in her eyes. Without waiting for her denial, he lowered his head to hers, brushing her lips with the most gentle, chaste kiss he could ever remember giving a woman.

  Yet he’d never wanted a woman more.

  “Perhaps you should go to sleep now, Princess,” he managed as he pulled away. “The least you deserve for your hard work is a few hours rest.”

  Besides, between the sword incident this afternoon and their intimate exchange now, his desire had built itself to near-fever pitch. If she stayed in the storeroom one moment longer, he might not be able to stop himself from easing those silvery straps off her shoulders and showing her just how lonely she’d become.

  But if he wanted to keep his mind on his job, and on finding Rufina, he couldn’t allow himself to take what his body craved, or give Isabella what she so desperately needed.

  For until he found Rufina, he could give himself to no one. He’d made that promise the day he lost Coletta.

  Isabella’s sweet eyes misted for a moment, then she dropped her gaze from his. “You’re right. I need to get to sleep.”

  She scooted away from his touch, and he sensed her reluctance at parting was nearly as strong as his own. The beginnings of another headache crept into his skull, so he grabbed his aspirin bottle from the desk and popped two into his mouth. At the sound of the desk drawer opening, Isabella paused at the bottom of the steps, and her hand trailed along the doorframe for a moment, as if she was gathering her thoughts.

  She turned to him, her silky voice returning to its usual accent-free tone. “As I said, I’ll be busy for the next few days. If you need anything, please let Nerina know. You might want to ask her for an appointment calendar, if you haven’t already. My next meeting with the museum board is in two weeks, and I’d like to have a full report of your work-in-progress to present to them.”

  She frowned then, looking at the aspirin bottle in his hand. “Are you all right, Nick?”

  He nodded. “I had a head injury once, so I get a lot of headaches. Don’t read anything into it.”

  She looked from the aspirin bottle to him, then without saying a word, she disappeared into the hallway. He stood by the door, listening to her soft slippers patter against the floor, first at a walk, then at a jog.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing her out of his aching head, then turned and strode back to the crates.

  Only Rufina could save him now.

  Chapter Five

  Isabella plucked a black Montegrappa fountain pen from the walnut pencil cup on her desk, then began sifting through the stack of correspondence filling her in-box. Eight invitations to answer, thirty-six thank-you notes to dictate and letters from the German chancellor and Italian prime minister to respond to.

  Nerina better warm up the coffeepot again.

  According to the morning schedule Nerina left on her desk, after the correspondence was complete Isabella had a series of dress fittings with a representative from Giorgio Armani, who’d lobbied to outfit her for the Venice Film Festival. Once he was safely off the palace grounds, Isabella had arranged private fittings for two Versace gowns, one for a charity ball sponsoring the San Riminian Scholarship Fund, which was her brother Antony’s pet project, and one for a dinner honoring San Rimini’s recent Nobel Prize-winning chemist.

  Though having high-end designers stick her with pins and cluck about how they might hide her figure flaws wasn’t Isabella’s idea of a good time, unfortunately, it came with the princess job description.

  Over Isabella’s shoulder, Nerina pecked away at her computer keyboard. Though the grandfather clock in the princess’s small palace office chimed 7:30 a.m., they’d been working for over an hour, and Isabella had already finished her second cup of coffee.

  She glanced once more at the schedule. Nothing on the list that would take her near the keep. Though she couldn’t put off facing him forever, she’d successfully avoided Nick for nearly two weeks. True, the three-day trip she’d taken to Berlin to attend a conference on the worldwide refugee crisis helped. But the rest of the time, she’d steered clear of the storeroom and the area near his guest rooms out of sheer determination.

  Even so, as Isabella slit open an engraved dinner invitation and realized it came from the Italian banker who’d monopolized her time at the Red Cross benefit dinner, an image of Nick immediately filled her mind. She could picture the planes of his face, the dark mystique of his eyes, the warmth of his skin as if he stood only inches away. And then there was his kiss, so tender, yet obviously wanting more.

  And she’d been more than ready to give it, despite years of avoiding relationships.

  What in the world is wrong with me? She examined the invitation again. Dozens of successful, good-looking men pursued her—men like the Italian banker—who came from good families, wealthy families. It was all part and parcel of being a young royal. She’d been able to dismiss them easily enough, but for a reason she couldn’t identify, Nick captured her interest in a way no man had before. And, she admitted, he’d captured her desire. How many nights during the past two weeks had she lain awake at night, wondering if he was in the storeroom? Wondering what might happen if she allowed herself to wander down there again?

  And how often had she caught herself pondering his words? He was wrong, of course. How could someone who never had a moment to herself possibly be lonely?

  “Your Highness, how would you like to handle Mr. Black?”

  Isabella’s head snapped up, and she realized she’d stopped sorting the correspondence while daydreaming about Nick.

  “Handle him?”

  “You must not have gotten to it yet.” Nerina gestured toward the paper pile on Isabella’s desk. “He has been sending his research notes to his secretary in Boston for transcription, and has had her do any Internet searches he’s required. However, he feels he could work more efficiently if he had a computer and Internet access himself.”

  Isabella frowned. “I thought I’d allocated plenty of money for that.”

  Nerina’s head dipped, showing the same quiet respect for the princess as she always had for her last employer, Queen Aletta. “You did, Your Highness. However, Mr. Black has requested a computer setup for the storeroom, as opposed to using facilities which already exist in the main palace. I’m afraid the keep isn’t adequately wired.”

  “No, it’s not. The maintenance staff complains that the power gets shorted out down there all the time. I doubt it could support two hair dryers going at once, let alone a computer and all the peripherals.”

  “That’s what I told Mr. Black, but he insisted, so I checked further.”

  “And?”

  “Maintenance explained that we’d have to call in an outside electrician, which is simple enough, but you’ll need your father’s permission and a waiver from the San Riminian Historical Council first, since the keep falls under San Rimini’s historic preservation laws.”

  “Father wouldn’t be a problem.” The Council would be another matter, and they both knew it. There had been a five-year fight before the renovation of the guest rooms in the 1960s. And a six-month debate to install a new ventilation system just last year.

  “I did offer Mr. Black full, unrestricted use of the library computer and research materials, but he insisted on having a computer in the keep. When I told him that wouldn’t be possible, he asked me to refer the matter to you, saying that you would understand his need for complete privacy.”

  “Thank you, Nerina. I’ll handle it.” Once she worked up the strength of will to see Nick again. Perhaps in the time that elapsed since their late-night meeting he’d forgotten what passed between them.

  Then again, it likely
hadn’t affected him as it did her.

  She turned to her correspondence once again, but stopped when Nerina added, “While we’re on the subject of Mr. Black, your meeting with the museum board is scheduled for three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. The curator has arranged for the lead architect to attend so you can give your final approval to the blueprints. The curator also expects you’ll update the board on Mr. Black’s progress. When I spoke with Mr. Black about the computer, I reminded him of your meeting.”

  So much for postponing her return to the storeroom. Now she’d have to talk to Nick. Forcing herself not to sigh aloud, she asked, “Do I have time in my schedule this afternoon to meet with him?”

  Nerina pulled a piece of paper from her printer tray, then held it out to the princess. “Your afternoon schedule. I left from three-thirty onward completely open, Your Highness.”

  The fountain pen fell from Isabella’s hand as she read over the sheet of paper. “You’re joking.”

  “I am not.” Her secretary’s all-business, all-the-time expression gave way to a wide smile. “When you finish with Mr. Black, may I suggest you rest, Your Highness? I will ensure you are not disturbed. Consider it a birthday present.”

  “It’s not….” Isabella’s gaze dropped to the small calendar on the corner of her ebony-inlaid cherry desktop. Sure enough, she’d forgotten her own birthday.

  “Sï. It is.”

  Isabella leaped up from the desk and embraced Nerina. “Lei è un santa, Nerina!”

  Nerina blushed with pride. “A saint, no. Tomorrow will be a full day, I fear.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Grazie.” With renewed energy, she turned back to the desk, eager to tackle the correspondence. So long as she made it through her meeting with Nick, she’d enjoy the best evening she had in a long, long time. And she’d spend it blissfully alone.

  Nick massaged the back of his neck, trying to shake his persistent headache, then returned his attention to the seven-hundred-year-old calfskin-bound book before him. A collection of medieval sermons, written in Latin and with beautiful, still-clear illumination, it would make a wonderful addition to San Rimini’s museum. He ran his gloved finger along the edge, wondering if he’d once known the monk who’d labored over it. During his own years in an Italian monastery, he’d transcribed four books. Unfortunately, the time-consuming task brought him no closer to breaking his curse.

  When Rufina told him only sacrifice would break the curse, she apparently hadn’t meant sacrificing his life to the church. It had taken him nearly fifteen years to figure that one out.

  He clicked the red button on his handheld tape recorder, described the book’s age, condition and historical importance, then assigned it an item number, which he also logged in a notebook. Tomorrow, he’d have another batch of tapes to send to Anne for transcription.

  He scanned the long row of item numbers listed in his notebook. Princess Isabella should be pleased with his progress. If the documents in the rest of the crates proved as promising as the first batch had, the Royal Museum of San Rimini would have plenty of material to include in an expansion, and he hadn’t even begun to catalogue the artifacts crowding the stalls yet. The tapestries and paintings alone might take him a month.

  He set down the tape recorder and stretched his legs under the desk. On his own mission, he’d made no progress whatsoever. Most of the scrolls and texts he’d discovered in the storeroom crates were spiritual in nature, which he’d expected. In medieval times, scribes were trained to commit prayers, sermons, choral arrangements and other religious works to paper. Books were expensive to produce and considered works of art, so only religious or scholarly works were seen as worthy of recording. Still, Nick had come across the occasional reference text as well as several scrolls describing significant events in San Rimini’s villages. With any luck, he’d find an undiscovered book on witchcraft or a record of witch trials.

  Two calls over the past few days to Roger confirmed his fears there—that the texts he’d left Roger to analyze only repeated material Nick had found in dozens of other books and documents on medieval witchcraft over the years, with no references to any suspected witches fitting Rufina’s description.

  Nick rose from the desk and carried the books he’d analyzed during the early-afternoon hours to a crate of completed materials, then reached into a nearby crate and carefully withdrew three more priceless medieval books. Tonight, perhaps, he’d start on one of the stalls, inspecting the artifacts just to shake up his routine. And to keep his mind off Isabella.

  The problem with scouring text after text was that the mind tended to wander. And of course, his thoughts were never far from a certain princess. Every time he sat at his desk, he envisioned her childlike smile, her smooth olive skin, her fathomless amber eyes. Part of him wished he’d done more than give her a simple kiss, wished he’d taken things to the next level—or as far as she’d have allowed. But the larger part of him knew he’d stepped over the line just by caressing her soft cheek. Admitting that he’d been unable to stop himself from touching her drove him to distraction.

  Setting the ancient books back in the open crate, he stripped off his cotton gloves, tossed them on his desk, then crossed the room to the stall Isabella’s chart identified as containing items from roughly 1100 to 1250, the years prior to his birth through the Third and Fourth Crusades. He let his gaze wander over the stall’s interior, instantly recognizing a half-unrolled, threadbare tapestry. A gift from Philip Augustus of France, it hung in King Bernardo’s throne room whenever French dignitaries were in residence—and came down when Richard I and his followers paid a visit. Nick couldn’t help but smile in remembrance, despite the fact the tapestry was beyond repair.

  Though proper investigative techniques dictated he sort through the crates of documents first, for his own purposes, he probably should have started here. A chest near the stall door opened at the touch of a finger to reveal battered tankards and cooking pots from the kitchens. Behind the chest, a cracked wrought-iron chandelier rested atop a badly rotted trunk. A smith’s tools crowded one corner, and a damaged painting rested in another. He could see why these items ended up forgotten beneath the oldest part of the palace for so many centuries. Most were unsalvageable. Still, there were those historians at the museum who’d probably want to study them. He picked his way through the stall, studying the contents, until he spied a box designed to hold documents. He pried off the lid, then selected a fragile scroll from the top. He unrolled it with care, expecting to see a prayer or perhaps an armory inventory, but instead found a hard lump forming in his throat as he read a list of names and notations written in Italian instead of the scholarly Latin. Each man’s name brought forth a familiar, but long-dead, face. All were knights promised to Richard the Lionhearted in the Third Crusade. Knights whose names had been listed on the very communiqué he’d been entrusted to carry to Richard where he’d wintered his troops in Sicily in 1190.

  And then he saw the name that stopped him cold.

  Domenico di Bollazio, primo figlio di Rizardo. Ventisette. Dominic of Bollazio, eldest son of Rizardo. Aged twenty-seven.

  His hands shook; an ice-cold sweat covered his skin. He closed his eyes until he could regain his emotional control, then he slowly scanned the rest of the lengthy scroll. Bernardo’s name, written in the king’s own distinctive hand, was scribbled across the bottom next to his seal.

  Oh, yes. He definitely should have started in the stall.

  “Excuse me, Nick?”

  He spun in the cramped area, nearly dropping the dried parchment at the sound of Isabella’s voice. “Princess.”

  She looked every bit as beautiful as the night she’d entered the storeroom in her ethereal silver gown and stood in the half-light of the staircase. Today, however, she appeared more down-to-earth, wearing a business-beige pantsuit, a soft ivory blouse and only a hint of makeup. Tasteful diamond stud earrings sparkled in her earlobes and her dark hair draped past her shoulders in long, loose curls.
<
br />   He realized he’d never seen her with her hair down and thanked God for it. He couldn’t have stopped himself the other night if he’d been able to run his fingers through her shiny tresses. He wondered if her curls would feel as silky-soft as her skin had beneath his fingertips.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” She glanced around the stall, studying the dusty artifacts that crammed every available inch of space. “Nerina said you wanted to see me about getting a computer.”

  Gathering himself, he carefully set the scroll back in the box where he’d found it. As important as such a discovery would be to the museum, and to medieval historians everywhere, it was far more important to him personally. For the time being, he’d keep the scroll to himself.

  “Yes.” He tried to concentrate on the princess. “I’ve been dictating my notes and mailing the tapes to Anne, but it would be more efficient if I could simply type them myself.”

  “I could have Nerina do it.”

  He shot her a knowing look. “You and I both know she’s too busy to tackle my work. She can barely manage to keep up with you. Besides, I’d like computer access so I can scan some of the scrolls I’ve discovered. My assistant, Roger, has a contact at the University of Kentucky who’s digitizing medieval documents. With your permission, I’d like to have him look at a few of these, see if they should be copied to a computer file for preservation and further study before being turned over to the museum.”

  “It’s going to be tough getting a computer down here, I’m afraid. Historical preservation laws prevent having the keep wired for modern electronics. I’d have to explain to Parliament why I want a waiver. To make their determination, they’d need to look further into your work.”