The Knight's Kiss

by Nicole Burnham

  “Okay.” She put the hat on, pulling her ponytail through the back. “But I look like an American teenager, and I feel like a fashion don’t.”

  He laughed. “You actually look quite pretty. And very young.”

  She felt her cheeks redden, and thanked him for the compliment before adding, “Let’s leave before you try to transform me any further.”

  He picked up a backpack he’d left lying near the desk, looped it over his shoulders, then started walking toward the door. “One problem,” he muttered, turning around. “Any idea how we can get out of here? If we go strolling out the gates, we’ll be sunk before we even start. There must be a number of journalists assigned to watch the palace.”

  “Here.” She grabbed his hand, pulling him through the open boxes and crates toward the back of the storeroom, feeling remarkably like the adventurous young student she pretended to be. Soon, they were facing the rear wall. She let go of his fingers, then used her hands to feel along the stones. It didn’t take long to find the correct stone and the latch hidden behind it.

  “What is that?” Nick leaned forward to study the wall.

  “Would you believe a secret passage? My grandfather had it constructed during World War II. We hid the crown jewels and most of our valuables in here at the beginning of the war. Lucky for us, the Nazis only occupied San Rimini for a short time before the war started going badly for them and they transferred most of their soldiers to other fronts. But while they were here, my grandfather moved the Jewish members of his staff and their families to the keep, where they’d have easy access to the passage so they could escape or at least hide if the Nazis ever seized control of the palace.”

  “But that never happened.”

  “Luckily, no. My grandfather couldn’t leave the grounds, but the Nazis didn’t enter, either.”

  She fidgeted with the latch for a moment before it opened, causing a section of the stone wall to move. Nick grunted in surprise when he realized that the stones covering the entrance concealed a reinforced steel door with a numerical keypad on the front.

  “Eleven, twenty-two, thirty-seven,” Isabella said over her shoulder as she punched in the combination. “The date of my grandfather’s coronation.”

  “The Nazis wouldn’t have guessed that?”

  She laughed, and Nick reveled in the fact he’d been the one to make her so relaxed and happy. “The code was changed daily during the war, so no. When my father was crowned, Antony was still a teenager and my father was desperately trying to drill important dates in San Rimini’s history into his head. He figured that by setting the code to his own father’s coronation date, Antony would be less likely to forget it. We’ve left it that way ever since.”

  The door swung open, and Isabella waved for Nick to enter the dark corridor behind her. Once they were inside with the door closed, she reached to her left and flipped a switch, illuminating a series of lights along the ceiling. The passage was narrow, apparently built in haste. Overhead support beams stretched in front of him as far as he could see. Plywood cabinets which Nick guessed once held the family’s treasures extended from the walls to about hip-height, and rows of empty shelves stood above the cabinet doors.

  Isabella followed his gaze. “My grandfather had those filled with canned goods, flashlights, blankets and radios. There’s even a small commode farther down. Just in case.”

  “He was a good king.” He remembered King Alberto’s defiance in the face of the Nazi occupation, and the worldwide outpouring of support for the brave San Riminians. Now that he’d met Isabella, he decided she’d inherited her grandfather’s strength of mind. Had she faced the Nazis, he imagined she’d have shown the same fortitude as the late king.

  “That’s what my father says,” she agreed. “I should have mentioned the corridor to you earlier, but it slipped my mind. It’s been ages since I’ve been down here.”

  “No reason I’d have to know.” Nick adjusted his backpack on his shoulders as they began walking side-by-side through the narrow passage. Every so often their arms brushed against each other, but Isabella didn’t shy away from the contact.

  The princess raised an eyebrow at him. “You wouldn’t think so if you’d been working away cataloguing artifacts in the middle of the night and Stefano came up behind you.”

  “He uses this passageway?”

  “All the time. Well, before he met his fiancée, at least. He’d sneak out with his friends and go hiking or skiing when he should have been attending palace events. It frustrated my father to no end. Antony, Federico and I had to make excuses for Stef on more than one occasion.”

  All the more reason Princess Isabella felt obliged to stay close to home and fulfill her duties, Nick guessed, especially once King Eduardo became a widower and her other brothers married.

  They walked in silence for some time before Nick spotted something long and lean propped against one wall of the passage. Isabella made a face when they reached the tall black canvas bag.

  “Stef’s ski equipment,” she said in amusement. “Old habits must die hard.”

  Nick reached up to dust away a spiderweb which strung from the ceiling down to the top of the ski bag. “They haven’t been used in a while. The first ski resorts will open in a month or so. If he’s planning a getaway, he hasn’t taken his skis to be waxed yet.”

  Isabella turned her face to him. “You’re quite observant, you know.”

  “It’s my job.”

  She smiled at that, but said nothing as they continued down the passage.

  “So where does this come out?” Nick finally asked.

  “I’ll show you. We’re almost there.” Within minutes, they rounded a corner to face another steel door. Isabella turned a large handle to swing it open, and Nick found himself face-to-face with rows of rolling metal bakers’ racks and the overwhelming smell of yeast.

  “Here we are,” she waved a hand around the room, “the back room of Alessandro’s Bakery, on the Strada il Reggiménto.”

  Regiment Street. Nick couldn’t believe it. The very street where he and the other knights listed on the scroll were housed in the early days of the Third Crusade, while they awaited their marching orders from King Bernardo. It occurred to him that Bernardo would have coveted the passageway that now connected the Strada il Reggiménto to the palace basement, which had served as the long-dead king’s armory. Nick could just picture Bernardo plotting how best to use the passageway to surprise his enemies.

  Or to spy on his own knights in their quarters and assess their loyalty to the crown.

  He and Isabella made their way past rows of ovens and glass-topped refrigerator cases, then through a room containing shelved boxes of sesame seeds, caraway, baking powder, cocoa and bag after bag of flour and sugar, all arranged in neat stacks along the sides of the tile-floored storeroom. The smells reminded him of the old bakery that stood adjacent to the knight’s quarters, and though many, many lifetimes had passed, he couldn’t help but believe he’d come full circle. Here he was again, on the Strada il Reggiménto, with his fate dependent on the palace, just a quarter mile away.

  Isabella’s soft voice cut through his thoughts. “The owners are longtime friends of our family,” she explained, dodging around a bin full of bagged day-old bread as she led him to the front of the shop. “Besides my family, and perhaps a few descendants of my grandfather’s staff, they’re the only ones who know of the passageway’s existence. Now let’s hope—” She stood on her tiptoes and stretched her body so she could run her fingers along the top of the door frame. “Good. Still here.” She turned and held up a key. “This wouldn’t have been a very long outing if I couldn’t get us out of the shop.”

  She opened the glass door to a pull-down metal gate and knelt to insert the key. He helped her lift the gate, then pull it back down and lock it behind them.

  They stood on the sidewalk, which separated the cobblestoned street from dozens of storefronts, most of which were closed for the evening. A bus stop bench ac
ross the street seated four women, all carrying shopping bags. Behind the women, a wrought-iron fence bordering the palace gardens allowed passersby to peek through at hundreds of rose beds, each surrounded by boxwood and highlighted from beneath by thousands of tiny white lights. Several people walked by at a quick clip, eager to get home to loved ones. A man on a bicycle passed, bumping along on the cobblestoned street, then looked back at them over his shoulder.

  Nick heard Isabella’s sharp intake of breath.

  “He didn’t recognize you.”

  “I’m glad you’re so certain.”

  “No one expects you to be here, and certainly not dressed as you are. C’mon.” He took her hand, weaving his fingers into hers and discovering they fit together as naturally as if they walked hand in hand every day. “Let’s find someplace quiet where you can people watch for a change.”

  “Now that,” her face broke into a smile that any photographer would have recognized as being distinctly hers, “would be the best birthday present I’ve ever received.”

  “Do you realize,” Isabella laid her fork across her plate and allowed the waiter to take it away, “I tried on at least thirty different dresses this morning for events I’m scheduled to attend over the next six weeks? Now none of them will fit. I should have had a salad and a plain chicken breast.”

  She meant it, too. Never in her life had she eaten with such gusto—minestrone, lasagna verdi, two pieces of bruschetta, two glasses of Chianti—she’d be spending any free time she had during the next week in the palace gym paying for it. If she found the strength to move from the table.

  “You didn’t have a choice. Liberating, isn’t it?”

  She smiled at Nick again. Had she stopped smiling all night? “You know, it is. I may have even burped once or twice.”

  Now it was Nick’s turn to smile, and her heart beat faster in response. He’d given her the most fabulous night of her life. They’d enjoyed nearly two hours of carefree conversation, talking about everything from the artifacts in the palace basement to Harvard’s ice hockey team to the merits of various restaurants in Boston’s Italian North End. They discovered their shared madness for Mike’s Pastry, an Italian bakery on Hanover Street, though they disagreed about which delivery service boasted the tastiest pizza.

  Best of all, for the first time since she’d lived in Boston as a student, and for the first time since her mother died, Isabella felt young. Unburdened. If only for a few hours, she had no schedule to follow, no speeches to give, no appearances to make. As Nick said, she’d been liberated. Not even the waiter, who’d looked straight into her eyes while taking her order, had recognized her.

  Nick had even been bold enough to choose an outdoor table at a restaurant in the University district, on a hill overlooking the glitzy Strada il Teatro with its endless casinos and theaters. Beyond that, the glorious Palazzo d’Avorio, a five-hundred-year-old restored fortress, overlooked San Rimini Bay and the Adriatic Sea beyond. Couples laughed and shared secrets at tables nearby, and well-dressed tourists strolled along the cobblestoned street, pointing out the sights below and discussing their strategies for winning big at the blackjack and craps tables.

  “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” She swirled her Chianti, took a long, slow sip, then breathed in deeply, as if by pulling the sea-scented air into her lungs she could keep it there forever and preserve the night’s magic. “This is what I love about my country.”

  “Even though you don’t get to enjoy it yourself?”

  “Oh, I do. Just not alone.” She glanced across the table at Nick. “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “I do.”

  Changing the subject, she tipped her head forward, toward the sea. “It’s such a clear night, you can see Venice. See all those lights across San Rimini Bay?”

  He turned to look, and nodded. “Nice now, to look across there and see them. Not so nice when the Doges were in power, constantly trying to conquer San Rimini and bring it under Venetian control. I can only imagine what the old kings thought, looking out from the keep and realizing that the enemy was within eyesight at all times.”

  “Do you ever take off your historian’s hat?”

  “Guess not.” He shrugged, and though there was a half grin on his face, Isabella sensed she’d touched on a deep internal sadness with the question. For the life of her, however, she couldn’t figure out why.

  The waiter interrupted then, handing them each small leather-bound menus with the evening’s dessert selections. Nick ordered tiramisu and black coffee, but Isabella shook her head.

  Nick looked at the waiter but jerked his head toward her. “Zuccotto e cappuccino decaffeinato.”

  “Nick—”

  He waved the waiter off. “Grazie.”

  “Sometimes I hate that male chauvinism is still tolerated in this country,” she protested. “My opinion should count for something here.”

  “Not where dessert’s concerned, no.”

  “But sponge cake with cream and chocolate? And a cappuccino? I’ll have a sugar crash just when I’m supposed to meet with the museum board tomorrow. Don’t you want me to be at my best?”

  “I want you to enjoy your birthday.”

  When their desserts arrived a few minutes later, he reached across the table and covered her hand with his, preventing her from taking a bite. “Blow out the candle, first, Princess,” he urged, nodding toward the dripping candle stuck in an old Chianti bottle on the edge of their table. “Make a wish.”

  “You’re not supposed to blow out table candles,” she hissed. “It ruins the ambience of the restaurant, and the waiter would have to—”

  He pinned her with a stare. “Just blow out the candle. And don’t forget to make a wish.”

  Opting not to argue, she closed her eyes for a moment, trying to shut out Nick and all the things her soul wished for—for her freedom to last, for the opportunity to experience life like this every night, with a handsome man who cared about her well-being and didn’t mind seeing her dressed in shabby clothes and wearing her reading glasses.

  For a chance at love, like her parents had shared.

  Instead, she forced her thoughts to home, and wished for Federico’s heart to heal. She leaned forward and opened her mouth in an O.

  “No fair wishing for other people, Princess.” Nick’s whispered voice invaded her thoughts. “Make a wish for yourself. Just this once.”

  She opened her eyes and caught Nick’s dark, knowing eyes fixed upon her face. In that instant, she wished for love, then before she could reconsider she blew out the candle, casting their table in darkness.

  “You’re very kind to me, Nick Black,” she whispered. He still held her right hand in his left on the tabletop, and she reached out with her other hand to cover the scars his bore. He understood her so well, yet she knew so little about him. “You encourage me to go out, to enjoy myself. You seem to thrill to all of life’s little pleasures, yet you deny yourself everything. You hide from the public, and you live the life of a hermit. Why?”

  His eyes clouded. Even in the dark night, she could see something inside him close off from her. “It’s a long story, Princess.”

  “I have time.”

  “This story takes more time than anyone on Earth has to hear it.” He squeezed her hand, but she didn’t feel reassured. “All that matters is that you care enough to ask. Thank you for that.” He withdrew his hand from hers and picked up his Chianti glass. “Enjoy your zuccotto. We should get back to the palace before long. If we’re seen entering the bakery too late someone is liable to think it’s a break-in and call the polizia.”

  He took a sip of his Chianti, then focused on his dessert, making it clear the topic was closed. When the waiter returned with the bill, she let Nick pay it, despite her inclination to argue.

  “Tell me, Princess,” he finally broke the silence as they walked hand in hand back toward the bakery, “what’s your favorite childhood memory?”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Are y
ou serious?”

  “Completely. I need to know that you had fun at some point in your life.”

  She punched his arm with her free hand, something she hadn’t done to anyone but her brothers. “For such a nice guy, you’re awfully rotten.”

  “You’re assuming I’m a nice guy.”

  She laughed, then stared up at the stars as they wound their way back toward the palace, turning from one small street to another as she tried to decide which memory was her most treasured. “I would say listening to my mother read aloud to Stefano and me when we were children. Antony is six years older than I am, and Federico’s four years older, but they would even come and hop up on my bed sometimes to hear her read. They didn’t seem to mind listening to the same fairy tales over and over again.” Tears sprung to her eyes at the memory. “I think they had Mother snowed. As soon as she left for her own room, they’d turn on flashlights under their sheets and read the Hardy Boys books she’d brought them from her trips to the United States. She was so thrilled they wanted to hear her read she never suspected they didn’t go right to sleep like they were supposed to. Until our nanny caught them at it, anyway.”

  “You really should consider taking the fairy-tale book, Princess.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  They let the conversation die, enjoying the sounds of the night, stopping every so often to comment on the storefronts or the architecture of San Rimini’s old buildings. The bells of the Duomo tolled the hour, reminding Isabella that her fantasy night would soon come to an end.

  “Did your mother read you fairy tales?” she asked.

  “She couldn’t read.” Nick’s words were quiet, wistful. “But she told some wonderful stories, yes.”

  “Is she still alive?”

  He shook his head. “No. She died a long time ago.”

  “But you still miss her.”

  “Of course I do. I can still hear her voice inside my head, telling me stories of ancient Arabia. Very dark tales, but she made them fascinating.”

  “Was she from the Middle East?” It would explain his dark coloring, she thought, though she’d assumed when they’d met in his Boston office that he might be of San Riminian descent.