“No. They like it down on their wedding day,” I said. “I just wish I had a blow-dryer and straightener.”
“Nah. You look awesome like that. Fresh. Beautiful. He’s going to go nuts.”
I smiled and rose, lifting the luscious gown in my hands. It was the color of spring flowers, of delicate petals, of the sky at twilight. The entire bodice was embroidered with seed pearls, reminding me of a gown I’d worn in Siena, of those days in which we’d first danced together on the rooftop of Palazzo Rossi, and known. Known we were in love. That it was inevitable. Inescapable. Fated. Perfect, regardless of the complications and the obstacles before us. That somehow we had to find our way to be together. Even if we tried to escape the truth of it, for a while.
And now, here we were. I slipped the dress over my head, and Lia tugged it down into place. The swooping neckline hit just at the shoulder and fabric at the upper arms clung tight then flared out at the elbow. I winced when I saw the green and blue bruise peeking out. “Well, so much for my career as a bridal show model,” I said.
She gave me a soft smile. “He’ll love you all the more for it. A wound from your escape?”
I nodded. She moved to my back and buttoned me up, making me suck in my breath to get the last of them closed. The skirt flowed outward, with a slight train. Then she reached for a delicate crown on the bed, made of the same seed pearls as those on my gown, woven in three strands of gold, and gathered into five “petals” resembling orange blossoms. She set it on my head and stood back. “My gosh, Gabi. I don’t think we could’ve ever found a better dress for you, even back home. You are beautiful,” she said, shaking her head. “Totally beautiful.”
I smiled, never feeling more gorgeous than I did in that moment.
A knock sounded at my door, and Lia went to it and peeked out. I glanced at the hourglass and saw that we were out of time. It was our parents, come to collect us.
We embraced, in the center of the room, wrapping our arms around one another until all four of us were a part of it. In the midst of all those candles, flickering, casting a warm glow over it all. Among the scent of roses. We were totally quiet, for once, not saying a word. Just sensing the sacredness of the moment. Dad smiled and gave me a long, tender kiss on the forehead. Mom did the same, from the other side, and I leaned forward to touch my forehead to Lia’s.
“It’s time,” Dad said at last, breaking the silence. “You ready? Really ready, Gabriella, to commit your life to another?” He stared into my eyes.
And I returned his stare. “Yes.”
“Because if you want to back out, now’s the time to do it.”
“No,” I said. “This is perfect. Tuscany’s version of a small, intimate service. If I’m not getting married on a Hawaiian beach, it may as well be in a castle library.”
Mom and Dad shared A Look. Then she wriggled a sapphire ring from her pinkie finger—it had once belonged to her grandmother. “Something old and something blue. But not borrowed. It’s yours. She’d want you to have it.”
“Something new,” Dad said, slipping a delicate gold chain around my neck, with a massive pearl, in a teardrop shape as its pendant.
“Ooo, and something borrowed,” Lia said, slipping the only earrings she had from home out of her ears. She slipped the tiny pearls into mine. “You’re good to go now.”
Good to go, I thought. To go and get…married.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I couldn’t believe it was happening.
And yet I didn’t want anything else.
We moved down the hallway. Mom tucked my hand around her arm and said, “The crown—do you know why they look like orange blossoms?”
I shook my head.
“The Crusaders brought back the Saracen custom. There, they use real orange blossoms, which are exceedingly expensive. They’ll probably give you a small bouquet of herbs when we arrive—they’re for fertility. And they might wrap your hands together in a cloth, signifying your union.”
I smiled at her. “I thought you were an Etruscan archeologist. How do you know this about medieval custom?”
She grinned. “You know me. Too many late nights watching the History Channel. And I had a college professor with a particular penchant for medieval wedding customs.”
“I’m glad for it,” I said, touching her hand. We reached the end of the hallway, and I glanced at them. “Thank you,” I said, gazing at them all with tears in my eyes. I knew they wanted to remain here, in this time, that it wasn’t just for me. But if I hadn’t gone and fallen in love with Marcello? Maybe they would have wanted to try and go deeper into history, to Etruscan times. I knew Mom didn’t want to go home—didn’t want to risk losing Dad again. And I knew why—the thought of losing Marcello left me feeling hollow inside. But Lia—she, out of all of them, was making the greatest sacrifice. I prayed she would find peace, happiness here. With me. That my choice would ultimately be something she would be glad about, again and again.
We went down the stairs and entered the next corridor, which was lit with twenty more candles and strewn with more petals. Lia and Mom went first, and I came next, on Dad’s arm. We hovered in the doorway, and the sight I saw inside caused me to bring a hand to my mouth. There were a hundred—maybe more—candles, of various heights and widths, all lit. The effect was mesmerizing. And the strong honey scent…I would’ve sworn I was in the middle of a beehive.
Marcello stood, grinning, at one end, beside Father Tomas. Luca offered me a small bouquet of herbs, as Mom had guessed. I lifted them to my nose to smell. Rosemary and mint and something else. The scents blended perfectly with the beeswax and rose petals. Luca took Lia’s arm and walked to the end, placing her on one side before moving to stand behind Marcello
Mom and Dad were the only others in the room—two knights closed the door behind us. I knew those knights would stand guard, letting us keep our privacy. At least for the moment. I wondered if there were others, outside. In a castle as packed as ours, it was strange to not be meeting others in the hallway. But it had been utterly empty.
Dad eased me toward Marcello, and with each step, I felt somehow more connected to Marcello inside, as if our lives were literally fusing, inch by inch. I still couldn’t believe this man had fallen for me. He looked down at me and smiled, shaking his head as if he felt the same wonder I felt for him.
Dad cleared his throat, and Marcello offered his hand. Dad handed Lia my tiny bouquet, then placed my fingers in Marcello’s and covered them both with his own. It made my eyes well up with tears, the gesture, the sensation of us both held by him. He looked steadily at Marcello. “You shall take care of her, with everything you have in you, until your last breath?”
“Until my last breath,” he promised solemnly.
Dad held his gaze another moment, then bent and kissed my temple. “Take care of him, too, sweetheart,” he said. “If you both care for each other more than you care for yourself, your marriage will endure all.”
I smiled at him, acknowledging his words, and he moved aside. If there ever was a marriage I wanted my own to look like, it was Mom and Dad’s.
Marcello took both of my hands in his and stared into my eyes as if we were alone in the room. His hair was tied at the nape of his neck, as cleanly as his curls would allow, but one coil fell to the side of his right eye, across his cheekbone, and hovered over that strong jaw.
Gradually we felt Father Tomas staring at us. He was waiting, grinning, and when we finally looked his direction, he began his liturgy in Latin. I heard Luca laugh quietly under his breath. I wanted to laugh too. I couldn’t stop smiling. Nothing, nothing compared to this. To being with him. Taking the oath to bond with him in a way we’d already done with our hearts.
Father Tomas slipped back into Italian after a prolonged period of Latin liturgy. “Marcello Forelli, do you take this woman as your wife? Before the people of Toscana, the republic of Siena, your family, and your God?”
“Before all, I pledge my heart to her and take
her as my wife,” he said.
“Gabriella Betarrini, do you take this man as your husband? Before the people of Toscana, the republic of Siena, your family, and your God?”
“Before all,” I said, my voice cracking with emotion as tears slipped down my face, “I pledge my heart to him and take him as my husband.”
The rest unfolded in a fog.
Tomas wrapped our wrists together with the rope that was his belt. Then slowly unwrapped them.
Prayers. Petitions.
Liturgy. More prayers.
And through it all, I could only stare into Marcello’s eyes and wonder at the miracle of what was happening.
He was mine. And I was his.
Forever.
What I didn’t expect was for them all to see us to the bedroom, Marcello’s quarters. But they did, as was apparently the custom. I was only thankful that there weren’t a hundred or more people all trying to cram into the room, as most medieval newlyweds might experience, according to Mom’s continued History Channel rundown.
And I was particularly glad there weren’t four noblemen there to “witness” what was about to transpire between me and Marcello. At least, what I hoped was about to transpire. And yet feared at the same time. I was totally nervous.
The room was even larger than mine, and decidedly masculine, painted darker and with much heavier woods. But Marcello’s bed was exactly the same, which I decided was romantic. It made it feel a little less strange being in his room, rather than mine.
When my family and Luca finally left, Marcello turned and wrapped me in his arms as I shook my head.
“Okay, that was just weird,” I said, lapsing into English.
He cocked his head and squinted his eyes, trying to translate what I might be saying.
“Strange. Odd. To have them all in the room with us, when it should be,” I wrapped my arms around him and looked shyly up into his eyes, “just us.”
“Ahh, my wife, so beautiful,” he said, caressing my cheek and my neck. He kissed me for several long, lingering minutes and then gradually moved around me to begin unbuttoning the back of my dress. His big hands moved down my back, and I remembered the first day we met, when I put my dress on backward and he had to help me button it up in the woods.
Had I known, then, that this was where we would end up? In some surreal way I wondered if I had. It was as if I had always belonged here, in his arms. Been his from the start. He kissed the side of my neck and moved down across my shoulder. There, he paused, maybe seeing my bruise for the first time.
“Where did you get this?” He eased my sleeve off of my shoulder, leaving it bare. The bruise still looked like a green and blue cap sleeve.
“The night I escaped Palazzo Vivaro,” I said, “in Roma.” I looked at him over my bruised shoulder. “The night I knew I belonged with you and would do anything to avoid what was about to happen…what was about to keep me from you.”
He stared at me, brows knitted in frustration, anger at what had happened to me, and then his face softened in gratitude. He bent and gently covered the bruise in sweet kisses, sending delightful shivers down my spine and up my neck. I closed my eyes and gave in to the sensation of being close to him. Gave in to the idea that we were together and never had to be apart. Not this night. Not ever.
It was like being given access to the most perfect tropical beach ever. No one on it. Palm trees arcing over white sand. Warm turquoise waters, lapping at the shore. Freedom. Delicious heat. And yet perfect cool, too.
And in the hours that followed, I discovered what it might be like to be given a piece of quiet paradise.
To be given intimacy. Tenderness. Passion.
Oneness…
A knock sounded at our door in what Marcello called “the dark watches of the night.” Locked in each other’s arms, we stirred sleepily. I felt the loss of Marcello’s body heat and was finally identifying the incessant sound as knocking, when I rose to see Marcello half dressed and striding to the door.
He opened the door a crack and spoke in low tones with whoever was outside for several minutes. Then he closed the door and leaned his head against it.
“Marcello,” I said quietly.
He turned and padded over the cold tiles to our bed. I pulled the covers higher to my chest, feeling goose bumps roll down my arms.
He sat down and gave me a half smile, then touched my face, my chin, and pulled a long coil of my hair over my bare shoulder, for once not tucking it behind my ear but rather toying with it, pulling it and watching it spring back in the candlelight. He was keeping something from me.
“Marcello,” I said again.
His eyes met mine, and he sighed, looked away into the far, dark reaches of the room, then back to me. “They approach. Traveling overnight, I suppose, to avoid our attack. They shall be here by morning.”
I licked my lips and swallowed. “And Rodolfo’s execution shall then be…”
“’Tis scheduled for sundown, on the morrow. Today,” he corrected himself.
“Today.” I took a deep breath. I knew it was crazy, but I had hoped for a day to just be, to settle in to this husband-wife thing a little. Ya know, before we were in the middle of war again.
“You are safer now, as my bride,” he said, laying his warm hand on the side of my neck. “Safer than you’ve ever been. They cannot take you. Cannot demand you marry another. You are mine. To take you now would be an act so despicable, nobles from other lands would enter the battle to defend you.”
“I understand. I’m yours. Taken,” I said with a slow grin. “Per sempre.” I leaned forward and gave him quiet kisses. “Forever.”
He kissed me then, longingly, searchingly.
I pulled away, suddenly worried. “Do we have time for this? Should we not be summoning the men? Preparing?”
“Time enough,” he said, tossing off his shirt and rejoining me under the warm covers. “First love,” he growled, “then war.”
“First love, always love,” I said, welcoming him back to my arms.
Chapter Twenty-eight
I awakened belatedly, and ran my hand over Marcello’s side of the bed, reaching for him, wanting him to pull me into his arms. Wanting to feel the gentle rise and fall of his bare chest, the steady, strong beat of his heart.
Cold, my fingers told me, running across the fabric of our covers. Like he hadn’t been there in some time. My eyes sprang open, and I studied the wide, bare expanse of my husband’s side of the bed, then the slant of the sun through the cracks of the shuttered windows.
I could tell from the angle that the sun had been up for one, maybe two hours.
Flames crackled over three logs in the corner fireplace, but the room was still frigid. I tossed aside the heavy covers and glanced around the room. Nothing but my wedding gown, in a pile on the floor where we’d left it. My eyes went to the side wall, the one between my room and Marcello’s room. There, I spied a doorway, subtly hidden among the woodwork and plaster—a doorway I knew I couldn’t see from the other side. I pulled a blanket from the bed, wrapped it around myself and padded over to it, searching for a handle. There was nothing. But on a hunch, I put my palm against it and pressed.
I felt the soft click of an internal mechanism, and the door popped open. I pulled it fully open, grunting at the weight of it, and strode into my room, ditching the blanket and hurrying to my trunks, tossing one gown aside and then another. I needed one that was regal, suitable for the lady of the castle, and yet one that wasn’t too fussy, given that the day might very well entail swordplay. A lady…Lady Gabriella Forelli, I thought, trying the name out in my mind.
I settled on the amber gown, conscious that the color echoed the Forelli gold. I liked the feel of the weave of its fabric. It wasn’t so tight as some of my others, giving me more room to breathe, move.
Which was kinda important when a girl was headin’ into battle.
I laughed at my own joke and then donned undergarments and pulled the gown over my head, yanking
it into place. Which was the other reason I liked the dress—it was sewn up the back. No buttons. As much as I liked buttons, especially when my husband was undoing them, one after the other, today was not a day for them.
I smiled. I was married. Marcello was mine. Today we undoubtedly had terrible things ahead of us, significant struggles. But I couldn’t help feeling somehow stronger, somehow more ready for it, because of our union. I would fight beside him, as long as he allowed it. I knew he wanted me safe, back in the castle, when the time came. But for as long as I could, I wanted to be with him, helping to keep him safe, just as he wished the same for me.
I raced down the stairs and out the turret door, smiling and nodding at the remnant of the kitchen staff, each of whom nodded back at me with shy, knowing smiles. Something had shifted overnight. I could feel it. They could feel it. I was their lady. I mean, I had always been their lady—claimed by all of Siena, really, as one of the She-Wolves—but now, I was this castle’s Lady, with a capital L. I almost felt like whistling, I felt so happy. I know, right? Totally dorky. But I couldn’t help myself.
When I rounded the Great Hall and entered the castello courtyard, I stopped short. It was a mass of confusion. Horses reared or circled on tight reins, agitated by all the commotion and tension. Men pushed their way forward, carrying heavy supplies on their shoulders—barrels, burlap-wrapped bundles, massive sheaves of wheat. To one side more than fifty men were sparring with swords, most of them stripped to the waist, regardless of the cold. On the other, an equal number were shooting arrows at targets.
Luca was laughing with two men, looking around like he was in his element, when he spied me. He clapped and hollered. “Gentle ladies and humble noblemen,” he called, his breath clouding before his face, “I present to you, Lady Gabriella Forelli!”
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