Dante's Flame

by Jannine Corti-Petska

  Two stalls away, Alessa spotted Dante Santangelo speaking with the soap vendor’s young, eager-to-please daughter. She allowed herself a moment of indulgence and perused him from head to boot. He was a striking figure in his royal blue undertunic and a gray, silver-threaded surcoat, both worn to the top of his black boots. He didn’t carry a sword. Instead, he wore a dagger at his hip. She noticed how expertly he charmed the hideously flirtatious woman who squeezed her shoulders back, pushing her melon-sized breasts higher above the low bodice of her peasant dress.

  “Why does she not simply push his face into her mounds of flesh?”

  Disgusted, Alessa flounced around and marched to the stall where live fowl strutted in pens. Once there, she couldn’t stop herself from searching out her tutor. Mercy, the woman flushed bright pink, her gaze melting as her hand rested on Signor Santangelo’s upper arm. And the lecher leaned forward, his lips suspended only inches from hers.

  “Disgraceful!” Yet Alessa could not tear her fascination away as the unlikely couple appeared locked in an intimate conversation.

  “Signorina?”

  Reluctantly, Alessa turned to the questioning voice.

  “Did you wish to make a purchase?”

  She scanned the bed of eggs, then the strutting fowl. “Sì. I will take six eggs and your plumpest chicken.”

  As the merchant gathered up the eggs and set them in a straw basket, she stole another glance over her shoulder. The tutor ambled away from the soap vendor’s stall—alone.

  “—alive or butchered?”

  She swung her attention back to the weathered merchant. “What say you?”

  Impatient, he repeated, “Do you want the chicken alive or butchered?”

  “Butchered, of course. And the feathers plucked.”

  The man frowned unhappily.” “Shall I roast it as well?”

  “Is that a service you provide?” Alessa met his scowling countenance with her brows raised. “I thought not. I shall return for the chicken and eggs after I have completed my shopping.”

  Leaving the stench of the butcher’s stall behind, Alessa drifted toward the confectioner’s. Her penchant for sweet tarts and cakes was well-known in Venice. But the dolci in Naples were quite different she discovered, when Amalia served a sweet cake upon her arrival. Here they were lighter, cream-filled and made for the lower class, which was most of Naples.

  The hair at her nape prickled. Alessa lifted her gaze and startled to find Signor Santangelo standing beside her. She pressed a hand to her breast to settle the wild fluttering of her heart. His eyes enveloped her, all-encompassing, vibrant, unbelievably luring her into their mysterious depths. The clamoring in her chest refused to still. She feared she’d faint if the incessant beating did not stop.

  “Signorina.” His soothing voice was an aphrodisiac. His ever brilliant smile pulled her attention momentarily away from his eyes.

  “Signor Santangelo.” She managed to return the greeting around her suddenly dry tongue and even dryer throat.

  His amusement twinkled down at her. “Do you enjoy the early morning?”

  “Apparently, signore, else I would not be about, would I?”

  A muscle quirk disturbed the tranquility of his cheek. “A sharp tongue.”

  The comment floated over her head. She was much too enthralled by his nearness to notice the sarcasm wrapping his quietly spoken words.

  “Do you not also prefer the late hours of the night?” he asked.

  Lingering amusement was bright in his eyes. “I prefer my freedom.”

  “And ignore a curfew established for your protection?”

  “From the French,” came her grim reminder. She watched closely for the slightest sign of admission that he conspired with the French soldiers.

  He subtly corrected her. “From the sordid plight that befalls the dark of night.”

  “Well said, Signor Santangelo.” Thrusting the loaves of bread between her arm and body, she smacked her gloved hands together in complimentary cheer. Although she had spoken in earnest, she instinctively knew the man would give naught of himself away. He was far too clever to fall into a game of words in which he might reveal more than intended.

  “The truth often is.”

  She angled her head.

  “Well said,” he reminded her. “The truth cannot be hidden by ugly words.”

  Her curiosity heightened. “It seems lies fall from one’s tongue much easier than truths.”

  “So it seems.”

  His ease in agreement prickled her seldom provoked ferocity. Bluntly she asked, “What of your carousing after curfew?”

  A smile eased the tautness of his lips. “A man needs no protection.”

  “Especially a French man in a town guarded by the French?”

  Not a twitch marred his lasting smile. “Careful, signorina. Do not delve into a man’s life else you may find more than your little mind can devour.”

  Alessa bristled. “Are you belittling my intelligence, signore?”

  “On the contrary. I am simply warning you against venturing too deeply into the politics beleaguering Naples. And trust me, the men in this town have strong opinions of King Rene and the French occupation.” He glanced over her shoulder and nodded at the rows of tiny cakes and other sweets. “Have you a preference?”

  Sì, but he’d not be happy to learn she preferred to taste his lips than the mouth-watering morsels within reach.

  “I have not the coin for such indulgence.” Indeed, her father had sent her to Naples with nary a ducat. For her own good, he had told her. To thwart temptation. Did he think she paid men to kiss her willing lips?

  “Mayhap your cousin will allow you to indulge before you leave Naples.”

  She smiled shrewdly. “What about you? Have you a taste for sweets, or do you prefer to indulge in pretty scents?”

  Lord, could his smile shine any brighter? The flutter in her heart alit to her belly.

  “How know you of my penchant?”

  “I saw you at yonder stall, plying your charms on the maiden. Mayhap trading personal goods for the scented soap?”

  “How observant you are.”

  Observant? Did he just admit to trading his body for soap? To that homely girl?

  No, he’d not degrade himself for a mere chunk of soap.

  Alas, he was toying with her. The lazy slant of his lips said as much. As did the sparkle of mischief in his eyes.

  She was about to speak when the bite of fingers around her forearm made Alessa howl in pain. She glared up at the person responsible, somewhat surprised to find Benito. His eyes glowed and his nostrils flared like a wild dog’s.

  “Have you no shame? You do not speak to a man without a chaperon present.” He scanned the mercato area in haste. “Where is Attilo?”

  Fighting words begged release, but Alessa kept them at bay. She noticed the tutor standing stiffly, his features hard. Her indignation bounded higher. Why didn’t he come to her rescue? Was it not the way of the storytellers who regaled the knight rescuing a lady in her time of need?

  “Almighty! Unhand me!”

  The backside of Benito’s broad hand swiped across her jaw. Stung by his brutish treatment, she yelped. She’d be the first to admit her impetuousness was cause enough for punishment, but not at the hand of a man she felt had no authority over her.

  The powerful strike left her face heated and tingling. More than the pain he caused, her dignity stumbled as hot tears built behind her eyes. Refusing to let them fall, she jutted her chin high and cast a meaningful glare up at her cousin.

  “You are not my father and have no right to discipline me.”

  “Were you my daughter, you would not have the liberties your father allows you. Were you my daughter, you would not be the slut you are.”

  Alessandra gasped. Despite her flirtatious ways back in Venice, never had anyone accused her to her face of being a loose woman. It hurt. More than the slap. More than any physical pain Benito could ever inflict. Ready to
strike back with a stinging retort, she was rendered speechless when the tutor finally spoke up.

  “The girl is doing the shopping at your mother’s request. She was doing naught disgraceful. Do not misconstrue a pleasant exchange between a tutor and his student as anything more. If you wish to punish someone, think you your brother is more deserving? Was he not given the task of her guardian while she is at the mercato?”

  Alessa’s heart skipped a beat, turning over and over with gladness. Dante Santangelo had come to her rescue indeed, and splendidly so. She had never seen her cousin look so utterly at a loss as he was now.

  Benito released her arm with a flick and stepped away. He spread the distance between them. To Alessa he ordered, “Finish the marketing and get yourself home posthaste.” He cast a murderous look at the tutor before he stalked away.

  Rubbing at the lingering sting on her arm, she tracked Benito’s swift departure in the direction of the tavern. Pray he’d not wreak his foul temper on Attilo.

  “Are your hurt?”

  More was she humiliated by being the center of a violent rift.

  “May I?” The tutor’s hand reached out to turn her chin upward. His warm and gentle fingers caused her to shudder and pull back.

  “I am unharmed. More is my injured pride.”

  His melodious chuckle cloaked her in its touching sound. “You are brave but foolish.”

  “Brave because I do not complain about my cousin’s heavy hand? I do not cower easily. But how came you to believe I am foolish?”

  “Your quick tongue.”

  She privately applauded him for his keen observation. She’d been born with a strong will and a mouth that often refused to remain silent. A marriage that usually brought her trouble.

  “I thank you for speaking up to my cousin on my behalf.”

  “It is the least I could do.” He bowed his head. “Good day, signorina.”

  Chapter Four

  Alessa recorded the final passage in her journal and flexed her fingers to relieve their cramping from writing for the last hour. She sat back on her feathered mattress, leaning against a headboard carved from rich mahogany, and read her words in the golden sunlight sprawling through the only window in the room. A smile curved her mouth.

  “Signor Santangelo knows not how appealing he truly is.” She purposely left his name out of her latest tale, but it didn’t take a scholar to connect her story’s rogue to the beguiling tutor.

  A knock at the door interrupted the heavenly thoughts floating about her head. She closed the journal and slipped it beneath her pillow. “Enter.”

  Attilo meandered in, a glum but angered look driving the corners of his mouth sharply downward. Alessa noticed a dark bump on his jaw. The significance of it rankled. Benito had punished Attilo for neglecting his chaperone duties at the mercato. She fared better, though. Benito’s hard slap left nary a sign on her own face.

  It troubled her when Attilo did not meet her eyes. “The French tutor is awaiting you.”

  Alessa’s stomach flip-flopped with the prospect of seeing the tutor again, yet she’d not allow her excitement to overshadow her sorrow for Attilo. “I am truly sorry Benito—”

  “He did naught,” he snapped. “Do not keep the tutor waiting.”

  ****

  Outside the entrance to the great room, Alessa pressed a hand against her belly to contain the butterflies fluttering within. Anticipation made her nerves dance. She fussed with her clothing, the same she had worn to the mercato—a crimson undergarment and matching stockings, and an apron trimmed in ermine with a gold embossed bodice. Her hair hung loosely down her back, a warm cloak in the chilly Valente home.

  Alas, she pushed herself to enter the room. The tutor found her in an instant, as if drawn to her like bees to honey. The chill in her bones dissipated at the splendid sight of him leaning an arm casually on the shelf of a tall bookcase. His gaze riveted to her, and even across the large room his eyes were vibrant, enchanting. Alessa smiled, though her lips quivered. Never had she felt more conspicuous in a man’s presence than she did now.

  “Signore,” she greeted, managing the rift in her voice. As she glided into the room, careful to steady her uncommonly weak knees, she inquired, “Or do you prefer maestro?”

  He moved away from the books he’d been perusing. One corner of his mouth whispered upward at her directness. “You may address me as monsieur while I am tutoring you.”

  “But of course. I am learning French, am I not?” Alessa stopped midway in, leaving two chairs, a rough-hewn low table and a bench between them. “Where shall I sit for my lesson?”

  “In one of those chairs,” he answered.

  “And you, monsieur? Where will you sit?”

  A slight twitch attacked the same corner of his perfect mouth. He positioned himself behind the high-backed bench. “I will stand.”

  Sitting on the edge of the bulky wood chair, Alessa rearranged her clothes over her legs just to keep her hands busy. She wondered what to do or how to behave. She’d never had a tutor before. Despite her wayward thoughts and gift for storytelling, she had been an excellent student in her studies. For certain, she’d never had an instructor as pleasing as the signore.

  Her eyelashes fluttered gently, a practice she perfected long ago. The tutor noticed her attempt at gaining his gentlemanly interest. He frowned ever so briefly, but his eyes retained their warmth. She detected a trace of mirth in their unusual hue.

  His prolonged silence tinkered with her nerves. “Monsieur?”

  He cleared his throat. “Oui, mademoiselle. We shall begin our lesson.”

  French in itself proved little difficulty for Alessa. She had always learned quickly. Concentrating on her lesson was her biggest challenge. As the tutor covered a list of words and proper greetings, she marveled at her ability to focus under such trying circumstances. Each time he spoke, her gaze fell to his lips. And each time he drew a breath, her gaze shifted to the breadth of his chest.

  When Signor Santangelo called an end to the lesson, Alessa’s disappointment surprised her. Though truly she had no interest in learning French, she didn’t want her time with the tutor to end just yet.

  “Am I a good student?” she asked.

  He smiled. “You are adept at continuing with your lesson even though your mind wanders.”

  Her lips parted with mild wonder. “How know you my mind wanders?”

  “I see it in your eyes. Ofttimes they have a faraway look. Yet you have learned well today, and I assume you have a new tale to weave as well?”

  Alessa stood abruptly. “Mayhap I do. However, signore, my tales are conjured only in a mind filled with imagination. But what of you? Are your tales real or imagined?”

  “I know not what you infer.”

  She set her hands on her hips, challenging him to tell the truth. “Know you French by chance? Or have you reason to speak it so well?”

  “Would you ask that of me if I tutored you in Latin?” He met her challenge without flinching. “Do you speak of the night I found you roaming the street alone after curfew?”

  She frowned.

  “Do you wonder about the French soldiers in my company?”

  She nodded warily.

  “Then ask me straightforward, for I have naught to hide.”

  Liar perched on the tip of her tongue, but she pressed her lips together to keep the word silent. Enough tarrying. “I believe you do, monsieur.” She walked around the table and approached him, careful to keep an appropriate distance should one of her cousins walk in. “I believe you are not who you say you are.”

  “Indeed, I am. No matter, it is not for you to question. Your cousin trusts me, and that is the way of it.”

  She wasn’t satisfied. “Mayhap he has been misled.”

  “Your imagination is too powerful for one so young.”

  Alessa took a heated step forward. “My imagination is as it should be. However, Signor Santangelo, I am not a young girl.”

  His full
smile mocked and beguiled all at once. Alessa huffed her displeasure then struggled to compose herself. Obviously he could easily rile her. However, she’d not allow him the pleasure of knowing it.

  Attilo’s lazy footsteps scraped across the floor as he entered the room. Alessa was grateful for the interruption until other footfalls followed. The tutor’s expression changed from amused to annoyed. Confused, she followed his gaze to Fabroni and Benito, both stepping up to flank the tutor. She hid her panic. Had they overheard their conversation? Knowing well her cousins’ animosity toward the French, would they banish the tutor from their home? Surely they’d not harm him!

  Fabroni smiled, adding to Alessa’s confusion. “How did she fare?”

  “She is a brilliant student,” the tutor replied.

  “Splendid.” Fabroni’s gaze moved to Benito before it settled on Alessa. “Your father will be pleased.”

  “Sì,” she agreed, still wary.

  “Bah!” Benito expelled forcefully. His face contorted with ill-concealed rage. “She already knows more than a woman should. She does not need to utter the vile sounds of French when she is better suited to lying on her back for any man who will have her.”

  A gasp caught in Alessa’s throat. Benito’s crude words cut deep into her soul and went much deeper than just the hurt he’d caused her at the mercato. Unable to face the tutor, she wondered if he took Benito’s inference to heart.

  “Man has naught to fear from a woman’s knowledge,” the tutor commented.

  Alessa lifted her gaze. He was not smug. On the contrary, he was quite serious.

  “Binding their knowledge will bode ill for society,” he continued, regardless of Benito’s state of fury. Her cousin’s neck flushed bright red.

  “That is an interesting assumption,” Fabroni said. “Mayhap it breeds further discussion. Join us for our afternoon meal and regale us with your…opinions.”

  A groan worked up Alessa’s chest but died in her throat. Just what was Fabroni up to?

  The tutor nodded curtly. She noticed the reluctance in his posture. He knew there was no way out of the coming inquisition.