Dante's Flame

by Jannine Corti-Petska

  A tremor raced through him with the reminder of how soft she was. Although the back of his fingers had barely brushed her skin, the impact had shocked him. He lowered his eyelids to block out the lasting image of her nipples, merely the size of sand pebbles. However small, her breasts were as creamy as fresh milk and no less appealing.

  Dante gnashed his teeth. There was naught about Alessandra he should be attracted to. Not her petite stature and certainly not her youthful appearance. Older women satisfied him more profoundly than a female growing into womanhood. Yet he couldn’t explain why he was deeply drawn to her.

  “When may I be allowed to go home?” She spoke whisper soft.

  “The captain will release you when he has concluded his investigation into Perrin’s death.”

  “What about my cousins?”

  “I will send a message to Fabroni and explain that you have fallen ill and are being cared for.”

  She curled up tighter. A twinge of pity hit Dante hard, yet he wouldn’t allow himself to succumb to her vulnerability. He reclaimed the chair he’d occupied during the night and gazed down at her for a long moment. He knew not what more to say so he remained silent.

  “What ailment has befallen me?”

  “You fainted and hit your head.”

  She touched the tender spot where a bump had formed. “How will I explain my fainting? Fabroni is not so shallow he would believe I fell to the ground for no reason at all.”

  So true. “I will have to think on it.”

  After a brief silence, she spoke again. “I followed him, but he disappeared into the mist.”

  “Perrin?”

  “The musician.”

  Dante’s body tensed. “What musician?”

  “He plays a lyre and sings poetry to me.” She rolled over and sat up. “I saw him many days past when you found me. But he disappeared when I got too close.”

  Dante’s blood ran cold. He hid his unease, but he couldn’t stop from feeling mortified by what she revealed. “The night combined with the mist rolling in from the sea played tricks on your sight. That is all. Faith, next you will weave a tale about ghostly figures haunting Naples.” He laughed it off, but she was having none of his downplay.

  “Do not mock me, signore. I know what I saw.” She struggled to stand. “He beckoned to me on both occasions.”

  Dante forced himself to stay seated when her body swayed. She brought a hand up to her head. “Almighty, what attacked me?”

  “Mayhap a wall when you fell,” he surmised aloud. “You should lie on the bed again.”

  With care, she moved her head to glance at the stack of blankets. “Although I haven’t far to fall, I would agree.”

  “Do you still have no memory of the night past?”

  She eased down and stared into the flames. “I remember the musician. After he disappeared, someone grabbed me from behind.”

  Dante leaned forward. “Did that someone speak to you?”

  Her forehead wrinkled from her concentration. “His breath smelled like days old ale. Indeed, he reeked as if he had taken a bath in it.”

  Perrin enjoyed his ale, all right. “Rest, Alessandra. Your memory will serve you in time.”

  When she lay on her side, facing him, Dante offered a comforting smile, if only to ease her fears. He didn’t want to believe Perrin had accosted her with the intent to rape. Perrin was a gentleman, or so Dante was led to believe.

  Then there was the matter of the musician. That she had seen him twice was more than disturbing. The rumors had persisted since Dante was a child—the musician was the angel of death in the guise of a much beloved poet. Neapolitans knew about the legend, as did Perrin. He had confided in Dante that he’d seen the spirit often in recent weeks. And now Perrin was dead.

  ****

  “Where was it found?” Etienne questioned abrasively when Dante handed over the king’s missive.

  Standing in the hall of Etienne’s quarters, Dante held his ire in check. Etienne’s lingering assumption about Alessandra’s guilt bothered him. “On the ground near the girl and Perrin,” he lied. “The girl said she found it and was returning it to me.”

  “You believe her?”

  Dante nodded.

  Beltane rushed in and immediately threw Dante a hateful glare. “Well, speak man,” the captain snapped.

  Beltane appeared to want privacy. Dante didn’t attempt to leave, and neither did Etienne ask him to. “A message from Luc, captain. He says the girl is—” His mouth contorted unfavorably as he cast another glare Dante’s way.

  The captain grew increasingly impatient. “Speak, man. What has Luc found out?”

  Luc headed the investigation into Perrin’s death. He was an upstanding soldier in the French army, and a man who could be trusted to be fair.

  “The girl could not have… Perrin was killed by another’s hand,” he spat, obviously displeased the blame was lifted from Alessandra.

  Stroking his chin, the captain contemplated the meaning of the news. It came as no surprise to Dante. He maintained all along the girl’s small stature and position to Perrin did not make her a suspect in the murder.

  With a motion of his hand, Etienne dismissed Beltane. The young soldier hesitated. “Have you more to tell?”

  “Many are asking where Perrin has gone. What should I tell them?”

  Etienne sighed with reservation. “I shall speak with them soon.” After Beltane left, the captain shook his head at the mystery. “I know not how to explain Perrin’s death. Was he killed by a Neapolitan? A mere slip of a girl? Or by one of my own men?”

  Chapter Ten

  Back in her cousins’ home, facing Fabroni and Benito, Alessa was grateful the tutor insisted he stand by her side. Benito’s anger-driven demeanor was terribly frightening. He might have hurt her had she been alone.

  “I admit going out after dark was wrong. For that I apologize,” she said. “Signor Santangelo rescued me and saw that no harm came to me while I was in the company of the French.”

  She skirted the actual truth about how she’d been found with a dead soldier. When the tutor explained she’d hit her head when she tripped and fell against a building’s stone wall, it sounded plausible and she left it at that. Thankfully, Fabroni believed the tutor’s story.

  She gripped the front of her cloak to avoid further scrutiny to hide her repaired bodice. Should her cousins discover she’d been accosted and a harlot tended to her, Fabroni would see her married before the morning turned into afternoon.

  “You are safe, and we are grateful for that,’ Fabroni stated. Eerily calm, he pinned the tutor with a look Alessa had trouble reading. “My gratitude for seeing to her safety, Signor Santangelo.”

  The tutor bowed his head in acceptance.

  “Come now.” Fabroni rested a hand to her back. “Go upstairs and see to yourself.”

  “May I have a bath, then?” Perhaps it was wrong to take advantage of her cousin’s hospitality in the company of her tutor, but she desperately needed a bath. She’d been allowed only one since arriving in Naples. Her miserly cousins were as frugal with water as they were with logs for a fire.

  Fabroni’s chest rose raggedly as he held back his displeasure. To her amazement, an improbable source came up with a viable reason for her to bathe.

  “Let her have a bath. She carries the filth of the French on her body,” Benito sneered.

  Alessa took offense. “I beg to differ, Benito. Said as such, you will have your father believing I was touched inappropriately. I assure you, that is not so. The French were a hospitable lot. Do you not agree, Signor Santangelo?”

  The tutor coughed out a reply. “She speaks the truth.”

  Titling her head up, she gave him a perplexed look. He was not convincing at all.

  Fabroni cast doubt on the tutor’s reply, but he didn’t question it and gave his permission for her to bathe. He called out to Attilo. “Help your mother heat up water for Alessandra’s bath.”

  “I thank you, Si
gnor Santangelo,” Alessa purred.

  Discomfort written over his face, he bowed his head and said naught about her flirtatious tone.

  “Mayhap we shall resume my tutoring sessions soon.” She flashed a hopeful pout to her cousin.

  “Mind yourself,” Fabroni chastised. “I’ll not be goaded into giving you what you want.”

  ****

  Sitting alone in the corner of the tavern, Dante grappled with his conscience. The tart knew not what she was doing, how she was toying with danger when she openly flirted. Neither was Alessandra aware of how enticing she was in a man’s eyes. He was positive she thought her flirtatious ways was a game young girls habitually played, even though she was no longer a girl. Regardless of how fragile her body appeared, it was nonetheless ripe for a man’s lustful appetite. For his appetite.

  Bedamned, he’d not fall for the vixen. Now, more than ever, he must be wary of her. She wielded her feminine wiles as a warrior wielded his sword in battle. If he succumbed, it could prove costly for Rene.

  “Squeeze the mug harder and you will crush the pewter,” Etienne remarked on his approach.

  Dante cursed in silence. He was in no mood for company.

  “What angers you?” Etienne sounded amused.

  Dante gave in to his frustration over Alessandra. His plan to use her was turning on him, flowering his guilt. In her physical absence, his mind conjured up images of her, leaving his body tense with need. He thought of her more and more lying upon his bed, naked, and willing to indulge his sexual needs.

  He slammed the mug on the table top. “I am not angry,” he snapped then flinched at the sound of his irate voice echoing in his ears. He’d best tighten a band around his exasperation before it overcame him. He lifted his dented mug high in the air and paid no mind to the woman who replenished the ale. “What say the missive from Rene?”

  “Phillipe of Burgundy has agree to release Rene from prison upon payment of a ransom of four hundred thousand ecus dor.”

  Dante slouched in his chair. Six years past, Rene was captured at the battle of Bulgneville. His prison was naught like the dark and dank, rodent infested prisons for the ordinary. Rene enjoyed all the comforts of a noble and passed his time by painting and writing poetry while his young wife, Isabelle, protected Naples from Alfonso. For one so young, barely twenty and seven, she ruled fairly but with a firm hand, even as she saw to a brood of children in the family castle outside Naples. Dante truly admired her tenacity and fortitude.

  “He is on his way, then?”

  “No,” Etienne replied. “Isabelle will continue in his stead.”

  “What is troubling you then?”

  “I fear Rene cannot retain his hold on Naples. He is much too kind and gentle to fight Alfonso. If it were not for Isabelle…”

  Dante nodded in agreement. Rene’s wife was the backbone of the ruling family. “He will prevail. Isabelle will see to it.”

  “What of the girl?”

  His nerves pulled taut. “What of her?”

  “Her family accepted her into their home after learning she had been—”

  “She may have been accosted, but naught improper took place. There is no shame in what happened to her.”

  Dante’s swift defense of Alessandra was all Etienne needed to hear. “You did not reveal the whole truth, did you?”

  Dante frowned. “You do not know the Valentes. More so, Benito. I fear she is not safe from that whoreson.”

  “And if she is working for Alfonso?”

  He prayed she wasn’t. “I shall tread lightly. On the morrow I am to resume tutoring her.” He had yet to reveal his betrothal to Etienne. Faith, Alessandra was not even aware she could be his bride at a moment’s notice should Fabroni finally become fed up with her antics. “Aside from Benito, I believe I have gained the Valente’s trust.”

  “Take heed, Dante. Alfonso will not dawdle in his quest for Naples once Rene is free. We must work hard to ensure his kingdom is safe from the Spanish.”

  “Oui, Etienne.”

  The serious set of the Frenchman’s mouth should have warned Dante of the unpleasant solicitation about to come.

  “How much of yourself are you willing to trade in the name of Rene?”

  Suspicious, Dante stared intently into the solemn core of Etienne’s eyes. “Need you ask?”

  “No, mon ami. However, you may not cherish what I am about to ask of you.”

  Could it be any worse than what Dante was about to do? Willing to give up his freedom and take a wife for Rene? “Which is?”

  “What say you to making Signorina Podesta your wife?”

  His shock so great, Dante sputtered to find an appropriate reply.

  “Come now,” Etienne badgered, though not ignobly. “Have you not fantasized about the girl? Her spirit alone intrigues you, does it not?”

  Keenly feeling the sting of his own duplicity, Dante came to his feet in a challenging stance. “What you are suggesting is abominable.”

  Etienne rose calmly. “What is this? Are you neglecting your vow to serve Rene?”

  “I will help Rene until I draw my last breath, but I refuse to lure an innocent woman into the center of a political war.” He deserved to be struck down for the miserable lie.

  “You are convinced then, she was not brought to Naples to help Alfonso?”

  Rocking on the balls of his feet, Dante swayed as he tried to untangle the clutter of his situation in his mind. While he cheered his good fortune in finding a connection to the Spanish through Alessandra, he cursed his misfortune. She was a comely wench, and he was unduly attracted to the one woman he should not desire.

  “I told you, I will find out if the Valentes are the main source of money going out to Alfonso. Do not force me into anything more.”

  The chair tipped over in his haste to get away from the captain, whose raised voice carried across the wide tavern. “You will find the girl out and about with Madame Valente.”

  Dante skidded to a stop. He curled and uncurled his fingers to stay his dwindling patience on the topic of Alessandra. Then he marched out of the tavern and did what Etienne knew he would—he went in search of Alessandra.

  ****

  “Why must I go to confession?’ Alessa whined as she and Amalia headed for the church of San Giovanni. They parted briefly around a herd of goats, and when they were side by side again, Alessa pouted.

  “To wash away the sins of the French upon you.”

  “No sins were committed upon me. It was as the tutor related.” She lifted her eyes heavenward, prying to God to forgive her lie. “The French did not touch me.”

  When Amalia’s lips formed a tight bud, Alessa knew no amount of negotiating would help. “Then how do you explain the dismal appearance of your bodice?”

  She had removed her own clothing, declining Amalia’s assistance. She then tossed the dress out the window and watched a mongrel dog carry it off as if he had found a feast to chew on. Amalia could not have known.

  “Mayhap if I serve God from my bedchamber, He will hear my prayers just as well.” The woman’s mouth twisted until Alessa feared it would tie into a knot. “Have I said something wrong?”

  “You always say something wrong. But that will change very soon.”

  An icy chill gave Alessa a shiver. Beneath her turquoise gown her stomach flittered like little faeries in a garden. “Your meaning?”

  “Fabroni has sent another message to your father.”

  A ray of sunshine, at last. “I am going back to Venice?”

  Was that a gloating shine coming from Amalia?

  “Then it is true? I am going home?” Home. Alessa was so giddy she could have twirled her cousin in the light-footed Neapolitan dance.

  “Apparently Fabroni has not informed you as he promised me he would. No, Alessandra. You are to be wed.”

  Alessa’s world turned gray. The town around her went about its normal business, but she saw and heard naught except the brutal beating of her heart. She had taken
Fabroni’s threat to find a husband for her lightly. Never did she truly believe—or want to believe—he would follow through. Even when he had told her he’d found a man to marry her, deep down she thought he was using the threat only to frighten her into behaving.

  It was difficult to swallow past the lump of apprehension and fear in her throat. Numb and sightless, Alessa took small steps away from Amalia. In stunned silence, she shook her head, denying a forthcoming marriage to a man she had never met. She dashed off and, in her haste, failed to notice one of her slippers fell off her foot. Her mind desperately worked on a valid argument against marriage, but her thoughts were askew. Words dissolved into letters with no meaning. Halfway to her cousins’ home, she turned sharply down an alley, running blindly.

  She’d not be able to talk her way out of this dilemma. No amount of discussion would sway Fabroni to change his mind. She was doomed to an unhappy life, unless her mother and father arrived swiftly to stop her cousin’s lunacy.

  Eventually her lungs tightened, painfully hampering her breathing. Yet Alessa could not slow down. She feared if she stopped, Amalia’s disclosure would bear some truth. Running was her only means of releasing her anxieties into the wind.

  Her name echoed off the tall buildings. The voice all too familiar, she chose not to cease her frantic pace and face the tutor. He’d not understand her situation. In fact, he might wholeheartedly agree with Fabroni. After all, she was chasing the other side of marriageable age. She should be grateful a man wanted her for his wife at all.

  “No!” she shouted in denial. She couldn’t, absolutely wouldn’t, marry just any man.

  “Alessandra!” The tutor’s long, urgent strides overtook her in little time. He locked his arm around her waist and hauled her off her feet. Alessa kicked out and clawed his arm.