Dante's Flame

by Jannine Corti-Petska

  Innocently, she asked, “What are we to do on this night? Mayhap share tankards of ale?”

  He closed his eyes, and his chest moved jaggedly, as if he were striving for a much-needed breath. She studied the firm set of his lips. Those lips set her blood on fire each time they kissed. What more could they do? Her own breathing elevated. The more she imagined the many ways her husband’s lips could pleasure her, the higher rose her body heat.

  “Almighty!” she yelped and darted off the bed.

  Dante stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. Her mouth quivered into a smile, a half-hearted attempt, for she couldn’t stop the throbbing between her legs.

  “I thought something crawled on me,” she lied. That something was Dante. Oh Lord, deliver my mind from its desirous wanderings. Kisses were one thing, but the illicit images she conjured up were entirely another matter. “What say you to that ale?”

  He gave her a wary look. “Will you stay in this room while I fetch the ale?”

  “I shall.” She didn’t know why, but his distrusting expression disturbed her. “I will stay…truly.”

  After he left, she strolled around the room, a little ashamed for perusing another family’s private quarters. The merchant and his family lived modestly before the French invaded Naples. Most of the linens were tattered and repaired.

  A leather-bound book sitting upon a table caught her eye. Its richness was out of place among the poor belongings of the proprietor. Upon closer look, Alessa gasped in shock.

  “My journal. That lying cur!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dante dispatched a soldier to stand guard outside his room, another to watch the main door, and three more to keep an eye on the windows. The little vixen would not escape him again.

  In the tavern, he stared into his ale, contemplating if he should return to his quarters and Alessandra, or if he should drink the night away. He felt as miserable as any man could, more so because his body begged him to partake of his wedding night. But his mind reminded him of all the reasons he shouldn’t.

  “Damn this infernal warring.”

  Etienne sat across the table, his mood pensive. It suited Dante fine; he wanted no part of superficial conversation. He preferred to brood in private over his dilemma. Would that he could turn back the week, he would have soundly declined Fabroni’s offer of Alessandra’s hand in marriage. He should have found another way to befriend the Valentes, perhaps through his continued tutoring of the wench. Alas, mistakes were made, and now he was forced to live with his rash judgment.

  Across the room, a young boy entered. Dante narrowed his eyes on the lad dressed in tight hose, short overpants and a wide doublet. The garments were ill-fitted and lumpy. His appearance struck a nerve of discord with Dante.

  Etienne noticed the waif. “See you what I see?”

  “I do,” Dante grumbled. “How the devil did she escape five soldiers?”

  The Frenchman shook his head in wonder. “Mayhap she—” His thought stumbled when Dante shot him a threatening glance.

  Alessandra would never promise her body for freedom. The thought left an ill taste in his mouth and his stomach churning. He’d soon enough learn how she escaped the soldiers, but first he’d make sport of her.

  “Ragazzo!” he hailed. The boy looked his way, horrified by the sound of his voice.

  His wife dragged her feet as she approached. She averted her eyes and pulled the cap she wore lower over her forehead. That she continually set herself up for danger made Dante furious. Yet he couldn’t help but grin at her audacity.

  “Join us ragazzo.” The firmness of his request gave her no other choice. He kicked out a chair and watched her sit, much too demurely for a boy. “Have you lost your way?”

  She shook her head, refusing to lift it.

  “Then what are you doing in this tavern?”

  Her voice cracked when she purposely lowered it. “I was curious.”

  “Sì, I believe that.”

  Even though her head snapped up at his playful sarcasm, she made certain to shield her face. He noticed the dirt smudges on her cheeks, a likely disguise to hide her fair skin. He commented about it to Etienne, and they shared a chuckle.

  “I do not envy you, mon ami. Taming her will require much patience. Are you up for the task?”

  “Time will tell,” Dante replied.

  “What say he?” Alessandra demanded.

  Dante’s smile alternated between amusement and irritation. “He said I am rude, for I have not ordered you a drink.”

  “It is not necessary,” she said in haste.

  “Oh, but it is.” He called out to Gloria for another round of ale.

  Dante tried to figure out his tenacious wife. Did she truly believe a disguise would diminish her feminine features and body? As much as he disliked taking advantage of a woman, there was only one cure for Alessandra.

  Gloria carried over the tankards. Her brows angled downward, and she leaned in for a closer view of the boy. Her plump breasts fell forward, barely concealed behind the leather ties. “Think you he is a mite young to be drinking with you?”

  Dante smirked. “I think it is time for the boy to become a man. After he drinks his weight in ale, I shall find him a wench to hasten his coming into manhood.”

  Gloria’s jaw dropped open. But it was Alessandra’s convulsive coughing that fed Dante’s booming laughter. He explained to a puzzled Etienne.

  “I know of no other course to take with her.” Reverting back to Italian, Dante lifted the mug and shoved it under his wife’s nose. “Drink up, ragazzo.”

  She leaned away. “I—I am not thirsty.”

  “I believe you are.” Dante pressed the pewter to her lips with a challenge. “You are not afraid of becoming a man, are you?”

  Her spine aligned with the chair back, and she sealed her lips to stop a drop of ale from slipping in. He’d not force her, but he was not about to let her off easily, either.

  “Then I shall find you that wench I promised.”

  “No!” Her voice shrill, she corrected it and spoke in as deep a tone as she could muster. “Mayhap one drink.”

  Her hands shook as she brought the tankard up to her lips. She watched him over its rim. He’d wager she was thinking up ways to make his life miserable. Truly, he doubted if it could get any worse than it already was.

  “Drink up, boy,” he encouraged.

  Her petite size should hold down a full tankard before her head became light. He ordered her a second and stared in awe when she drank it down as well. By the third drink, she swayed in her chair. Still, she guzzled the ale like a sailor who’d been denied spirits for months.

  “She is a good sport,” Etienne commented with an appreciative chuckle. “Mayhap now is the time to ease up.”

  The captain was right. Come morning, Alessandra’s head would sit like a heavy boulder upon her small shoulders, and, no doubt, her body would rebel.

  “Have you had enough, boy?”

  She gave him a lopsided smile. When she attempted to slap her hand on the table, she missed and tumbled from her seat. He resisted the urge to assist her, forcing his backside to remain in his chair. Both hands clutching his tankard, Dante bit back a remorseful grin. He hated getting her drunk, but Alessandra learned her lessons the hard way.

  Climbing back onto her seat, she started to tip sideways again. Etienne was half out of his chair before Dante held out a staying hand. “Let her be.”

  Etienne frowned and returned to his seat. “I do not envy you come morning when she is awake and suffering unjustly. Think you she will forgive what you are doing?

  “I would not beg forgiveness from her, not when she is as stubborn and defiant as an old farm mule when it comes to obeying me.”

  “I do believe…my thirst has been…satisfied,” she slurred. “I should like to…find my bed.”

  “What about the wench I promised you?”

  “Wench?” She smiled lazily. “I prefer— Almighty!” She fell o
ff her chair once again.

  When she didn’t get up, Dante leaned over to find her slumped to the floor, fast asleep. He heaved a deep sigh and glanced at Etienne.” “Now is the time to ease up.”

  He effortlessly hoisted Alessandra over his shoulder, her head and arms dangling down his back. Thankfully her cap remained intact, covering her wealth of hair. Many of the soldiers eyed him speculatively.

  The men he’d asked to stand watch at his quarters stared in shocked disbelief. Clearly none understood how the wench escaped them. Dante dismissed the Frenchmen without reprimand and carried Alessandra up to his room. He set her down gently upon the bed and slipped off the large boy’s shoes she wore. Studying her from head to toe, he shook his head, wondering what he was to do with her.

  For now, he attempted to make her as comfortable as he could. He untied the waist of the short breeches and tugged them down her hips, discovering the reason she was lumpy. She had tucked her tunic within the shorts. After he undressed her down to her chemise, Dante fetched a basin with water and diligently washed the soil from her face.

  The wench’s curves were subtle but by no means immature. Her tiny waist, slim hips and shapely legs whetted his appetite. Even her compact breasts tempted him sorely. He was beside himself, not knowing what about her made him crave her so.

  Her glowing cheeks and pale hair gave her an angelic appearance in repose. So sweet and innocent. But an angel did not tempt a man’s physical needs and patience.

  She stirred, muttering. Dante leaned closer. “A gentleman does not read a lady’s journal,” she whispered in a soft, sleepy voice.

  A smile rippled across his lips. “I will have you know I did not read a word of it.”

  He kissed her hot cheek. Likely the ale heated her body. Her arms came up unexpectedly and wrapped his neck. Dante tried to pry himself free. She held on as if her life was in the balance. Her strength amazed him. She drew him downward and lifted her shoulders off the bed to meet him halfway. The moment their lips touched, the wall surrounding his fortitude crumbled. Her kisses intoxicated like a powerful drug, and his resistance dwindled a little more.

  “Alessandra, you know not what you are doing.”

  The pain in his voice extended down his body. She made it difficult for him to resist. He might have succumbed if she was awake and capable of making the decision to have him with a clear head. But he’d not allow it now, knowing the ale was behind her actions.

  Pressing her shoulders back to the mattress, he attempted to extricate himself from her fierce clutch. She tugged him closer. Holding back was absolute torture. He stirred in a heartbeat and ached from the hard proclamation of his ardor pushing against his hose.

  Alas, he managed to withdraw. “Alessandra,” he whispered gruffly, passion claiming his voice. “No, bella mia. We cannot do this.”

  “You do not enjoy kissing me?”

  Her innocent query seeped into his soul. “Kissing, sì. Anything more, I cannot allow.”

  Damn him for not turning away from the kissable pout on her lips. While his mind told him no, his body refused to oblige. He gathered her in his arms and lay beside her, seizing her mouth like a warrior plundering a cache of wealth. The wench matched his intensity, dangerously hastening his need to possess her fully.

  Dante released her and sat on his knees. He cradled her foot in one hand and pressed his lips to her slim ankle while skimming his fingers along her calf. Her skin was pure silk and her legs so very shapely. Following his course with feathery kisses, his excitement grew. The instant his fingers stroked the softness of her inner thigh, her gasp collided with his moan and filled the room.

  He gripped a fistful of her chemise and shoved it up her hips, exposing her womanhood. Pride swelled in his chest at the knowledge his wife came to him a virgin. With each kiss taking him closer to her coveted core, Dante knew it would take a force of nature to stop him now.

  Or a ruthless attack of conscience.

  He sat away and filled his lungs with gulps of air to steady his rampaging senses. He raked his hair away from his forehead, all the while chastising his stupidity in silence. Appalled with his behavior, he dashed off the bed. At the window, he adjusted his bulge and shuddered from his sensitivity. He cast a feeble glance at the woman lying in deep slumber, her lower body still exposed. Dante groaned and snapped his eyes back to the window. He’d return to the tavern if he could trust Alessandra. She might not be in any condition to leave the room now, but he’d learned not to misjudge what she was capable of accomplishing.

  He walked over to the door. Pressing his back against it, he slid down. She’d have to move him to get out, which was highly unlikely.

  ****

  A pressing pain settled in Alessa’s lower body. She had to relieve herself in the worst way. She feared if she moved, she’d wet the bed. Her eyes barely open, she was duly puzzled by the bit of haze greeting her. And what in God’s name laid atop her, the pressure threatening to crush her head? Each time she moved her gaze to the sunlight seeping in through the window shutters, the discomfort grew worse. Her temples pounded relentlessly. When she tried to swallow, she thought she’d choke from the drought in her mouth and throat.

  Dio, has the musician succeeded in taking me to the other side?

  She moaned and clutched her head between both hands to stop the incessant throbbing.

  “Are you feeling like you have been dragged over the cobblestone behind a fast horse?”

  Fearing her head would surely cave in, she didn’t respond to Dante’s accurate inquiry. Instead, she attempted to focus on him and found him sitting on the floor, leaning his back against the door. Oh Lord, her stomach was on fire.

  “Do you need the chamber pot?” he asked with concern.

  Sì, but I cannot move.

  “Alessandra?”

  I said I do. Did I not?

  He got to his feet, groaning when he straightened his back. “The next time you overimbibe, I shall see to it that you have the floor.”

  Overimbibe? He confused her all the more. She wished he’d make sense.

  He reached under the bed and pulled out an old but decent chamber pot. “Give me your hand. I will help you up.”

  She moved conservatively. Her head was about to tear asunder. “No, I cannot.”

  He persisted. “I will help you.”

  Surely he did not mean to help her sit on the chamber pot. It mattered not how badly she had to go. She’d not suffer such humiliation. “I will do it myself.”

  “Do not be a fool, Alessandra. You are in no condition to do anything for yourself.”

  She feebly slapped his hand away. “Leave.”

  His heavy sigh was filled with frustration. “You have naught to be ashamed over. You are my wife, and I am obligated to help you when there is no other who is better suited.”

  Mortified, she balked when he held her hand and pulled her forward. “I’ll not go until you leave.” She took care to whisper and not to use too many words. The mere act of speaking caused her head to vibrate violently.

  “Do not be stubborn, Alessandra. Stand up and let me help you.”

  Her protests impotent, she let him guide her to stand. She swayed and suddenly clutched her stomach. “I do not feel well.”

  Dante’s reaction was too slow, and she vomited all over him. Beside herself, Alessa begged to crawl under the bed and die. There was one thing saving her from complete disgrace—she didn’t piss down her legs.

  Chapter Twenty

  After Dante returned her to the castle, he changed his garments and rode off in a hurry. Few words passed between them since she ungraciously emptied her stomach down the front of his clothes. Perhaps she deserved his anger for her unladylike and disgraceful behavior, but she’d not let him off so lightly. After all, he had been in possession of her journal, even though he’d claimed it was still with Fabroni. Neither would she forgive him for purposely forcing her to drink overmuch, knowing the consequences awaiting her the next morning.
Well, perhaps forcing her to drink wasn’t entirely true. She had been the one who disobeyed his order to stay put. Still, he didn’t have to amuse himself with the threat of finding her a whore, which was indisputably the reason she guzzled three tankards of ail.

  By mid-afternoon Alessa’s stomach settled down and her head was no longer a heavy burden. With Agata’s help, she bathed and donned one of her less elegant tunics, wishing to be unencumbered after the dreadful morning she suffered through.

  She tucked her journal away in a safe place and ventured downstairs in search of food and drink. Her mouth was devilishly dry, the taste on her tongue unpleasant. When she found Agata in the kitchen preparing the evening meal, the girl offered a discreet smile.

  “You are well at last, my lady.” She bowed her head.

  “Must I remind you that I am not your lady? If you cannot remember to call me Alessa, then I shall call you servant. You are Agata, not servant.”

  Alessa grinned at Agata’s tentative smile.

  “Your kindness is generous. From now forward, I shall call you by your given name.”

  “Good.” Alessa inhaled the different smells, grateful none tested her recovering stomach. She peeked under a cloth covering two loaves of warm bread. “Will my husband be home for our meal?”

  “So he said.”

  In a large pot over the fire, a mixture of meat and vegetables boiled. Alessa inhaled and closed her eyes to savor the aroma. “I am so hungry, I could eat a farmer’s cow.”

  “What say you to a barrel of ale?”

  She spun around, wary of the amusement overlaying Dante’s face. Faith, she thought he’d carry this morn’s anger for days. She distrusted his amiable mood.

  “Mayhap a gentleman does not remind a lady of her indiscretions,” Dante stated. “Alas, I am not married to an ordinary lady, am I, bella mia?”

  “Do not mock my curious nature. My father often said it was a sign of intelligence.” Until her curiosity got her into situations from which he had to rescue her.

  “And a means by which you forsake sound advice from your husband.”