Servant to the Borgia

by Elizabeth McGlone

  "The Holy Father has his plans for each of his children, and it matters little that our natures conflict with his staging of the pieces on the game board. Do you remember what I wrote to you of my visit to Columba of Riete?"

  "Generalissimo?" she quoted, smiling though a squirm of fear raced through her at the memory of his letter, and the effect it had on him. Whether it had been the words of the holy nun or his time studying away from their father's influence, Cesare had changed during the years in Pisa. The hard, inflexible shell surrounding his heart had gown thicker; he retreated into himself, hiding his nature from the world. The quiet, kind boy that she had known was gone. All that was not clever and fierce was concealed, locked away from view.

  "Yes. In my heart, I know that she spoke truly. Our father has plans for me, but soon, I think, I will find a way to circumvent them. Then I shall climb as high as I may. And those that seek to stop me, or to hurt the ones that I treasure, they will find their fates delivered up to them as though by the hand of God.”

  Repressing a shudder at the coldness in his tone, she took a strand of hair and began tickling his earlobe with it, knowing his sensitivity. "What of our Father’s plans for Juan? He is to be the Generalissimo, not you."

  "Any plans for Juan that do not involve the nearest wine den and whores are destined for failure. In time, Juan will meet his fate." In a smooth motion, he sat up. The folds of his tunic parted, revealing the taut skin of his belly, lightly dusted with hair. A half smile curved his lips, and he reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ears. She shivered at the contact, the warmth of his skin, the faint roughness of his calloused hands. "And what would make my Lucrezia happy? For none of this matters if you are not."

  "Do you truly wish to know?"

  "Of course."

  It was the moment she had sought since coming to Caprarola, though she had scarcely been able to put her scattered thoughts into words, the plan that kept her awake during the night, breathless and afraid, filled with an inexplicable need.

  Longing, desperation tied her tongue into knots. "When I return to Rome…I will shortly be expected to become the true wife to Lord Sforza. After what happened with our f.f.father, even the thought of it fills me with fear such that I want to curl in upon myself and never emerge."

  "Lucrezia..."

  She placed her hands on his lips. "No, let me finish. The thought of another man touching me fills me with fear, though I know it to be my duty."

  His hands were on her back, stroking. The heat of them made her want to press closer to his side, a child looking for comfort. But she was a child no longer.

  "What would you have me do?"

  "I want you to kiss me." He started, and would have moved away, but she placed her hands on his shoulders, holding him in place. "I am afraid, brother. Afraid that when the time comes for me to do my duty, I will shrink from it. Show me the sweetness between a man and a woman. I know that it exists because I have felt it. Show it to me and banish the fear."

  His eyes closed, shielding them, and his chest moved in a sigh. "That is a dangerous game you wish to play, sister."

  "I know." Reaching down, she smoothed back the curls of hair from his forehead. He had always seemed the most perfect of men to her eyes, intelligent and comely, brutal in his treatment of others and yet gentleness itself to her. The strangeness of it struck her, that he would look upon all others in the world with indifference save her.

  "Why have you always treated me with such tenderness, Cesare? Juan, our mother, Papa... I have seen how you are with them, and it is not the same."

  "I must love something."

  "As I love you, more than any other. Is that why you do not wish to do as I ask?"

  "The very reason." He freed himself from the golden trap of her hair and rose to sit beside her, their shoulders almost touching. She reached down and took one of his hands, laying it against her face so that his palm cupped her cheek.

  "You have kissed me half a thousand times or more."

  "There are kisses, sister, and then there are kisses." He leaned in, brushing his lips across her forehead.

  "It is the other sort that I need. Cesare, I beg you, do not let me go to Lord Sforza's bed terrorized by fear."

  Breath mingled; they were so close together that each exhalation brought the flavor of him closer. He smelled of mint and oranges; his eyes were a mirror of her own, the same shape and color, and they looked at her with a heavy-lidded stare that confirmed that he, with his four years of superiority, had experienced a world only imagined and feared in equal measure.

  She bridged the gap, touching her mouth to his. There was the taste, the savor of something sweet on his lips as she brushed back and forth, seeking, looking for something she could not name. Soft, she thought. His lips were soft, not greasy, like the Florentine velvet stroking her skin, and so warm.

  She pulled back, enough so that she could see his face.

  "Are you satisfied?" His words were cold, his eyes anything but. They raged, and color touched his cheeks.

  "No," she answered honestly and bent towards him again. This time she found it, the taste of him, of Cesare, something that she desperately needed to have. But like a heady vintage, it could not be absorbed through closed lips, for she needed to drink him in, a wine flavored with oranges and sunshine. Opening her mouth, she touched her tongue to the crease.

  A low sound rose from deep in his throat, and the tension of his body loosened. The hand on her neck urged her closer until she was pressed against his chest, the strong muscles mashing against her breasts. His tongue met hers, delicately at first, teasing and then tangling. The dance began, the same that they had practiced in their mother's courtyard, advance and retreat, heavy breathing, and a delicious warmth that seemed to race with wildfire strength through her veins.

  Her head fell back and he eased her to the ground, the long grasses cushioning her shoulders. Cesare followed, keeping her pressed to his side. A thousand gentle, delicate kisses were pressed against her lips, worshiping, reverent expressions of devotion interspersed with deep, throbbing kisses that made her blood sing, the feel of his tongue exploring her mouth like honey warmed by the heat of the afternoon.

  Her hands found the laces of his shirt, loosening them, then drawing the voluminous garment over his head. When he would have stopped her, she brushed his lips with her fingers. "I need to feel the sun on your skin."

  The heat of it, dappling through the leaves and the play of his muscles as he held himself aloft. Sweat began to gather in the place where his chest met the low neckline of her gown and his hand, which had rested on the ground at his side, moved to cup her hip.

  The flavor of his kisses changed, urgency replacing the reverence, drawing an echoing emotion from deep inside of her. His hands began to roam, long fingers circling on her hipbone then sliding up to rest on the hollow beneath her breasts.

  He drew back again. In his passion, Cesare was even more beautiful, as vivid as the sun pouring through colored glass, the gold of his eyes scalding and alive. The kisses they had shared were marked on his lips, filling them with color.

  "Are you satisfied?" he asked again.

  "No," she whispered, sinking her nails into his back, drawing him closer.

  She felt the smile through their kiss. It deepened as his hand began to move with aching slowness, sliding over her ribs until he cupped her breast.

  A shiver raced through her, and Cesare drew back.

  "Where did he touch you?"

  Her fingers hovered over the place where his hand rested. "Here. With...his mouth."

  "Do you wish me to do the same?" His voice was hoarse, rasping deep in his throat.

  "Yes."

  His fingers tugged at the low neckline of her gown until only the camicia remained, a thin barrier of linen with an embroidered edge. He untied the laces, parting the two halves, and Lucrezia shivered as a breath of wind touched her exposed nipple, the pink flesh surrounding it puckering into hardness.


  His eyes closed, lashes shadowed on his cheeks; Lucrezia felt a stab of anxiety.

  "They are small, not like Giulia..."

  His mouth cut off her words, stealing her breath. His hand found her nipple, fingers touching the long, pointed peak.

  He tore his mouth away, and Lucrezia would have gasped at the loss except that his lips began a determined track down her neck, pressing hot open kisses along the pulse that beat frantically at the base of her throat.

  The curls of his hair were spreading across her chest so that she could not see his face, only feel the movement as he skimmed down, touching her with the lightest possible caress. He paused, hovering over her while his breath fanned out, warming her, and then she felt it. His tongue, laving the nipple. A shudder ran through her, flaming hot, and her hips lifted, obeying an instinct that she could not name.

  In a single explosive moment, he tore himself away, rising to his feet and then staggering several paces away to stand at the edge of the lake. Her ragged breathing and the wind howling through the grasses were the only sounds, but they thundered in her ears.

  She sat up, resting her weight on her elbows. The sight of her nipple with its ruby tipped peak caught her attention. Reaching up, she brushed her fingers across it, savoring the faint echo of pleasure. Sighing, Lucrezia tied the ends of the camicia together and tugged her bodice back in place.

  "Why?" she asked, leaning her back against the tree.

  "That you would even ask that question..." he shook his head, still not turning to look at her. "Turn your back. I will bathe in the lake before we return."

  Laughter bubbled up inside of her. "The water will be unbearably cold," she giggled.

  "I am aware." His tone was grim.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to protest, to question him further, but instinct held her tongue, and she turned her back, resolutely focusing on the bark of the tree even as she heard the telltale sound of cloth falling to the ground and then a low hiss as he stepped into the icy blue water.

  What does a conqueror wish? She had asked their mother that question months ago, thinking of Lord Sforza although a part of her had known the truth. For her, it had always been Cesare. He was the one that she had imagined when the ladies spoke of kisses and caresses exchanged in dark corners and their blissful anticipation of the marital act. Cesare the beautiful, Cesare the strong and loving who was to her father and mother, dearest companion and friend.

  The answer came to her, delivered in the drawling, world-weary voice of her mother, containing a wealth of wisdom. A conqueror lives for the chase, the hunt.

  She kept her back to him, listening as he splashed deeper, cursing under his breath at the cold.

  "Thank you," she said. "I am no longer afraid."

  "I am glad."

  Turning her head, she saw that he was facing away from her, looking out over the mountains. His skin was a tapestry of colors, pale bronze on his neck and hands, whitening to cream on his back. She crept over to where his garments lay in a pile. She had to bite her lips to keep from giggling, the laughter dancing on the edges of her mouth.

  The jangle of his points brought Cesare's head around. "What are you doing?"

  Lucrezia did not answer, only continued picking up each of his garments, smoothing them over her arm. "Surely you cannot fasten all of these points and laces by yourself?" she asked, genuinely curious. She had never given a thought to the complexities of a man's garments. In all the years of her life, she had never dressed herself, and she thought the same could be said of him.

  "Put them down." Darkness boiled in his voice. The danger she sensed in him, the roiling emotions that bubbled close to the surface, made her pulse beat faster, and her breath come in quick little pants. This was an untamed Cesare, one that she had no knowledge of, just as he had no knowledge of the creature she now was, born so recently of his kiss. Reckless energy sparkled down her veins, driving her on.

  "Or what?" She teased, taking a step back to where the horses grazed. Cesare followed, the water falling away as he stepped forward to reveal the glistening skin of his chest.

  "Lucrezia!" he warned, but before he could utter another word, she turned and fled, the bundle of his garments still clasped in her arms.

  A splashing sounded from behind her, and Lucrezia increased her pace, giggling as she tore through the grass, skirting wide around the tree where they had lain, down towards where the horses stood, watching them with pricked ears.

  She heard the pounding of his steps behind her, the heavy tread as he cleared the distance, long legs easily outpacing her. In a single moment she was captured, strong arms circling her tightly. The chill of his skin bled through her skirt. His chest, where it met her back, felt like marble, a statue holding her close.

  The tunic and hose landed on the ground and Lucrezia twisted, needing, wanting to see. Carved and still, he was exposed to her, for even in his frustration, he would not chain her in place with his strength. She saw him as he truly was, beautiful in face and body but dark and harsh and tormented in his eyes. The longing for him took her breath away.

  "Please," she whispered, bringing her hands to him, drawing him closer. "Please."

  When he kissed her, it was the same, only more, fiercer, his hands raising tongues of fire as he leaned in and worshiped the manner in which she was formed, long and delicate and high breasted, arching like a strung bow beneath his touch. And she explored him, the planes of his chest, the hard ridges of his stomach with the light dusting of hair. Where he had once been cold, he burned, and she burned with him, shuddering to life and then to death in his arms beneath the mountain sky.

  The sun was low on the horizon when sanity returned. Lucrezia shivered, feeling the cold for the first time.

  "We must return soon," he murmured, lips pressed against her temple. "And I will leave on the morrow."

  She nodded, knowing what he intended, the reason why he must leave. Cesare was her protector, shielding her from all that could harm her. Even against himself.

  "Then we must hurry."

  The villa slept as Lucrezia pulled the door open, scanning the darkness ahead. All was quiet in the hours past the rising of the moon, in her chambers and throughout the tower. Her attendants and maids had drunk deeply of the wine she had ordered brought from the kitchens; the sleeping draft Betta had added would ensure an undisturbed night followed by pounding heads in the morning.

  Lucrezia shivered, the stone floor cold against the leather soles of her slippers. Ahead, she could hear the skittering of a mouse, burrowing through the timbers of the stairwell.

  Wax dripped on her fingertips as she descended the stairs, heart beating wildly in her chest.

  The door to his chamber was ahead, wide planks forming a formidable barrier. Lucrezia pushed it open, already knowing what she would find: Cesare sitting alone, slumped back, deep in thought. A chair had been placed in front of the fire, which crackled with a pleasant scent. Fruitwood, she thought. Apple, or perhaps plum. Only the best for the illustrious future cardinal. Micheletto had been sent into town after the meal to prepare for the journey on the morrow, and Cesare valued his solitude too much to allow servants to share his chambers. They were alone.

  He looked up from a study of the wine in the goblet; his face showed neither welcome nor anger, only a resigned sadness. The wine had stained his lips, painting them a deep purple.

  His eyes traveled over her, missing nothing. The single candle held in her hand, her body clad in the thinnest chemise she possessed, the fabric so light and airy that the shadowed outline of her curves could be glimpsed beneath. The unbound hair streaming down in a torrent of curls. This night she was a bride, prepared for her husband.

  "I wondered if you would come."

  "You did not forbid it." Reaching up, she tugged at the laces, allowing the sleeves to settle wide on her shoulders.

  "Would it have mattered?" He set the wine down, a little spilling to the side. His words were slightly slurred, h
azing of the crisp way he customarily spoke.

  "No." She whispered it, letting her eyes caress him, memorizing the way that he looked, body relaxed back in the chair, hair a messy tangle as though he had run his fingers through it again and again as he drank.

  She pulled at the linen gathered at her hips, and the chemise fell, displaying all of her in a single moment. She felt no urge to cover herself with her hands, to cling to false notions of modesty. She was beautiful; the hot flare of his eyes banished all feelings of shame or sin.

  "A woman has one gift that is hers alone. I choose to give it to you." Lucrezia said and blew out the candle.

  Betta came awake to see a man was standing over her, tall body outlined against the dawn sky.

  She sat up, a shriek caught in her throat that died as she recognized the Archbishop. Blinking rapidly, she cleared the sleep from her eyes and then scooted off the pallet she had made across the door, barring entrance to Lucrezia's chamber. Her careful watch of the night before had been in vain. The door was already opened, and blonde hair was spread out upon the pillow of the bed. The Archbishop had carried Lucrezia and placed her there, stepping so silently that she had not woken.

  And that must mean... Betta ducked her head and peeked at Borgia from beneath her eyelashes. His face was...pale, set. Although he looked at the girl now sleeping on the bed, his face did not contain any of the rueful tenderness she was accustomed to seeing or the strange, layered emotions that had grown between them during the sojourn at Caprarola. He grieved, and there was exhaustion written on his face in the dark circles and pale skin.

  Betta stood up, noting that although she was a woman of fair height, the top of her head only came to the button centered over the archbishop’s heart.

  "I... she said that you would be here, waiting."