Betrayed by His Kiss

by Amanda McCabe

  Strozzi. Orlando stiffened, all fanciful, flirtatious thoughts swept away by a sudden chill. ‘Cousin to Matteo Strozzi.’

  Botticelli, who knew nothing of what had happened in Orlando’s past with the Strozzi family, shrugged. ‘She must be, though I care naught for Signor Matteo. Unlike his lovely sister, he has no care for culture or beauty. Let us hope Signorina Spinoli resembles her cousin Caterina.’

  Orlando knew that the girl could have nothing to do with Strozzi’s foul deeds. She had only just come to Florence and her eyes shimmered with her innocence. The innocence that had led her into such trouble when he first encountered her. Yet she was related to Matteo, she was his family, and in Florence that made her Orlando’s enemy.

  Yet he still wanted to see her, Isabella, again. Far more than he dared admit, even to himself. He was damned no matter what he did.

  Chapter Four

  The cloth over the painting was about to be drawn back. Isabella could see the edge of the linen flutter, as enticing as the jewelled edge of a woman’s veil, and her heart pounded in anticipation. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Something momentous was about to be revealed. It felt as if she stood poised before the throne of heaven, all truths about to be revealed, all beauties and joys. Soon she would possess them herself, and her wild thoughts would be over.

  The cloth gusted as if in a great winter breeze, showing her a glimpse of bright colours—yellow, green, white, vivid blue, hot red. Then the curtain fell still again. Why was it all suddenly so far away? It had been so close! She might have reached out and snatched the veil away once and for all. But now the floor under her feet, cold, grey-tinged marble, stretched out under her, moving her away from what she sought so desperately.

  Isabella lifted the heavy hem of her skirts, running, slipping, only to find that her prize was farther away than ever. Her shoes stuck to the marble, a hobble at her ankles. Her gown, a fine, heavy robe of silver brocade, grew even weightier.

  All around her rose a chorus of whispers. Soft at first, enticing as a summer breeze, they grew louder and louder until they roared and screamed. Tearing at her ears. But she could hear no words, no sense. Men’s voices, women’s, the wail of an infant.

  She tried to cover her ears, but she couldn’t lift her hands. The veiled painting was a mere speck at the end of the ice chamber.

  Suddenly her skirts freed her and she ran, ran as fast as she could from the whispers and the roaring wind. It caught on the linen and blew it away from the painting at last.

  ‘No!’ she screamed. She stumbled and fell, but still she couldn’t look away from what was revealed. Not the beauty she expected, but a Minotaur, half bull, half man, hulking, black, with glowing red eyes. As Isabella watched, horrified, one clawed paw swooped out and the Minotaur was charging towards her across the room, trailing flames in its wake.

  But its face—its face was beautiful. The face of her unknown Hades...

  ‘Nay!’ Isabella cried, sitting straight up in her borrowed bed. For an instant, she didn’t know where she was, what was happening to her. That clawed hand still reached for her. She shuddered deeply, her whole body shaking, as she rubbed her cold hands over her eyes.

  She drew in a deep breath, then another, until the buzzing whispers in her head slowed, stilled, and she became aware of her true surroundings again.

  She wasn’t in some ice chamber. There were no flames surrounding her. She was in her luxurious new chamber, tucked in the middle of a palatial bed, the hangings of dark-blue brocade drawn around her. The covers were tossed and twisted, the bolsters buried under the tangle of linen and velvet. She had had a bad dream again, like the dreams that had plagued her when she was a child and had missed her mother. What could have brought it on now?

  She laughed, still shaking. It was only a dream, probably brought on by what happened when she arrived in Florence. Those terrifying moments before Hades had come to her rescue—only to send her spinning into more confusion when he appeared again. She had vowed never to love anyone as her father had loved her mother. It only led to grief. Grief and bad dreams.

  ‘Signorina?’ someone called, making Isabella jump, startled. But it was only Mena, drawing back the bed curtains. Sturdy, steady Mena, already dressed for the day in her grey gown and white cap. The curtains were looped back from the windows, letting in the greyish-pink light of the Florentine predawn.

  ‘Signorina, are you well?’ Mena said, her brow creased with worry. ‘You cried out. Did you have another bad dream? Like when you were a child?’

  She did not want to admit the truth to Mena that her childhood dreams had returned. ‘It’s always difficult to adjust to a new bed, I suppose. I’ll be more restful tonight. How was your own sleep, Mena?’

  Mena gave a disdainful snort as she straightened the twisted bedclothes. ‘These Florentine servants! How they chatter, like magpies. I could hardly find a moment’s peace.’

  ‘Maybe you would rather sleep in here. There’s a truckle bed...’

  ‘And be awakened at all hours by your dreams? I would rather not, Signorina Isabella.’ She plumped the bolsters. ‘What was it this time?’

  Isabella turned away. She didn’t want to talk about it. The cold marble room, the whispers, the monster with her handsome Hades’s face. It all seemed so silly now, yet it had been so frightening. ‘I told you, Mena. Just this strange bed.’

  ‘Humph.’ Mena didn’t seem convinced, but she said nothing more. She laid a tray over Isabella’s lap. ‘Eat your bread and ale. The food in this house is so rich, so full of spices. You need something simple and nourishing.’

  Isabella laughed. Mena really was dear to her. ‘I know you think we should have stayed at home, Mena, but I promise you all will be well here, once we’re accustomed to it.’

  ‘My lamb.’ Mena gently smoothed the tangles of Isabella’s hair, as she had when Isabella was a mere child and she’d had a bad dream. ‘I know there was nothing for you at your father’s house. But I can’t help but fear for you here. These people...’

  Isabella shivered again as she thought of her mysterious Hades. ‘What do you mean?’

  Mena shook her head. ‘Servants always talk too much, my lamb. It is just gossip. But you should always be careful. This isn’t a simple place. There are so many feuds and romances, so many....’

  Feuds and romances, alliances, secrets. ‘Like a maze.’

  Mena frowned. ‘A maze?’

  ‘I won’t get lost, Mena,’ Isabella said, thinking of the Minotaur monster. ‘I have a ball of twine.’

  ‘Oh, lamb!’ Mena said with a laugh. ‘The things you say. You are your father’s daughter.’

  ‘Am I?’ Everyone had always said she looked like her lost mother. It was something she clung to, but also feared.

  ‘Eat your bread. You need your strength. You are too thin.’

  ‘’Tis fashionable to be thin here.’ Isabella chewed a nibble of bread as she watched Mena fold clothes into the carved chest. As she reached for her goblet of ale, the door opened and a maidservant bustled in with another borrowed gown over her arm.

  ‘Good morning, signorina,’ she said, bobbing a curtsy. ‘I have a message from Signorina Caterina.’

  ‘I hope my cousin is well this morning,’ Isabella said, finishing her bread.

  ‘Very well, signorina, but she begs your pardon. She has a headache and cannot yet rise from her bed. She will see you at dinner this evening. Signor Matteo has already gone for the day.’

  Isabella frowned as she remembered her cousin’s frail look, her tired eyes before she retired after they returned from Signor Botticelli’s. ‘Should I not go to her?’

  The maid shook her head, the gown she held rustling. ‘These headaches usually pass. The mistress said you should not postpone any of your pleasures today. She will be well later. And she sends t
his gown for you. The cloth merchants and dressmakers will wait on you tomorrow.’

  ‘Grazie. Tell Caterina I will see her soon,’ Isabella said.

  Mena took the garments from the girl and shooed her out the door, closing it behind her.

  ‘Well, Mena,’ Isabella murmured. ‘What do you think of all this?’

  Mena smoothed out the new gown, an elaborate creation of blue-and-cream taffeta stripes with gold braid and slashed sleeves. ‘I think you should be careful not to get into trouble, with such gowns and a whole day to yourself.’

  Isabella laughed. She knew of only one thing that drove away doubts and fears—work. ‘How well you know me. I do have an errand in mind for today...’

  Chapter Five

  ‘Pesce! Pesce! The freshest fish in all Florence, only caught this very morning...’

  ‘Ribbons, signorina! The finest silk ribbons in the mercato. A scarlet one, mayhap, for your beautiful black hair?’

  ‘Nay, signorina, do not listen to him! These are the finest ribbons to be had. Blue, green, threads of gold...’

  Isabella laughed and shook her head at the cries of the duelling merchants. They had seemed everywhere in the city ever since she arrived. She waved them off and continued on her way, alone. She had left Caterina’s bored pageboy, who was meant to be her escort, watching his friends play at dice so she could go about her errand unencumbered. She couldn’t be distracted now by baubles and ornaments, even though she was coming to see those would have to be a concern of hers here in Florence. Today she had a more important goal in mind and little time for it. Soon Caterina would leave her chamber and be asking for her.

  Isabella thought about her fitful sleep last night. Her dream that had been interrupted by visions of her handsome Hades. She wondered now who he was, where he was and if she would soon see him again. And she didn’t want to be so distracted. Not when romance seemed so fraught with hidden meanings and perils here in the city.

  The Mercato Vecchio was crowded with drapers’ tables spread with bolts of bright silks; bakers with glistening loaves of fresh bread and sugar-dusted cakes; pyramids of fresh fruits and vegetables newly brought in from the countryside. Booksellers, candle makers, purveyors of second-hand clothes, all added their voices to the clamour, with the counter-notes of maidservants and footmen. Everything was fresh and new so early in the morning.

  Isabella dodged her way through the bright maze, her goal now in sight. A canopied booth tucked behind the fluttering colours of a feather merchant. The crowded counter seemed to beckon her.

  Mayhap she didn’t know the labyrinthine ways of Florence. Perhaps she couldn’t yet understand the heavy, secret yearnings Hades had awakened in her when he smiled at her. But this she knew. This made her feel strong again.

  As she drew closer, she glimpsed piles of brushes in all sizes, charcoal sticks in their boxes. Clear glass jars held chunks of minerals and swirls of dye. Everything an artist could want, all the things she found so hard to obtain in the country, all here in one place.

  She saw there were a few other patrons in the booth already, young artists’ apprentices with stained smocks and charcoaled hands, and the proprietor was yet too busy to pay her any mind. She felt the light weight of her purse at her belt and knew she had to carefully consider her purchases today.

  She inspected a solution of crushed-insect pigments, which could create rich, dark colours. Dark enough for her Hades’s hair, a glossy sable blackness against Persephone’s silvery brightness as he caught her in his arms...

  Nay. She shook her head, trying to banish the thought of him again. They had only met for a few moments, spoken a handful of words. Why should she think of him now?

  Yet she feared she knew why she thought of him. Because he held a dangerous fascination within him she couldn’t seem to forget.

  Isabella ran her fingertips over the softness of a brush’s bristles. As she turned to look at poplar canvas frames, she suddenly glimpsed a figure moving through the crowd just beyond the booth’s cloth walls. A flash of darkness amid the lightness of the market. She gasped, sure she was imagining things, that her thoughts had summoned him.

  Surely her Hades was not here in the market, not now.

  She hardly dared to breathe as she tiptoed to the edge of the booth. The glimpse was gone. If he had been there at all, he was swallowed up by the crowds now. Yet she still felt so strange, as if a warmth danced over her skin and the light of the day around her was grown even more vivid.

  She went up on tiptoe, her gaze quickly scanning the walkways. She knew she should not be looking. Even if he was there, she should hide in the booth until he was gone. She didn’t know him. Florentine ladies were not meant to converse with strange men. She couldn’t be distracted now, not from her art or her family.

  Yet she felt a cold, sinking disappointment that he was gone so fast. If he had ever been there at all and was not just her fanciful imagination.

  ‘Signora, how may I assist you today?’ a voice suddenly said behind her.

  Startled, Isabella spun around to find the proprietor watching her. He was a short, rotund, balding man in a russet doublet and apron stained with ochre, a figure who should surely be jolly and laughing. Yet he watched her warily and Isabella was again reminded she was a stranger there.

  ‘Signora?’ he asked again. ‘Are you sent on an errand for someone?’

  ‘I...’ Isabella began.

  ‘The lady is surely on an errand for herself, Signor Rastrelli,’ someone else said, in a deep, velvet-smooth voice lightly touched with a hint of some secret amusement. A voice she had thought of far too often after last night.

  ‘For she is an artist herself, a friend of Signor Botticelli and kinswoman to Caterina Strozzi,’ the voice went on.

  Isabella glanced back over her shoulder to see that it was her Hades. He had disappeared from the crowd only to suddenly reappear before her, as if he was lord of the Underworld in truth.

  Her heart pounded a little faster to see his eyes watching her, such a clear, pale sea-green colour that seemed to see so much more than she wanted to reveal. She smiled tentatively, but was glad she didn’t yet need to speak. Her throat felt too tight.

  ‘Signora?’ the merchant said, his wariness fading into hope for a new customer. ‘You are a student of the great Botticelli?’

  Isabella glanced up at Hades from under her lashes. He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Nay, not a student. Merely an amateur who enjoys sketching. But I do require some supplies.’

  ‘Some scarlet pigment, perhaps, signora?’ the merchant said, all eagerness now. ‘Or mayhap lapis, for a Madonna’s robe? I just had a delivery this morning. The very best.’

  ‘Oh,’ Isabella whispered as he held out a tiny box that held a block of that most precious of brilliant blues. She dared not even touch it. Somehow she could feel Hades watching her and it made her cheeks burn too warm. She wanted to turn away, to hide her face from him so he couldn’t read her thoughts.

  But she wouldn’t give him the amusement of making her feel like a silly country maiden. She carefully folded her hands at her waist and held her head high.

  ‘Just some charcoal sticks today, signor,’ she said. ‘And mayhap those two brushes here. I will order more later when I know my requirements.’

  As the merchant wrapped up her purchases, Isabella wandered away among the other wares. She couldn’t lose herself in them as she had before, for she was all too aware of the man behind her.

  ‘You will study with Botticelli while you are here?’ he asked.

  Isabella shook her head. ‘I shall be far too busy with my cousin to spend much time painting.’

  ‘Caterina Strozzi?’ he said. There was a strange taut thread to his tone.

  She glanced back at him, startled, and he looked back at her with his handsome, chise
lled face completely expressionless. ‘You know her?’

  He gave her a quick smile and any tension was dissipated. ‘Everyone in Florence knows of the beautiful Caterina. I am surprised she can bear to have her sun eclipsed by such a lovely cousin. If she was wise, she would have kept you far away.’

  Isabella laughed at his blatant flattery. ‘I do have a looking glass, signor, so I can detect falseness in such pretty words. You must read your Petrarch and find more convincing language.’

  He laughed too, ruefully. He shook his head and the sunlight glinted on his glossy dark hair. ‘I am no poet, true. I can only speak as I see. Your cousin is truly a famous Florentine beauty, but beauty such as hers soon fades away.’ He reached out and gently, softly, stroked one fingertip along a strand of loose hair that had worked its way free of her netted caul. ‘The beauty of the night only increases as it conceals.’

  Isabella shivered under his touch. She wanted to arch under it, like a cat, but she slid away. She wanted to see what he would do next, this most unpredictable man.

  And she wanted to believe his words, far more than she should.

  The merchant came back with her purchases, giving her a welcome distraction. But Hades stayed with her as she left the booth and she was fully conscious of him there by her side.

  The market was not as crowded now, the stalls’ wares diminished as the sun blazed higher in the sky. Caterina’s pageboy was nowhere to be seen.

  And Isabella feared she was quite turned around. She couldn’t remember which way she should go.

  He seemed to sense her uncertainty. ‘Shall I escort you home, signorina? The streets of Florence can be most baffling for those who don’t know it, remember.’

  Isabella laughed. Yes, she did want him to go with her, though at the same time she wanted to be free of the confusion that came over her when he was near. ‘You will save me again? They are baffling, yes, and can be frightening. But also most beautiful, I think.’ She shielded her eyes from the warm golden light and studied the red, sloping tiles of the tall roofs against the soft white of the walls and the bright blue of the sky. Brunelleschi’s dome could be glimpsed in the distance, an elaborate pattern of dark red and mellow yellow. ‘Have you lived here long, then, signor, to know these streets?’