Betrayed by His Kiss

by Amanda McCabe

  He frowned. ‘Long, aye. I know it well. My true home is in the hills, at my family’s villa, but I will happily be your guide to more beauties of Florence today, if you will let me.’

  Isabella laughed. She knew very well she shouldn’t follow such a rogue anywhere. Country maid she might be; fool she hoped she was not. She had just arrived in the city and was far from finding her footing there. She felt dizzy, almost drunk with the beauty and activity of the city, with all the colours and scents and noises. And, yes, dizzy with the intriguing mysteries she saw in this man’s eyes. She couldn’t let herself be swept away by it.

  But surely just one little, short walk couldn’t hurt? It was such a beautiful day and this man intrigued her so very much.

  ‘I can walk with you now, if you are quite sure, signor,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Yet I must demand one thing first.’

  He tilted back his head to study her, a small frown touching the edges of his beautiful mouth. ‘A demand, signorina?’

  His wariness made her laugh even more. Surely ladies had demanded much of him. She was surprised he wasn’t constantly followed by an army of them.

  ‘I must ask your name, signor,’ she said. ‘I cannot go on calling you...’ She bit her lip to hold inside that last word before it was too late. Before he could see her ridiculous fantasies.

  His brow arched. ‘What do you call me, then?’

  Isabella shook her head. She couldn’t tell him she thought of him as Hades, the darkly brooding god of the Underworld. It might make him think she wanted to play his Persephone and be carried off by him to his shadowy kingdom.

  She felt her cheeks turn warm and drew the fluttering edge of the sheer veil on her cap closer around her face. ‘I am an artist of sorts, signor. I confess that when I meet new people, I begin to envision them as characters in paintings. That’s all. It’s silly.’

  He laughed and his handsome face glowed. She longed to hear him laugh more. ‘I am intrigued,’ he said. More customers crowded into the small booth and he gently laid his hand at the small of her back to escort her into the sunlit jostle of the market. Though the touch was light as a butterfly’s wing and just as fleeting, she could feel the heat of it through the wool and linen of her gown.

  It made her shiver.

  ‘What would you paint me as, then?’ he said. He stayed close to her as they made their way through the crowd. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, warm and amber-gold.

  Isabella shrugged. Indeed, a painting had begun to form in her mind, a work of shadows and flames, a jewelled Underworld throne, a proffered pomegranate of temptation held out to a pale maiden. An elaborate scene beyond her skill level. But if she could keep visiting Botticelli’s studio, watch how he worked...

  And not be distracted by a man like the one who stood with her now. That would be difficult.

  ‘Perhaps a court jester,’ she said lightly, dodging around two small boys chasing a stray cat. ‘I do hear the Medici and the Pazzi like to keep such around their palazzi, to juggle and cavort around their banquet tables. If I were to paint a supper party...’ She shrugged.

  He laughed again and she felt strangely proud to have invoked his mirth. She had a feeling it was quite rare. ‘Is that what you think of me? That I am a jester?’

  Isabella shielded her eyes from the sun, and pretended to carefully study his face, though in truth she already knew it in too much detail. The sharp angles of his cheekbone and jaw, the straight nose, as if it was carved from marble. The tumble of his dark hair over his brow. ‘I cannot know what to think, signor, when I do not even know your true name.’

  His laughter faded, but a smile remained. ‘I am called Orlando.’

  Only Orlando? She was sure he must bear some grand surname. His clothes, though dark in colour, were of the finest materials and perfectly cut, and he walked with a confidence that could only be born of careful breeding. But just Orlando was all she needed now. She was enjoying their imaginary game of ‘who are you’ too much to let it go just yet.

  ‘And I am Isabella,’ she said, making a small curtsy. ‘What shall you show me of this fair city first, Orlando?’

  ‘Santa Maria del Fiore, of course! Come with me.’

  Isabella laughed as he took her hand and drew her with him out of the market. He seemed as charmingly eager as a boy to show her his city and she found herself caught up in his enthusiasm. They left the bustle and crowds of the mercato behind, turning on to quieter lanes, narrow and winding. Orlando offered her his arm and she took it, drawing her veil closer in case anyone saw them.

  But no one paid them any attention, everyone was too busy hurrying on their own errands. Orlando led her through the city and she loved seeing it through his eyes. The sounds and smells, the colours, were all so very vivid, so alive, and she longed to capture it all in paint.

  To either side of them on the winding lanes rose the palaces of the great families. Like her cousins’ house, they presented thick, blank, fortress-like walls to the world, hiding treasures inside. Grille-screened balconies overhung the walkways, and occasionally Isabella glimpsed a pale face peering out, a flutter of bright silks.

  But above all she was aware of the man at her side. The tense, lean strength of his arm under her hand, the heat of his body. The deep sound of his voice as he pointed out landmarks to her. The way he leaned close to speak to her; the clean, crisp, lemony scent of his cologne. She never wanted this walk, this perfect day, to end.

  They passed the Medici palazzo, the largest house in the city, and Isabella heard the toll of the church bells growing louder. Orlando guided her on to the Via de Martelli and the great cathedral rose before them, its famous rose-red dome soaring to the sky.

  Isabella went still, awestruck by its beauty. The elaborately patterned marble walls and carved doors, giving way to the stark, impossible simplicity of the dome.

  She sensed Orlando smiling down at her and she pinched her lips together to keep from gaping like a simple country girl.

  Orlando laughed. ‘It is astonishing, is it not? That such beauty could be right here before us.’

  Isabella could only nod. ‘I have seen sketches of it before, but could hardly warrant it was real.’

  ‘Come, you must see inside.’

  Isabella followed him through the doors and for a moment the darkness after the bright light of day blinded her. She blinked and saw it was not so dark after all. Light flickered from hundreds of candles and filtered down from dozens of stained-glass windows. Patterns of jewel-like greens, reds, blues and violets fell across the mosaic patterns of the stone floor, making them shimmer as if they were alive.

  She shivered as the cool air swept along the arches. Orlando drew her closer to his side and they drifted along the length of the nave.

  Isabella studied the images of the saints who peered down at them from the walls. She wondered what they thought about all they saw, all they heard. The space was so tall, so vast, that it seemed almost empty, yet in reality crowds of people drifted past.

  At last they reached the end of the nave and the space opened up into the soaring light-filled space of the dome. It was like nothing she had ever seen, as if at any moment they would be raised up into heaven itself. And Orlando had given it to her.

  ‘Would you like to see a secret space?’ he whispered to her, a hint of laughter in his voice.

  She laughed and looked up into his eyes. They seemed to smile down at her, at odds with his Underworld demeanour. What a fascinating puzzle he was. ‘Could there be anything better than this?’

  ‘Come with me.’ He took her hand and led her past the high altar, where several ladies knelt in prayer, their satin skirts spread around them. Mystified, intrigued, Isabella followed him to a twisting, narrow flight of stairs. They hurried up it, their footsteps muffled, and she found herself high above the crowd in an em
pty choir loft.

  Isabella leaned on the gilded railing and stared down at the crowds swirling along the aisles, vanishing in and out of the shadows of the different family chapels. From so high, their voices were mere whispers. Like the rush of the waters of the Arno beneath the bridges. Here, the rest of the world was far away and she was closed in by the hush and surrounded by the otherworldly beauty of the frescoes over her head.

  Yet she wasn’t alone. Orlando stood beside her, so close his velvet sleeve almost brushed hers as he braced his hands on the railing. She was achingly aware of his nearness, of the warmth of his body, the spicy scent of him.

  He was like no one else she’d ever known. He was so charming as he led her through the city, showing her all its glories as if they belonged only to him. He had made her laugh and forget about how very new and strange life was now. How far away her home was.

  But here, in the incense-wreathed hush of the church, she remembered why she first thought of him as a dark lord. He stared down at the bright world below, so solemn and watchful, his thoughts seeming so far away. His lean, strong body was still, tense, as if he waited for the smallest sign of danger to attack. Like a sleek black panther she had seen once at a market, rippling, prowling, all caged danger.

  It made her shiver again.

  He glanced down at her and for an instant he looked surprised, as if he had forgotten she was there. Then he smiled, a brilliant, blinding grin, and leaned even closer to her.

  ‘Well, Isabella?’ he said lightly. ‘What do you think of Florence’s jewel?’

  ‘I think it is surpassing beautiful, of course,’ she answered slowly. ‘The paintings, the glass, the marble—nothing could be more grand. Yet I think the fields and trees of my father’s land are just as lovely.’

  ‘I see something before me even more lovely than anything I could imagine,’ he said roughly.

  Isabella stared up at him, caught by his extraordinary eyes. She swayed towards him and his arms came around her, holding her close. Suddenly it felt as if there was only the two of them in the world. Suddenly she felt completely safe.

  She slid her arms around his waist and closed her eyes. He pressed a gentle kiss to her brow and she smiled. He laughed softly and his lips touched her temple, her cheek, leaving a ribbon of fire wherever his lips brushed her skin. She shivered with the desire that swept through her, making her very toes tingle.

  At last, at last, his lips touched hers. Once, twice, and again, deeper, harder. He groaned against her mouth and the kiss caught flame.

  He dragged her even closer to his hard, tall body and they fit together perfectly, as if meant to be just like that. Just together.

  Isabella went up on her toes, her mouth opening beneath his. She had only been kissed a few times before, country lads, and it felt nothing at all like this. So wondrous and overwhelming. His tongue, light and skilful, touched the tip of hers enticingly before sweeping deeper.

  She twined her arms around his neck, holding him tightly as if that dream could vanish. But he seemed to have no intention of leaving her. He pulled her up to him and the kiss turned desperate, heated and blurry, full of a need she didn’t even know was in her. Her whole body felt heavy and hot, narrowed to only that perfect touch of his lips.

  A burst of sound echoing from the sanctuary below was the only thing that shattered the spell of the kiss. Isabella fell backwards and tried to catch her breath as she stared up at him. He smiled at her, but he also seemed to have a hard time breathing. His eyes were dark as a winter forest.

  ‘I...I should go,’ she whispered. She glanced at the large clock above the cathedral doors and saw that the hour did indeed grow late. But if she had her wish, she would never leave this choir loft.

  He nodded. ‘Let me see you towards your home,’ he said and held out his hand to her. His voice sounded roughened and she was glad he seemed affected by their kiss, too. She wouldn’t want to be alone in this—whatever it was.

  Isabella took Orlando’s hand as he led her down the last of the steep stone steps. He lifted her off her feet on the last rise, spinning her in a half circle as she laughed giddily. The whole day felt like a glorious dream!

  ‘You should always laugh like that, fairest Isabella,’ he said. He stared down into her eyes, slowly sliding her to her feet. ‘There is little such perfect music in this city.’

  ‘Indeed?’ she said. She had to hold tight to his lean shoulders to keep from falling. ‘But Florence seems merry. My cousin says there are dances and banquets all the time.’

  He drew her closer for an instant—a moment that seemed to last for an eternity. As she looked up into his startling sea-green eyes, she felt as if she had fallen deep into a warm summer pool. It pulled her down and down, until she couldn’t break free. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to be free.

  In those eyes, in that one unguarded instant, she read so many things. Sadness, hope, disbelief. All the things she felt herself.

  ‘Don’t be fooled by masks, Isabella,’ he whispered close to her ear. His warm breath brushed softly against her skin, making her tremble. ‘You are an artist. Surely you know better than most what lies beneath such glitter. Silks and velvets are a thin concealment.’

  His long, elegant hands tightened on her arms, drawing her up on her toes. She braced her palms on his chest and felt the warm, quick rhythm of his heartbeat under the velvet and leather of his doublet.

  Images flashed through her mind, like bursts of sun showers. Caterina’s pale, beautiful face against the shimmering tapestries of her chamber. Giuliano de Medici and his handsome friends jostling together. Botticelli’s painting, all elegance and grace and light. Matteo’s hearty laughter. The soaring dome high over her head, soaring to heaven. Orlando’s lips against hers. Which of them were false? What should she trust, what should she beware of?

  She suddenly felt overwhelmed, as if the summer pool had turned icy and was dragging her down. She swayed dizzily.

  A burst of giggles somewhere in the sanctuary, echoing off the marble, brought her to her senses. She wasn’t trapped in some dizzying dream, she was in the real, sunlit world. She could burst free at any moment.

  She only feared she did not quite want to be free.

  She stepped back, letting his hands fall away from her. She laughed and spun around, letting the shadows and light of the vast church wash over her.

  ‘What riddles!’ she said. ‘Does everyone here speak thus? It’s a miracle that conversations don’t last for days and days.’

  ‘Isabella...’ Orlando began, his tone tense.

  ‘Isabella! Is that you?’ another voice rang out, loud and hearty, full of laughter. Her cousin Matteo’s voice.

  She whirled around again to see Matteo striding towards her, his gold-and-violet striped cloak swirling around him. He waved to her. When she turned back around, Orlando was nowhere to be seen.

  Bewildered, Isabella scanned the crowds around her. She saw friends of Caterina’s from Botticelli’s studio, women in scarlet and black and silver, men in plumed caps, priests in their dark hassocks. But no Orlando. He had vanished as if he’d never been there at all.

  A strange, cold loneliness swept over her. She shook it away as her cousin came closer, but still she couldn’t help but long for Orlando again.

  Matteo took her hands in his and drew her close to kiss her cheeks. He smelled different from Orlando, richer, more flowery, tinged with wine. His friends tumbled behind him like a pack of the jesters Isabella had teased Orlando about.

  ‘Are you feeling pious today, cousin?’ Matteo said teasingly.

  ‘I was told I should see the beauties of Florence,’ she answered, struggling to make herself feel normal, to be in the present moment. ‘Is the dome not the greatest beauty of all?’

  A frown shadowed his golden face. ‘You shouldn’t be wandering the
city alone, cousin,’ he said warningly. ‘It is often unsafe.’

  ‘I...’ Isabella glanced over her shoulder, only to find Orlando had indeed melted away. Had she dreamed the whole day?

  ‘I had one of Caterina’s pages with me, but he wanted to play dice in the marketplace while I prayed,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I saw no harm in it. This is a church, is it not?’

  ‘He will lose his position, then,’ Matteo said.

  ‘Surely going to church cannot be all that perilous?’ Isabella said. Perilous only to her feelings, perhaps. For those moments with Orlando had her head spinning. He was what she had feared for so long—wanting to be with someone too much. And now he was gone.

  Matteo’s gaze scanned the marble walls and gilded monuments like a hunter waiting for a boar, his eyes narrowed. Isabella tried to see what he saw, but she did not have a Florentine vision. She saw only three ladies in dark purple and deep crimson satin, their golden hair wreathed with the fluttering, sheer silk of their veils as they giggled together. A cardinal in his red damask robes, as dignified as a ship in sail while petitioners scurried behind him. A cluster of men in the blue-and-gold livery of the Pazzi family, laughing raucously.

  ‘You never know what may lurk nearby, my fair cousin,’ Matteo said. ‘This can be a jealous city and we are a favoured family, friends with the Medici. It is best to be always wary. Come, I will escort you home. Surely Caterina will be looking for you.’

  Isabella accepted her cousin’s offered arm. Yet even as she smiled at his pleasantries, she couldn’t help but cast one more glance back at the shadows of the church. Her Hades was not there at all.

  * * *

  Matteo Strozzi.

  Orlando watched through the twists and turns of the crowd as Isabella took Strozzi’s arm and walked with him out of the church. His bravo friends tumbled after them, giving Orlando only a glimpse of her dark-blue cloak, the simple twisted braids of her black hair under her sheer veil. Strozzi bent his head to say something to her, making her smile. Damn him.