Her father sat at his table beneath the shade of the trees, his books piled around him, his white hair too long and flying around his head in the breeze. He had forgotten his hat again. Mena called to him from the doorway, but he didn’t look up. He was lost in his own world.
It was as if nothing at all had changed while she was gone. Yet nothing was the same.
She looked back down at her sketchbook. Hades sat on his throne, surrounded by his dark courtiers at a banquet in the Underworld. He watched their revels with a solemn, unreadable expression on his austerely elegant features. He was part of that world of shadows, yet he was completely alone.
The grey-and-black lines of the drawing seemed to come alive in her mind, a swirl of colours, sudden bolts of light amid the shadows. She had learned much from her too-brief hours in Signor Botticelli’s studio. A scene like this could not be one of realism, but of sensuality, emotion, ethereal fancy. It was all about Hades and his deep, profound loneliness. His beauty.
Hades. Isabella felt the chilly touch of sadness that came to her so often now. It had been weeks since she and Orlando parted in Fiencosole, yet still she saw his face so clearly in her mind, the deep sadness in his eyes. At night, she lay awake in the moonlight and remembered how it felt when he touched her. How for those moments when they were together everything seemed so perfect.
And how horribly it had all been shattered.
‘Signorina Isabella!’ Veronica called. ‘Mena says you must come to supper now.’
‘I will be there anon,’ Isabella answered. Life there at her father’s house did seem to go on as usual, with the farm and the meals and the washing, the books and the letters. She tried to go on, too, tried to pretend she was the same Isabella who had once left for Florence. But sometimes she thought she would crack with the effort, like one of the ancient statues in the garden.
Would she ever see Orlando again? Or were they fated to only have those few moments in Florence? That one night? A glimpse of love and beauty that could not be, because the world around them was so very ugly.
At least she had her art. She could see Orlando again there and he would never change. He was there, in his eternal Underworld, and in her dreams at night.
She carefully closed her sketchbook and followed Veronica back to the house. The maids had left off their gossiping at the windows and were laying out the plates for supper on a table beneath the trees. Her father was still bent over his books and he would be until Mena forced him to eat.
But he looked up as Isabella kissed his cheek and he frowned. ‘You look tired, my dearest,’ he said. ‘I fear your time in Florence has not done you any good at all.’
Isabella smiled at him and carefully smoothed his hair. She couldn’t tell her father that her sleepless nights were because she could not stop thinking of Orlando. No one here knew of him and she had no words to describe him anyway.
Mena bustled out of the house, a tureen of steaming soup in her hands. She had asked nothing since Isabella sent her home from Florence so suddenly, but she always watched her carefully. Always brought her cups of spiced wine at night.
‘She is home now, signor, where she can rest, and that is all that matters. We will soon fatten her up, too,’ Mena said.
Isabella laughed and turned to help her father put away his books. Suddenly, far down the overgrown path at the garden gate, she glimpsed a tall, dark-clad figure.
She froze, sure she was dreaming yet again. She blinked hard and saw he was still there.
‘Isabella!’ she heard her father call, but she could hardly hear him. She walked slowly down the path, afraid if she moved too fast he would vanish. But soon she found herself running, faster and faster.
She’d thought she would never see him again and yet there he was. Orlando. Like a dream dropped suddenly into her real life.
‘Isabella,’ he said as she stumbled to a halt. His voice sounded strange, hoarse and cracked. He held out his hand to her and it trembled.
‘Orlando, how did you find me?’ she cried. ‘What are you doing here...?’ Then she really looked at him and her throat went dry.
His doublet was unlaced, his white linen shirt damp with the sweat that cast a faint gleam over his skin. Under the sun-bronze, he was alarmingly pale. His hair was brushed back from his brow in tangled waves. His eyes glittered.
‘You shouldn’t come closer,’ he said. ‘’Tis a fever.’
‘Nay!’ Isabella whispered, all her joy at seeing him again vanishing into a cold fear. How could she lose him now?
He swayed and she ran forward to take him in her arms as he fell. She gently cradled his head in her lap, aghast as she studied his beautiful face. He was so very warm against her.
‘What happened?’ she said. She gently smoothed his hair back.
‘I left Maria at an abbey nearby. We were to leave for Venice—but I had to see you again,’ he gasped. ‘To explain—why I left you. I never meant...’
‘Shh, be quiet now,’ Isabella urged him. Her throat was tight with fear. ‘I know why we had to part, too. I was so wrong. I...’
His shaking hand reached up and gently touched her cheek. ‘Isabella. I should have told you the moment we met. But I wanted to hold on to you just a little longer. I was selfish.’
His hand fell away and his eyes closed.
‘Orlando,’ she called. But he didn’t say anything else.
‘Isabella, what is this?’ she heard Mena say. Isabella looked up at her, confused and very, very frightened.
‘’Tis Orlando,’ she said, numb. ‘He’s come back to me. He’s ill.’
‘Well, we cannot leave him here, can we, lamb? You carry his shoulders and I will get his feet. Veronica can run into the village for the physician.’
Something in Mena’s crisp, matter-of-fact tone shook Isabella out of her cold fear. She nodded and hefted Orlando up in her arms.
Even though he was tall, with such lean, hard muscles, they managed to lift him up between them and carried him down the path towards the house.
‘What is happening?’ Isabella’s father said, obviously bewildered, but they went past him and into the cool, dim quiet of the house. They laid him on a bench near the stairs and Mena hurried off, muttering about fetching water and blankets.
Isabella leaned over Orlando, examining his ashen face, his pale lips. He was so quiet now, but his brow was creased, his jaw clenched as if he fought fierce battles in his fever dreams.
Her beloved. Isabella couldn’t stop staring at him, willing him to live. If she had not been so foolish, so naive in the ways of the world...
But she could not regret the past now. She could only keep him with her now.
She took his hand tightly in hers, raising his cold fingers to her lips. He tasted of the faint salt of sweat, but underneath there was still that dark, familiar sweetness of her Orlando, the essence she remembered so well from their precious night together. The passionate, vivid, burningly alive man who had been in her bed. That had caressed her, brought her such delight. She couldn’t lose him now.
‘Don’t leave me again, Orlando,’ she whispered. ‘Please, please, stay with me. Let us find our way back to each other.’
His eyes fluttered open. For an instant, they were clouded, their sea-green colour darkened. But then they focused on her and they sharpened. His hand tightened on hers.
‘Isabella?’ he said hoarsely.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ she answered, trying to smile. ‘You are in my home now. You will be well soon.’
He shook his head. ‘You’re not a dream.’
‘Nay, I am not a dream. I’m real. This is real.’
‘No, you hate me now.’ Suddenly his eyes closed again and his back arched, as if in a spasm of pain.
‘Here,’ Mena said, kneeling beside Isabella. A maidservant hov
ered behind her with a basin of steaming water, and Mena held a small bottle of a dark elixir. She unstoppered it. ‘Hold his head.’
As Isabella cradled him against her, Mena carefully counted drops into his mouth. He grew quiet again and Mena gently bathed his face with the warm water. ‘We will soon have him well, my lamb. You will see.’
Something in Mena’s quiet voice steadied Isabella, but still she was afraid. Was it all much too late?
* * *
‘Orlando! Orlando, wake up now, please.’
Orlando pried open his gritty eyes, his hand instinctively reaching for his dagger. The last thing he remembered was leaving Maria at the abbey outside Isabella’s village while he went to find Isabella’s house, to beg her forgiveness. The realization that he could not be without her, even as he knew he was not good for her. He had come near her house and then the damnable weakness, the heat, overcame him...
‘Orlando, look at me!’ a desperate voice cried and he felt a cool touch on his cheek.
Isabella’s face swam into view above him, a hazy corona of light around her. Her eyes looked red-rimmed and exhausted, his black hair loose. But her smile was beautiful as she caressed his face.
Was she part of his fever dream, or had he truly found her? He dared not hope.
‘Am I dead?’ he said, his throat dry and aching.
Her reluctant smile widened. ‘You cannot be, for I am no angel. You are in my father’s house. Do you remember coming here?’
He nodded. He did remember the surge of hope in knowing she was near again. And here she was. He could feel her hand on his skin, smell her perfume. Her eyes held no hatred now as they looked down at him.
Slowly, he became aware of other things. He lay on a comfortable bed, with clean sheets and feather pillows. Above him was a green-velvet canopy and candlelight cast strange shadows on the embroidered patterns. A window was open, letting in a warm summer breeze that smelled of sweet flowers. There was a feeling of profound safety, or peace, there, one he hadn’t known in a very long time.
And it was all because of the woman who held his hand now. His rare jewel.
He clutched at her hand, feeling her fingers curl around his. He never wanted to lose that again, if he could only persuade her to stay with him.
‘Is anyone else ill here?’ he managed to ask.
She shook her head. ‘Only you. Mena and I have been looking after you and now thankfully your fever has quite broken.’
She eased her hand from his and reached for a basin of water on the table beside the bed. She soaked a cloth in it and gently bathed his face in its lavender-scented coolness.
‘Have you forgiven my sins?’ he murmured. ‘That was why I sought out this place, to beg you to forgive me. I found I could not leave until I did.’
Her hand grew slower and a frown flickered over her face. ‘You did what you had to for that poor child and for her mother. My cousin did a cruel thing and now he has paid for it. But so has his sister, who was as innocent as your Maria Lorenza. I cannot live my life in that way any longer. My taste of it in Florence has sickened me.’
‘Isabella...’ Orlando began, but the deep sadness of her face stopped his words. He hardly knew what he could say to make things better anyway.
‘You should rest,’ she said, her voice soft and so, so sad. He would do anything at all to take that sadness away from her, for ever.
But then she smiled and he glimpsed the wide-eyed innocence that had so drawn him to her when he first glimpsed her in Florence.
‘I don’t want to rest,’ he said. ‘I feared we would never be together again. I just want to look at you.’
Her smile widened. ‘And I want you to be well again. We have so much to do...’
‘Such as this?’ He could no longer resist. He reached up and threaded his fingers in her black, silken hair to tug her down closer to him. He claimed her lips in a hard, frantic kiss, a kiss he poured all his dreams into. She tasted cool and sweet. She tasted of Isabella. Of life and light.
For an instant, she stiffened as if she would draw away, but then she melted into him. She moaned softly, and kissed him back, just as he had dreamed she would.
It was like coming home at last.
‘Lie down here beside me.’
Isabella smiled at Orlando’s words and gently stretched out beside him in the blankets. His arms came around her, and for the first time in so many weeks she felt safe. Things felt right at long last.
She knew the world was still out there. The ugliness she had glimpsed in Florence. But now all that seemed so far away. Orlando was here with her, healthy and whole, and they could refashion the future together. It was hazy and mysterious, yet somehow, in the midst of it all, they had found each other. For that one perfect moment, it was all that mattered.
She studied his face, every inch of it, greedily. She had thought of him every day since she returned home, gone over every word they once shared, every touch and kiss. Now he was really here, with her again.
His own stare roved hungrily over her face, as if he had missed her too. What had happened when they were apart? Had he really missed her, thought of her?
The thought made something crack inside of her heart and all the longing, all the fear, all the love, flew free. She pressed one swift, soft kiss to his lips, then another and another, teasing him until he half laughed, half groaned and pulled her even closer against him. So close nothing could come between them at all.
‘Orlando,’ she whispered. ‘Are you well enough? Should we...?’
In answer, he moaned against her lips and deepened the kiss, his tongue lightly seeking hers, and Isabella was lost in him all over again. The way it was in Florence, the hot need that always rose in her when he touched her, surrounded them all over again like a wall of flame that shut out the rest of the world. She wanted only to be this close to him again, always. To be part of him and make him part of her.
She had questioned, worried, wondered for so long. Now she wanted only to be with Orlando again, to feel as only he could make her feel. To know there was hope in the future when they were together, that it was not a dream.
Orlando’s lips slid away from hers and he pressed tiny, fleeting kisses to her cheek, the line of her jaw, that oh-so-sensitive spot just below her ear. The spot that had always made her feel so wild when he kissed it. She shivered at the warm rush of his breath over her skin.
She laughed breathlessly and wrapped her arms around his shoulders to try and hold herself straight. She feared she would fall down and down into love with him again, and be lost for good this time.
‘Isabella,’ he whispered hoarsely, pressing his lips to her hair, ‘I need you so much. When I thought I had lost you, I went mad.’
She rested her cheek on the curve of his neck and inhaled deeply of the wonderful, familiar scent of his skin. This had always been the one true thing between them, the way their bodies knew one another, craved one another. Said things they never could in words.
And she knew in that moment she had to let go of her fears. Silently, she took his hand in hers again and pressed a soft kiss to his callused palm. She only wanted to feel the way Orlando could make her feel. She wanted to feel close to him again.
She lay back on the cushions and looked at him in the shadows. His eyes glowed and his face looked taut and intent with the desire she could tell he tried to hold back. She raised her arms up to him in a silent gesture of welcome.
‘Isabella—are you sure?’ he said roughly.
‘Shh, Orlando,’ she whispered. She wanted no words now. Words only shattered the spell she wanted to weave around them. To try to repair some of the damage they’d done in the name of revenge and false honour. Their love was the only honour.
She reached up and drew the pins from her hair, letting it coil around her shoulders. He
’d always liked her hair, and she watched his eyes darken as he studied her every movement. Feeling bolder, she shook her hair down her back and slowly unlaced the neckline of her gown. The cool air brushed over her bared shoulders.
‘Isabella!’ he moaned, rubbing his hand over his eyes. ‘What are you thinking now?’
‘Please, Orlando,’ she said. She swallowed her fear and smiled up at him. ‘I want you. Don’t you want me?’
‘Of course I do. I’ve always wanted you more than anything in the world. But I—’
Whatever he wanted to say was lost when he caught her up in his arms and kissed her, passionately, deeply, nothing held back any longer.
Isabella felt as if her soul caught fire. She had to be closer, closer. Her touch, light, trembling, learned his body all over again. The smooth, damp heat of his skin, the light, coarse hair dusted over his chest, the tight muscles of his stomach, his lean hips.
The hard ridge of his erection, straining against the cloth of the sheet that lay over him. Oh, yes—she remembered that very well. As they kissed, falling down into the humid heat of need, she felt his hands sliding over her shoulders, releasing the fastenings of her gown and drawing it away.
She kicked the skirt down and laughed as they slid together, skin to skin, the silken length of her hair twirling around them to bind them together. He pressed his open, hot breath to her neck and all thought vanished into pure sensation.
Isabella closed her eyes and let herself just feel. Feel his hand on her hip, his mouth on the curve of her breast. She ran her hands over his strong shoulders, the arc of his back, and couldn’t believe they were here, together like this again. Her legs parted as she felt the weight of his body lower against her.
He reached between them to touch her again and then at last he pressed against her, thrusting inside. It had been so long since they were together that at first it stung a bit, but that was nothing to the wonderful sensation of being joined with him again.
She arched up into him, wrapping her arms and legs around him to hold him with her.
Betrayed by His Kiss Page 19
