“I detect a lack of affection.” Cesare smiled. “Your service with Andreas’s condotti was not to your liking?”
Damari swiftly hid the bitterness festering within him. Borgia’s eyes were too sharp and he would use any knowledge with lethal skill. “Lionello did not like my methods when I served under him after his father died. He thought me fit to be only a common soldier for the rest of my life. He was wrong. I have known from childhood that I was destined for great things.”
“Certainly a mistake in judgment. You are definitely not common.” Borgia added, “Though I understand your birth is not of the highest.”
Typical of Borgia, Damari thought: a pat and then a sharp jab of the spurs. He quickly smothered the fury surging through him and said, “A man is what he makes himself, Your Magnificence. Look at what you’ve become since you shrugged off your cardinal’s cape. With the Wind Dancer in your hands nothing would be beyond your reach. If His Holiness won’t give you the armies you need for conquest, then take the statue to France. Louis likes you well enough. Use the statue to turn his favor into armies to strike at Spain or Florence or Rome.”
“Rome?” Borgia’s gaze narrowed on Damari’s face. “You speak treason. You cannot believe I would attack the papal states and my own father?”
“Yes, if it meant ruling a kingdom as vast as Charlemagne’s.”
A frown twisted Cesare’s face. “You go too far, Damari.”
“Men like us can never go too far, my lord. It’s beyond the realm of possibility.”
Borgia gazed at him a moment and then began to laugh again. “You’re right, Damari. There are no limits for a man with the stomach to do anything he must to seize what he wants.” He stood up and adjusted the chain bearing the bejeweled insignia of the Order of St. Michael that hung low on his chest. The jewels were set off to great advantage by the black velvet of his jerkin. “I will consider your terms for the Wind Dancer.”
Damari rose to his feet. “Do not consider too long.”
“By God, you’re bold.” Borgia’s smile faded. “Don’t make the mistake of taking the Wind Dancer to another buyer, Damari. It would not be wise.”
Damari bowed. “When may I expect to hear from you?”
“Soon. I must write my father for his views on acquiring the Wind Dancer. Who knows? He may not be as mad to have it as you seem to think.”
“Perhaps.” Damari changed the subject. “Will you sup with me and then try out a little Turkish servant girl I acquired recently? She’s very beautiful and has many skills.”
“I think not.” Borgia started to don the black velvet mask he was seldom seen without in public these days. He paused, a smile twisting his lips as he looked down at the mask in his hands. “Perhaps we’re not as alike as I thought, Damari. You are not as vain as I. Our faces are both pitted and far from pretty, but you go uncovered into the world.”
“I’m accustomed to my scars, since I had the pox when I was a small child.”
“I have the pox still. The French pox.” Borgia suddenly threw back his head and laughed. “And I’d wager the little Sicilian wench who gave it to me was far more captivating than the Turkish girl you so kindly offered. The bitch was almost worth it.”
“You might say that there was a bitch connected with my pox as well, my lord,” Damari said. “So you can see our afflictions make us truly brothers in adversity. Are you sure you won’t stay and try Zaria? She’s only fourteen and ripe as a plum fresh from the tree.”
“Your little beauties have no spirit and often bear marks that spoil their comeliness. I’ll find a woman more to my liking elsewhere.” Borgia slipped the mask over his face and started for the door, his form supple, manly, and full of grace. “You should learn to practice restraint.”
“Why?” Damari smiled. “Have we not just agreed that men such as we should not be bound by limits? Excess can be very exhilarating.”
“You clearly find it so.” Borgia paused at the door. “Remember, you will do nothing until you hear from me. Buona sera, Damari.”
Politeness called for Damari to accompany Borgia to the front entrance, but he had already decided not to accord him that courtesy. Borgia must be made to regard him as an equal from this day forward, not just a lackey trailing at his heels. “Buona sera, my lord.”
Borgia hesitated and then closed the door behind him with a sharp click.
Damari smiled with supreme satisfaction as he turned and walked across the loggia to gaze out at the night sky. All was going extraordinarily well. Borgia wanted the statue and would crave it even more when Pope Alexander fired him with his own enthusiasm. Perhaps it would be possible to gouge even more than a dukedom from the pope. What a triumvirate the three of them would make! No army or country would be able to withstand them. Of course, a triumvirate could not last forever, and one man always emerged the leader in such an arrangement. Why should it not be he? As he had told Borgia, he had known all his life he had a great destiny. How far he had come already! He possessed a fine palazzo, this small but elegant house in Pisa, and a storehouse of treasures he’d secreted from the pope’s greedy hands.
And now he had the Wind Dancer.
“My lord, a messenger from Florence begs to see you.”
Damari turned to frown at the lackey standing at the door of the loggia. “By what name?”
“Tommaso Santini.”
“I know no Santini.”
“He said to tell you the message was from Guido Caprino.”
“Caprino,” Damari murmured. A sudden memory of soft white skin and frightened blue eyes wavered before him. Laurette. The thought of the whore sent a surge of heat to harden his loins. Perhaps Caprino had another choice bit of merchandise to offer him.
“Send Santini in. I’ll see what he has to say.”
“I’ve sent the other whores on into the garden,” Marco whispered as soon as Lion and Sanchia reached the gates. “This is Maria. She says Rodrigo has come to the village and used her before. I thought he might more easily be distracted by someone he knew.”
The dark-haired woman leaning against the gates smiled confidently. “For enough gold I could distract Satan himself, and Rodrigo has always found me pleasing.” She held up the jug of wine she was carrying. “And this will do no harm.”
“Make sure he believes you to be Venus incarnate. Your task is to keep him from paying any attention to Sanchia, to keep him so busy she’ll be able to leave with no suspicion.” Lion turned to Sanchia. “You know where you’re to go?”
“The south side of the maze.” Sanchia moistened her lips with her tongue as she peered through the tall iron gates. She could clearly discern the tall holly hedge looming fortresslike in the distance. She hadn’t expected the maze to be so large, stretching at least three hundred feet in length and ninety feet in width, the hedges themselves rising to a height of more than nine feet. “I suppose I should go now.” She cast a glance at Lion but his expression was impassive in the moonlight. She opened the gate. “You’ll be here? You won’t leave me?”
“We’ll be here.” Lion’s hand clenched on one of the iron bars of the gate.
She drew a deep breath and then turned and followed Maria in the direction of the maze.
Lion stood watching her until she disappeared beyond the corner of shrubbery.
“She has courage,” Marco said, his gaze following Lion’s.
“Yes.”
Marco shifted restlessly. “I have no liking for this Lion. Sending a woman into danger while we merely stand by—”
“Do you think I do?” Lion’s tone was savage. “But she’s the only person now who can bring me the key that will give us the Wind Dancer.”
Marco fell silent and the minutes stretched on. “It’s a great service she does us. How will you reward her if she does bring you the key?”
“What do you mean?”
“You told me she was a slave. Will you free her? It seems a fair—”
“No!”
Surprised at the violence in
Lion’s response, Marco asked, “Why not? You have no liking for slavery. You refused to have slaves at Mandara. Surely it’s—” He stopped as comprehension dawned on him. “You use her in your bed.”
“Is that so surprising?”
“No.” Marco studied his brother, anxiety growing within him. He was aware that Lion was never celibate when he was away from Mandara, and he had known many of the women Lion had bedded. Without exception they had been knowledgeable in the ways of carnal pleasure and as invulnerable and cynical as Lion himself. Courtesans, bored wives looking for distractions, widows ripe and willing to enjoy the bed sport of which they’d been deprived. Never had there been a woman as vulnerable and young as Sanchia, and never had Lion’s response been violent at the idea of parting with a leman. “You’re not—” He stopped. Dio, he had no right to ask this and yet he felt compelled. He began again, “You’re not going to take her to Mandara?”
“No.”
Relief poured through Marco, followed immediately by a twinge of guilt. “It’s not that I don’t wish you to have everything you want, Lion. It’s simply—”
“I know.” Lion’s gaze wearily shifted from the maze to his brother’s face. “Don’t worry, nothing has changed, Marco.”
Marco had an uneasy feeling that a good many things had changed since Lion had gone to Florence to find his thief, but he preferred to accept Lion’s words as truth. “Perhaps you could place Sanchia in a fine house in Pisa. Since you’ve acquired this passion for shipbuilding, you spend more time in Pisa than Mandara anyway. It would be a solution to—”
“Suppose we worry about solutions to other problems after we have the Wind Dancer back,” Lion cut in as his gaze returned to the maze. “The Wind Dancer is all that’s important right at this moment.”
The false key had been exchanged for the key to the storehouse. Now Sanchia had only to return the key ring to Rodrigo’s belt.
Only? Panic swept through her at the thought of leaving the comparative safety of the haven in the bushes across from the maze and venturing out once again to complete her task. She had been unusually lucky to be able to quickly, quietly take the key ring and carry it away into the shrubbery to make the switch. Only the fact that Rodrigo had been occupied with pulling the teasing Maria into the maze had made it possible to whisk it from his belt, but it would be madness to believe it would be as easy to replace it.
A shout of laughter followed by a squeal interrupted her thoughts and she turned toward the labyrinth to see the other guard once again mounting the whore with the bronze-dyed hair.
It was senseless to linger in the bushes cowering with fear. Rodrigo was still in the maze. She had no choice but to go after him. She tucked the key ring in her belt and drew her cloak more closely around her shoulders as she stepped boldly from the protection of the shrubbery into the moonlight.
“Ho, there you are.” Rodrigo Estaban strolled out of the maze, carrying the jug of wine Maria had given him.
She froze. Had he discovered the keys were gone?
He lifted the jug to his lips and drank deeply before lowering the jug. “You shouldn’t have run away. I have enough for both of you. I’m from Spain, where they grow us men as strong as bulls.” He gestured toward the maze. “I left your friend so tired she was barely able to swing her hips.”
Sanchia quickly lowered her lashes to hide her relief. “I was waiting.” She walked toward him. “I didn’t want to get in your way.”
“I want you in my way. I’ve always liked redheads.” He took a step forward. “Show me your breasts. I want to see how you compare with Maria.” He didn’t wait for her to show him but grasped the neck of her gown and ripped it downward with one tug, baring her breasts. “Pretty. Not as big, but pretty …” His dark head lowered and his wet mouth enveloped her left breast.
Violation. He smelled of garlic and wine and his teeth were hurting her. She felt … dirty. Bile rose in Sanchia’s throat as she clenched her fists to keep from pushing him away.
She blocked out all thought and feeling. The key ring. She had to return the key ring. Her hands moved with purely automatic skill transferring the key ring back to Rodrigo’s belt. He didn’t notice. He was grunting, making animallike sounds, whispering vile promises. She should be grateful he was so distracted, she told herself.
She wasn’t grateful. She hated it.
The key ring back on his belt, she had to find a way to releasing herself and getting back to Lion with the key. Dear God, where was Maria?
The man’s head was lifting, his mouth leaving her breasts. “Come.” He grasped her wrist and pulled her toward the maze. “I want you to lie beside that other whore so that I can take turns dipping betw—”
“Rodrigo, where did you go?” Maria emerged from the maze, her bodice still unlaced, her large breasts pale and ripe in the moonlight. A sulky pout pursed her lips. “I close my eyes for a minute and you’re off to mount another woman. Send her away.”
Rodrigo grinned. “Two is better than one.”
Maria flowed toward him, her breasts jiggling as she moved. She stopped before him. “You’re wrong. I’m more than enough woman for you.” She smiled as she deliberately reached a hand between his legs and squeezed.
He inhaled sharply, his hand releasing Sanchia’s wrist.
“You keep telling me what a bull you are. Now show me your coglios.” Maria backed away teasingly.
“Wait here.” Rodrigo tossed over his shoulder as he quickly moved after Maria. “Later I’ll have …” The rest of the sentence was lost as he followed Maria back into the maze.
Sanchia ran!
The cool wind whipped at her face as she fled across the grass, her lips forming prayers of thankfulness. Only a few yards more.
Lion was opening the gate, his gaze searching her face. Then she was outside the gates, thrusting the key into Lion’s hand. “Here,” she gasped. “Here is what you wanted.”
“No trouble?” Marco asked.
Sanchia drew her cloak more closely around her to hide her torn gown. “No trouble.”
Lion’s gaze mercilessly raked her features until she felt he must see the imprint of the foul violation she still felt on her flesh. Then, to her relief, he turned away and strode toward the grove where Lorenzo was guarding the horses. “Let’s get back to the farmhouse.”
During the journey back to the farmhouse, Marco was jubilant and Lorenzo his usual mocking and remote self.
Only Lion was grimly silent.
He knew, Sanchia thought miserably. Somehow he knew she had broken her promise and let herself be touched by another man. She could see it in the way he looked at her, in the tension of his hand grasping the reins, in the tightness of his lips.
When they reached the barnyard Lion dismounted, came around and lifted Sanchia from her horse. His gaze held her own with compelling force. “Who?” he asked softly.
She felt the panic rise within her. “Rodrigo. I couldn’t help—”
He was turning away, his hand grasping her wrist with bruising force as he pulled her toward the barn. “Leave the horses in the barnyard,” he said in a fierce rasp over his shoulder to Lorenzo and Marco. “I’ll tend to them later.”
The interior of the barn was dark and frighteningly alive with strange, scurrying sounds. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it.
His powerful body was silhouetted for an instant against the paler darkness of the night sky before he shut the doors. Then there was only blackness.
“Rodrigo?” The harshness of his voice vibrated in the silence. “No other men?”
“No one else.” She rushed on frantically, “I couldn’t help it. I had to get the keys back and Maria wasn’t there and there was no other way to—”
“So you spread your legs and took him into you.” His hands fell heavily on her shoulders and he shook her hard. “You let him mount you and—”
“No, he only touched me with his mouth and his hands. He didn’t—Maria came and h
e let me go.”
Lion went still. “You’re telling me the truth?”
Sanchia nodded frantically, then realized he couldn’t see her in the darkness. “I swear, my lord.”
“Cristo! Then why in hell did you look so guilty?”
“I was guilty. You told me I was never to be touched. And he touched me.” She shuddered. “I felt befouled. Unclean.”
He was silent, his hands still heavy on her shoulders. Abruptly he released her and she heard him moving away.
“My lord?”
“I’m lighting the lantern.”
The candle suddenly flared, revealing the grim harshness of his features. He set the lantern on the earthen floor. “Where did he touch you?”
She gestured to her breasts.
He crossed back to her and pushed back her cloak to reveal the ripped bodice of her gown. His face was hard. “Did he hurt you?”
“Only a little. I’m sorry, my lord.”
“My God, why should you beg my pardon? It was by my will you went where that whoreson could get to you.” He glanced up and smiled crookedly. “Why are you so surprised? I have my rare moments of fairness. Unfortunately, since I’ve made your acquaintance my sense of justice appears to have been obscured by my appetites.” His palms gently cupped her breasts. “Poor Sanchia, you haven’t had an easy time of it since you left Giovanni, have you?”
His voice was almost tender. She held her breath, waiting for more.
There was no more. His hands dropped away from her and he stepped back. “You’re not unclean,” he said quietly. “You’re a clear, sweet river wandering through very muddy banks. But you’ve reached the sea now and that mud will never touch you again.” He gazed gravely into her eyes. “Just as danger will never touch you again. You’ve done your part to help us and done it well. I’ll not ask you to do more.”
“You’re not angry with me any longer?”
“No.” He gazed at her a moment unsmilingly before turning away. “I’m not angry with you.” He opened the doors of the barn. “I must get back to the house. Now that we have the key, plans must be made for tomorrow night.” He frowned. “I’ll have to study the map again. Vittorio’s scrawling gave me no idea of the size of the maze. There may be problems.” He stepped out into the barnyard. “Tidy yourself and then come to the house. I have no desire to have Marco and Lorenzo gasping at those pretty breasts.”
The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds Page 13
