“And his captain in love with another,” Marcello said.
Luca cast a furtive eye in Dad’s direction, and his smile faded a little.
It made me and Lia and Mom grin. It’d take some time, but we were confident that Dad would come to admire Marcello and Luca as we had. Any other outcome was impossible to consider.
“So when they find no trace of us in Normandy and return, will that cause difficulty?” Mom asked.
Marcello shrugged. “Normandy is a big land, is it not? And you are clearly merchants, constantly on the move. We can explain it away.”
“Because you are one of the Nine now,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.
“That aids my authority to quell rumors,” he admitted.
“But being one of the Nine does not make him God,” Luca said. “We need to know what we should say to those who heard that Lord Betarrini was thought dead.”
We all looked toward Dad. “I could be Lady Betarrini’s second husband,” he said.
“No,” Mom said. “You are my first and only.” She looked to the rest of us. “Can we not simply elaborate on what Gabi said? We thought him dead but then learned he was still alive?”
“We’re merchants, yes?” I said. “What if his ship was lost at sea? But then he was found on a remote island? Surely that’s happened many times…”
Marcello and Luca were nodding. “Yes, that could work.”
“So, Dad, where were you shipwrecked?” I asked. “Tell us, so that we might all remember the same tale.”
He smiled and leaned his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped beneath his chin. “I believe it was somewhere far away, a place where few could ever verify my tale, and fewer would voyage to inquire.”
The other men nodded again, pleased that he understood what they were after.
“It was an uninhabited isle off the coast of Africa, a few miles from where I had ventured to expand our trade in spices,” Dad continued.
“Uninhabited,” I said. “Most convenient.”
“Indeed,” he said. “And I awaited rescue for long months—”
“Before you were rescued and made the long journey home. I think that would make our timelines match up. We were reunited in Britannia and began our journey, just narrowly beating the snows in the mountains.”
“Months and months on the island. Existing on nothing but coconuts and bananas,” Dad said with a smile.
“Coconuts? Bananas?” Marcello asked.
“Coconuts,” Dad said. “With a bark-like covering, hard shell, and inside, a sweet, white flesh and milk you can drink.”
“Sounds like food of the gods,” Luca said.
“It is, in a way.”
“What of ba—?”
“Bananas. A tube-like fruit that also grows in clusters from palm-like trees. They ripen from green to yellow, and you peel them. The fruit inside is soft.”
“So soft you can mash it and feed it to babies,” I said.
“Wondrous,” Marcello said. “So then you were reunited six months ago and began your journey here.”
I nodded. “But we stayed in inns and in large cities, conscious to keep our identity hidden, in case there were any Fiorentini loyalists about.”
“Making it impossible to track your journey, in case anyone decides to verify your story.” He smiled at me and my family in admiration. “I must say, you are most excellent at spinning a tall tale.”
“Only if it allows us to live a free and honest life here,” Dad said, a tinge too sternly. Okay, Dad, ease up on the whole honor front…
Marcello’s smile faded. “Of course.”
“What of your brother, Marcello?” I asked carefully. “Is there any news of Fortino?”
“Too little.” His big, brown eyes moved to the fire, as if he could see his brother’s image in the flames. In the fifteen months he’d been here without me, he and Luca had filled out—become more men than the boys they had been. He shook his head a little, and his curly ponytail edged over one shoulder. I shifted in my seat, wishing we could be alone. I wanted to kiss away his sorrow, his fear.
He’d dealt with more than a year without me, wondering if I would ever return. He’d lost his father and seen his brother beaten and taken prisoner. He’d lost his home—not that this palace was too shabby—but it wasn’t home. He was more a man of the woods than a man of the city. And to know your brother was hurting, maybe even dying—who could really relax and enjoy any part of their life with that going on in their head?
I leaned forward and took Marcello’s hand. “So…how are we going to get him back?”
CHAPTER 4
Mom spent all day in a room, hidden away, trying to teach Dad the dances we’d be expected to lead after the celebration feast tonight. Their distraction was welcome—giving me hours with Marcello and Lia hours with Luca. We took a stroll along the city wall, finding it too difficult to maneuver along the crowded streets full of well-wishers. Up top we had to contend only with grinning guards who raised playful eyebrows in our direction.
We paused at the highest point of the wall, where it descended to a valley and looked out for miles over brown, winter-dormant hills. “Gabriella,” Marcello said, turning to me. He took my hand in both of his and stared into my eyes. “Tell me you won’t leave again.”
“I’ll do all I can to never leave you again,” I said, as much as I could promise.
He stared into my eyes, clearly understanding but wishing he could press for more.
“I don’t know if leaving is even an option,” I said. “If we go back, would my dad die en route? Would we lose him all over again?”
“You could halt your journey before his death,” he said reluctantly. “As you did to bring him here.”
“And what? Go back to freshman year with a seventeen-year-old’s body? Run the risk of running into a younger version of myself?” I shuddered. “No way,” I muttered in English.
“Freshman year?” he asked.
“A nightmare I don’t wish to share,” I said with a grin.
His eyes remained curious, but he didn’t press. He probably didn’t want to encourage me to think of the possibility of leaving. And I couldn’t blame him. Had I been the one who had to survive a year without him, I would’ve been a total basket case. Zoned. A puddle of tears, all the time. No, that just would not work. Here, here now was where I belonged.
“If you are to stay, then I should speak to your father, without delay, of my intentions.”
His intentions…about marriage? I shifted uneasily. “Uh, about that. Let us wait a couple of weeks, all right? My father…he has so much to absorb, understand about this new life. Should you speak to him too early—”
“He would say no to me?” he said, suddenly Prince Uppity Pants.
I smiled. He had a right to be a little miffed. If he lived in my time, Marcello would’ve been in the running for Sexiest Man Alive in People. Rich, powerful, and hotter than wasabi, he was a force. “In Normandy,” I reminded him, “girls rarely consider marriage before eighteen. No, more like twenty-one, twenty-five.”
He wrapped his burly arm around me, placing his hand at the small of my back and pulling me close. “And so how many days must I count before you reach your eighteenth birthday?”
I thought for a moment as he kissed my temple and then slowly worked his way down to my cheek with light, gentle, lingering presses of his lips. Who was I fooling? I was as eager to be with him—forever—as he was with me. Did I really have to wait until I was eighteen? And in this crazy time warp, when was my real birthday anyway? This was all so wild and crazy and foreign, why not bail on it all and follow my heart?
“How many days, Gabriella?” he growled, then found my lips with his. We kissed for a long moment.
“Too many,” I said, m
y eyes still closed. I was memorizing the leathery, spicy smell of him, the feel of his arms around me, the way he made every inch of my skin alive with interest, pulling me, like a rising moon to the far horizon.
“Then I shall speak to your father about my intentions.”
“Not yet,” I said, edging slightly away. If we stayed together, making out, I’d be agreeing to an elopement within minutes. I already felt a little dizzy and flushed.
“We’ll speak of it soon,” he said. “And determine our best course.”
“Agreed.” We continued our walk, and I did the math for how long it’d be before I turned eighteen. I knew it’d be a factor for Mom and Dad. If we took into account that it was technically February here, it was really only about one month away. Never mind that we’d skipped some time in our back-and-forths. If this was the life we were going to assume, shouldn’t we assume its date stamp too? If that was the case, I was going on nineteen, not eighteen. Yeah, I was picturing my parental units’ faces too. It’d be a struggle, for sure.
“Let’s get Fortino home first,” I said, side-stepping it. “He should be with us to celebrate.”
“If we can get Fortino home,” Marcello said. He shook his head, a distinct ache in the movement. “It’s been more than a month now since we last had word of him. I have pursued every means of negotiation possible but…”
“But?”
“It is nothing,” he said, looking away and then gathering me up in his arms again. I heard his pounding heart as I nestled against his chest. He didn’t have to say anything more. I got it. The only trade the Fiorentini would ever make was Fortino for a Betarrini.
“You cannot steal inside Firenze’s gates and rescue him as you once did me?” I asked.
“It is possible that Lord Greco will aid us once more, but it puts him at undue risk. It is he who has sent me reports that Fortino yet lives. It’s likely due to him that my brother lives at all.”
“And you have held to a truce for all this time?”
“An uneasy truce,” he allowed. I looked up into his face. “And yet hours ago I received word that a small patrol of Fiorentini knights were cut down around the tumuli between Castellos Paratore and Forelli.” A small smile edged his lips.
“A most unfortunate event,” I said, matching his small smile. “Perhaps it’s time to extend some good will,” I chanced. “Show them that we are once again a city that is willing to offer a hand to our neighbors. Squelch such violence. Reengage them so that we might both prosper.”
His eyes narrowed. “And how would we accomplish that?”
“With a visit, of course,” I said, edging past him, unnerved by his hard stare.
“I would simply approach the gates and they would welcome me in?” Marcello said.
“Nay. That’d be far too dangerous. But what if it was a far grander spectacle? Something both Firenze and Siena had equal interest in? The Nine meeting with the grandi, sitting down at one table to dine, to move past the past, on to the future.” I dared to look back at him.
“And what would draw them to such a table?”
“The Ladies Betarrini, emissaries of peace and goodwill.”
He let out a big laugh over that one. “Last I knew, you had killed a good number of Fiorentini and injured more. There is not one man in that city that doesn’t salivate at the thought of seeing you strung up just as the Rossis were here in Siena.”
I swallowed hard as he paced past me to stand on my other side, staring out to the valley again with me.
“There is one man,” I said.
He shook his head. “Rodolfo Greco has already risked far too much. And it’s far too dangerous. It would never work.”
“Then let us find another plan that shall,” I said lowly. “I am willing to help in any way I can, beloved. For your brother. My friend. Anything.”
But I could tell he already was thinking.
He turned and touched my cheek, so softly I felt more the warmth of his hand than his skin. “I shall find a way, Gabriella. To bring him home. You shall stay here, in the safety of Siena.”
When I returned to my quarters, Giacinta and another maid, a young brunette named Savia, were awaiting me. Savia poured a bucket of steaming water into a wooden tub that was already half full, and Giacinta tossed in several sprigs of lavender. I smiled and moved past them to where they’d laid out a gown for me.
“Oh,” I breathed. “It’s magnificent.” I reached to finger the exquisitely embroidered bodice on the luxurious golden silk. Off the shoulders and tight-fitted, the gown would cling to my torso and hips, then cascade in luxurious, generous folds of the skirt.
“He had it made for you as soon as he moved to Siena,” Giacinta said, coming beside to admire it with me.
“So long ago.” I smiled at her, but I could well imagine those lonely moments. The thought of Marcello pining for me sent a pang of ache through me.
“We must be about it, m’lady,” Giacinta said, “if we’re to have you ready in time.”
I nodded, and we turned toward the tub and bathing screen. In short order the two maids helped me undress and turned their backs as I slipped beneath the blessedly warm waters. “Would you care for us to scrub you, m’lady?” Giacinta asked.
“Nay,” I said, as ladylike as I could. Apparently I’d reached the status that required servants to wash me like a baby. “I shall see to it myself. Return in half an hour to see to my hair though, will you?”
She gave me a little curtsy, as did Savia behind her, then quietly closed the bedroom door.
I dunked myself under, letting the water infiltrate my oily, filthy hair. Then I reached for a chunk of the lavender-laced lard soap, scrubbing my head until I had a little layer of bubbles. If there was one thing the fourteenth century needed, it was some decent hair products. But it was what it was, so I continued the process of cleaning up my body, rinsing, and then I sat in the water while it cooled, which took only a few minutes. Decent hair products and hot running water. The Romans had had it…when did the Italians lose the technology? I smiled, imagining Dad coming up with the same thought. Yeah, he won’t be short of things to do.
I rose and dried off with a rough towel, then wrapped it around me. I donned long underwear and had just begun to try to wrap my torso with a long cloth—the medieval version of a bra—when the maids gently knocked and then entered at my soft invitation.
Giacinta batted away my hands and undid my clumsy start at the cloth. “Nay, you shall ruin it. You must have a smooth line under such a gown!”
I closed my eyes and willed away my desire for modesty since that was clearly not on the top of anyone’s list. And with underwear like this, how was it really possible? She began at the waist, tucking the edge in after two rounds, then quickly and efficiently wrapping the rest of the way up. “Mummified,” I muttered as she tucked the end under my right armpit.
She ignored my mutterings in English and turned to the gown, lifting it with some effort. I’d picked it up myself—it weighed at least ten pounds with all the heavily embroidered fabric. Teaming up, she and Savia lifted it over my head and then let it fall. The top of the sleeves were tight, clinging to my upper arms, and at first I worried it was too tight, that it wouldn’t fit. But they tugged it into place, and I saw that it was perfect, the sleeves gracefully billowing out at the elbow again.
Giacinta moved behind me and cinched the bodice closed—as tight as the arms, by the feel of it. But she quickly had the fifty or so loops and buttons closed. She stood back to admire me. “Oh my,” she said, lifting a hand to her mouth. “You’re truly a vision, m’lady.”
Savia bobbed her head in fervent agreement. “A vision,” she parroted. She bent to help me slip into matching tapestry slippers, and then they led me to a small dressing table.
I was glad that I recognized none of the f
urniture. Apparently Marcello had emptied the palazzo and started anew, wanting nothing that reminded him of the Rossis, their treachery, or their end. It was a bit creepy, really, living in their house. But hadn’t Marcello lost enough in the battle? If he couldn’t get his own home back, he, of all people, deserved such a prize as this fine palazzo on the piazza. I hoped I’d see the day the castello was restored to him too. In the meantime I’d help transform his memories here, from betrayal to love, from treachery to trust.
Giacinta swiftly combed out my mass of tangles, ignoring my wincing, then she began to create an intricate series of coils, incorporating strands of pearls and fine, gold thread. An hour later she finally was done, and she stepped aside so I could peer into the dim, cracked looking glass. “You are a wonder, Giacinta,” I said, smiling over my shoulder at her before sneaking another peek. Only on the day of my presentation in Firenze had my hair been fancier. My usual style ran the braid or ponytail route, but this…well, this made me feel A Hundred Percent Girl. Which was fun, once in a while.
A knock sounded at the door, and the two maids shared a secretive glance. Marcello. It had to be. He’d come to escort me to the ball. Savia let him in, and he strode across the room as if he owned it. Which he pretty much did, of course. But that was part of what was different about him since I returned—that whole manly confidence thing he had going on. A sense of ownership, power. No wonder he had been chosen to be one of the Nine.
I tried to rise from my chair with the grace of some sort of beauty queen and walked toward him.
His hand moved to his chest. “M’lady, you are far more beautiful than I even imagined you would be in that gown.”
“I am most grateful for it, m’lord. Thank you for such a fine, extravagant gift.”
“There will be a hundred more for you, should you care to have them made,” he said dismissively, his eyes only on my mine.
“I couldn’t,” I said. “It’d cost a fortune.”
“You can. The coffers are full, Gabriella, and yours to use as you wish. And there’s the additional account holding the gold the Nine gave to you and Evangelia before. You are one of the wealthiest women of the city, Gabriella.”
The River of Time Series Page 65
