CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 12

Ihadn't imagined it. I grabbed a flowing white robe and ran toward my balcony.

There, at the top of the walnut tree outside my window, the most handsome man in the world laid along a broad branch, peering through the long green leaves.

That would be Lysander of the house of Marcketti, if you're in any doubt.

I thought one of us should be sensible, so as I thrust my arms into the loose sleeves, I pretended to be. "Lysander, do you know what proprieties you offend with your actions?"

He inched forward, leaned his chin on his palm, and flirted with his handsome, knowing eyes. "Proprieties be damned if I may once again gaze on the sunrise of your countenance."

I waved a hand in front of my face as if his flattery left a stench. (I loved it.) "Do you know what dangers you court, what my kinsmen would do ere they found you here?"

"Death. Dismemberment. Torture. A rude scolding."

I gazed on that handsome laughing face in the midst of the tree and realized he teased. "Do you have so little respect for the blades of the Montagues?"

"I have more respect for my own ability to skulk. I climbed the tree and surprised you, did I not?"

I securely tied my belt around my waist—surely by now, with the light behind me, he had seen enough—and settled into flirtation. "You do skulk well, I admit."

"If my skulking fails, and your kinsmen and their blades do indeed discover me, you'll have the chance to admire my running and bleating like a baby goat."

I smiled for what felt like the first time in days. "You almost make me want to see this spectacle"—my humor failed me—"especially since I saw you slip into an alcove with the pleasing Blanche."

"She is not so pleasing up close." Lysander's lips curled in a most satisfying sneer. "She smells like overripe fruit."

I snorted, used my handkerchief to blot myself dry, and resumed the conversation with much increased pleasure. "Then why bother?"

"Camouflage, my lady. Over a pitcher of wine, I was given that rude scolding for so endangering your reputation and your betrothal."

"Ah." I nodded my understanding. "By my father?"

"By Prince Escalus. I do not know what kind of alliances your marriage would have created, but I know that he feared civil disturbance if I acted without wisdom and caused a schism in your heinous betrothal to Duke Stephano."

Tonight I had rather liked the prince. Now I experienced a cynical displeasure. "So the good prince is willing to sacrifice me for peace in the city." Peace in the city was his task and he had good reason for his insistence; his father's death, his own torture, the memories of battles in the streets, his mother's sad passing, and his little sister's loss of both her parents. Yet when my life was the tribute to be offered up, I found myself without understanding. For all my skill and intelligence, I was, after all, not yet twenty, and life stretched before me like a new and richly hued Persian carpet.

Lysander blithely continued. "Prince Escalus assured me he wouldn't allow Duke Stephano to harm you. He insinuated all was not as it seemed."

"Huh." I leaned my elbow on the railing, which encouraged Lysander to stare fixedly at my chest as if the fire in his eyes could burn away the fine material and reveal what lie beneath. I pretended not to notice as I attempted to delve into the prince's thought process. "What could he do? Breaking a betrothal is no snip of a thread."

"Some kind of diplomacy, I thought. He seems an honorable lord with a strong contempt for Duke Stephano, and more important as Verona's podestà, the well-being of his people is closest to his heart." Lysander indicated me meaningfully. "All his people, Rosie."

I grinned at him. "Even insignificant me?"

He grinned back. "Even most exquisite and glorious you. When he did swear to me he would intervene on your behalf, I gave my word I'd eschew your beguiling companionship until you were free of that most evil pact."

"Now I am free." I twirled in a circle to express my joy, but his words had stirred my suspicion. Coming to a stop in front of the branch, I asked, "Lysander, did you kill Duke Stephano?"

"Fair lady, I did not. Did you?"

"I'm flattered that everyone thinks that I could, but alas, no."

"If we are both innocent, let us discuss who did, for although Prince Escalus forced the men to pronounce you innocent, the ladies are not so easily swayed. They hold a power men cannot hope to match, and I would rather confess to the murder myself than allow you to be disgraced and . . . and exiled."

One moment Lysander was the handsome, laughing boy of my dreams, and the next he seriously offered to sacrifice himself for me.

I adored him. How could I not?

"I didn't kill him." I felt as if I'd been saying that for far too long.

Lysander answered in all seriousness. "Someone did. Who? If we can discover his murderer, you'll no longer live under the shadow of suspicion."

Nodding, I fetched a pillow off the lounge, knelt beside the railing, my arms resting on the stone and my face level with Lysander's. "Who was at the party who hated him?"

Eyes dancing, Lysander laughed.

I laughed, too. "I know. Who didn't hate him?"

"There are so many people at whom to point the saber. His former mistress was there, did you know?"

"No! Why? How?"

"I don't know why, but as to how—I climbed the wall. She probably walked in with the rest of the guests."

I may have sounded critical when I said, "One thinks that method would have worked for you, too."

He drew back, an offended hand to his chest. "That would have been too easy. The Marcketti pride themselves on their lurking and I will take the family prize."

"Of course. Forgive my obvious error. In the future, lurk to your heart's content."

"So long as it be outside your window?"

"You read my thoughts, my lord. We are well matched, indeed." That had been too bold, too presumptuous, and hastily and with embarrassment, I said, "Tell me more about Duke Stephano's mistress."

Lysander sat up, straddling the branch, and once more inched forward. "Miranda once was the darling of the trovatori, a singer of great renown. Now she has the mark of a knife on her throat—and it's rumored Duke Stephano put it there."

I had a flash of memory of the wedding of Titania and Duke Stephano, and at the following celebration a dramatic-looking woman with brown curly hair loosened around her face singing a wild lament of love. Her dark-ringed green eyes had made it memorable, and haunting. "She was there? At the party? You're sure?"

"You were very focused, my Rosie, on resisting Duke Stephano's cruel grip and savage intentions."

I looked at the bruises forming on my wrist. "Yes. I don't know what he intended in the garden, but I know he meant me harm." My fingers trembled as I remembered, a reaction much delayed, but sincere nonetheless. Lysander leaned forward and for the first time since we met in the corridor, our hands touched. Comfort flowed from him to me, and my lips curved in a shaky smile. "I'll put that aside, for he'll harm no woman ever again."

"Many prayers have winged their way to heaven, imploring the Madonna and all saints to end Duke Stephano's reign of terror. Mine, for one." Lysander's voice quavered with sincerity. "Surely tonight's result is heaven's intervention."

"Lysander." I gripped his fingers tighter and squeezed them. "I don't think the blessed Mother of Heaven carries a knife to dispense justice. By my troth, the deed was done by human hands. Once more we're back to the question of—who?"

"You are both exquisite and logical." Lysander released me and sat up again. "I saw Miranda with my own eyes, and she did indeed have a scar on her throat. She drank much strong wine and watched you and Duke Stephano with deadly malice."

A chill crept up my spine. "Yesterday as the pork arrived, my lord father's provider mentioned to me that when I had wed Duke Stephano, he trusted I'd pay the household debts, for his debts caused much hardship among the merchants." So much hate and grief caused by Duke Stephano, and my unwilling betrothal meant I had caught the backlash of that whip.

"The sentiments among Duke Stephano's other wives' families must match the grief and anger of his first wife's family."

"Anna. Yes, Anna's mother is angry, hurt, vengeful." I pushed my fingers through my hair. "Surely she's merely happy he's dead. Surely she didn't kill him?"

"I don't know. Would your mother kill for you?"

I swallowed. And nodded. "Yes. Yes, she would."

Lysander was acute and intent. "Forgive me, lady, but your family seems loving and kind. Why would your father give you to such a beast as Duke Stephano?"

That was an easy answer. "Duke Stephano is powerful and when insulted, apt to hire an assassin."

"Waspowerful," Lysander reminded me.

"To be out of this betrothal—I should now be the happiest woman in the city. Yet how did I become the target of so much trouble? I didn't ask to be wed to anyone, much less Duke Stephano. When I seized the knife, I wanted to protect myself and perhaps frighten him away, not kill him. Now he's dead and I'm the object of suspicion." It isn't fair.

In my head, I heard my mother's voice chide: Life's not fair.

Lysander heard my complaint and answered to soothe my dejected spirit. "I would vanquish your troubles with the gift of my hand holding yours ever elevated above the world of gossip and censure." Again he offered his hand, palm up.

I gazed at it, noting the length and strength of the fingers, the calluses caused by dedicated sword practice, the prophecy of good fortune that stretched all along his lifeline. I longed to put my hand in his and promise forever, but I was not as young as my mother when her Romeo visited her balcony, and the wisdom of the added years gave me pause. "Do you think our families can heal their enmity?"

"Your parents have proved the success of a marital alliance as a bridge across troubled waters." Still he held that hand out, and he smiled invitingly, his face so handsome the moon itself wept with envy.

I put out my hand and leaned toward him.

Clutching the branch with a one-armed embrace, he inched closer and closer. "A clasp of your hand and a kiss from your lips, and all my dreams past and forever will be fulfilled. I'll never again wander lost among the heavens looking for that one star to guide my heart."

"Shhh." I put my finger to my lips. I leaned toward him as he leaned toward me. "Speak no more, but grant me my first kiss as a memory to cherish and a warm seal of red wax on our hope for the future."

He stopped moving forward. "You're bad at this."

"This?" As if I didn't know.

"Romantic, lyrical paeons."

I sighed. "I haven't the knack for spouting amorous non-sense."

"That seems as if it would be a crime in your family."

"Not a crime, but from their lips words spring like butterflies and—" I couldn't figure out a lovely simile to describe the innate and instinctive perfection of the Montague family's language.

Lysander came to my rescue. "From their lips words spring like butterflies, ascend toward the cosmos, and drop tiny turds on your shoulders?"

I fell backward onto the marble floor of my balcony and laughed so loudly the nightbirds winged away in alarm. Swiftly I covered my face with my robe to muffle the sound. The picture Lysander created in my head, of a swarm of Montague-faced butterflies in all their colorful glory rising toward heaven's radiant light while irreverently raining poo on my earth-bound self . . . was so apt, so true to their amorous aptitude and my practical personality that I couldn't quite push it away enough to recover.

When, many long moments later, I at last gained control, I looked up and observed Lysander, his elbows resting on the branch, his chin leaning on his hands, his gaze on me. He was, of course, grinning, cocky and well pleased with himself, and in this Lysander, beneath that face of perfection, I could see the remnants of the mischievous lad he'd been.

That sent me off into another gale of laughter. When I could, I staggered to my feet and gripped the marble railing. "No turds," I told him. "And sometimes the words aren't like butterflies. Sometimes they're like horns blown discordantly or giant drums pounded without rhythm."

Lysander lifted his brows in inquiry.

I explained, "The other things my family does well is lose their temper and shout."

"Are you a member of that part of the family?" he asked.

"Indeed I am, and while I don't like to be modest, I'm probably. . . nay, assuredly . . . the Montague who is swiftest to anger and loudest of voice." It struck me I'd held this discussion with someone else on this fraught day . . .

Verona's podestà, Prince Escalus.

Right now, I didn't want to think of the prince's cynical quirks, or the manner he let me stumble on Duke Stephano's body to clear his suspicion, or the florin he won through unfair means that I now must find a way to repay. It was a pleasure to transfer my attention back to Lysander. I smiled at him, conscious that merriment lit my flushed face, and well aware of that homily that my mother had taught, that the swiftest way to make another person like you was to laugh at their jokes.

I had done more than laugh. I had guffawed. Even now my lips trembled with amusement, thinly veiled. "Do you think we could try again to exchange a—"

"Warm seal?"

I cackled.

His face grew grave. "After such a tumultuous evening, a kiss between us will vanquish the shadows of the night and prepare our world for the dawn of happiness."

He was no Capulet, no Montague, each phrase placed and turned and admired. But his sincere sentiment and tender tone swept away the haunting detritus that cluttered my mind and gave me something new on which to focus.

A kiss. A simple kiss.

He inched forward.

I leaned out as far as I could.

His eyes closed.

My eyes closed.

And—the branch released a thunderous crack.