CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 45

On the appointed night, Nurse had dressed me in three petticoats, bound me in three chemises, put me into my most restrictive bodice, and strapped the two daggers on my arms and the blade on my ankle. She added my heaviest sleeves, my tightest cuffs, and she muttered all the while. When I asked what she was doing, she answered, "You've been ill. It's cold out there. I fear for your health."

"Me too, dragging all this weight around!"

I jested, but she folded her lips into a tight line, then burst out, "Lysander is a virile man. You're a young woman in love. There isn't enough clothing in the world if passion takes you!"

"Nurse, we're not my parents. We're mature adults in control of ourselves." I thought this would be a comforting reminder.

Instead she snorted. Loudly. Yet she bore the scar on her forehead from the sabotage in Basilica di San Zeno, and I trusted her.

Now I stood by the fountain, waiting for Lysander to appear. The torches lit the flow of water from the laughing cupid's tiny penis, and he looked so joyful about his naughty spray I smiled at him and hoped a naiad would join him and free him from the stone. The night air's chill spoke of the coming winter, but I wasn't cold. All those petticoats, you know, plus a cloak and perhaps a fever of excitement.

I had arrived a little early, which was foolish, for it gave me time to imagine one disaster after another. But not much time, for I heard a hiss, faced the darkened path through the hedges, and saw a masculine hand, clad in a leather glove, beckon me.

I smiled in relief and excitement, reached out and twined my fingers in his, and as he pulled me I ran with him.

Dear reader, I confess I giggled. After all, a girl can only once enjoy an escapade like this.

The moon was no more than a sliver, the stars twinkled brightly, his hand grasping mine was firm and warm, even through the glove. He stopped halfway to our tryst spot, pulled me close, and covered my mouth with his.

My first kiss.

Finally.

The lip press, the tongue probe. The taste of him in my mouth, the scent of his breath. This kiss was interesting and I liked it, but the heavens still slipped slowly across the stars, time continued as it had before . . . and may I say how relieved I was to kiss my love and still be Rosie, plain practical Rosie. I wasn't like my parents. Love had not blindsided me, recreated me, made me a stranger to myself.

I suspected he might be moving in for another try, and we really didn't have time. I knew Nurse was worried and would rouse my father and the Marckettis to immediate action.

As was natural to me, I took up the reins. "We'd better get to the bench and set ourselves up to be discovered."

He slid his hand around my waist, pulled me close to his side, and led me toward the spot.

"You have very good night vision." My voice perhaps had an approving tone, but who could blame me? It boded well for our future progeny.

My night vision, too, improved as we moved along the path, and I recognized when the hedges gave way to the designated sitting area. He led me to the marble bench and, still holding me, sank down on it.

"I've been trying to figure out the best way to look disheveled and passionate without embarrassing ourselves. What do you think of—"

He quite firmly took charge.

After a moment of surprise, I realized that made sense. No doubt he had experience in the art of love. Men did. But as he gently turned me to recline sideways across his lap and bent to kiss me again, it also occurred to me perhaps Nurse was right. He intended to take advantage of this clever plan and teach me to sip and appreciate the wine of love.

I was willing. Startled, but willing.

My head fit in the crook of his arm. His hand rested on my breast, which would have been very exciting if I wasn't so swaddled in layers. He used his free hand to press on my belly and bent to kiss my lips.

The first kiss had been a plate of pale flat bread and dried apricots. Enjoyable, nourishing, but not memorable.

This kiss was risen bread stuffed with apricots and walnuts fresh from the tree and seasoned with cinnamon. This kiss was a treat that filled my lungs and heart with strength and my belly with joy. This was taste and sensation, freedom and surprise. My eyes closed. I found my hands creeping up into his shoulder-length hair—he had eschewed his horrible cap—and holding him in place for the pleasure of his kissing. He hovered over me, passionate and laughing, sincere and reverent.

Thiswas the loss of self I feared. Yet I welcomed it, too, for to touch another person's soul was to banish loneliness. How better to do that except through . . . this kiss. This passion. This escalating exaltation.

Abruptly he slid me off his lap, placed me flat on my back on the bench, the cool marble cradling my head. He placed a knee beside my hip, bent, held me and kissed my mouth, my throat, my ears, my hands. He placed my hands on my breasts and pressed and fondled, guiding me, letting me know that all the fabric meant to be a barricade was nothing more than an enticement. Through my own palms I fed passion from him through me, and I wanted more. I moved my legs restlessly, bent my knees, pressed the bottoms of my slippered feet to the bench.

He reacted at once, reaching under my skirt, running his hand up from my ankle to my thigh . . .

At that touch, I broke out of my passionate trance. My eyes popped open.

I still couldn't see his face, but I knew who this man wasn't—it wasn't Lysander—and I knew who it was.

Prince Escalus.

I said, "You bastard!" and I kicked hard at his gut.

He stumbled backward.

I sat up on my elbows, blinked, and—