Rose Red (24 page)

Bianca was wrapped in the embrace of a
dark-haired man who was kissing her with unabashed enthusiasm. The
man’s hands roved down Bianca’s spine to catch her hips and pull
her closer. Rosalinda remembered how it felt to be held like that,
with the beloved man’s hardness pushing against her feminine
softness.

Though she knew Bianca ought not to be
meeting a man alone and unchaperoned, and she did wonder how Bianca
had managed to discover any suitable man while she was living the
sheltered existence they had shared for years still, in those first
moments, Rosalinda was happy for her sister. But as she watched
them she was struck by something tantalizingly familiar in those
broad shoulders and that dark, curly hair. An icy finger of doubt
touched Rosalinda’s heart.

“Bianca?” Rosalinda moved nearer as the
embracing couple began to separate. The man lifted his head,
smiling a little at Bianca, before he turned to see who had spoken.
He displayed not the least bit of embarrassment at being caught in
so intimate a posture with an innocent young woman. But was Bianca
still innocent? It would seem she was not.

Rosalinda stood rooted to one spot, frozen
where she was by a double betrayal so heart-wrenching she thought
she would die from the pain of it. It was all she could do to force
one accusing word past her lips.

“Andrea!”

“Madonna?” His smile turned to an expression
of perplexity. Then, incredibly, he smiled at her as if he were
entirely blameless of any wrongdoing. “I do not know you, but I
think you must be my Bianca’s sister.”

“
Not know
me?
Your
Bianca?
You villain!” Sheer, flaming rage broke the spell holding
Rosalinda. She took a menacing step forward. “How can you speak so
to me after our last meeting?”

“You called me Andrea,” the young man said.
The strangest expression now appeared on his face, as if he had
been offered a hope in which he dared not believe just yet.

“Rosalinda,” Bianca cried, “you don’t
understand.”

“Indeed, I do not,” Rosalinda said. She was
close enough to touch the pair. She stared at the man before her,
at his curly black hair and his warm brown eyes, at the neatly
trimmed beard that covered his lower face, and at his mouth.
Something was wrong with his mouth. The corners quirked upward, as
if he laughed often and easily, and there was more than a hint of
sensuality in his full lower lip. She did not remember that line of
Andrea’s lip. Andrea’s mouth was firm and serious because, although
there was wonderful humor in him, he was at heart a serious person.
Those were not the same lips that had blazed a trail of blistering
passion across her body. Looking at his mouth, she knew the
truth.

“You are not Andrea,” Rosalinda said.

“What?” Bianca cried. “Rosalinda, what are
you saying? Of course it is Andrea. Look at his ring.”

“Did you embrace him because you thought he
was Andrea?’’ Rosalinda did not bother to look at her sister. Her
eyes were still on the man she knew, and yet did not know. “You
should have looked more closely, Bianca. The ring on this man’s
finger is set with a sapphire, but Andrea’s ring is set with a
ruby. Moreover, Andrea gave his ring to me before he left after his
visit in March. I have it now, pinned over my heart as proof, if I
needed proof, that this person truly is another man.

“Where is Andrea?” Rosalinda demanded of the
man who looked so much like her love. “What have you done with
him?”

“Do you mean he is alive?” The young man’s
face was lit with a joy that could not be counterfeited. “He must
be alive, for you spoke just now of seeing him in March. Only tell
me where he is and let me go to him!”

“He is your brother, isn’t he?” Rosalinda
said. “You and he are twins. Andrea neglected to mention that
detail when he spoke of you, but then, he was careful never to
provide any information about his family or the life he lived
before he arrived at Villa Serenita. Always, he deflected my
questions.” Rosalinda paused, wondering if Andrea had been able to
deflect her mother’s inevitable questions, or Bartolomeo’s.

“Twins?” Bianca gasped, apparently wrestling
with this novel concept. “Andrea has a brother? You are not Andrea,
after all?”

“Are you disappointed, sister?” In
Rosalinda’s voice was all the pain and anger she felt. The man
standing before her had not betrayed her, but Bianca had. She
returned her attention to the man. “You have not told me your name.
From my sister’s reaction, I suspect she does not know it,
either.”

He sent a fleeting, intimate smile Bianca’s
way before grasping Rosalinda’s arms. Holding her tightly, he said,
“My previous caution seems unnecessary now, since you and your
sister are obviously not my enemies. I am Giovanni, but I am called
Vanni. Is my brother alive? Is he well? You must tell me. I have
been searching for some trace of him for months.”

“Not searching so intently that you could not
take time to dally with my sister,” Rosalinda snapped. Seeing his
chagrined expression, she took pity on him. “When last I was with
Andrea, he was both alive and well, but I have not seen him or had
any word of him since he left our villa in late March.”

She watched disappointment cloud Vanni’s
handsome face. How could Bianca have thought he was Andrea? Born
identical twins, their differing characters and spirits had marked
their features in such a way that Rosalinda had no difficulty
telling them apart. She rather liked Vanni, responding to him in a
positive way because he was outwardly so similar to Andrea, but she
knew she could never love him. Andrea was and always would be her
only love.

“What is your family name?” she asked
him.

“Andrea did not tell you? Then I think I
should follow his cautious example and not do so, either. Not
without his permission, since he is the elder by an hour,” Vanni
said with a charming smile.

“More secrets.” Rosalinda scowled at him. She
couldn’t help it. She did not like the lack of trust implied in
holding back such a basic fact, and she began to wonder anew why
Andrea had never told her anything about his family except that he
had a brother. “Andrea thinks you are dead. He has your dagger. He
discovered it, dripping with blood, where he thought to find you,
and so he assumed the blood was yours.”

“So that’s what happened to it,” Vanni said.
“I lost it in a fight.”

“With Niccolo Stregone?” Rosalinda asked.

“Yes.” Vanni went still, his eyes dark with
anger and a flash of some other emotion. “Do you know that
devil?”

“We have met him on two occasions. My mother
knows him far better than Bianca or I do. If Stregone is your
enemy, you must speak to Mother about him.” Rosalinda hesitated for
a moment before she continued, and she spoke with caution, not
telling Vanni all she knew. “My mother sent Andrea on a mission of
some kind. I believe it had something to do with Stregone. Did you
know Stregone was recently in this area, looking for a young man
and his companion?’’

“I was afraid of that.” Vanni’s open face was
a study in conflicting feelings. His natural buoyancy and his great
relief at learning his brother was alive warred with anger and a
determination that sat upon him as if he found it difficult to
maintain such a serious emotion.

Rosalinda was about to ask him if he was
still traveling with the companion Stregone had mentioned when her
question was answered before it could be spoken. A tall,
large-boned man stumbled into the clearing, limping on a bloody leg
and clutching a sword in one hand.

“Francesco!” Vanni ran to support him. “Is
there danger? Have you been in a fight?”

“No. I heard voices raised in anger and
thought I should arrive prepared.” Francesco looked from Bianca to
Rosalinda. In a wry tone he said, “You do have a tendency to
attract lovely women, my lord. May I assume these two ladies are
not planning to attack you and, therefore, it is safe for me to put
up my sword?”

“
You will
remember Madonna Bianca,” Vanni said with a graceful flourish of
one hand in Bianca’s direction. He extended the motion toward
Rosalinda. “This is her younger sister. Madonna Rosalinda, this is
my companion, the great
condottiere,
Francesco Bastiani.”

“What happened to your leg?” Rosalinda
asked.

“I slipped on some loose stones and fell a
hundred feet or so down a rocky slope,” Francesco Bastiani replied.
“As you can see, Madonna Rosalinda, my clothes are torn and I am
sure I will be sore tomorrow from the bruises, but I was fortunate
enough to roll most of the way downhill, so I am not badly
injured.”

“You mean, you were quick enough, and clever
enough, to think of rolling down the hill to save yourself,”
Rosalinda said.

“
A man
does learn a few tricks in a busy life like mine.” The
condottiere’s
grin was a
flash of even, white teeth in his dusty face.

Rosalinda grinned back at him. There was an
open, honest quality in him that touched a responsive chord in her
own straightforward heart. Looking at Francesco Bastiani, she made
a quick decision, which was made easier by her certainty that her
mother would approve of what she was about to do.

“Have you been living in the forest?” she
asked.

“We have, madonna.” Beneath the grime,
Francesco’s face was pale, and Rosalinda saw the lines of strain
and fatigue around his eyes.

“You cannot stay here any longer, not with
Stregone searching for you,” Rosalinda said. “Gentlemen, you are to
go to Villa Serenita with us. If you have no horses, you may ride
with me, Signore Francesco, and Vanni may ride with Bianca. I feel
certain she will not object to that arrangement.”

“You are more than generous, madonna,”
Francesco said, “but our presence at your villa could place you and
your parents in danger.”

“My father is dead.”

“My condolences.” Francesco bowed, his face
solemn. “All the more reason why Vanni and I should not intrude on
three ladies who are living alone.”

“We have guards to protect us from creatures
like Niccolo Stregone,” Rosalinda told him. “Signore Francesco, I
want you to meet my mother and our friend, Bartolomeo. I think the
three of you will have much to discuss. We will be happy to provide
you with a bath and clean clothing, and Valeria will tend to your
injuries. The guards all say she is better than a doctor.”

“You would seem to have an interesting
household, Madonna Rosalinda. However, I still question whether
Vanni and I should inflict ourselves on you.”

“Question all you want, Francesco,” said
Vanni. “For myself, I intend to accept Rosalinda’s invitation. I am
weary of sleeping on the ground and of trying to catch fish for
dinner. Besides, I think Bianca will be pleased by my presence,
won’t you, my dear?”

“I will be happy to know you are safe with
us,” Bianca said at once.

Noting the shadow in her sister’s eyes,
Rosalinda thought it was caused by guilt, and well deserved guilt
at that. She would have a few choice words for Bianca once they
were in private.

It was difficult for Francesco to mount
Rosalinda’s horse. She could tell his leg injury was painful, but
he made no complaint. Once Rosalinda was in the saddle, he placed
his good foot on hers, accepted the hand she offered and, gritting
his teeth so tightly that Rosalinda could hear them grinding
together, he swung himself upward on the third attempt.

“It is fortunate that you ride astride,
Madonna Rosalinda,” he said once he was seated behind her with his
arm around her waist.

She thought he was a splendid man. She judged
his age as somewhere near her mother’s and she thought he had
courage equal to Eleonora’s. Rosalinda knew Bartolomeo would
recognize Francesco Bastiani’s toughness and courage at once, and
she rather thought her mother would, too. Sparing not a thought as
to whether Vanni was safely mounted behind Bianca, Rosalinda kicked
her horse’s sides and headed for home by the same route she had
traveled earlier. Francesco said nothing throughout the ride.
Rosalinda believed he was silent because he was in pain and was
conserving his strength.

Miraculously, they were not stopped by the
guards, though Rosalinda had a story prepared to explain why she
and Bianca were bringing two unknown men home with them. How she
was going to explain her absence from the villa to her mother she
had not decided.

The two horses arrived in the stableyard at
the same time, and when the stableboy ran out to take the reins,
Rosalinda was ready with the explanation she had concocted.

“Signore Andrea has returned with a friend,”
she said to the stableboy. “Unfortunately, they had an accident
along the way, and their horses had to be destroyed. Give this
gentleman a hand to dismount.” She waited, holding her horse
steady, until Francesco was on the ground, before she leapt lightly
down.

“Come along, Bianca, Andrea,” Rosalinda
called. “Mother will be eager to see Andrea again.” Without waiting
for a response from the others, she took Francesco’s arm on the
side of his injured leg in such a way that he could lean on her
without appearing to do so.

“We will go through the garden,” she said to
him. “It is the quickest path into the house.”

“As you wish, Madonna Rosalinda,” Francesco
said. The skin around his eyes was white, his face was paler than
before, and his reddish blond hair was damp with perspiration, but
he went with her as readily as if he were not in great pain.

Eleonora was in the garden, cutting lavender
flowers for drying. As she cut, she laid the long stems into a flat
basket slung over her arm. The bracing fragrance of the lavender
mingled with the scents from her other herbs made the garden a
delightful place to be on that early evening. The sun was sinking
toward the mountains, casting long, purple shadows over the land,
and the air was soft and warm, with a slight breeze to blow away
the last of the midday heat. Above the villa, a lone eagle soared
on the wind in wide, easy curves.