The Stargazer (6 page)

Bianca refused to let it go. “No. It’s all I have left of him,” she said simply.

“This belonged to your accomplice, then? Is it, perhaps, the murder weapon?”

“My accomplice?” Bianca looked confused. “My father, you mean. It was his, a gift from King Henry of France for a special operation. My brother sold all the instruments when Papa died, without even telling me, but he couldn’t sell this because Papa left it to me in his will. It is all I have of him. And now it is broken.” Bianca shook her head miserably. Ian watched as the tears welled up in her eyes again. This was certainly a very good act, he thought, feeling a pang. Very pitiable. Very convincing.

As he looked down at her, crying and clutching the weird tool, he wondered again if perhaps she could be innocent. Then his gaze shifted to his leg. The blood drying in rivulets from his many cuts brought him to his senses, and his rational mind returned. Women were capable of anything, he reminded himself as warm goo trickled out of a particularly nasty gash on his knee, anything at all.

Bianca’s eye followed his gaze to his bloody legs, bringing her back to her rational mind as well. “I am sorry, my lord,” she said, shaking the tears from her eyes. “I should have attended to your cuts sooner. If you will just let me stand to find the bandages…”

Ian shook his head. “So you can stab me with that thing of your father’s, if it really was his? You’ll go nowhere until you give that over to me. Then, we will see.”

Reluctantly, Bianca surrendered the instrument to Ian. “Please, my lord, do not give it away. It is the most precious thing I have and I should be very sorry to lose it.”

Ian took it from her hand and examined it. It did seem to bear the shield of Henry III, but that was no guarantee that she spoke the truth. He set it down on the table and returned his glare to her.

“Perhaps now that you are done sobbing, you will tell me who your accomplice is? Or at least what he hoped to do here tonight?”

“My accomplice…?” Bianca murmured. “I take it, since you are asking me this question, you did not catch up with him?”

“So you admit that he was your accomplice?”

“No, my lord, I said no such thing. I fear your loss of blood is impairing your hearing. Perhaps if you let me bandage your legs…”

Ian ignored both her sarcasm and her proffered aid. “What is your relationship to him then?”

“I detest him,” Bianca answered frankly.

“Aha! So you do know him?”

“That scarcely follows logically, my lord. Loss of blood does not usually affect the powers of reason, but—”

“Cease these lessons on anatomy! Tell me,
carissima
, how you know you despise him if you don’t know who he is?” Ian’s demand had the tone of a much worn syllogism.

“By Santa Olivia’s ring finger, I should say it is obvious. He broke my father’s scissors and he stole my drawings. Both are unique, irreplaceable, and infinitely valuable to me.”

Ian’s eyes raked her face, looking for signs of deception, but found none. It was all so plausible, it would be so easy to believe. But she might be a devious murderer, or at least know someone who was. Someone who, he reminded himself, had first tried to frame him and then had nearly gotten him killed. He forced his mind back to his earlier train of thought.

“If you will not admit this man was your accomplice—” Bianca tried to interject something but Ian continued over her. “If you persist in denying that, perhaps you will explain how you came to be sneaking into the house dressed like a boy.” A very shapely boy, Ian now thought to himself, wondering how he had failed to notice it before.

Bianca paused, deciding how much to tell Ian. Her concern for his cuts and preoccupation with the loss of her treasures had made her momentarily forget that she hated him. That and the sight of his naked body in the candlelight earlier that night. But his repeated insistence on her “accomplice” and her evil intent—not to mention the ache in her head where he had bashed her—reminded her, and she decided he deserved to know very little. “I was investigating,” she said finally.

“Investigating?” Ian snorted. “Where, some gambling hall? What sorts of investigations require murderesses,” he used the word to be deliberately cruel, “to dress like men?”

Bianca ignored his attempt to rile her. “Though you are probably not aware of it, my lord, women’s clothing is quite restrictive. It is impossible to row a gondola in female attire, or scale a wall, or even mount a—”

“Because,” Ian interrupted, “women are not to do those things. I hardly think, Signorina Salva, that you are in a position to be giving lectures on appropriate dress and deportment.”

“Nor are you in much of a position to comment on those subjects,” Bianca retorted, looking pointedly at Ian’s attire, or lack of it.

This was madness, Ian realized. He was completely nude, standing in a freezing room, surrounded by a pool of his own blood, arguing with a tricky female who used logical arguments to avoid giving him any information. It was so mad that it was funny, and for the third time in as many days the unthinkable happened: Ian laughed. It began as a small chuckle but grew and grew until it was reverberating off the walls of the small laboratory. Head thrown back and eyes closed, Ian let wave after long-repressed wave of laughter roll out of him.

Bianca was first startled, then alarmed, then very alarmed. This was not normal, not for anyone, and especially not for the notoriously mirthless Ian Foscari. Clearly his wounds were more serious than she had realized and he was temporarily out of his sane mind. Slowly she slid up the wall into a standing position, trying not to alarm the hysterical figure in front of her. She watched him in his mad merriment, waiting until he was calm enough to be spoken to.

“My lord,” she began tentatively, reaching out a hand toward his arm. “My lord,” she tried again, louder. “I really think I ought to tend to your cuts. This behavior is, well, most disturbing.”

Ian opened his eyes and looked at her, a chuckle caught in his throat. Who was this creature who had turned his sober, well-ordered, content—not really content, he admitted to himself—but definitely rational life upside down? She truly was most exquisitely beautiful, he thought, remembering the comments of the other Arboretti. He reached out and caught one of the dark gold curls that had sneaked out of her black cap, watching the candlelight play over it. He wanted to bring it to his lips, to tickle them with its silky smoothness. Then he would move his mouth to her delightful ear, flicking lightly with his tongue, whispering words to make her ready for him. His hands would caress that body, the body with the small firm breasts and velvety thighs, the body he had dreamt about, the one he now ached to bury himself inside of.

Why not? Ian asked himself. It was, after all, his privilege as the betrothed. And it was probably the best way to stop having those disturbing dreams about her. He knew from experience that once he had lain with a woman he no longer found her as fascinating. At times this frustrated him, forcing him into a constant search for satisfaction that often took him far from Venice. But at other times, as with that succulent Spanish courtesan the previous year, or with the dangerous but irresistible woman in front of him, it could be handy. He remembered thinking that making love to her would be dangerous, but now it seemed more dangerous not to give in to the pull of her charms. Yes, that was the answer, he realized, surprised that he had not thought of it earlier, the way to restore order to his life and his dreams: he must make love to her. And, if his body had any say in the matter, the sooner the better.

“Come.” Ian took Bianca by the arm and led her from the icy room, closing the door behind them.

Bianca was too puzzled to speak, so they walked the long hallway and descended two flights of stairs in silence. She was surprised when, instead of stopping on the floor that contained her apartments, they turned to continue their descent. Could he be making good on his promise to take her to his dungeons? she thought with alarm. She had been a bit impetuous, she admitted to herself, and had sorely tried his patience. Perhaps if she apologized he would give her another chance.

“My lord,” she began tentatively, but Ian cut her off, laying a finger on his lips in a sign of silence. Bianca closed her mouth and followed behind him docilely, hoping that by acquiescing now she would minimize whatever tortures awaited her. The black sable cape swung gracefully with every step Ian took, giving her tantalizing glimpses of his sculpted anatomy. If she reached out to touch him, would his body feel more like stone or more like flesh? She felt her foreboding giving way to a growing sense of excitement as they walked down another set of stairs. At last they stopped before an ornately carved mahogany door twice as big as the door leading to her apartments, through which Ian preceded her.

Moonlight streamed in through four tall windows, illuminating a vast sleeping chamber with a russet-silk bed. Without speaking, Ian gestured Bianca into the middle of the room and turned to light the fire. Although he was making love to this woman out of duty and necessity, there was no reason he had to be so cold he could not enjoy it, Ian reasoned to himself. Besides, he found the way that flames lit up her hair particularly appealing.

When the fire was well lit, Ian reclined on a velvet divan before it, carelessly letting the cape slip to the floor. The fire accentuated the planes of his face, his high cheekbones and strong, firm chin, turning him from a man to the very image of a golden-haired god. He stretched himself to his full length, concealing nothing of his meticulously carved body, and spoke for the first time

“Come here.” His voice was husky with arousal and expectation. Bianca stood before him willing herself not to tremble. He motioned her closer, leaning forward only long enough to tug on her tight black jacket and command, “Take this off.”

Bianca hesitated for a minute and then began to unlace the jacket with unsteady fingers. She slipped out of it slowly, all the time aware of the moist heat collecting between her legs and of Ian’s hooded gray eyes on her. She had never undressed in front of a man before and she found the process surprisingly arousing. Despite the fire, her nipples were visibly erect, two taut nubs pressed against the fine white cambric of her blouse. It was all Ian could do to keep himself from reaching out and taking one between his thumb and forefinger and massaging it slowly through the thin fabric, but he forced himself to wait. He would do this slowly, making her body yield up all its secrets, so it would no longer hold anything to allure him. Instead, he contented himself with picking up the black jacket and throwing it on the fire.

“But, but, that is mine,” Bianca spluttered in disbelief as she watched the flames crackle around the garment.

“It is inappropriate for you to wear such things and I suspect the only way to keep you from doing so is to make sure you do not have access to them.” Ian tersely dispelled her complaint, much more interested in seeing her without her clothes on. “Now take off your hose.”

“As inappropriate as it is for me to wear these clothes,” Bianca said, assuming a defiant stance, “certainly it is less appropriate for me to be wandering around your house at night nude. Not to mention how indecorous it would be for me to present myself naked before you, my lord.”

“Your concern for propriety is really quite touching,
carissima
,” Ian said sarcastically in the impatience of his growing arousal, “but, as usual, sadly misplaced. That doorway,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder, “leads to a staircase which links my apartments to yours, so you need not worry about running into anyone, no matter what your state of undress. And I scarcely see how it could be inappropriate for you to bare yourself to me, seeing as you are my betrothed.”

For a few moments they were both silent, the only sound in the chamber coming from the fire as it consumed the last scraps of the black jacket. “Are you,” Bianca asked finally, her voice quivering, her heart beating so hard she thought it might burst from her breast, “are you going to make love to me?”

The simplistic naiveté of her question, her tone of fear mingled with longing, stirred something unnameable within him. For the second time that night, Ian doubted her guilt. Could she indeed be innocent, not only of murder, but also of
this?
Was she really the mere slip of a girl that she appeared, young and alone in the world? Ian studied her form caressed by the firelight behind her, looking for answers in her lean curves and smooth skin, until his body, more aroused with each passing minute, demanded his attention and pushed such unsettling thoughts from his mind. “I believe I asked you to remove your hose,” he reminded her finally in a low voice.

As she struggled with the elaborate laces of her leggings, Ian imagined cupping her behind, smooth and warm from its proximity to the fire, in his large hands as he pushed himself into her. He found his breathing almost as uneven as hers, his own heart beating almost as expectantly. Once free of the lacings, Bianca slipped the hose down over her thighs and stepped out of them. When Ian bent to push them into the fire, he caught the first delicious scent of her arousal and he knew his restraint was nearing the breaking point.

Ian’s arm brushed her thigh as he sat back, sending a wave of the most delicious sensations through Bianca’s body. The thin, almost transparent shirt she wore just covered the mass of golden-brown curls below her stomach. Without waiting for Ian’s order, she pulled it over her head, threw it on the fire, and stood completely naked in front of him.

Ian found himself awed by the beauty of the woman before him, more alluring than anything he had dreamt of. He could never have thought up the small clover-shaped birthmark on her stomach, a hand’s width above her left thigh, or the tender curve between her small breasts, just large enough to rest his head in. The light from the fire turned her hair to molten gold as it fell in waves over her breasts, making her glow with an inner radiance like some alchemist’s healing elixir.

Bianca stood silently, not moving, as his eyes caressed her body, scarcely able to breathe much less to speak. Her dream was about to come true, the moment she had been waiting for was about to take place. She was about to be initiated into the mysteries of lovemaking. She had expected to feel scared and a little excited, but nothing could have prepared her for the entire loss of her senses that she seemed to be experiencing. The thought of pressing her cheek against the downy hair on his chest, of his muscled thighs wrapped around her, of those hands skimming her body, overwhelmed her. Her skin was tingling, her throat dry, her heart beating so hard she was sure Ian could hear it. But most surprising and wonderful of all was the novel heat that spiraled out from between her legs through every inch of her body.