The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story (19 page)

Now I was burning. I could barely manage to say, “Mine.”

He backed away; I thought he meant to say something to delay, that he would see me tonight, or that he must go pack his things, and I wondered how I would bear the hours until then, but then I saw how he looked at me, as if the sight of me was painful, and he said hoarsely, “How long will Samuel sleep?”

“Hours yet.” My own voice sounded ragged. “Hours.”

He grabbed my hand and yanked open the door, pulling me with him out onto the roof, the slippery tiles, but he was sure-footed, his coat flapping back against my skirt as he nearly dragged me with him down the stairs. Neither of us had any care for noise as we went to my bedroom—he nearly threw me into it. He closed the door and locked it, and the look in his eyes made me dizzy. He came to me, and although I felt his impatience with every moment, where I expected ravishment, there was tenderness. He didn’t give me a chance to change my mind. Perhaps he was afraid I would. He need not have been, no matter that my own fears nagged. I had wanted this too long—without even knowing what I wanted—to turn back now. I tried not to think of what it would mean for my future, or how it would be another secret I must keep. I tried not to think of anything at all as he took the pins from my hair so it fell loose over my shoulders. He unbuttoned my bodice with care, peeling me out of it, my skirt and my petticoats following, sure fingered as he took off my corset.

He did not even kiss me, but undressed me with something almost akin to reverence. I was trembling as he urged me to the bed, as he lifted my shift to undo my garters and roll down my stockings. It wasn’t until I wore only my chemise and my drawers that he leaned to kiss me again, and I clutched him like a wild thing. He didn’t break the kiss as he shrugged off his coat, then only long enough to take off his shirt and throw it to the floor, and my hands touched taut, warm skin. I heard the thud of his boots, I felt him struggle with his trousers, and then I felt the lean heat of him against me, the solidity of his weight, his desire.

I struggled to be free of the chemise, but he stopped me with a whispered, “Let me.” His fingers at my shoulder, lowering the sleeves, his mouth following, his tongue. My throat and my collarbone, lower, baring my breasts. I gasped and arched against him, again tangling my hands in his hair, bucking against him, mindless and breathless, and then there was nothing between us and he was moving lower, parting my legs, an intimate kiss that shocked me into stillness. I had read about this, but I had not expected it, and I tried to close my legs in embarrassment. He would not let me, and then, suddenly, I didn’t care. I had been titillated by this without knowing why, without suspecting . . .
oh dear God
, I could not think. I could only gasp and moan, and then he was rising up, plunging, and the pain shattered me, along with the pleasure, so I cried out—half a scream, silenced by his kiss, and after that, I realized why Samuel had said he could not give this up. I understood at last why he would risk seizures to have it, because I would have risked anything.

Chapter 24

“I hate these,” he said afterward, kissing the bruises on my throat. “They’re turning black-and-blue now. I should kill him for hurting you.”

I ran my hand down his back, muscled and smooth and warm. I never wanted to stop touching him. “He didn’t want to. It was as if”—my breath caught as his mouth found my breast—“Oh. Oh. Stop doing that. I can’t think.”

“I don’t want you to think,” he murmured against my skin. He brought himself up to kiss me, deeply and erotically, and I lost all sense of where I was and what I’d meant to say. He seemed to fill every space in my head; I felt only him moving against me. I felt only pleasure. I heard only our moans, the faint slap of skin against skin, his broken cries, mine. I was nothing but sensation, feeling things I’d never thought to feel, doing things I did not even realize I’d known how to do, and then I was crying out, splitting apart, and yet miraculously still whole, spiraling down and down until I was only a gentle throbbing, every part of me thrumming like water lapping gently on a shore.

His face was buried in my throat. I did not want to move, but only to luxuriate in the feel of him, and it seemed he felt the same, because we were quiet for some time. I tangled my fingers idly in his hair, so shiny and soft, feeling his warm breath on my skin. Then he kissed my throat gently and rolled off, putting his hand to his eyes as if the world were too bright for him. “
Santa Maria
. I thought you were a virgin. Where did you learn to move like that?”

The Nunnery Tales
flashed into my head. “I don’t know.”

He laughed lightly. “It must be that I inspire you.”

“Yes.” I touched his chest, running my fingers down to the edge of the blanket where it wrapped about his hips.

His breath skipped. “Cara, give me time to recover.”

“How much do you need?”

He laughed again, rolling over, pulling me to him, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. “You have the most beautiful hair.”

I felt a pang at that, a stinging vulnerability. “I think you would like any redhead.”

“I do,” he said unapologetically. “Most are very passionate.”

“Most? How many have you had?”

“One or two,” he teased. “Fourteen or fifteen. Twenty perhaps. I’ve lost count.”

I was not very good at teasing, and I couldn’t help my dismay. “Is that the only reason you’re here with me? Because of the color of my hair? Not all redheads are the same you know, so if you wish to relive the past, I’m afraid you’re doomed for disappointment.”

“Or perhaps it’s only that I’m looking for a cure,” he said. “I’m beginning to think I might have found it.”

“A cure?” I couldn’t modulate my voice. That self-doubt took up center stage. “Oh, but . . . I’ve never . . . I can learn to be better—”

“Elena,” he said gently. “You’ve bewitched me. I’ve dreamed of you since the moment I saw you. Many sleepless nights. It’s been all I could do to keep my hands off you. I think the whole house knew it.”

“The whole house?”

He nodded, nuzzling my jaw.

I thought of the angel that told Samuel to hurt me.
Laura’s ghost.

Nero sighed, rolling again onto his back. “I see what you’re thinking, cara, but Laura no longer loved me, if she ever did. There would be no reason for her to want you hurt, even if she did exist.”

“I know. I know. But I wonder . . . your aunt said Laura’s spirit lingers because there’s something she wishes to say. Do you think that possible? What do you think it could be?”

“Probably ‘leave me in peace, you evil shrew.’”

I hit his shoulder. “This is important, Nero.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.” He rose to one elbow. His gaze was darkly, insistently compelling. “Now come and kiss me. I’ve rested long enough.”

It was dark when I woke again, the courtyard clouded with mist as I crawled from bed, sore and sticky, and lit the lamp, turning it to a dull glow, startled to see streaks of blood on my skin. My virtue, most effectively gone. I could not bring myself to miss it, whatever complication it might raise in the future.

Nero slept on as I washed and put on my dressing gown. It was long past time that I checked on Samuel. I wondered if it was possible to hide what I’d been doing from him. I felt I should. I would be just who I had always been—how hard could that be? After all, only one thing about me had changed.

I put the knife and the morphine in my pocket and cast a last glance at Nero—dark lashes on cheeks made golden by the lamplight, the black shadow of his head against the pillow. I could not quite believe he was mine, that I had touched him the way I had, that he had touched me. I was loath to leave him, but I had a duty. I closed the door softly, not wishing to wake him. If I were quick, I could return before he knew I was gone.

Samuel’s door was cracked open, which surprised me, because I was certain I had closed it. I tapped softly, pushing it at the same time, stepping inside. Samuel was not in his bed, but no lamp had been lit. Then I saw him at the balcony door, clad only in his robe, his feet bare. It was too early for the moon, but the mist had grasped hold of the light of the streetlamps and that in the windows of other palazzos and flung it back, softly reflective, luminous and smoky, and Samuel was a shadow within it.

He turned. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I’m sorry. I should have been here earlier. How do you feel?”

“How is your throat?”

“A bit sore. But I think no harm was done.”

He snorted. “Christ, what are you, a saint?”

“Samuel—”

“You’ve been with him, haven’t you?”

I was too startled to lie. “How do you know?”

“I’ve never seen your hair down. You’re naked beneath that robe. You would never have come to me this way.”

“I fell asleep—”

“You’re not blushing at the word ‘naked.’ You feel ripe and heavy and satisfied. You are, aren’t you? Satisfied?”

He was too perceptive. I should have remembered that. I heard the edge in his voice. Jealousy and anger. Pain. “Samuel, I’m sorry. I—”

He waved my words away. “She hates you. Right now, so do I. Just a little.”

I stepped back.

He laughed, it was bitter and short. “You’re going to leave me, aren’t you? For him. Despite your promises.”

“No, I’m not. I’m not.”

He slammed the ball of his palm against his head. “The visions never stop. I keep seeing them over and over.”

As inconspicuously as I could, I felt for the hilt of the knife. “Seeing what?”

“That woman falling, breaking her neck. Blood and brains splashed on the wall. A letter. Poetry. A man—Laura had a lover, did Nero tell you that?” He took a deep breath. In it was distress. “It’s her life I’m seeing, I know. She’s falling and I’m falling with her, and the water’s cold and red, and she’s so
angry
. . . Christ, I can’t bear it. I swear to you that one day you’ll walk in here and I’ll have thrown myself off that balcony, just as she did.”

I hurried to him without thinking, understanding the temptation far too well. “No, Samuel. No. Please. You must fight it. Until I find a way—”

He held up his hands before I reached him, backing fiercely away. “Don’t touch me. I don’t want you to touch me.”

“I can only agree with him, cara.”

Nero’s voice. I looked over my shoulder to see that he had thrown on his trousers and his shirt, but he was barefoot too, and the moment he entered, the temperature dropped, the floor became ice, cold even through the carpet. My thin dressing gown was no protection; the cold was so intense I gasped.

Nero did not seem to notice as he came over to us. He put his hand to my back possessively. I saw Samuel note it, the hard look that came into his eyes. “I see you’ve stolen my nurse.”

Nero was equally tense. “She came to me trembling. You left a ring of bruises around her throat.”

I hugged myself against the cold. “Please. Let’s not speak of it.”

“I’m moving my things up here,” Nero said to Samuel, ignoring me. His fingers crept to my waist, curving round. “To Elena’s room. I mean to protect her.”

“Somehow I doubt that’s your only motivation.”

“Would you prefer I leave her to your rages?” Nero asked quietly.

Samuel glanced away. “No. But . . . who’s to protect her from you?”

“You’re so certain she’ll need protecting?”

They were both bristling. The room was freezing. “None of this matters now. I’ve told Nero everything, Samuel. He needs to know the truth.”

“What truth is that?”

“She told me of your epilepsy,” Nero said.

Samuel stiffened. “It wasn’t her secret to tell.”

“I wish I’d known it before,” Nero said. “I could have helped you.”

“I don’t need your help,” Samuel said indignantly. “I kept it from you for a reason. I would have preferred it remained so.” He turned to me, his eyes blazing. “I trusted you. My parents trusted you. How long did you wait to tell him? A minute after he kissed you? Two? Or did you wait until he made you come?”

I pulled away from Nero, uncomfortable and freezing, the room prickling with ice crystals, sharp and pointed. “You have no right to speak that way to me. I was trying to help.”

“Perhaps next time you should let me jump,” Samuel said, advancing on me, hands working at his sides. “That’s the kind of help I need.”

“Enough.” Nero shoved Samuel in the chest. “Don’t come closer to her or I’ll be forced to hurt you.”

“You’ve already hurt me.” Samuel grimaced with pain and shoved him back. Pushing, the darkness in his eyes flickering. “You should have taught her how to use the knife better, and I’d be dead. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be a fool,” Nero snapped. “Why would I want that?”

“You tried, didn’t you? You left me in that alley in Rome.”

Nero’s expression hardened. “
You
left
me
. You disappeared. And I found you, didn’t I? I didn’t abandon you.”

They were chest to chest, glaring at each other, their breaths ghostly in the scant inch between them. I felt Nero’s temper rise; I saw his eyes flash, the tightening of his jaw as if he worked hard to control it. But then everything went wavery and strange. I could not see or focus, that scrim of watery reflections again, forming a wall between me and them. I felt paralyzed as they faced each other, mesmerized by the anger between them. I could only watch helplessly.

“You hated me,” Samuel breathed. “Admit it. You were jealous. Tell me, did you hire those men to rob me and beat me?”

“Of course not,” Nero ground out.

“You did. I know you did. I know it was you. I know you better than anyone else. I know what you’re capable of.” Samuel’s eyes were glowing. He shoved.

Nero stumbled back. I saw fear in his eyes in the moment before he caught himself and then that fear was gone, in its place a rage that surprised me as he lunged at Samuel. Suddenly, I knew how this must end. The two of them fighting while I stared impotently. It all played out before me, the future already done. Samuel’s hands around Nero’s throat, strangling, and then Samuel in a seizure as Nero lay cold and still, his skin blue and those lovely lashes grizzled with frost. No more breath or winsome smiles. Nothing and nothing and nothing—No, this wasn’t real. It was just this house.

Not a ghost.

Not her.

I shook it away and lurched between them, pushing them apart. “Stop this now. This isn’t you, Samuel.”

Samuel faltered, blinking. Nero grabbed me, pulling me into his chest. He looked shaken. “Get out of here. Go.”

I wrenched loose, going to Samuel, who put his hand to his temple. “You don’t think these things. You don’t believe Nero tried to kill you.”

Samuel exhaled heavily. He backed away from me, nearly collapsing onto the chair.

The cold dissipated with an almost palpable burst.

“
Santa Maria
,” Nero said. “I begin to believe my aunt is right, and only a priest can help you now.”

I was unsettled and desperate enough to grab at any suggestion. “Do you really think one could?”

“I was joking,” he said. “A prayer and a wafer, that is all a priest can do.”

But Samuel lifted his head. “Perhaps a prayer and a wafer would help. God knows I’ll try anything now. Why not a miserable priest? Go ahead, Elena, bring one. If all he can do is last rites, I’m ready.”

I winced at the desolation in his voice. “We won’t need that, I’m certain. But I’ll at least ask Nero’s aunt about it.” I reached into my pocket, taking out the morphine, the case with the needle and syringe. I did not want to use either, but then I saw the way Samuel’s eyes lit at the sight of them.

“You
are
a saint,” he said softly.

I gestured to the bed, and he went without hesitation, lying down and pushing up his sleeve in the same motion. I went to him, lighting the lamp on the bedside table to better see as I assembled and filled the syringe. When I leaned to inject it, Samuel wrapped his fingers about my wrist, bringing me close enough to hear him whisper, “Be careful, Elena. Promise me.”

I nodded, but I didn’t say the truth: that he was the one I must be careful of. And after what I’d seen tonight, I was more shaken and afraid than ever, because it wasn’t only myself I knew I must worry about. It was Nero too. My vision had troubled me.

When Samuel was asleep, I turned to Nero, who leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with an expression I could not decipher—it was too thoughtful, too quiet. I blew out the lamp and went to him. He pulled me close, wrapping his arms about me, kissing the top of my head. His heart was racing.
Little rabbit heart.

“He belongs in an asylum,” he whispered to me. “We should send him back to New York, as you wanted. You and I can leave all this behind. We’ll make love in every city on the Continent.”

“With what money?” I asked softly. “And I can’t abandon him. I can’t believe you would abandon him either. You said you wanted to help him.”

I felt the current of his sigh. “Yes, of course. Of course you’re right. Go speak with my aunt then. But Elena, please, she is half-mad herself. Do not believe anything she tells you.”