Until You

Chapter 7

Paolo Loredano was a tall, slender man with bright red hair. He was dressed in the most elegant and fashionable garb. His silken breeches were striped in silver and rich purple, and his hose was cloth of silver with a gold rosette garter on one leg. His doublet was lavender and gold satin brocade embroidered in deep purple. His short silk coat was of cloth of gold and cloth of silver with large puffed and padded sleeves. On his head was a purple velvet cap with an ostrich plume. The gold chain that fell from his neck and lay on his chest was studded with sparkling gemstones. His round-toed shoes were purple silk, and on each of his fingers he had a ring of some sort. He carried a single silver glove in his hand, and at his waist was a light dress sword with a cruciform hilt.

He stood a moment atop the steps leading down into the hall, observing. Then, with mincing steps, he descended as the duke came forward to greet him.

“My dear maestro, I bid you welcome to San Lorenzo. We are so honored you have decided to make it your winter home,” the duke said.

“Grazia,” Loredano said. “Anywhere is preferable to Venice in February, my dear duke. Your little enclave, however, has everything I like. Sunny weather, the sea, and an abundance of good light for painting. I have taken a villa overlooking the harbor for my servant and myself.” He took in the hall again. “And,” he continued, “you seem to have many beautiful women and young men as well. I think I shall be quite content here, my dear duke. The doge sends you his greetings.”

“He is well, I hope,” Duke Sebastian replied.

“Considering his age, he is indeed well. We fully expect him to continue to rule for at least another ten years, if not more,” Paolo Loredano answered.

“Excellent! Excellent!” the duke said jovially. “Come now, and meet my son and some of our guests.” And he drew the artist forward by the arm so he might be introduced to his son and his daughter-in-law. One by one the other guests came forward to meet the Venetian. “And here is another visitor to my duchy. She joins us each winter,” the duke said. “May I present to you Baroness Irina Von Kreutzenkampe of Kreutzenburg.”

“Baroness,” the artist, said bowing over the beautiful woman’s plump beringed hand, his bright black eyes surveying her bosom. “You must pose for me,” he said, smiling. “I shall paint you as a barbarian warrior queen.”

The baroness’ blue eyes looked directly at the artist. “And how shall I be costumed?” she asked. Her tone, while quiet, was also teasing.

“You shall have a helmet, a spear, and a discreet drapery,” he told her, “but your bosom must be bared. Barbarian warrior women were always bare breasted,” he finished.

The baroness laughed a low and smoky laugh. “I shall consider it,” she said.

“I would gift your husband with the painting,” the artist murmured.

“I am a widow, maestro,” Irina Von Kreutzenkampe answered him, and then she moved away.

“And this is Lord MacDuff, the ambassador from King James of Scotland,” the duke continued, sorry that the previous conversation had been ended.

Lord MacDuff bowed, nodded, and moved on.

“And the Earl of Glenkirk, who was King James’ first ambassador to me many years ago. He has returned this winter with his companion to escape the cold. May I present Lady Rosamund Bolton of Friarsgate,” the duke said.

The earl bowed, but the artist’s eyes went past him to fix themselves on Rosamund.

“You are beautiful, Madonna,” he said softly.

“Grazia, maestro,” Rosamund responded. She was beginning to learn the Italian language now.

“I shall paint you, too,” the artist said enthusiastically. “You, I shall envision as the goddess of love, Madonna. Do not say no to me.”

Rosamund laughed lightly. “You flatter me, maestro,” she said.

“But you have not said yes,” he cried.

“I have not, have I?” she answered him, and then, taking Patrick’s arm she moved off.

“You flirted with him,” the earl said, sounding slightly aggrieved.

“I did,” she agreed, “but I did not say I should allow him to paint me with my breasts bare or otherwise.” And Rosamund laughed.

“If it would help me to gain my ends with Venice, would you?” he asked wickedly.

“Yes!” she told him. “Yes, I would, Patrick! He wants to seduce me, you know. But before or after he has had his way with the baroness I am not certain,” she giggled.

He laughed. “You are probably right. Now, the baroness interests me very much. My information tells me that she is the daughter of one of Emperor Maximilian’s contemporaries. She comes to San Lorenzo each winter. MacDuff thinks she is the emperor’s eyes and ears here, for the duke is much in favor with the Germans, who visit his port on a regular basis. Who would suspect a woman of spying?”

“She is very beautiful,” Rosamund noted.

“If you like large-bosomed women with gold hair, blue eyes, and an inviting smile,” Patrick said mischievously.

“Well, she has had her eye on you this evening,” Rosamund muttered, “but don’t you think she is a bit, er, large?”

“These Germanic woman tend to be big-boned,” he replied. “They make a right armful, I am told. Are you jealous, my love?”

“Of the baroness? No more than you are of the Venetian, my lord,” Rosamund responded smoothly. And she looked up at her lover and smiled.

Before he might reply, however, the lady in question glided to his side. “My lord Leslie,” she said. “I believe there are matters we must discuss soon. When may we speak?”

Close up, Rosamund could see the baroness’ face was lightly pockmarked. She did not speak to the earl’s companion.

“My ambassador will be giving a small feast in a few days. You will be invited, madame, and there we may speak with each other in the privacy of the embassy and not arouse suspicions by doing so,” the Earl of Glenkirk told her.

She held out her plump hand to him. “That is suitable,” she said.

“I shall look forward to our next meeting,” he murmured, kissing her hand.

“I did not know Lord MacDuff was giving a feast in a few days’ time,” Rosamund said.

“Neither does MacDuff,” the earl replied with a grin. “I would prefer it if I could speak with Venice first. That is why you will tell the artist that you are considering his invitation but that you would like to see his studio first. I will come with you. If he is our man, he will use that opportunity to approach me. Our visit to his studio will not arouse anyone’s suspicions. Neither will the baroness’ visit to the embassy for a feast.”

“I think that if you come with me the Venetian will not approach you. He will have his guard up and consider that you come because you don’t trust him to be alone with me. He may even think I am King James’ emissary. Let me go alone, and then you shall call for me. When you do, you shall ask to see his studio and say you are considering allowing the maestro to paint me. I shall feign weariness and retreat to the street for fresh air at that point. If he is your contact, he will certainly speak with you then, and no one shall be the wiser.”

The Earl of Glenkirk smiled admiringly at Rosamund. “You really do have a taste for intrigue, my love,” he said. “I think King Henry has lost a valuable ally in you.”

“Hal does not consider women intelligent enough for much more than futtering,” she answered him dryly. “I do not understand it, for his grandmother, the Venerable Margaret, was highly intelligent, and his father respected her for it. Everyone who knew her did. Everyone but Hal. I always thought he was a little afraid of her.”

“I like your plan, my love, but we shall execute it together, lest the maestro think you otherwise interested in his advances,” the earl said. “Come, and let us tell him.”

They crossed the room together to where Paolo Loredano was now standing surrounded by a bevy of young women. Rosamund almost laughed aloud at the look in his eye as he contemplated each lady with the delight of a boy offered an entire plate of his favorite sweets all for himself. The artist, she decided, was vain and had obviously been quite spoiled by the women in his life. But their path to him was suddenly blocked by Lord Howard, the English ambassador.

“What,” he demanded of the earl without any preamble, “are you doing here, my lord? I find it odd that James Stewart should send his first ambassador back to San Lorenzo after so many years.”

Patrick looked almost scornfully at the Englishman. “I am no longer a young man, my lord. Highland winters are difficult for me now. It is not your affair why I am here, but I shall tell you, for you English have such an untrusting nature. This lady is my mistress. We wished to be out of the eye of the court at Stirling in order to enjoy each other’s company without interference. San Lorenzo has a marvelous climate in the winter, and so I chose to bring us here. There is nothing more to our visit than that. What could have possibly made you think otherwise?”

“Who would care what you do, my lord?” Lord Howard said scathingly. “Except for the brief time in which you served your king as ambassador here, you are unimportant.”

“The lady is a close associate of the queen’s, my lord,” the earl replied. “Does that satisfy your curiosity? Now, step out of my way, please. I wish to speak with the artist about painting my lady’s portrait.”

Lord Howard moved aside without another word. The woman with Lord Leslie was vaguely familiar to him, but he could not quite place her. He would have to think upon it. Was she one of Margaret Tudor’s English ladies? But no. They had all been returned to England years ago. Still, he knew he had seen the woman with the Earl of Glenkirk at some time and place before today. And he did not believe for one moment that Patrick has casually decided to come to San Lorenzo to escape the cold of Scotland’s winter. Yet that part might actually be true. Scotland’s winters could be vile.

But no ships from Scotland had put into the port of Arcobaleno recently. How had Glenkirk and his companion gotten here? A French ship? Most likely, as the Scots were so tight with the French. He would consider it, for his instincts told him that all was not quite as it appeared.

“I believe he has recognized me,” Rosamund said softly when they were well past the English ambassador. “He does not know who I am, but he knows he has seen me before. We have not ever been formally introduced, so hopefully he cannot make the connection.”

“Even if he did, what would he make of it? You are a beautiful woman who has run away with her lover. There is nothing more to it,” Glenkirk reassured her. They had now reached the Venetian and his admirers. “Maestro!” the earl said jovially. “I believe I may want you to paint my lady’s portrait, but she is hesitant. May we come and see your studio one day soon?”

“But of course,” Paolo Loredano said in equally jocund tones. “I will receive guests between ten o’clock in the morning and siesta, and again in the evening. Send to me when you are to come.” His black eyes caressed Rosamund’s features. “Ah, Madonna, I shall make you immortal!” Then he took her small hand up in his and kissed it lingeringly, releasing it with reluctance.

“You flatter me again, Maestro Loredano,” Rosamund murmured, and her lashes brushed against her cheeks but once before she looked up at him again and smiled a brilliant smile. “I shall look forward to visiting your studio, but I am not yet certain if I will allow you to paint me. Are you a very famous painter in Venice?”

He laughed at what he considered her naivety. “Only my friends Il Giorgione and Titian surpass me, although it is said my portraits are better than theirs,” the artist bragged. “If I paint you, Madonna, your beauty will be everlasting even if you grow old and haggish.”

“I suppose you mean to reassure me.” Rosamund pretended to consider. “But first I must see just what it is an artist does to obtain a portrait.”

“Come, my love,” the earl said. “The dancing will soon begin. Grazia, Maestro Loredano. I shall inform you when we are coming.” He took Rosamund’s arm and moved them away, back into the crush of the duke’s guests. “Must you flirt with him?” he demanded of her.

“Yes,” she answered him. “If I am to keep him intrigued long enough for you to learn if it is he you are to treat with, I must flirt with him. He is not, I can see, a man who would take rejection lightly. It would offend his sense of who he is, my lord, and so I flirt with him, and he is flattered enough to want to continue what he thinks is his pursuit of me along the road to eventual seduction. It means naught to me. He is a popinjay of the sort I cannot really abide. I met many like him at my king and your king’s court. Surely you are not jealous, Patrick? You have no need to be. You must certainly know that! When our eyes first met, my love, I knew I had not really lived, or loved, until you. I would hardly throw all of our happiness away over that Venetian braggart.”

He stopped, drawing her into an alcove of the hall. His hand cupped her face tenderly. “I am not a young man, Rosamund, and I fear you will one day realize it. I had the same feelings when we first met, but sometimes I am afraid I will lose you too soon when the truth is that I do not want to lose you at all. I know one day we must part, but if we were to part because you loved another man, I do not think I could bear it, though I would, for your happiness is all that matters to me now.”

Her eyes shone with bright tears. “If my girls were older, Patrick, I should leave Friarsgate for you, which is something I never thought I would say, for I love Friarsgate with every fiber of my being. If I knew for certain that it was safe from my uncle Henry and his kin, if Philippa, my eldest, were old enough to manage without me, then, my love there should be no question of our ever parting. But none of this is so, nor is it likely to be very soon, and so we shall eventually part-you to return to your Glenkirk and I to go back to Friarsgate. However, until then we shall be together, and we shall love each other for a lifetime of being apart.” She stood on her tiptoes then and kissed him sweetly.

“I am too old to have my heart broken,” he told her.

“I will not break it, my lord,” she promised him.

“You must remarry one day, Rosamund,” he told her.

“Why?” she asked. “Friarsgate has its heiresses, and I shall want none after you, Patrick Leslie.”

“A woman needs a man to protect her and to love her,” he replied.

“You love me and will even from the distance that will one day separate us. And as for me, I am perfectly capable of defending what is mine. I always have.”

He shook his head. “You are an amazing woman,” he told her.

“So it has been said of me before,” she teased him, and now he laughed again, which had been her intent.

They could hear music now, and they stepped from the alcove to watch the dancing, for Rosamund was not ready yet to join the merriment. The duke’s musicians played well. His guests all seemed to be beautiful, and the clothing was colorful and magnificent. While her gown was far more daring in design than one she would have worn in England or in Scotland, Rosamund could now understand the difference in style. Even in the summer, the climate at home was not as delicious as was San Lorenzo in late February. She had never known such warm weather, and she was not certain she could live year-round in such a climate. But for now it seemed just right to her.

They finally joined in the dancing, and together they entered the figure, twirling and intertwining with the other dancers. At one point Rosamund found herself dancing with the duke’s heir, Rudolpho.

“He still hates me,” her partner told her.

“You cannot expect him to forgive you,” Rosamund answered. “It was you who gave Janet Leslie the blackamoor who betrayed her.”

“But I never anticipated such treachery from the creature,” Rudolpho di San Lorenzo protested.

“You could not have anticipated it,” Rosamund agreed, “but it happened nonetheless, and it cost Lord Leslie his beloved daughter. You cannot expect him to forgive you for that. Until this winter he has never ventured from his home. Had we not met at King James’ court he would not even be here now.”

“Why is he here?” came the question.

“Because we did not wish to share our passion with all the gossips at King James’ court. Our love, like most loves, will not last forever, but in the meantime is not San Lorenzo a wonderful place in which we may share it?” She smiled as he passed her on to her next partner, the English ambassador.

“Where have we met before, madame, for I never forget a face,” Lord Howard said.

“We have never before tonight been introduced, my lord,” Rosamund answered him honestly, and her look was direct.

“But you are English,” he said. “I am sure of it!”

“I am,” she agreed.

“Then what are you doing with a Scots earl?” he demanded of her.

Rosamund laughed almost derisively. “Come now, my lord. You have surely evaluated the nature of my relationship with Lord Leslie. Must I spell it out for you? I am his mistress. There is nothing sinister in it.”

“But how did you meet?” he persisted.

“Really, my lord!” Rosamund protested. “I find your curiosity most unseemly and quite indelicate.” And at that moment he was forced to hand her off to another partner, the duke himself.

“You are enjoying yourself, cara?” Sebastian di San Lorenzo murmured, his eyes going to her breasts, which swelled over the neckline of her gown.

“Very much so, my lord,” Rosamund agreed, and she laughed as he twirled her about in the elegant figure of the dance. “King James’ court is most delightful, but your little court is not just delightful, but also charming. Perhaps I find it so because of the warm weather. I have never known such soft air, my lord duke.”

“Your beauty graces my court even more,” the duke said.

“You flatter me, my lord,” Rosamund responded to the compliment.

“Beautiful women are meant to be praised,” he told her.

“Perhaps I should have come to San Lorenzo sooner,” Rosamund answered him, and she gave him a smile as she was passed along to her next partner, the Earl of Glenkirk. “I have never known men to chatter so much in the dance,” she said as the music finally ceased and they moved from the floor to accept goblets of sweet iced wine.

“Were you praised for your loveliness?” he asked her.

“The duke’s heir yet feels guilt over what happened to your daughter, and he realizes you dislike him. For some reason it distresses him. The English ambassador is certain he has met me, but I was honestly able to tell him we had never been introduced. But I am certain now he has seen me before. It is only a matter of time before he will recall where. The duke, however, ogled my bosom and told me I was beautiful and should be praised,” Rosamund reported to her lover with a mischievous smile.

He laughed at her recitation. “Then, you are enjoying yourself here,” he said.

“I am,” she admitted to him. “I have been to England’s court and to Scotland’s court, but I have never had such a good time as I am having here in San Lorenzo. Why is that, Patrick? Is it the weather, or the delightful informality that persists? It is like a wonderful fete one would give in their own home, and not at all stuffy.”

“It is because we are in love,” he told her. “Everything is perfect when two people are in love.” Then he looked into her eyes and was lost for a long moment.

“Must we remain?” she asked him softly.

“Nay. I think we may sneak out and return to the villa,” he said.

“Leave the carriage for MacDuff. The streets are well lit, and the moon is full. We can walk back, for it is not really that far,” she suggested.

“Agreed,” he told her. The streets of Arcobaleno were safe, and he knew it. They moved discreetly from the duke’s hall, through the marble foyer, and outside. They waved the ambassador’s driver away. “We’ll walk,” the earl called to him, and the man nodded, smiling.

Hand in hand they traveled back down the perfectly raked driveway and out through the gates of the palace onto the street beyond. It was late, but here and there a window cast a friendly glow, and the street torches lit their way. They entered the main square of Arcobaleno, and Patrick stopped a moment, staring at the great cathedral that fronted one side of the square.

“Memories?” she asked softly.

“Aye,” he admitted. Then he shook his head. “I didn’t want her betrothed so young,” he said. “I didn’t want her married young. I feared an unfortunate end for her, as I had had with her mother and with my wife. But Janet would not have it. My daughter wanted to be betrothed and wed to Sebastian’s son. The betrothal ceremony was in the cathedral. I can still see my daughter, all garbed in white and gold, standing atop the cathedral steps with Rudi after all the papers had been signed. Together they made a most spectacularly beautiful couple, and how the people cheered them.”

“Oh, my dearest love,” Rosamund attempted to comfort him. “I am so sorry!”

“Coming here has brought it all back to me so strongly,” he said. “If only I knew what happened to her. That she was all right. That she was alive. My son continues to seek her out. We know she was sold in the great slave market in Candia to one of the Ottoman sultan’s representatives. Sebastian sent one of his own cousins to try to buy her back even as he began entertaining an offer of marriage from Toulouse for his son. Under the circumstances, a marriage between my daughter and the duke’s son could not possibly have taken place. All I wanted was my daughter safely returned. But she was lost to us, and I could not forgive either the duke or his son for what happened. The duke had to consider his family’s good name, but not once did that spineless offspring of his come to my daughter’s defense. I had not realized how strongly I felt about it all these years later.”

“And you would not have,” Rosamund said, leading him across the square and into the hilly street that led up to the Scots ambassador’s villa, “except that you came back, Patrick. The past is past, my love. As painful as this is for you, you owe your king a duty in this matter. Do what you must do, and we shall leave.”

“But when we leave it but brings us closer to parting,” he groaned.

“Come home with me to Friarsgate,” she said. “Your son is capable of looking after Glenkirk. Stay with me, Patrick. You will like Friarsgate. The hills tumble down into my lake. The meadows are filled with my sheep and cattle. It is a peaceful place, and I would give you some peace, my love. You lost your own dear daughter, but I have three little girls. They would love you, Patrick. You do not have to leave your beloved Glenkirk forever. You can go back, and mayhap I will go with you one day. But when you have done what you must for Scotland, come home to Friarsgate with me.”

They had reached the top of the hill where the embassy was situated. He stopped, and she saw he was seriously considering her words. “I could come with you,” he said softly. “But would we wed, Rosamund?”

“Nay,” she told him. “Our love for each other is not dependent upon marriage. I suspect it would upset your son and daughter-in-law greatly. There is no need to do that. It is easier if everyone believes you are just visiting me, or I, you.”

“I should like to come back to Friarsgate with you,” he said slowly and thoughtfully. “There is no need for me to be at Glenkirk all the time.”

“I do not feel the time is propitious for us to be parted,” Rosamund told him.

“Nor do I,” he admitted.

“Then it is settled between us, Patrick. You will come home to Friarsgate with me after you have seen the king and made your report to him.”

“It is settled,” he agreed as they entered the villa.

For the next few days they played publicly and privately at being lovers, and nothing more. And then, several mornings after the duke’s fete, they rode their horses to the villa where the Venetian artist was now residing. Rosamund left the earl and entered the artist’s villa, where she was met by a servingman.

“Tell the maestro that Lady Rosamund Bolton is here to visit his studio as agreed,” she said.

The servant bowed and hurried off. He returned a few moments later, bowing and saying, “If the Madonna would follow me, I shall take her to the maestro.” He led her into a large light-filled room where Paolo Loredano was even now painting a landscape of the scene outside his windows. He was wearing dark breeches and hose, and when he turned to greet her, she saw that his linen shirt was open, revealing his chest. He was, she had to admit to herself, very virile in appearance.

“Madonna!” He greeted her effusively, throwing down his paintbrush to take her two hands up in his and kiss them. “You have come at last!”

“Good morning, maestro,” she replied, pulling her hands free. “So this is an artist’s studio. How can it be so cluttered, and you here barely a week?” Rosamund laughed as she looked around.

“I know exactly where everything is,” he assured her. “Carlo, biscotti and vino at once!” Then, grasping a single hand, he led her to a large high-backed chair. “Sit down, Madonna! I shall begin my sketch now.”

Rosamund retrieved her hand a second time. “But I have not said I should pose for you, maestro. Tell me, has the baroness been here yet?”

He laughed. “Are you jealous, Madonna?” he taunted her.

“Nay, maestro, for I have no need. I was merely curious,” Rosamund said.

“You will break my heart, Madonna! I sense it. I am very intuitive,” he cried dramatically.

Now it was Rosamund who laughed. “I do believe that you are a complete fraud, maestro,” she teased him.

“Have you come to torture me, Madonna?” he asked her.

“I have come to see your studio and to see if I should enjoy posing for you,” she told him.

“And what have you decided?” he queried her. “Ah, here is Carlo again. Put the tray down and get out,” he instructed his servant in their native tongue. “How can I proceed with my seduction if you are lingering about?”

“Sм, maestro,” Carlo answered his master with a toothy grin, and he departed the studio.

“What did you say to him?” Rosamund inquired. “I am just learning your tongue.”

“I told him to leave us so I could make love to you,” Paolo Loredano said boldly, and drawing Rosamund up from her chair, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her passionately even while his hand was plunging into her bodice to fondle her breast.

“Maestro!” she shrieked, yanking his hand from her gown. “You are far too bold, and if you think to have a commission from the Earl of Glenkirk, you must behave!”

“I must have you!” he groaned, lunging at her again.

Rosamund dodged his advance and slapped his face as hard as she could. “How dare you behave in such a dishonorable manner, maestro!”

“Your lips are like the sweetest honey, and your skin is silken to my touch. How can you deny me? How can you deny yourself? I am considered an incomparable lover, Madonna. And your earl is hardly a young man.” He rubbed his cheek.

“Nay, he is not a young man, but neither is he an old one. And as for his skills in bed sport, he is vigorous, tender, and passionate,” Rosamund said. “Now, pour us some of that lovely San Lorenzan wine, maestro. I will forgive your breach of good manners, and you will promise me it will not happen again.”

“I cannot,” he said, handing her a goblet of wine. “But I will hold my passions in check for now, Madonna.” He offered her a biscuit.

“Are all artists mad?” she asked him, nibbling at the biscuit and sipping her wine.

“Only the great ones,” he assured her with a grin.

“I like the landscape you are doing of the harbor,” she said, getting up and going over to the large canvas upon which he was working. “You have caught it exactly, and I can almost smell the sea looking at it.” She eyed him warily as he set down his goblet.

“I have something to show you, Madonna,” he told her, and he drew forth from a table several sketches and handed them to her.

She took them and began to peruse them, her eyes widening with surprise and shock. She stared at him questioningly.

Paolo Loredano grinned audaciously at her, and taking her by the hand, led her out onto his terrace. “I have,” he said, “a most excellent view from here. I saw you bathing the afternoon that I arrived in Arcobaleno. I have sketched you several times since, Madonna. You have a beautiful body, which is why I would portray you as the goddess of love. Your breasts, in particular, are very fine.”

“I thought you found the baroness’ bosom most excellent,” Rosamund answered him. She was shocked by the charcoal sketches of her nudity that he had so accurately captured. She felt it a terrible invasion of her privacy.

“The baroness’ bosom is quite excellent for a woman of her years, but yours!” He kissed his fingertips enthusiastically. “Magnifico!” he said.

“My lord Leslie will not be pleased, maestro,” Rosamund responded.

In reply, he handed her another small sheaf of sketches. They were of Patrick and also of the two of them together.

Rosamund gasped audibly. “You are much too bold, maestro. You had no right to trespass upon those moments privy to only us. My lord will not be happy by what you have done, I fear.”

“But he will manage somehow to overcome his aversion to my behavior, for he must treat with me, as I represent Venice.”

“I do not understand you, maestro,” Rosamund said, but she did. Patrick had been correct. This artist spoke for the doge. Still, she put on a face of confusion.

He reached out and ran a single finger down her cheek to her jaw. “Mayhap you do not. I know if I were your lover I should discuss naught with you but the ways in which we might please each other. But I do not like seeing you distressed, Madonna.” The artist handed her the group of sketches. “Keep them as a memento of your visit to San Lorenzo, or destroy them if they embarrass you.”

“I could not destroy your work, maestro. It would be a sacrilege, for your art is wonderful. I shall, however, keep them well hidden from my impressionable daughters,” she told him.

“You have bambini?” he exclaimed. “Aye, your body has that lushness, yet it has not been spoiled by your birthings. How many?”

“Three,” Rosamund answered him.

“Are they Lord Leslie’s?” he questioned her.

“They are the children of my late husband,” Rosamund answered him, smiling. “Do you have children, maestro?”

“At least fifteen that I know of,” he said casually. “Sometimes the ladies are not certain, or they are angry at me and do not want me to know, or in some cases they do not want their husbands to know. I have ten sons, but none of them shows a talent for painting, to my sorrow. I have one daughter, however, who could one day be famous, were it not for her sex. A woman in Venice may become a shopkeeper, a courtesan, a nun, or a wife, but never an artist.”

“How unfortunate, particularly if your daughter is talented, and you obviously think she is,” Rosamund responded.

There was a discreet knock upon the door to the studio, and it opened to reveal the artist’s servant, Carlo. “Maestro,” he said. “The lord Leslie is here now to see you.”

“Send him in!” the artist said.

“You will want to speak with Lord Leslie alone,” Rosamund said quietly, gathering up the sheaf of sketches. “I will leave you.”

“So you do know,” he said with an amused smile.

“I know nothing, maestro. You must remember that I am English and Patrick Leslie is a Scot. It is better this way.” She moved gracefully past him, smiling as her lover entered the room. “I will await you outside, my lord,” she told him, and was gone.

Patrick closed the door behind him. “Good day to you, Paolo Loredano,” he said in his deep voice. “Do we have anything to discuss between us?”

“Sit down, my lord, and have some wine,” the artist said, pouring a goblet for the earl and then joining him as he sat down in the opposite chair. “You have already ascertained that I am here on behalf of my cousin, the doge. We need play no silly games, you and I. What is it that Scotland wants of Venice?”

“So, you are not the fool you pretend to be,” Patrick noted.

Paolo Loredano laughed. “Nay, I am not. But the pose gains me far more than if I did not play the fool, my lord.”

The Earl of Glenkirk nodded. “His Holiness, the pope, has put my master, King James, in a difficult position,” Patrick began.

“Pope Julius has always favored your master,” Loredano said.

“Aye, he has, but now he needs something that my master cannot give him,” the earl continued. “Scotland and England have ever been the most contentious of neighbors, as everyone knows. King James married an English princess in order to ensure peace between the two kingdoms. Peace has helped Scotland grow prosperous, and prosperity is good for the people who share in it. Jamie Stewart is a good king. He is intelligent, and he governs well. His people truly love him. He is devout and loyal to the Holy Mother Church. But most of all, James Stewart is the most honorable and loyal of men. While his father-in-law ruled England all was good between us. Now, however, his brother-in-law, the eighth Henry, sits on the throne. He is young and reckless. He is jealous of his brother-in-law, and he wants above all things to be known as the greatest ruler in all of Europe. He believes that King James, so long favored by the pope, stands in his way.

“Last year Pope Julius the second sided with France against Venice. Now, at King Henry’s instigation, he would stand with Venice and others against France. And he has demanded that my master do so, too.”

“He is very clever, this English king,” the artist noted softly.

“He is ruthless,” the Earl of Glenkirk said. “England knows that Scotland has an old alliance with France. My king cannot break that alliance without just cause, and there is no cause. At England’s insistence, the pope demands Scotland join his Holy League against France. We cannot.”

“And Venice?” the artist asked.

“My master seeks to weaken the alliance so that the pope has greater concerns than Scotland. I was sent to speak with the representative of Venice and of the Holy Roman Emperor. Frankly,” Patrick said, “I see little hope in this plan, but King James is desperate to avoid the war that is sure to ensue between Scotland and England should we refuse to betray our alliance with France and join the league. King Henry will use our refusal as an excuse to attack Scotland. He will declare us traitors to Christendom. There is no profit in war, as I am certain you understand, Maestro Loredano. Venice is a great commercial empire. Should you not be looking to the east and the Ottoman to protect yourselves? If you allow your troops to join with the league’s, do you not enfeeble Venice’s power?”

Paolo Loredano chuckled. “You present a good case for your king, my lord, and your argument is a fine one. However, the doge is determined to keep on Pope Julius’ good side in this matter.”

“Could you not remain neutral?” the earl asked. “Could you not plead your own city’s danger from the Ottoman and promise not to interfere on either party’s behalf?”

“That,” Paolo Loredano said, “would be the best course, I agree, but the doge will not do it. He thinks if the Ottomans attack us, the league will come to our aid. I, frankly, cannot imagine the English king, or Spain, or the emperor sending troops to deliver us, but I am not the doge. He is old, and sometimes when I see him I think he does not even know who I am. I have no real influence on him. I am his messenger sent here to listen and to report back to him. But I tell you, your mission, as you well know, is a useless one. I am sorry, my lord.”

Patrick nodded. “King James expected as much, but he must try for his own country’s sake. Will you, however, send a messenger to Venice with what we have spoken on today?”

“Of course,” the artist replied. “I have a fine, well-trained coop of pigeons for just that purpose. I must remain the winter, not an unpleasant task, so as not to incur any suspicion. Will you be staying, as well?”

“Aye. I always found the winters here salubrious. Now, do you really want to paint Rosamund? If you do, I shall commission the painting from you.”

Loredano sighed. “She is very fair and most in love with you, my lord.”

“In other words,” the earl chuckled, “you attempted to seduce her, and she rebuffed you.”

“She did,” he admitted, “but strangely, I was not offended, as I might have been with another woman. She slapped me and scolded me, but there were no tears or recriminations. And then we continued on as if I had not approached her so boldly at all.”

“She is a practical country woman,” the earl said quietly.

“And you do not wish to challenge me to the duel?” the artist asked.

“If Rosamund is no longer offended, then neither am I, Maestro Loredano. Besides, you are too young for me to engage in battle,” he concluded with a smile.

The artist laughed. “There are, I am beginning to see, certain advantages to old age. You may speak freely and do as you choose to do. And have a lovely young mistress. I have always been afraid of growing older, my lord. Now I think I am not.”

Patrick rose from his seated position, as did his companion. He towered over the Venetian by at least four inches. “I shall,” he said, “accept your conclusions as a compliment, Maestro Loredano. You may come to the ambassador’s villa tomorrow to begin your portrait of Rosamund Bolton.” He bowed slightly, but politely. “I bid you good day.”

“And you also,” the Venetian said, bowing a deeper, more respectful bow.

The Earl of Glenkirk departed the artist’s villa and joined Rosamund outside. They mounted their horses, and they began their ride back to the Scots villa. The day was actually growing quite warm, and the earl suggested, a gleam in his eye, that perhaps they should have their tub filled and enjoy the afternoon together.

Rosamund laughed. “We will not be using our tub until I can have an awning put up, Patrick. Our terrace, it seems, is visible from the artist’s studio. He has sketched us in our tub and out. I have the sketches with me, but we must see his view is compromised so we may retain our privacy.”

Patrick didn’t know whether or not to laugh. “He’s a bold fellow, this Paolo Loredano. Tell me, Rosamund, have you ever been swimming in the sea?”

“I have never really been swimming at all,” she told him. “I paddled about a stream at Friarsgate as a child, but I do not really know how to swim.”

“Then I shall teach you,” he said. “This afternoon we shall go to a little hidden beach outside of town. The sea here is gentle and warm.”

“Can we take a picnic?” she asked him.

“ ’Tis a fine idea, sweetheart,” he replied.

They arrived back at Lord MacDuff’s villa to find the servants bustling about for the supper party that the earl had promised the baroness was to be held late the next afternoon. There was much preparation to be done before then. Still, the cook in the embassy kitchens was happy to make up a basket for the earl. He filled it with fresh bread, a soft wax-covered cheese wrapped in cheesecloth, half of a cold chicken, some thinly sliced ham, and a large bunch of green grapes. Lastly, he tucked in a bottle of wine and sent his helper off to bring the basket to the earl.

Rosamund had gone to their apartments to change into something less formal than she had been wearing. She slipped into a dark-colored skirt and a shirt. Annie was nowhere to be found, but Rosamund was quite capable of dressing herself. The earl entered, and she spread the charcoal sketches that the artist had given her upon a table for him to see. There was one of her in the tub, another of her completely naked as she stepped from the tub, and several studies of her using the drying cloth. There was a sketch of the earl as God had made him and another of him in the tub with her. Rosamund blushed again as she looked at that particular view, for it was obvious that they were coupling in the tub.

“He has a good eye,” the earl remarked dryly as he studied the sketches.

“It is too sharp for my taste,” Rosamund said. Then she picked up the last sketch, which had been lying facedown, and turned it over. “God’s foot!” she exclaimed.

Patrick chuckled wickedly.

“It is not funny!” Rosamund said angrily. “I am responsible for the girl!” The sketch they viewed was of Annie and Dermid, who had been caught in a most compromising pose. The earl’s man had Annie against the wall of the villa, and he was obviously futtering her for all she was worth. Annie’s eyes were closed in utter bliss, her arms about her lover, her legs about his middle while his hands cupped her bottom. “He must marry her!” Rosamund declared.

“I agree,” the earl responded. “Your Annie is not foolish, and I am certain that Dermid has made promises that you and I will see he keeps; but for now, let us go down to the sea and spend a quiet afternoon.”

They left their apartments and went out to where fresh horses were awaiting them. The picnic basket was already attached to the earl’s saddle. The animals moved slowly off out into the road, Patrick leading and Rosamund following. They did not ride through the town, but rather turned off on a small side path. Following it as it twisted and turned brought them at last to a small crescent of golden sand. They left their horses to graze in the little shady grove of trees at the foot of the hill they had just descended. The earl spread a cloth on the sand and set the basket down. He began to unlace his clothing.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“We cannot swim in our clothes,” he told her.

“I thought we would swim in our undergarments,” she answered.

“And then they will be wet when we must dress and ride home,” he replied.

“Very well,” Rosamund said, and she undid her skirt, letting it fall to the ground. She stepped from it and laid it neatly aside, setting her slippers next to it. “The sand is warm!” she exclaimed as she pulled her blouse off, putting it with the skirt. Lastly came her chemise. She was nude now.

“Go into the water,” he said to her, pulling the last of his own garments off. And he took her hand and ran down to the sea with her.

“Oh, it is cold!” Rosamund said.

“No, it isn’t!” he laughed. “If you had ever been in the seas off of Scotland you would know what cold really is, my love. Duck under a moment, and then you will see. The air is cooler, I’ll vow.”

“I don’t want to go any farther,” she said nervously.

“You are as far out as you should be,” he said. “The water is at your waist, and now I shall teach you how to swim, my love.”

And he did, much to Rosamund’s surprise. Soon she was paddling about in the shallows with confidence. Gradually, he lured her out into deeper water, and she suddenly discovered the water was over her head. A look of panic swept her face.

He quickly took her hand, reassuring her as he did. “The water is calm, my love, and warm. You are just slightly over your head. See? I am still standing. Now kick and paddle as I have taught you as your make your way back towards the shore.”

Her heartbeat calmed itself, and no longer frightened, Rosamund swam slowly back, finally standing to discover the water just up to her knees. She turned about, grinning proudly.

“Now swim back out to me,” he said.

Bravely, she obeyed his command, swimming out into the deep water again, turning, and going back into the shallows. The water was wonderful, Rosamund thought. It caressed her skin, and she was amazed at how buoyant it made her. He stayed near her wherever she swam so she would not be frightened. Eventually they began to play, as Rosamund’s confidence grew, and finally, unable to help himself, the Earl of Glenkirk drew the deliciously wet lady of Friarsgate into his arms and kissed her passionately.

“I adore you,” he told her. “Where you are, I must be. You have breathed life into me again after so many years of sorrow.” He brushed her face tenderly with his fingertips. “I shall always love you, Rosamund. Always!” Then he picked her up in his arms and returned to the beach with her, laying her gently on the sand, his big body covering hers as he entered her. He moved on her slowly at first and then with increasing urgency as his need sought to be satisfied. He felt her fingernails raking sharply down his long back. Her teeth sunk into the fleshy part of his shoulder.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” she sobbed in his ear, clinging to him. Her breasts were aching as their embrace flattened them. Her nipples tingled. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on his manhood filling her, hungering for her, wanting her. She allowed the walls of her love sheath to enclose him, squeezing him until he groaned with delight. He probed her fiercely until she was weeping with her pleasure, and then together that pleasure burst to wrap and enfold them in a sweetness that for a brief moment seemed neverending. “Oh, Patrick!” was all she could whisper when it all faded away.

They lay together for a time, the sun warming their nakedness. Then he drew her up, and they entered the sea together to cleanse themselves of their heated passions. When they came again from the water they sat upon the cloth he had spread upon the sand and opened the picnic basket. Their appetites were great, and in no time at all the basket had been emptied of the chicken, the thinly sliced ham, the bread, and the cheese. Then they sat together in the afternoon sunlight feeding each other from the great bunch of grapes, and drinking the sweet wine of San Lorenzo.

“Tell me what happened with the artist,” Rosamund said quietly.

“It is as King James suspected. Venice will not weaken the alliance. I suggested they be neutral, but the doge wants no difficulties with the pope. However, I believe I have given the Venetians more insight into Henry Tudor than they had. I have warned them that he is a ruthless, determined man. I think they did not realize that of him, for he is so young a king and not yet well known. I also reminded them of the Ottoman menace that touches them first should the sultan decide to move farther west. While Venice will give lip service to the pope, I think they will be slow to commit their troops, but commit them they will. We are still no better off than we were.”

“You still have the baroness to speak with, my love,” Rosamund said.

“It is even more unlikely the emperor will cooperate with Scotland. Without the pope’s blessing he cannot rule at all. His alleged empire is but a group of German states, each governed by its own prince, or count, or baron, and very loosely held together by Maximilian the first. I must try, but I hold out even less hope.”

“What do you think of the maestro?” she asked him, a twinkle in her eye.

“He is far more intelligent than he would have the world at large know. He is more valuable to his family by appearing to be nothing more than an artist. I have commissioned him to paint your portrait,” the Earl of Glenkirk told her.

“With or without my clothes?” she inquired sweetly.

“With, I think. The without I prefer to retain within my mind’s eye, sweetheart,” Patrick replied with a grin. “The artist comes tomorrow. I shall be curious to see what he does with this opportunity I have given him.”

“I will expect Annie with me while I pose for him,” she said.

“I will expect Annie with you,” he said. “And Annie and Dermid must wed before any unfortunate incident is brought to light by the enthusiasm Loredano’s sketch exhibited to us. I warned Dermid. That he was unable to help himself, and seduced her, I have not a doubt.”

“And I did warn Annie,” Rosamund said. “Aye, they must be wed quickly.” She lay back on the cloth again. “Kiss me again, Patrick, for I am yet starved for your love.”

“With pleasure, madame,” he responded, and then he complied most willingly.