[Barbara Samuel] Night of Fire(Book4You) (20 page)

I am so certain of this, that it is not merely passion that binds us
—
sweet though passion may be
!

—
but a union of souls that were born to be entwined, that I am willing to let you leave me, return
to your home, and see that what I say is true. No time or distance or practicalities will dim what
has been born here in these precious days
.

I am so certain that naught will dim this that I say now, come, Cassandra
—
or if you cannot, I will
come to you. Be my love, be my wife. Let us together make a mosaic of joy from our days
.

There are no words in any language to express the depth of my feeling for you, so I leave you with
the simplest of them all: Ti amo.

Your Basilio

With a cry, Cassandra scooped them into her hands and threw them all into the flames, her hand over her mouth as she fought the swell of grief in her.

It was over. Over.

Come to me in the silence of the night;

Come in the speaking silence of a dream;

Come with soft rounded cheeks

and eyes as bright

As sunlight on a stream…

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

It was one of those early spring days that appear from nowhere, laden with the promise of what was to come. Cassandra felt the difference in the air when she awakened. Drawn by something she couldn't name, she carried a cup of chocolate with her to the newly greening garden and breathed it in with a sense of emerging from a winter cocoon. Until that moment, she had not realized how deep and long her lethargy had been.

It seemed she had barely moved in the dark, short days of winter. She had taken callers, returned to an erratic schedule of salons, and done her work, but all of it had been done mechanically while Cassandra hibernated.

Perhaps that was why, when Julian arrived late in the day, and urged her to come out with him to see a new singer at the opera, she found herself agreeing. Sitting with him in the box, waiting for the music to begin, she watched with amusement as one mama after another spied Cassandra's imminently suitable—not to mention dashing—brother, the Earl of Albury. One by one, they found excuses to stop by to speak a word, the eligible daughter in tow, of course. Julian was unfailingly polite, often even witty and charming, but he was equally skilled at dismissing them.

After one such mama and her awkward, obviously mortified daughter left, Cassandra laughed. "Why, I believe you are the most eagerly sought bachelor in all of England, Lord Albury."

"Which is why you are here as my protection, my dear. Were you absent, I'd be forced to entertain them and listen to the silly chatter all evening." He scowled, and the expression hinted of the darkness and secrets that lurked below his elegant features. "I have no intention of taking one of these witless women to wife."

Cassandra smiled. "Eventually, I expect you will be forced to. An heir and all."

"No," he said. "I will not marry." He plucked a loose hair from his sleeve. Cassandra admired his long, graceful hands, smiling a little.

"No?" she echoed. "But who will be the next Earl, then?"

He shrugged. As if to distract her, he raised one arched brow. "Surely you understand the wish to avoid matrimony."

His pale gray eyes were too sharp by half. Cassandra turned her head. "I had one terrible hus-band. I'm in no hurry to hand myself over to another."

"Exactly." He smiled, that cool, aristocratic expression that would no doubt send the mamas into swoons.

"Lovers are plentiful, after all."

Cassandra laughed lightly. "I wouldn't know. Is there some beauty you've been keeping?"

"Why do you think we're attending the opera?"

"Oh, Julian, what cliche! An opera singer?"

"Dancer, actually."

She inclined her head. "I'm pleased, I think. We worried about you, when you came back from your adventures."

That flicker of distance, of sorrow appeared, then was gone again. He took her head. "As we have worried since your return from abroad. Will you never speak of what happened, Cassandra?"

She managed a light, bored shrug. "Ah, only a silly love affair turned sour. No more than that."

"You are in much improved spirits this evening."

"How could I fail?" She spied another hopeful mother headed their way, and laughed, directing his attention. "I have come to the opera with the most popular gentleman in London."

With a nearly imperceptible smile, he stood to greet the newcomers.

At last the musicians began to tune their instruments and the steady stream of marriage-able girls trickled off. Cassandra settled herself in readiness for the opera, which she always enjoyed.

When she looked across the opera house, there he was. Out of place, and so unexpected that she gaped for a long, silent moment before she could fit her mind around the fact that it was him.

Basilio.

Here, at the opera.

In London.

Blackness prickled at the edges of her vision. She realized she had not breathed, and sucked in a breath, but she could not look away.

Behind him was a man she vaguely recognized, a ruddy-faced lord from a county near her estate, which only made it all the stranger. Two women had settled at the front of the box, but the men continued some deep discussion, their heads bent together, one graying, the other darkest black.

A flash of memory hit her like a blow; her hand, white as moonlight against the jet of his hair, the curls leaping around the turn of her finger—

"Oh, God," Cassandra whispered.

Julian leaned closer. "I'm sorry—I didn't quite hear you."

She put her hand on his sleeve, trying to remember how to arrange her expression normally. "Nothing."

In the box across the crowded, noisy room,

Basilio nodded seriously at something, and his hand settled in a quieting sort of way upon the shoulder of the small woman in front of him. She seemed hardly to notice, but even across such a distance, Cassandra read discomfort in her stiffness.

Abruptly, Cassandra stood, her limbs quaking. "Julian, I feel quite ill. I must go."

He leapt to his feet, his arm circling her shoulders. "What is it?"

She waved a hand, bent to pick up her shawl from the seat, and dropped it when her betraying fingers could not hold on to it. She stared at it, the beads glittering along one edge. It looked like water, she thought distantly, the way it shimmered in a pool on the dark floor of the box. It made her think of another shawl, on another floor, and she closed her eyes against the pain of that memory.

How could a week have changed her life so utterly? Ten times—forty times!—that number had passed since then!

Julian swept up the shawl and captured her hands, bending to frown closely. "You're shivering like a wet puppy!" Bracing her elbow, he said, "Let's get you home."

"Yes." She vowed to keep her eyes lowered, but the temptation was too great. One more glance at him.

Only one.

But of course it was the dangerous one. For across that distance, across the milling scores of humanity in the gallery below, Basilio chose that moment to raise his head. Their eyes locked, and Cassandra's heart was flooded with the pain of his gentleness, his passion, his words.

His love. Yes, his love, most of all.

She fancied his face went bloodless, though of course she could not have seen such a thing at such a distance. His hand still rested upon the shoulder of the woman, and she saw him take it away, hastily, as if it burned him.

It gave her courage. Tossing her bright copper head, she said calmly, "Please take me home, Julian."

Below, the orchestra began to play, the violins and flutes setting a soft, sorrowful introduction, and Cassandra wanted to put her hands over her ears. She bustled into the hallway behind the boxes, rushing for the stairs. If only she could get outside, all would be well.

She took the stairs at nearly a run, thinking wildly that Julian would want an explanation and she would have to think of something, but that did not slow her steps. Her skirts flew behind her, and her breath began to be rushed. She rounded the last landing and fled through the opening into the first floor hallway

—

"Cassandra!"

She startled with a little yelp, and glanced over her shoulder to see him—oh, God!—so beautiful, so arrestingly himself that she felt herself dissolving. She lifted her skirts and bolted, running for her life for the last set of stairs.

"No, Cassandra, wait!" He ran behind her. She could hear him and it amazed her that she could hear anything above the soft, sobbing sound of her breath, the roaring of blood in her ears, but she could. She could hear his feet, hear—

He grabbed her arm, not gently. "Wait," he said softly. "Oh, please, Cassandra. Listen to me."

She fell against the wall in the isolated stairway, hiding her face, unable to bear looking at him. Her arm burned where his fingers touched her, and she yanked away, putting her hands over her face. They were trembling violently.

He leaned in close, and her body rippled with yearning. "Cassandra, oh, God—"

"You are married."

"Yes."

She had already known the answer. Of course that small, pale child was the woman his father had yoked him to. "Basilio, please go," she whispered. "Leave me a shred of my pride." Tears spilled from her eyes, and she could not halt them.

His hand, so gentle, so achingly familiar, fell lightly against her bare shoulder. His fingers, too, trembled. "I can only think your name, speak it," he whispered, and bent close. "Cassandra. Cassandra." His breath touched her neck.

She closed her eyes tightly, willing herself to remain still, to resist the wish—no, the agonizing need—to turn and fling herself into his arms, to kiss his lips, to hear his voice. She had not believed it possible to miss another human so much. She had not only missed his breath in her ear, and his sweetness around her—she had also lost her friend, the friend who'd made the past winters so rich. "Stop," she whispered.

"I cannot bear it, Basilio."

He dropped his hand, and her body cooled with the absence of his closeness. "Very well," he said. "I will go, if you will turn and look at me. Just let me see your face."

"No." She pressed closer into the corner. She could not look into that beloved face. Could
not
.

"Cassandra," he said quietly.

Helplessly, she dropped her hands and turned, letting him see her ravaged face, her eyes downcast.

"Look at me," he said, and she heard the raggedness there, his own sorrow.

She raised her chin, then her eyes, and embraced the rushing wish to kiss him—to kiss that mouth, those eyelids, that brow. But she saw that he, too, had suffered. In the end, she could not help raising a hand to the hollowness in his cheek. "Oh, Basilio, you should never have come. Was there not enough pain already?"

"There was joy," he said fiercely, his eyes burning.

At last there were footsteps overhead: Julian coming to rescue her. They drew apart and Cassandra hastily wiped her face with her fingers, hoping nothing showed.