Twice Upon Time. Nina Beaumont
each other as only lovers can be.
As a fire burns its way through dry pine needles, the knowledge seared its way through him to lodge in his belly. Yes, he knew. He knew that they lay body to body and skin to skin. He knew that they lay soul to soul, essence to essence.
Something—barely perceptible at first—shifted inside him, opened. Like a pebble rolling down a mountainside suddenly turns into an avalanche, so this small movement sent him tumbling out of himself, tumbling head over heels until—
Needing to see, to understand, he raised his hand to tear the barrier away, but his band passed through it and it remained as diaphanous as before and just as unyielding. Then, without warning, color seeped into the white—a trickle first, a trickle that quickly became a flood until the curtain between him and the chamber was a bright crimson. A single, hideous scream turned the blood in his veins to ice.
“What was that noise?” As Alessio spoke, the image dimmed and disappeared so quickly, so completely that the only thing to remind him of it was the icy trail along the length of his spine.
“Noise? There was no noise.” Ugo’s brows drew together, unsure of what to make of his brother’s odd behavior. Within a single moment his gaze had turned as glassy as if he had taken a drug and he had flailed his arm as if warding off a demon.
“What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Alessio fought off a desperate need to reach for the wine goblet and empty it to the dregs. “Ghost?” he said, amazed that he could speak at all. “There was no ghost. I don’t think a ghost would dare show itself in your well-ordered household, Ugo.”
Discreetly, he drew a deep, cleansing breath. But while the air filled his lungs, it turned his stomach, for it was as fetid with the coppery smell of blood as a slaughterhouse.
“I ask you to excuse me now.” He felt ridiculously relieved that his voice sounded normal. “I have much to do.”
As he spoke, his mind raced. Was he going mad? Where had the smell of blood come from? Was it connected to the wisp of a vision that he could not even have described? A vision that had suddenly turned the crimson color of blood?
His innate skepticism came to his aid and he thrust the questions aside as one thrusts aside an importunate beggar on the street. He was a logical, sane man, he assured himself. Such men did not have visions, nor did they smell blood where there was none. But he knew that he had to get free of this room.
Alessio was almost at the door when Ugo called out his name.
Because the heavy brass handle of the door was within reach now, he could steel himself to turn around. “What is it?” he snapped.
“Did Madonna Bianca like the gift I sent her?”
“She sends you her thanks.” The image of Bianca as she had stood, proud and tall, in the small courtyard had his muscles tensing.
“Did she try out the mare?”
“Yes, she is an excellent horsewoman.”
“Good. Excellent.” Ugo grinned. “I, too, ride well.” His lascivious laugh left no doubt as to his meaning. “Then we are well matched.”
Tension had gathered in a tight ball in the pit of Alessio’s stomach and he knew that if he did not leave this moment, he would launch himself at his brother and wipe that smile off his face with his fists.
“You will excuse me now, Ugo.” Alessio jerked open the heavy studded door and dragged in a lungful of the cool air of the vestibule. Thank God, he thought as he let his eyes fall closed for a brief moment. It did not carry the smell of blood.
“Alessio?”
Alessio spun around on his heel.
“I do not command you, but if I ask you as a brother who needs help to do me another favor, will you do it?” Ugo made clever use of the scar that bisected his right cheek, making his smile seem merely wry instead of twisted.
Alessio sighed, remembering how his brother had held his small hand as they had stood at their father’s graveside.
“Yes, Ugo.” His voice was resigned as he nodded. “I will do it.”
As Alessio bent his head to pass the low door of the cantina, Antonio Rossi raised his hand in greeting and gestured to the innkeeper to bring another cup.
Alessio tossed his cloak over the plank table and sat down on a bench across from his friend.
“Well, you look cheery today.” Antonio clicked his stoneware cup against Alessio’s. “Drink up. A few cups of wine and you will forget whatever it is that is marring your fair brow.” He trailed the tips of his fingers over Alessio’s forehead in a comically melodramatic gesture.
Alessio’s only answer was a black scowl. But Antonio did not take offense. Instead, he grinned and took a generous swallow of the mellow red wine made from the grapes that grew on the hills to the south of the city.
“Is she a virtuous virgin or someone’s wife?” He grinned again. “What’s her name? Maria? Lucrezia? Ginevra? Do not worry, my friend.” He chuckled. “If you put out the candle later—” he gestured toward the stairs that led to the upper floor with his eyes “—you can call her by any name you please.” Antonio gave him a friendly cuff on the shoulder. “In the dark, all cats are gray.”
“Why don’t you shut up and let me get drunk in peace.” Alessio emptied the cup and refilled it but did not drink again.
“Go ahead and get drunk, my friend.” With a smile, Antonio settled back to wait. “But not too drunk.”
He had seen Alessio brood often enough to know that he would not be hurried. When he was done, he would look up and laugh or curse at whatever had been plaguing him and that would be that. And then they would while away the night with wine and dice and a soft woman.
But tonight Alessio sat and stared, unmoving, into his wine cup as though there were something that had bewitched him within it. Minutes passed. A half hour. And still he sat, as motionless as if he had been turned to stone.
Antonio cast an impatient glance toward the stairs. With a sigh, he signaled the innkeeper to bring more wine.
He could not get it out of his head. No matter how he tried, the misty image that had surely been an illusion conjured up by his tired brain stayed with him. An illusion, he repeated to himself. An illusion, damn it. And yet it had been real. So real. Even now, hours later, he still felt as if he were a small boat adrift in a dark, unfriendly sea, lurching about in a storm. And he did not care for the feeling.
For the hundredth time, he picked through those brief moments, carefully, methodically. Surely, if he examined what he had seen closely enough, he would understand. He swore again, silently, viciously. What good did method do when he had seen next to nothing? But he had felt. And known.
The tension in his gut built to a new height. He had known that behind that hazy barrier he and Bianca had been lovers. Lovers of the flesh. Lovers of the heart. That knowledge had been as real as the white curtain that had turned crimson. As real as the smell of blood, which had nearly overwhelmed him.
He was not a fanciful man, nor was he a squeamish one. Why then did this ghost of an image not leave him in peace? Why did it torment him until he no longer knew if he was seeing the image again or merely the memory of the image? Until he was certain he was going mad?
No, he was not a fanciful man. But something that took such hold of him had to have a meaning. And he’d be damned if he did not find it.
Alessio lifted his head, his eyes wild. With a curse he swept his arm across the table, sending cups and bottles crashing onto the brick-tile floor.
Unperturbed, the innkeeper approached and matter-offactly started picking up pieces of stoneware and glass. Antonio started to make a jest, but