Part 39 (1/2)

But now he was the one who looked down, the candlelight glinting on the top of his golden head.

”Once you said I was your anchor, la.s.s,” he said, his voice as heavy as lead, as heavy as her heart. ”But no more, eh?”

”Oh, Edward, my darling husband,” she whispered, reaching out to him. ”Il mondo e vuoto senza di-”

”Don't,” he ordered so harshly that her hand jerked back as if it had come too close to a flame. ”Show me your pictures.”

”But Edward, that doesn't-”

”Show me your blasted pictures,” he said again, and when he now lifted his gaze, she found his eyes shuttered against her, closing her out. ”That's what you chose to do, isn't it? If these paintings and this gallery mean so b.l.o.o.d.y much to you now, then show them to me.”

She hesitated, torn, before she finally nodded. If this was the game he wished her to play now, she would.

”Then first you must make yourself at ease, per favore, Your Grace,” she said, and he sat on the cus.h.i.+oned bench, his gaze intent upon her. She tried to smile, wis.h.i.+ng desperately that he would smile in return, and with a graceful arch of her wrist she turned toward the nearest painting.

”This pretty little Saint Catherine comes from the studio of Guido Reni,” she began, ”and with its rosy palette of colors and gentle subject, it is-”

”Show me your father's brothel paintings, Francesca,” he interrupted. ”That's what I want to see. The pictures that made your studio so d.a.m.ned popular in Naples.”

”This isn't Naples, Edward,” she said swiftly, his request taking her by surprise, ”and I'm not showing the Oculus Amorandi here in London. Those pictures do not seem to have a place here.”

She didn't want to explain that, because of loving him, she now found the pictures too unsettling to show to others, but somehow he seemed to guess that anyway.

”You can show them to me, Francesca, can't you?” he said, challenging her. ”I'm your husband. We've no secrets between us, do we?”

Why was seeing the Oculus suddenly so important to him? His expression was studiously blank, revealing nothing, but if this were some sort of dare, she'd take it. Without a word she went to the far corner of the room, behind a screen where she'd stored the crates containing the Oculus. She pulled a panel free from its wrappings, relieved to see that it was one of the less explicit, a scene from the ancient myth of Danae receiving Zeus as a beam of golden light.

Even Francesca's imaginative father had had trouble depicting such an abstract coupling as that, and so he'd chosen simply to concentrate on showing Danae as the kind of plump, alluring, and mostly naked young woman, lounging on her bed, that both G.o.ds and mortal men apparently found irresistible. Lightly Francesca touched little Danae's winsome face, her s.h.i.+ning dark eyes and her tousled hair curling over her bare shoulders. Perhaps if she were lucky, some of Danae's charm might rub off on her in return. Saints in heaven, she'd need all the help she could muster if she was to redeem herself with Edward.

With the picture tucked under her arm, she returned to him. But instead of standing before him to display it, she sat on the bench next to him, bracing the small painting on her knees, where he'd have to lean closer to her to see it.

”This is called Danae Receiving the G.o.d Zeus as Her Lover,” she explained, aware of how he'd s.h.i.+fted nearer to her. ”I'm sure you recall the legend, caro mio, how her father had imprisoned her in a tower to keep away all lovers. But Zeus is too ardent a lover, too wily, and manifests himself to the willing Danae as a shower of golden light through the window, raining down upon her ripe and eager body.”

She'd explained the picture and the myth more times than she could recall, but she'd never felt as nervous and unsure as she did now. Most gentlemen would make some flippant comment while they ogled Danae's bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s, about how that old rogue Zeus had all the luck and the pretty women, too.

But Edward said nothing, and Francesca's uneasiness grew.

”Certainly Danae looks quite pleased with her lover, doesn't she?” she said, striving to fill the silence. ”But then Zeus would-”

”She reminds me of a certain nymph in a drawing, a nymph with a centaur,” said Edward, his voice rough and raw. ”Not that she's the same model, but her sly smile, her eagerness, how her hair falls over her shoulders-aye, that's there in my nymph, too.”

”You kept that drawing?” she asked, turning toward him with surprise.

”Of course I did, la.s.s,” he said. ”It's all I had left of you.”

She was terribly conscious of how closely he was sitting beside her on the bench, of how his arm and his thigh were touching hers, of the simmering heat between them that had nothing to do with Danae and Zeus.

”I could show you other paintings in the Oculus,” she said breathlessly, trying not to stare at him. She'd forgotten the contrasts of his mouth, how this close she could see the little gold whiskers that framed his lips, and how when he'd kissed her, those lips could be both soft and demanding and so ready with pleasure that she wondered what he'd do if she leaned forward and kissed him now, right now. ”I could show you Zeus with Leda, and Zeus with Io, and Zeus-”

”To h.e.l.l with them,” he said, slanting his face toward hers. ”All I care about now is Edward and Francesca.”