Читать книгу Raine - Elizabeth Amber - Страница 11

The golden hammer chimed eight times in the Campanile di San Marco as Raine strode down the steps of the lecture hall. He was surrounded by a half-dozen vintners who still discussed the lecture on phylloxera, which they’d all attended.

“What do you think of the French government’s increasing their 30,000 franc prize to 300,000 for anyone who can produce a cure for the phylloxera?” someone asked.

“Idiotic,” said Raine.

“I agree,” said one of the others. “The recitation of suggestions for a curative we were subjected to was a waste of four hours if you ask me. That blasted bug will go on its merry way sucking the sap and life from our vines with no hindrance from the French from the sounds of things.”

Someone else spoke up. “Still, I think the French should be the ones to pay for a cure, if anyone does. They’re the most desperate, since their grapes succumbed to the pest first.”

“It’s not the right way to go about things,” Raine insisted. “You all heard what stupid notions the offer of a reward has put rise to.”

One of his companions laughed. “And the ones the French official read aloud to us were supposedly thought to be the most viable of the lot. Considering that, I shudder to imagine what the rejects must have been!”

Just then, the bishop came running up behind the group, out of breath, causing a brief cessation of conversation. Catching Raine’s eyes on him, he blushed like a schoolgirl.

Raine had forgotten him until now. Surprisingly, the loquacious bishop hadn’t made his presence or his opinions known in the lecture hall.

“I believe my favorite was the suggestion that live toads should be buried beneath each grapevine to leech the phylloxera from the soil,” someone joked.

“What about the idea of bringing in Venus flytraps to snap up the pests,” another chortled.

“No! Are you forgetting the best of them all? That young choirboys were to be sent in to piss on our vines.”

Everyone save Raine and the bishop burst into gales of laughter.

“That was my suggestion, sent in to the French a month ago,” the bishop protested. “I firmly believe the acid in the urine would act as a deterrent.”

“Not to mention the stench,” someone else muttered.

“It’s an illogical suggestion,” said Raine. “They all were.”

“And have you a better one?” asked the bishop.

Raine shot him a stern glance. “Hybridization, as I described in the lecture.”

“Didn’t you hear?” another man piped up. “He was brilliant on the subject. Convinced me that the breeding of vitis vinifera with resistant species is the way to go.”

“I must beg your pardon,” the bishop demurred. “I took myself off at times during the lecture due to momentary indigestion. What was the gist?”

“Satyr posited that creating a resistant vine is the best hope for a cure,” someone explained.

“Oh?” The bishop raised his brows in a way that asked him to elaborate.

“Thus far, my experiments with cross-pollination of blossoms of different species of the same genus have resulted in a hardier vine,” Raine told him. “However the taste of the grape is still not satisfactory.” It was an unusually lengthy explanation for him.

“Well something must be done,” someone else insisted. “Two-thirds of Europe’s vines have been felled. Can you imagine? It’s only a matter of time until it reaches us. We all remain under a real threat until a practical cure is found.”

“Yet the Satyr vineyard has been spared,” the bishop said carefully.

Quiet fell. Raine could easily discern the direction of his companions’ thoughts. Everyone knew the rumors. His former wife had helped to spread them, claiming he and his brothers wielded some sort of magical force that protected their lands and them from harm. It was true.

Fortunately his ex-wife hadn’t convinced many. And rarely did anyone go so far as to bring up the matter in his presence. He and his brothers were wealthy and powerful, and it was wise to keep their favor.

“We had an outbreak,” Raine confessed, drawing all eyes.

“And?” someone prodded.

“The affected plants were routed and the area burned,” said Raine.

It was only partially true. The Satyr vineyard had in fact escaped an attack. A relation of Nick’s FaerieBlend wife, Jane, had intentionally brought in the pest. But it had been she who’d helped eradicate it before it had felled their vines. And them.

For the grapes were not simply a hobby or a means of earning a livelihood for his brothers and him. The sap that flowed through the vines was entwined with the blood that flowed in Satyr veins. Healthy vines would ensure his brothers’ children’s legacy. Healthy vines would allow his brothers and him to live on. Healthy vines would ensure that the secret aperture between ElseWorld and EarthWorld that was hidden on Satyr land remained secure.

The bishop hurled a proclamation. “Perhaps this plague was sent from the heavens as judgment for man’s sins of overindulgence. I also suggested that processions of the pious might weave through the vineyards of God-fearing believers slinging incense. Did the French consider that?”

“Men of science must scoff at such nonsense,” said Raine, uncaring that he might embarrass the bishop. “Offering a reward does no good. Better that the French turn their prize money to relieving the hardships that Napoleon caused the people of Venice. They now suffer from poverty as widespread as the phylloxera.”

He gestured toward the ragged beggars and prostitutes who loitered in the shadows of an adjacent alley. Mistaking his gesture for a summons, the desperate surged forward. Since the bishop was the closest to them, he bore the brunt of exposure.

“Be gone, you poxed creatures!” he cried, batting them away. Two passing constables joined in the fray, quelling those whose only crime was that of indigence.

In the confusion, Raine slipped away from the group. They’d been talking of attending a conversazioni in the salon of an exalted acquaintance nearby. But he was tired of talk. He had no patience for idle gossip and certainly no gift for conversation.

Before he left Venice behind for the night, he had but one last piece of business to attend to. Sex. Quick. Easy. And preferably Human.

When the bishop turned his attention from the fracas, the group of vintners had dispersed. Aghast, he glanced around for Raine.

Spotting one of the others from the lecture, he raced to catch up with him. “Where has Signore Satyr disappeared to?”

“I would guess he is headed off along the Canalazzo to find himself a companion for the evening. The others in our group departed to do the same. On my part, I’m off to my wife. Buona sera.”

But the bishop hadn’t remained to hear his bid of farewell. He was already trotting down the Riva del Vin, in search of his tall, handsome prize.

Raine made his way along the Riva del Vin, the promenade formed by the foundations of the buildings lining the Grand Canal’s northeastern edge. The cargo of wine he’d seen earlier had been unloaded and whisked away to be sold to restaurants, hotels, and individual buyers in Venice and beyond.

The Rialto Bridge lay ahead, spanning the canal. On its far side were the Riva del Ferra and Riva del Carbon, where cargoes of iron and coal were traditionally delivered. His gondola already awaited him there, dockside.

But he didn’t signal to the gondoliers. He’d hired them until morning and they would wait.

Soft sirens’ voices crooned to him from above. The courtesans were out on their covered balconies subtly hawking their wares even in this weather. At the sight of him, they leaned over the decorative iron railings, fluttering painted fans and posing provocatively.

Unfortunately his control had slipped too dangerously to chance taking one of them. The blood of his ancestors boiled in his veins tonight, and he was in no mood for holding back.

Because of the hermaphrodite. It was she who’d dredged up this sudden longing to feel the warmth of Human female flesh against him. The sight of her had revived the fierce carnal need he normally kept tamped down. His cock had been hard ever since he’d spied her, and it craved relief.

It was on an evening when he was in just such a state that he’d managed to frighten his former wife into leaving him. It had been Moonful then, when she’d run to the neighbors with tales of his wickedness. Of his physical strangeness. Of the way he’d Changed before her eyes with the coming of the moon. Though Nick had followed her and used a mindspell to mitigate the damage, her words had set the gossips humming about Raine and his family. Regret for his part in that still haunted him.

He hadn’t found his ease with a Human female since that disastrous night. Instead, whenever the moon was full and overwhelming lust drove him to the sacred glen at the heart of Satyr lands to rut the night away, he’d taken other creatures under him. Unreal creatures the Satyr could conjure at will but who felt nothing. Shimmerskins.

A week from now when Moonful came yet again, he would do the same, here in Venice. He’d find a private, isolated residence to hire for the night where he would lock himself inside, away from discovery. It was of paramount importance that he keep himself from Humans then. He’d be vulnerable.

One of the more comely courtesans on the balconies caught his eye. Noting his interest, she trailed a hand along her voluptuous cleavage to draw his attention there. At the crest of one breast, the barest hint of an areola was visible. Her finger slipped inside the fabric, swirling lazily over the nipple it concealed. The tip of a pink tongue stroked her lower lip, wetting it. Her eyelids drooped and her cunning emerald gaze watched him. Tempting him.

And he was mightily tempted.

The terms of such an assignation would be tacitly understood by both parties. No words would be needed. Their coupling would be fleeting, furtive. Coins rather than endearments would be exchanged as easily as bodily fluids. He only had to knock upon this woman’s door to be invited into her home. Into her body.

No. He rallied his self-control and forced himself to walk on. Courtesans moved in the same social circles as he once had here in Venice. She might recognize him and gossip. He couldn’t take the chance he might tarnish the Satyr family name yet again.

Raine slipped into the shadows of the buildings that lined the canal. Willing partners lurked there below the bridge.

Were he were so inclined, he could take the lowest guttersnipe to his bed and not fear that he might contract a venereal disease. The Satyr were immune to the syphilis and gonorrhea that were rampant in the city. Which made it all the more absurd that he’d been brought down with a simple cold.

The calls of the indigent echoed over the water. “Signore! Signore! Look my way.” Enticements were offered, each more lewd than the former as the inhabitants of the nooks and crannies under the bridge vied for his custom.

His eyes roved them. They were a ragtag bunch. But he could find a woman here with whom to take his ease and be done with this terrible need. There were men. Boys. Girls. All of them desperate.

He, too, was desperate tonight. Desperate for Human warmth. But his fastidious nature recoiled from seeking his pleasure with a woman from among them.

The hermaphrodite had inspired this spurt of lust in him and she would have satisfied it best. He pulled himself up short. What was he thinking?

Once before he’d set his affections on a specific Human. The one he’d married. She’d been a colossal mistake. He’d bedded her nightly for weeks after their wedding, each time in a gentlemanly fashion. Her body had brought his to satisfaction, but he hadn’t been satisfied. Lying with her had only piqued his desire, and he’d gone to Shimmerskins afterward.

Such ElseWorld beings were easily conjured from the mist by males of Satyr lineage at any time or place. They were beautiful, willing vessels whose sole reason to exist was to bring him and his brothers to orgasm as often and in whatever manner they desired.

He had but to imagine an act and impart it to such a creature with his mind. Without speaking a word he could make her understand precisely what he required, and she would endeavor to please him. She would express desire with her eyes, her lips, and her body. But it would all be false, as false as she herself was. Therein lay the problem. Tonight his body craved another sort of satisfaction. Warm. Passionate. Human. Real.

But he would make do.

He turned on his heel to head toward the dock. He would take the gondola, hie back to his hotel, and summon a Shimmerskin. Maybe two.

He took a determined step away from the alley.

Suddenly, a body came crashing against his back.

The scent of Faerie blanketed him like a quick heady puff of fresh spicy air spritzed from an expensive crystal bottle. It was there, and then gone again in an instant. It was the only scent he’d been able to detect all day. And because of that he felt its impact all the more keenly.

Instinctively, he lashed out an arm and wrapped it around the waist of the person who’d blundered into him from the alley. He felt the softness of a woman encased in yards and yards of velvet and satin.

A head lifted. Black witch’s eyes gazed up into his from the twin holes of a bauta mask.

It was the creature from the theater. The hermaphrodite! The answer to his prayers. He might not have recognized her if she hadn’t still worn the Carnivale mask.

A sharp elbow found his ribs. He grunted but otherwise ignored it. The scent of Fey had dissipated. Had he only imagined it?

Her dark eyes were laced with fear, her breathing was fast, and her body was heated as though she’d been running. Over her head, he surveyed the streets around them. They were dark and deserted except for the occasional straggler. The Grand Canal was quieter now in the evening hours. Where had she come from?

She punched his back and elbowed him repeatedly. “Let go of me, you dolt.”

He ignored her. Since no one else stood nearby, it had to have been this creature that had brought the scent with her. He couldn’t take the chance of letting her go until he knew for certain.

He clasped her arm before she could aim her weapon at a more vulnerable part of his anatomy. “Hold there. I mean you no harm.”

Nimble hands groped under his coat, pinching at him and poking for his crotch with hard knuckles. He turned so she couldn’t reach her goal.

“Hold, I say.”

She only squirmed in response. Was she Faerie or merely a comely prostitute? Or both?

“Let go of me.” Her voice was cultured. Throaty. Sexy.

His cock swelled. “Who are you?”

“Who are you?” she countered, trying to yank herself away.

He grabbed both of her forearms. Bacchus! Though she wasn’t aware of it, the cloak shifted and he caught a fleeting glimpse of a breast. Underneath, she was naked.

She tried to knee him. He angled away, causing her to tumble forward and grab at his hips for balance. Her hand lodged in his pocket by accident, ripping it.

Abruptly she stopped struggling against him. She was staring at the ground now, transfixed.

What the devil? Raine glanced down and saw that the ribbons he’d stuffed into his pockets earlier that day had tumbled free onto the tiled street.

The woman shook off his hold, knelt, and picked them up. She stood again, holding them cupped in her palms and studying them as though they were priceless treasures.

When he automatically reached for them, she closed her hands into fists and snatched them back. He caught the straggling ends of several ribbons. Winding the strands crossways around his palm until he had a firm grip, he used them to pull her against him.

The woman held on to her prize, refusing to let go. And for a moment they were linked, tethered by rainbow threads of satin. He stared into the black pools of her eyes and saw they were flecked with gold. Her lashes were cobwebby, casting shadows on the bronze cheeks of her mask. Her breasts were soft against him. His desire for her ratcheted higher.

“How old are you?” he demanded in a level tone.

She wriggled, trying to look around him, first to one side, then the other. She frowned, obviously not finding whatever it was she wanted. “Where’s violet?”

“What?” Was she simple?

“You only have six ribbons,” she explained, gazing at him with brittle patience as though he were the simple one. “You have only six colors of the rainbow here. Where’s violet? It’s missing.”

“I don’t know. Who the hell cares? I bought them for my sister-in-law and her younger sister,” he explained needlessly, then felt annoyed that he’d revealed even that small bit of himself.

He gave the ribbons a jerk and repeated his earlier question. “How old are you?”

She shrugged, irritated. “Nineteen. What does it matter?”

Relief filled him, but he was careful. “Don’t lie. I won’t seek my pleasure with girls not yet become women.”

“Pleasure?” She stilled, lifting her eyes to search his. “I’m nineteen,” she said slowly.

He looked skeptical.

“I’m quite sure of it because today is my birthday. And how old are you?”

“Twenty-seven, as if it matters a whit. What’s your price?”

Dark eyes studied him, weighing. They were beautiful, as deep and unfathomable as the lagoon. He could drown in such eyes, lose his head.

He let go of the ribbons and stepped back, feeling ridiculous. The only thing he wished to drown in her was his cock.

“Never mind,” he told her. “I’ll meet any price. Come if you’re willing. Otherwise—keep the damned ribbons, and I’ll find another woman.”

With that, he wheeled around and stalked toward the docks, hoping she’d follow. Otherwise, he’d have to go back for her.

Jordan blinked, watching his tall, erect form move away.

He’d called her a woman! It was the first time in her life anyone had ever done so with such certainty.

In spite of her unfashionably short hair, and though he’d seen nothing of her body under Salerno’s cloak, this beautiful man had assumed she was female. And he was seeking to engage her in some sort of carnal encounter for which he actually planned to pay her. A giddy thrill coursed through her.

She glanced to her left. From beneath the bridge, the hollow eyes of the beggars and whores pierced her. Some were sad, some greedy. All were desperate. Once the man departed, would they do her harm? The cloak she wore was obviously costly and could be sold. If they took it and her mask, she’d be left naked. Defenseless. Even if she escaped them, she could encounter all manner of dangers as she continued to make her way home alone at this hour.

Ahead, she watched the man hail a boatman on the gondola she’d seen earlier.

“I’m coming,” she called, skipping after him. She quickly reached his side, tucking her hand in his.

He halted midstride, jerking away from her hold. His silver eyes were wary now. Why, she wasn’t sure.

What sort of encounter did he envision between them if he didn’t want her touching him? She toyed anxiously with the ribbons, wrapping them around her palm until their ends were caught under her folded fingers.

When she noticed him observing the action, she sheepishly tucked the ribbon-wrapped hand in the pocket of her cloak. Though they were his, she refused to part with them. They somehow made her feel safe.

“I’m sorry. I won’t take such liberties again,” she said.

He didn’t comment, only nodded and turned to lead the way to the single elongated gondola at the quay. It was graceful and slender, with a gondolier on either end and a boxlike cabin in the center that enclosed the passenger seats.

Called a felze, the enclosure was decorated with ornately carved gilding. With their convenient doors and windows on every side, such compartments were used either to display or conceal as the occasion required.

In the spring, their doors and windows would be flung wide for happy brides seated within, fresh from their weddings, in order that they might display their finery to well-wishers along the canal. Jordan had observed many such brides with envy, noting their sparkling eyes, and splendid lacy gowns. Paulo and Gani had studied them as well, offering ribald speculations about the wedding night each bride’s husband would soon enjoy.

At times, a felze proved a useful setting for those intent on crimes of kidnapping or even homicide. With its doors safely secured, appointments and meetings between members of the nobility also took place there.

But more often, as tonight, the privacy such a cabin offered was used for another sort of assignation. A carnal one. The sort this man was offering.

“Back to my lodgings,” he instructed the boatmen.

They took his orders and paid her no attention, no doubt assuming he’d take his pleasure with her inside the felze during the ride. They were accustomed to the peccadilloes of the wealthy customers who rode in their conveyances, especially those wandering Venice at night.

The fact that there were two oarsmen meant they were in for the long journey across the lagoon. That meant he didn’t reside in Venice proper. All the better.

He turned and offered a hand to her, to assist her onto the boat. It was a commonplace gesture any gentleman would unthinkingly offer to a lady. But no man had ever offered her his hand before. How delightful.

She smiled brilliantly at him and placed her fingers in his, softness slipping into strength.

Somewhere behind them in the piazza, she heard the tap of footsteps. Salerno? She took no time to further savor the signore’s gesture.

The gondola rocked awkwardly under her weight as she hopped aboard, scurried past him, and ducked into the felze.

He followed her and the door shut behind him, cloistering them both in near darkness.