LITMIR.BIZ

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      She looked away from him, her heart hammering in her breast. “It is easier to understand another’s pain when one has been wounded as well.”

      For the first time his face softened a fraction. “I am sorry,” he murmured in a gentle voice.

      A warmth flooded Jessica’s being at the sound of his words. She glanced at him out of the corner of her mask’s eyehole. The Englishman was exceedingly handsome. She could well imagine him in a courtly setting instead of sitting in her plain little house. Her fingertips tingled. Behind her back she balled her hands into fists. She turned toward a second door in the room that led into her treatment chamber.

      “If you wish me to help you, please follow me.” She opened the door.

      He stood up. Once again his bulk filled the space. Jessica backed away. He held up his hand to her, palm out. “Pray forgive me, little one, I did not mean to startle you.”

      She gave him a shaky smile. “In truth, my lord, I have never met anyone quite so…tall.”

      He arched one brow. “Height runs in the family.”

      Jessica moistened her dry lips. “Then you must live in a large house to hold all of you at one time.” She bit her tongue. I am chattering like one of those silly little monkeys they sell on the Rialto.

      The Englishman followed her into the treatment room. “Have no fear. The family resides in England,” he remarked. His caped silhouette danced along the wall like a winged creature. He smelled of cloves and wood smoke.

      Seeing that Sophia had already prepared the chamber, Jessica smiled. In the far corner, a brazier of pierced brass stood on a tripod of slim iron legs. Hot coals glowed within it, banishing the chill of the midwinter day. Sophia had added a stick of sandalwood to the fire—an expensive whim but one that Jessica approved. Perhaps the sweet aroma would cheer the English prelate—or whatever he really was. A clean linen sheet covered the high-legged padded divan and a soft wool blanket lay folded across the end. A number of pots containing Jessica’s oils and creams were laid out on a side table. A thick scented candle flickered in its wrought-iron candlestick. She closed the door behind him.

      The Englishman glanced around the room. “No windows?”

      Jessica cleared her throat. “To keep out the drafts—and the unpleasant odors from the canal.” She smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from the sheet. She must stop trembling or she would never be able to work on him. “And to insure privacy.”

      He touched one of the green walls. “Felt?”

      Jessica ran her tongue across her upper lip. “To muffle the sounds of the city and to keep in the warmth. It is all for your comfort, messere, I assure you. I will leave now so that you may disrobe. Please remove your outer clothes and shirt. You may hang them on those pegs.” She pointed to a row of varnished knobs opposite the door. “Then lie down on the divan and cover yourself with the blanket so you will stay warm.”

      She lifted a thick black blindfold from the table and held it out to him. “I fear I must beg your further indulgence. Please blindfold your eyes before my return.”

      As he took the ebony silk from her hand, his fingertips brushed against her skin. The spot burned and tingled as if it had been caressed by both fire and ice. Jessica drew in her breath. What power does this man have that I quake, yet I yearn for him to touch me again?

      He examined the blindfold then glanced at her. “Cosma also told me of this, but why is it necessary?”

      Jessica was prepared for this question. All her new patients asked it. “In order to work on your body without hindrance, I remove my mask. Yet I wish to protect you from the sight of my face. Therefore, I humbly beg that you wear it while I treat you.”

      He dangled the cloth between his thumb and forefinger as if it might turn into a live eel at any moment. “And if I do not?”

      Jessica lifted her chin a notch. “Then I will not treat you. The choice is yours.” She held her breath.

      He studied her for a long moment, then he flashed her a sudden smile that disappeared before she could savor it. “You have me at your mercy, Signorina Leonardo. I will bow to your edict. In faith, you are the most intriguing woman I have yet met in Venice.”

      Jessica didn’t know if he had just paid her a compliment or insulted her but she opted for the compliment. With a quick smile in return she let herself out of the room. “Please call me when you are ready, messere.”

      He held up his hand to stop her. “By which name shall I call you?” he asked. A faint twinkle lit the depths of his eyes.

      Her mouth went dry. Her heartbeat increased. “I am known as Jessica,” she answered softly. Then she shut the door, stumbled to the nearest chair and collapsed between its welcome arms.

      Is this man a wizard? He has cast my wits under his spell.

      Francis Bardolph gave the room another swift inspection before he unfastened his cape. Small confines made him uneasy, especially when there were no windows. No quick exit in case of trouble. He shook his head to banish his misgivings. His suspicious nature stemmed from too many years traveling abroad in the service of the crown, first for old King Henry VIII and now for his young son, King Edward VI. He jumped at mere shadows these days, Francis thought ruefully as he hung his cape and outer coat on the pegs. It was a nerve-racking job gathering secret intelligence for England’s clever Secretary of State, Sir William Cecil.

      The muscles in his shoulder protested every movement. He kneaded the sore area with his fingers. Then he unbuttoned his garish doublet while he mused upon the intriguing Signorina Jessica. Unlike the majority of the Venetian women whom Francis had encountered during his five-month stay, Jessica did not dress her raven hair with sticky wax pomade but she allowed it to lie in a braid down her back. Delightful, he silently applauded. Most provocative. I wonder what she looks like with it unbound? Is it as soft to the touch as it appears?

      Wincing a little, he peeled off the tight jacket. Francis chided himself for dwelling on the signorina’s tresses. He had enough female worries on his mind as it was. Lately, Cosma had become more demanding, not for the glittering baubles provided by Lord Cecil’s generous purse, but for Francis’s body and soul. Last night she had all but suggested that he marry her. Francis rolled his eyes at the low-beamed ceiling. He could just imagine the reactions of the Cavendish family if he returned to England with that piece of painted baggage.

      What a difference between these two women—Cosma and Jessica! Francis paused before untying the laces of his silken shirt. Cosma’s hair was that red-gold color favored by practically every woman in Venice. On sunny days droves of fashionable ladies could be seen on hundreds of flat housetops sunning their henna-streaked locks in crownless broad-brimmed hats. Young gallants often climbed to the top of the campanile in Saint Mark’s Square just to admire the rippling ocean of gilded tresses.

      But Jessica’s hair was black as midnight. It beckoned Francis to weave his fingers through it, though his sense of propriety and good manners forbade his hands to follow his lusty thoughts. He wondered why Jessica didn’t use cosmetics to mend her looks, as Cosma and the other votaries of Venus did, instead of hiding behind that blasted mask. He had seen only her mouth and yet it hinted of richer beauty above. Jessica’s unrouged lips were as lush and full-ripened as any courtesan’s skill could render. What would it be like to kiss lips that did not taste of paint? Francis snorted. He had wallowed too long among the fleshpots of the Continent to recall the simple pleasures of an innocent maid in a flowering meadow.

      He wondered if Jessica was still a virgin as he pulled his shirt over his head. He guessed that she was past her twentieth year, and most women had been bedded by then unless they were locked inside high-walled convents at an early age. He grimaced. Why should the state of Jessica’s maidenhead matter to him anyway? The pain that coursed down his right arm reminded Francis that this visit to a woman was strictly business of a medical nature.

      He stepped out of his shoes and pushed them against the wall with his foot. He glared at the nodding

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