LITMIR.BIZ

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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 pom-poms. Ridiculous footwear! How Belle would howl with laughter if she ever glimpsed her somber brother arrayed in these gadabouts! His favorite sibling would never let him forget this indignity.

      Sitting on the divan, Francis picked up the blindfold. Small goose bumps prickled his bare flesh. Once he donned this innocent-looking scrap he would become extremely vulnerable. He would literally be in the hands of a woman who was a lovely eccentric. For all he knew, Jessica Leonardo could be in the employ of Venice’s notorious secret police. The Republic would not take kindly to an English spy prowling the dark corners of their unique city. England’s expanding merchant fleet already threatened Venice’s near monopoly of trade with the fabulous East. The merchant princes of the Republic would be exceedingly glad to end Francis’s nefarious career. The mysterious Signorina Jessica could easily stab him with a stiletto while he lay placidly on her couch like a fish on a cutting board.

      His shoulder throbbed. He flexed his stiff fingers. The devil take it! He had been in worse spots than this. This woman was said to be a notable healer. He would chance his life—once again. Francis tied the mask firmly in place then gingerly lay down and pulled the blanket up to his neck. His feet hung over the edge of the divan.

      “Signorina Jessica!” he called. “I am ready as you have commanded me.”

      The door opened behind him. He instinctively tensed; his fingers curled under the blanket. His rapier hung within arm’s reach. He caught the aroma of her perfume, a heady scent that whispered Arabian mysteries.

      “I thank you for your trust,” she said in that thrilling low voice of hers. “Please relax now.”

      Someone else entered the room—a man’s soft tread drew nearer to the divan. The hairs on the back of Francis’s neck prickled. He jumped when she placed her hand on his brow.

      “Pray be at ease, messere,” she murmured, once again addressing him as if he possessed a noble title. “It is only Gobbo, my lutist. He will play for us while I work. If the mind is soothed, so will be the body.”

      Her invisible accomplice tuned his instrument and began a gentle ballad. An accomplished musician himself, Francis admired the talent of the unseen fingers that conjured such sweet beauty from his strings. The enchanting melody hovered over him and sank into his very pores.

      A pungent odor filled his nostrils. He flinched when Jessica stroked his forehead. She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Tut-tut, messere, it is only a little camphor mixed in a light oil base. Pray forgive its aroma but it does wonders for aching joints and pounding heads.”

      She massaged his temples. Her touch was the most exquisite thing that Francis had experienced in a long time. Sensual, beguiling. He drew in a deep breath. His imagination wandered into a lush-appointed bedroom—with Jessica waiting for him between silken sheets. What those knowing fingers could do to a man if she—

      She interrupted his wanton reverie. “Before I begin, I must examine the area that afflicts you.”

      He cleared his mind. “The right shoulder,” he muttered hoarsely.

      She lifted the blanket. The cool air stung his skin.

      “Ah, I see.” She traced her finger along the track of the ancient scar. “It was a deep wound. How did it happen?”

      Visions of that long-ago midsummer’s morning crowded into his memory. A sunny, warm day. Astride the huge warhorse of his…his master—and presumed father, Sir Brandon Cavendish. Belle’s childish laughter in his ear. The cry of a startled bird, then literally a bolt out of the blue sky. “I was shot by a crossbow,” he answered with a snap.

      Jessica lifted his shoulder and touched the larger scar on his back. “Clean through,” she observed.

      “My, uh…the knight I served pulled out the shaft.” He swallowed with the memory of that excruciating pain.

      Her fingers gently prodded the area. “How old were you at the time?”

      “Nine years and a few months.”

      She sucked in her breath. “What evil creature would shoot so young a boy?”

      Francis curled his lips with disgust. “One who sought my…master’s life.” He couldn’t call Brandon his father even though Brandon informally considered him as his son. “I took the arrow meant for my lord.”

      “¡Dio mio!” she murmured. “So young and yet so brave.”

      Poor aim was more like it, he thought, but said nothing aloud. He liked the way she called him brave.

      She continued to prod the scars as if she sought to find the path of the bolt. “Did the wound fester? Did you have a fever?”

      “Sì,” he replied. “There was a wisewoman who sewed me up and fed me herbs. They told me I was delirious for over a day. I was weak for a long time after that.”

      She traced her fingers down the length of his arm and took his right hand in hers. “I am going to test your range of motion,” she told him. “Tell me when it hurts or pulls. And please, messere, do not mince your words. I must know exactly where the pain lives in order to help you.”

      In my heart where there is no cure for it.

      Aloud, Francis said, “Begin, but I warn you, I might bellow like a bear.” Despite his words, he knew he would rather die than admit that such a gentle creature as Jessica could hurt him.

      Supporting his elbow, she slowly raised his arm straight up. With habit born of long suffering, Francis tensed when she lifted his arm above his head. The knotted muscles and battered flesh screamed in protest.

      “There?” she asked, returning his arm to his side.

      “Sì,” he replied through his teeth. The pain eased away.

      She moved his arm out from his body in a long, slow arc. Again he tightened when she reached the level of his shoulder. “There again?” she asked.

      He nodded. He hated to admit his weakness but since he was now committed to this path, he would endure it. Cosma swore Signorina Jessica could heal him. In any case, Jessica now stood between him and his clothes.

      She stroked his hand. “Please make a fist for me,” she asked.

      His long fingers protested as Francis folded them against his palm. “It is more difficult on days like today,” he apologized. No doubt she would think him the gaudy fop he pretended to be. “Cold and wet,” he added.

      She lowered his arm to the divan. “Just so,” she murmured. “I am surprised how firm your muscles are in spite of the pain.”

      A little warning bell jangled in the back of his mind. This sweet-voiced minx could be the agent of his destruction if he wasn’t careful. Venice literally crawled with secrets and informers.

      “I have no desire to grow fat and ruin the line of my clothes, signorina,” he replied in the languid manner of his dandy’s role. “I usually exercise by riding when I am not living on an enchanted island that floats in a lagoon. Since I have been in Venice, I have taken lessons from one of your renowned sword masters.” True enough. Furthermore, the man had taught Francis a great many new and lethal techniques that the brigands in England had not yet envisioned.

      Jessica said nothing for a few minutes while she massaged his neck and shoulders. Then she remarked, “You must enjoy

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