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so vulnerable as she was in this moment. Sucking in a breath of air, she told herself to be calm, to be poised.
It would go away, the shaking, the upset. She struggled to erect her walls.
But in the end, she could not. His hand was too gentle, his voice too soft. Against her cheek, his shoulder curved in exactly the bowl she needed, and she could not move away from it. His hand stroked her hair, over and over, and it made her remember her mother. Her trembling eased slightly.
After a long time, she said, "It was my husband."
His fingers smoothed hair back from her temple. "He hurt you."
"Yes." Squeezing her eyes tight, she pushed away the violent feel of his hands, his unnatural tastes. "He could not… perform with me very often. It enraged him, so he did… other things."
Gentle, gentle were Basilio's hands. Across her temple, over her cheek. She had no vocabulary to describe her husband's actions, and even thinking of it caused a flutter in her throat. "It was even worse when he could perform. His imagination was cruel."
Saying it aloud brought it to her in ways she did not allow. The bruises on her breasts and legs, the sound of a certain sort of laughter, the horror she'd felt. There had been no one to whom she could go for help.
"My father was dying." Her voice was calm. Or perhaps only dull. "My sisters had no power to help, and would only have been distraught. My brothers had fled England."
"Ah, my sweet." He brushed his hands along her arm. "I am not a violent man, but this makes me feel bloodthirsty. I wish I could kill him for you."
The soothing rhythm of his hands never ceased. "I hate him for putting fear in place of love, for putting pain where pleasure should be. But more," he said quietly, leaning close to her, "I wish I could take that pain from you, so you never knew it. I am so very sorry to have brought it to you again."
She pressed her burning brow into his chest, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. "I am so ashamed of it now."
"Oh, no!" He bent close. "No, Cassandra! You did nothing wrong. He stole something very precious from you."
"I should not have let him."
He took her face in his hand, held her chin patiently until at last she had courage enough to look at him.
"He stole the joy you would have found without him." His eyes were sad. "I can taste your passion when you kiss me, taste the magic that is within us, but he stole the satisfaction you would have found there, the full beauty."
"I am not wholly ignorant." She lifted her head, finding the courage now to straighten, to rely again on her poise. "I have read… things," she said. "Frank descriptions of sex, in books from France. And there is that happiness in Boccaccio. But I've never felt it—the passion." She bowed her head, heat on her cheeks. "Until now… and you see how it will be."
"He stole it, my Cassandra." He took her hand and pressed it to his mouth, his eyes intent. "It is like plums, no? Those plums, hot from the garden. Or the olives you liked so much that first day. So delicious, so rich. And I watched you in the village last night, so free and happy. And at the beach, when you let the water come over your feet, you were so happy."
She didn't understand what he was trying to tell her, and frowned. "But perhaps the pain has ruined this for me. I have never been hurt eating a plum."
"There should be no hurt in this." He lifted his chin and tossed back those wild ringlets, his eyes very dark and intense as he guided her hand to his sex, soft and unthreatening beneath his breeches, though it leapt a little under her hand. "It should bring only pleasure. More than plums, more than the ocean, more than anything." He pulled her hand away and touched her face. "Your husband took from you the greatest of all the pleasures."
Cassandra felt the sinuous swirl on her nerves as she looked at him, a swirl she could name now: desire.
"Can you teach me, Basilio? Will you give that back to me?"
He closed his eyes. "I fear…
It would go away, the shaking, the upset. She struggled to erect her walls.
But in the end, she could not. His hand was too gentle, his voice too soft. Against her cheek, his shoulder curved in exactly the bowl she needed, and she could not move away from it. His hand stroked her hair, over and over, and it made her remember her mother. Her trembling eased slightly.
After a long time, she said, "It was my husband."
His fingers smoothed hair back from her temple. "He hurt you."
"Yes." Squeezing her eyes tight, she pushed away the violent feel of his hands, his unnatural tastes. "He could not… perform with me very often. It enraged him, so he did… other things."
Gentle, gentle were Basilio's hands. Across her temple, over her cheek. She had no vocabulary to describe her husband's actions, and even thinking of it caused a flutter in her throat. "It was even worse when he could perform. His imagination was cruel."
Saying it aloud brought it to her in ways she did not allow. The bruises on her breasts and legs, the sound of a certain sort of laughter, the horror she'd felt. There had been no one to whom she could go for help.
"My father was dying." Her voice was calm. Or perhaps only dull. "My sisters had no power to help, and would only have been distraught. My brothers had fled England."
"Ah, my sweet." He brushed his hands along her arm. "I am not a violent man, but this makes me feel bloodthirsty. I wish I could kill him for you."
The soothing rhythm of his hands never ceased. "I hate him for putting fear in place of love, for putting pain where pleasure should be. But more," he said quietly, leaning close to her, "I wish I could take that pain from you, so you never knew it. I am so very sorry to have brought it to you again."
She pressed her burning brow into his chest, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. "I am so ashamed of it now."
"Oh, no!" He bent close. "No, Cassandra! You did nothing wrong. He stole something very precious from you."
"I should not have let him."
He took her face in his hand, held her chin patiently until at last she had courage enough to look at him.
"He stole the joy you would have found without him." His eyes were sad. "I can taste your passion when you kiss me, taste the magic that is within us, but he stole the satisfaction you would have found there, the full beauty."
"I am not wholly ignorant." She lifted her head, finding the courage now to straighten, to rely again on her poise. "I have read… things," she said. "Frank descriptions of sex, in books from France. And there is that happiness in Boccaccio. But I've never felt it—the passion." She bowed her head, heat on her cheeks. "Until now… and you see how it will be."
"He stole it, my Cassandra." He took her hand and pressed it to his mouth, his eyes intent. "It is like plums, no? Those plums, hot from the garden. Or the olives you liked so much that first day. So delicious, so rich. And I watched you in the village last night, so free and happy. And at the beach, when you let the water come over your feet, you were so happy."
She didn't understand what he was trying to tell her, and frowned. "But perhaps the pain has ruined this for me. I have never been hurt eating a plum."
"There should be no hurt in this." He lifted his chin and tossed back those wild ringlets, his eyes very dark and intense as he guided her hand to his sex, soft and unthreatening beneath his breeches, though it leapt a little under her hand. "It should bring only pleasure. More than plums, more than the ocean, more than anything." He pulled her hand away and touched her face. "Your husband took from you the greatest of all the pleasures."
Cassandra felt the sinuous swirl on her nerves as she looked at him, a swirl she could name now: desire.
"Can you teach me, Basilio? Will you give that back to me?"
He closed his eyes. "I fear…
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