The Borgia Mistress: A Novel by Sara Poole Page A

Spaniards for that,” he said. “The sight of them at the trough is enough to steal any man’s appetite.”
    “Their company palls?”
    He laughed and slipped his hand down my back to cup me. “It palled before we ever got to Viterbo.” His lips moved to the exact spot behind my ear where I was most exquisitely sensitive. “I have even,” he whispered, “wondered if there might not be some good in the celibate state after all.”
    “I can tell you that there is not,” I said and reached for him.
    “Why is it,” he asked as he eased my skirts up, “that we prefer each other as we do?”
    My fingers were at work on the laces of his breeches as I answered, “Because our natures are so well attuned? We were friends before we were lovers.”
    His hands stroked my thighs, slipping between them. “Are you still my friend, Francesca? Can I truly trust you?”
    I gasped softly. “Why do you ask?”
    “Because,” he said as he grasped my leg and bent it up over his hip, “there are times when the weight of this mask I must wear becomes unbearable. I have to believe that there is one person in this world with whom I can be myself.”
    I bit my lip to keep from crying out when he stroked me, my fingers digging into his broad shoulders. With difficulty, I managed to answer.
    “You must know that I feel the same.” And yet there was much I had never told Cesare, most particularly not about my feelings for Rocco, the man who stirred me to dreams of a better self and a better life. Of that, Cesare knew nothing at all, nor should he, for I had no wish to either hurt or anger him. And besides, what point would there be? Rocco lived in the light that I did not believe I could ever reach. He was as unattainable by one of my dark nature as was Heaven itself.
    How fortunate then that there were still the pleasures of this earth to be savored.
    Cesare slipped into me with a groan, his mouth hot against my own. At another time, I would have preferred the comfort of a bed, but just then nothing mattered except the quick release of the passion swiftly building to intolerable heights within us both. I felt the coolness of the stucco wall against my back as he lifted me higher, plunging deeper. The world with all its trials and woes spiraled away into nothingness. I sank my teeth into the tender flesh at the base of his throat, tasted the salt tang of his blood on my tongue, and let the fire he lit scorch away all fear and dread.
     

 
    8
     
    Cesare was still asleep when I left his bed. In my own rooms, I bathed and changed, then set out to find David and tell him that I had arranged his entry into the palazzo. A light drizzle had begun to fall as I made my way along the winding streets toward the town gate. Once there, I saw that Borgia had wasted no time deploying his personal guard. Vittoro himself was on hand, directing his men as they moved to take command of the area surrounding the gate. Men from the garrison were standing aside, clearly uncertain of how or even whether to respond. By the time their officers decided what to do, it would be too late. Effectively, Borgia had taken control of the single, vital point in and out of Viterbo.
    Instead of a steady stream of traffic passing through the gates, every man and woman seeking to enter the town was being stopped and scrutinized with care. The crowd waiting to be admitted was growing by the moment. The murmur of angry voices could be heard coming from outside the walls.
    By dint of pushing and shoving, I managed to get closer to the gate. A party of pilgrims, their travel cloaks marked by the crossed-arm patches signifying their intent to pray at the tomb of blessed Saint Francis of Assisi, was being held up by the guards. Their leader, a portly, red-faced merchant, protested vehemently, but to no effect. As I watched, each of the dozen or so men and women in the group was subjected to the same scrutiny as the most common peddler. To be fair, with the exception of their