When the rain slacked off, she headed on down the canal. She decided she’d been right to come through town. It was safe enough. There were few people about and they were hurrying to their destinations before they got caught by the rain again. The torch-bearers were scattered and lights from unshuttered windows were few.
She was not prepared for the shout from a torch-bearer. “He’s dead! Quickly! Come quickly. Bring lights. The bishop is dead!”
Shutters flew open. Lights spilled onto the rain-wet fondamenta, and the canal.
Kat put her head down and sculled. And as she did so, she saw a man slip from the shadows into the sotoportego. But in the momentary glance she saw him clearly. She started, and their eyes met. Then she hunched her face down and sculled. When she next looked he was gone, and she was into the comparative safety of the Grand Canal.
There was no doubt about one thing. She’d seen Eneko Lopez and he’d seen her. And neither of them, not her nor the creepy Spaniard, had wanted to be caught on the scene.
* * *
“It’s not much of a place,” said Benito anxiously. Surveying the tiny room by the candlelight, it looked even smaller and dingier than he remembered.
Maria smiled at him. Her hair was wetly plastered about her head. Somehow, this and the candlelight made her definite features stand out. The firm chin; the straight nose and broad cheekbones.
“It looks like heaven compared to the boat in this weather. Going to have some baling to do in the morning.” She shivered. “So. How about you help me light this fire?”
“Sure.” He knelt in front of the prepared kindling and took a candle to light it. “There’s some dry gear here.” He pointed to the cupboard. “Boys’ clothes, I’m afraid. But they’re dry. You should fit into them. And we’ve got blankets. And there’s some wine. Some grappa. Some almond biscotti. But that’s all the food, I’m afraid.”
He blew on the fire. It caught, sending small tongues of smoky flame to nibble at the bigger twigs. He turned around to see her still standing there, dripping. Those were tears adding to the wetness. He went across to hug her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Well, everything. I was going to say ‘you’re a good kid, Benito Valdosta.’ ” She sighed. “Only you’re not a kid any more and I’m not as strong as I thought I was. Can . . . can you stay a while?”
“Sure,” said Benito, letting go of her and going to the cupboard. He unstoppered the bottle of grappa with his teeth; then poured a generous dollop into a cracked mug and took it to her. “Here. Get yourself outside this. Let me get you out of those wet clothes.”
Her teeth chattered against the edge of the mug. She drank. “I can deal with it myself.”
Benito went on loosening the laces. “I saw it all earlier, Maria. Do it yourself if you like. But I want you out of that wet stuff, wrapped in a blanket, eating biscotti in front of the fire in two minutes or I’ll do it for you.”
This drew a smile. “Help me, then. You can be really bossy, Benito Valdosta.”
“Uh-huh. And who do you think I learned it from?”
She laughed. “Well. You’d also better get out of that wet stuff before I help you.”
Benito took a deep breath. He wasn’t naïve enough not to see certain inevitable consequences coming. And . . . he was quite shocked when he understood how much he wanted them to.
This can’t be happening! cried out some little corner of himself. You idiot! You’ll turn into a fool like your brother!
The rest of him, however, as his hands drifted across Maria’s shoulders and back—so feminine, for all the muscle—had a different opinion.
Shut up . . . boy.
* * *
The next hours seemed almost like a dream to Benito. In a bed, well lit by candlelight, Maria was not the fierce and dimly seen rutter she had been in the bottom of a gondola, lit by nothing more than a crescent moon. There was nothing of the hard canaler left in her now. She was soft, rounded, smooth—more velvety and gorgeous than anything Benito had ever imagined.