Gently! he told himself. But Maria was having none of it. She was caught up in her own passion—and a more furious one even than his. Her hands were tugging at his breeches cord. The boat rocked wildly as he attempted to help.
“You’ll have us over, you fool!”
That sounded so like the old Maria, that Benito paused. “We shouldn’t be doing this. . . .” His body was betraying his mouth.
“I asked you to, Benito,” she said, a hand guiding. “I need . . . aaha!”
And after that there was no more talking for some time. Nothing coherent, at any rate.
* * *
“I think there’s more water in the boat than in the canal,” Maria said, laughing softly. “Ooh. I am going to have bruises. Duckboard stripes on my behind.” The arms that held him tight didn’t seem perturbed.
Benito felt the trickle of water down his neck. “I think some of it is because it’s raining.”
“Oh, hell. These are my only clothes.”
Benito stretched, feeling her underneath him, muscled yet soft. “Um. Well, I’ve got some ideas about that. You can’t sleep out here.”
“I haven’t got anywhere else, Benito,” said Maria. “I’m not going back to the Garavellis’. The cousins were very unhappy about my moving in with . . . with Caesare anyway. I’ll sleep under bridges. Take me a few days to find my feet, get together money for a place to stay.”
“What I was going to say is . . .” The next words came out in a rush: “There is our—Marco’s and my old place—in Cannaregio. It’s got no windows and it’s pretty noisy, but well, it’s a roof. Got some spare stuff there, too.”
She was silent for a few moments. “I don’t want to be beholden.” There was a shutdown in that voice. Pure canaler pride.
Benito shifted position slightly, shivering. The wind and drifts of rain had taken the heat out of what had been a sultry summer evening.
“Maria,” he said quietly, gently. “You don’t owe me anything. Marco and I, we put a lot into paying back the debt we owed to Caesare. Strikes me we probably owed you just as big a debt. We kind of thought we were paying both of you back. But it wasn’t really like that, was it? We are beholden to you. Our place ain’t much, but until you get sorted out . . . it’s yours. You’re already wet. It’s going to get colder. Marco would never forgive me if I left you out here.” He kissed her cheek. Then, awkwardly: “There’s no conditions attached . . . or anything like that. It’s yours.”
She sighed. “Benito Valdosta. You can be just like your brother, sometimes.”
Benito snorted. “Yeah. But I lie down and it goes away. Marco’s my conscience. I’m just Benito—the practical one, and trouble. Come on. I’m getting cold, and you must be too.”
“I’ve got a warm heavy blanket on top. But my back is tired of being wet. Let’s see if we can sit up without having this thing over.”
They managed. Maria saw to her lacing. “Benito,” she said. “I’m sorry. I . . . used you. I needed someone and I used you.”
Benito shrugged, smiling widely. “I didn’t exactly mind! Actually . . .” His smile changed into something very shy. “It was wonderful. We men don’t feel the way women do about it.”
Maria snorted. She sounded almost her old self. “I’ve noticed! So. Was it better than with that Sarispelli girl?”
“Uh.” Now Benito was embarrassed. “It was—very different. And, yes, much better.” He suspected his face was bright red. “The truth is, Maria,” he said very softly, “I think . . . well. There’s nobody like you. Not for me, anyway.”
Maria stared at him, for a moment. Then she snorted again. “Benito. Sometimes you say exactly the right thing. Whereabouts in Cannaregio is your place?”
* * *
Kat cursed the rain. If there was one thing about her night-trips she hated more than anything else, it was getting wet. But she’d decided to never shelter in a church again! Under San Trovaso bridge was safer than San Trovaso itself.