Duke for the Summer

7.

“Porco cane,” Jacopo hissed under his breath.

“Hey.” Nate’s voice was hoarse, and his shirt had ridden up to show a little sliver of his abdomen. Jacopo’s mouth watered involuntarily, and he forced himself to look away.

“You shouldn’t be up. The doctor said you must stay off the knee for at least two weeks.”

“I am off it. And I need to do something. I can’t lie around for that long. I’ll go crazy.”

Jacopo was going to go crazy sooner than that. He crossed his arms. “Nate. I mean it. Stop getting up, or I’ll–I’ll tie you to the bed.”

“You’ll what?” Nate’s cheeks were red, and Jacopo swallowed. Jesus. He couldn’t even trust himself to talk.

“You’re injured,” he persisted, ignoring the heat creeping up his neck. “You’re going to make it worse, doing exercises like this.”

“I hate this, man. I’m fucking useless, and you leave me in here all day while you go off to do–whatever you do in the library.” Nate heaved himself back onto the bed. He ran a hand over his face, and when he took it away, Jacopo was surprised to see that his eyes were wet. “I’ve got nothing to do, and I’m lonely, and I’m going to get fat if I just lie around all day.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jacopo braced himself with one hand on the wall, trying to gather his thoughts. He had the urge to bang his head against the plaster. “You’re in very good shape.”

Nate grunted, picking at a loose thread in the blankets.

“I got you something that might help.” Jacopo took the pot of ointment out of his messenger bag. “This is from Nonna Stella.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a cream. It’s supposed to help the swelling go down.”

“I guess anything’s worth a try at this point.” Nate threw himself back onto the pillows sulkily, forearm slung across his eyes.

Jacopo watched Nate’s chest rise and fall, throat feeling tight. This little building had once been a chapel, and that fact seemed especially cruel right now, with Nate laid out before him like an offering on an altar. “Okay,” he said. Jaw tightening, he sucked in a breath. “I can–”

Nate startled as Jacopo sat down on the bed. “Oh, are you–”

“I mean.” Jacopo gestured helplessly. “I don’t have to. If you want–”

“No, no, it’s fine. I can’t reach my knee super well without sitting up. Probably better if you–” he swallowed. “Uh, go ahead.”

Wordlessly, Jacopo unscrewed the lid on the jar. The smell of mint and rosemary filled the air, making his eyes prickle.

“Smells nice,” Nate said. “That’s a good sign.”

“Sure.” He could feel the pulse beating in his neck as he looked down at Nate’s leg. The hurt knee was mottled with bruises, the skin shiny and stretched painfully tight. There was a long cut across his shin, and scuff marks on his thigh. Jacopo chewed his lip. “I don’t want to hurt you. Is it still sore?”

“It’s fine.”

Jacopo scooped up a dollop of the ointment and spread it onto Nate’s skin, his movements quick and jerky, trying not to prolong the contact. Nate twitched, letting out a little sigh.

“That feels good. Cooling.”

Jacopo didn’t dare look up to meet Nate’s eyes. His skin was hot to the touch, and the herbs in the ointment were making Jacopo’s palm feel prickly, electric. Nate was wearing the most indecently short pair of shorts, and the fabric had slid up, revealing the smooth, muscular plane of his inner thigh. A vein beat there, and Jacopo wanted to feel it beneath his lips.

“Yes.” He had forgotten what he was supposed to be doing and was cradling Nate’s upper calf, his thumb making small circles as if of its own accord. Jacopo jerked his hand away, heat flooding his face. “Well. That’s good. I hope it will help.” He stood in a rush, feeling slightly off-balance. “And now I will leave you alone.”

Nate grabbed Jacopo’s trouser leg. “Don’t,” he said. His eyes were almost feverish, his cheeks pink. “Please. I mean it. I’m sorry for freaking out, but I don’t know what to do. I can’t stand being bored.”

“I’m sorry. You could read one of my books? I have many in English.” He swallowed, feeling naked suddenly, and wanted to take it back. Jacopo thought of Nate’s hands on the well-loved paperbacks, his fingers leaving imprints on the pages. The books were one of the only things he could really call his own.

“I saw,” Nate said. “You’re a big horror fan. I have to say, I wouldn’t have expected that.”

Jacopo shrugged. He stepped away, out of Nate’s reach, heading for the door.

“But it’s going to be worse, reading something scary in here on my own. When I can’t even, like, run away from zombies or whatever.”

Jacopo sighed. “It is just fiction.”

“You know what I mean. I don’t really like being scared.”

Jacopo ran a hand over his face. His shoulders felt tight, and he desperately wanted a cigarette. “I can stay here with you,” he heard himself say. “I’ll bring my papers down from the library, and you can read while I do my work.”

“You mean it?” Nate was sitting bolt upright, his eyes bright.

“Yes. But no more sit-ups, and no more moving around.”

He should have said no more talking, too, because Nate didn’t seem to know how to read quietly. “How did you get all of these, anyway?” Nate asked, after what could only have been ten minutes of blessed silence. He had settled back onto the bed, his knee propped up, but he obviously wasn’t trying very hard to read the book he’d chosen.

Jacopo stared down at the diary he’d been working on, the last line he’d read circling the drain in his head, refusing to change into English. He was getting a headache. “I–there’s a shop in Palermo that has books in many languages. The owner is a friend of my uncle’s. He used to buy these for me when I was young. Though I’m not sure he knew what they were about.”

“How young?”

“I don’t know, maybe thirteen, fourteen?” Jacopo thought of the loneliness of his childhood bedroom at night, the immense dark outside the window and the little words on onionskin paper, making him feel like he was somewhere else, fully alive at last and part of something bigger.

“Is that how you learned English?”

“It’s how I learned all the bad words in English,” he admitted.

Nate laughed. “Really? You rebel.”

“It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s cool though. Knowing more than one language, especially that young. I barely made it through high school Spanish. And I don’t think I’ll learn much Italian while I’m here. I want to, but it’s not sinking in. You know?”

“I could–” Jacopo started to say, but cut himself off, shaking his head. It didn’t matter. “It’s alright. You will be fine without it.”

“Well, maybe you can teach me how to swear in Italian, at least. Then we’ll be even.”

The thought of Nate’s mouth shaping the filthiest words of his mother tongue did something violent and unexpected to Jacopo, and his hand twitched, the pen piercing through the paper.

“I really have to work,” he muttered, pulse pounding in his temples.

“Sure, sure. I’ll stop bothering you.”

Nate was quiet for some time. Or as quiet as he seemed capable of being. Every time he sighed, or rustled around in the sheets, or readjusted the pillow under his leg, it made Jacopo’s shoulders tighten with anxiety. Even the turning of pages was unnecessarily loud. At last, the room grew still, and Jacopo thought that maybe he had fallen asleep.

Then Nate said, “Sorry. I’m super curious. What are you working on?”

He didn’t need to tell him. It was none of Nate’s business, and it wouldn’t even matter in another month and a half, anyway. And it was pathetic, really, his big project, his life’s work that probably no one would see. He allowed himself to wonder, for a moment, what would happen to the library after he was gone. All the books he’d cataloged and reorganized, all the notes he’d taken, back to collecting dust.

“It’s a diary. Giulia di Carmosino, a duchess from the sixteenth century. One of your ancestors. I’m translating it into English.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve translated other documents, too. Some from Latin into Italian, as well. Just to keep myself occupied.”

“That’s incredible.”

Jacopo chewed his lip, not daring to look up from the papers in front of him. “Not really. When I became the caretaker of the castle, the library was very disorganized, and I had a lot of time. I started to make a catalog of the documents. I discovered that there were many personal items, diaries and letters, and I thought it would be good to make copies of them. The translation–it’s only a hobby.”

“But you’re not going to finish, right? If you leave.”

“It doesn’t matter. It was just a way to pass the time.”

“Well, I think it’s cool, what you’ve been doing,” Nate said. He was sitting up in the bed, his book forgotten, twin spots of color on his cheekbones. “And I want to read them. I could even help you type them up, if you want. If you don’t already have digital copies.”

“It really isn’t that important.” Jacopo could feel a knot of tension developing between his shoulder blades, and he resisted the urge to stretch. To get up and walk out of the room altogether.

“It is,” Nate insisted. “And it’s my castle, so it’s my library, too. And I want to make sure all your work doesn’t go to waste. Besides, I’m not supposed to move, and I have a laptop.”

“I know.” The laptop had been in Nate’s suitcase when he’d brought it down from the ducal chambers. Along with a sketchbook, which he hadn’t opened, and a large squeeze-bottle of personal lubricant, which–Jesus Christ–his face was heating up at the thought of. Jacopo suppressed a groan.

“C’mon, man. Let me help. I need to be busy. And I can type sitting down, so you won’t even need to tie me to the bed.”

Jacopo sighed.

*

“So, this lady is definitely being poisoned by her servants, right?” Nate said a few hours later, fingers poised over the laptop. “Like, she gets sick all the time, and this Augusto guy seems super sketchy with his sleeping draughts.”

Jacopo sat up with a start, rubbing his eyes. The sound of the keyboard was soothing, and he had been on the edge of sleep, the pen wilting in his hand and the papers blurry before him. “Lady Giulia?” he asked, yawning. “Yes. In fact, I believe it’s her son who is paying them.”

“Oh, yeah. I think the son and Augusto have a thing.”

“A thing?” Jacopo stood up, stretching. He felt his back pop. “What does this mean, ‘a thing?’”

“They’re totally hooking up. All of their private fencing sessions? All those ‘hunting trips?’”

Jacopo felt his face catch on fire. “You’re crazy,” he stuttered. He was leaning over Nate’s shoulder now, looking at the laptop. He cleared his throat, trying to regain control over his thoughts. “And here, look. You’ve spelled draught wrong. It’s not like the draft of a book.”

“You’d think I would know.” He felt Nate’s body tense, and was suddenly aware of how close they were. “I speak English.”

Indignance rose in Jacopo’s chest. “Oh, and what do I speak? Nonsense? And I have actually studied the English. So really, I would say that I’m more of an expert than–”

Nate turned slightly, his ear nearly grazing Jacopo’s lips. Jacopo imagined licking it, imagined pressing a kiss to the soft skin right behind his earlobe. He sucked in a breath.

“Jacopo,” Nate said. There was a smile teasing at his mouth. “Are you fucking with me?”

Not with you. But I would like–I would like–

There was a knock on the door, and they both startled.

“I’ll get it,” Jacopo said, heart pounding. He added, “Fix your spelling.”

*

“Nate!” Gracie came bustling into the room. There was a heavy-looking basket in her arms. She thudded it onto the table, right on top of Jacopo’s papers, before wrapping Nate in a vigorous hug. “The whole town has heard about your knee.” She pulled back to hold him at arm’s length and shake him by the shoulders. “What were you thinking? You need to look out for yourself. And right before your sister’s visit! How will we show her around if you can’t walk, Nate?”

“Uh. Sorry.” Nate snapped the laptop closed, his cheeks hot.

Gracie made an exasperated gesture and scolded him in Italian. “I brought you some cookies, from mama. Oh, and we went to the pharmacy in Palermo and got you a–what is it? A sleeve of compressing?” She began haphazardly unpacking items from the basket. “And here some bread, and sardines–Zia Grazia says sardines are good for your constitution but I’m not sure I believe her–oh no, Zio Beppe stuck one of his healing tonics in here, too–I wouldn’t drink it if I were you–”

“Gracie.” Jacopo was staring at the mess on the table, the lines of his body tense.

Gracie rolled her eyes. “I hope this one has been taking care of you,” she said. “You haven’t been too bored, have you?”

“No.” He hadn’t been bored at all. “Jacopo is interesting to talk to.”

“Huh.” Gracie crossed her arms. Jacopo leaned against the kitchen counter, looking like he wanted to disappear into it. “Well, I brought cards, just in case. We could play scopa.”

“It’s fine,” Jacopo said. He grabbed his messenger bag from a hook next to the door. “I need to go, anyway.”

“You don’t want to play?” Nate asked. He didn’t want him to go. The air in the room had changed abruptly, the coziness and the sizzling sense of–something–gone as if Jacopo had opened a window.

“It’s better with two people. And I need to go to the market. And get food for the cats.”

Nate tried his best to learn scopa, a game with its own colorful deck and a Byzantine set of rules, but despite Gracie’s patient explanations, there was just too much math and, to be honest, he was too distracted, still thinking about Jacopo leaning over his shoulder, his voice low and almost teasing, about Jacopo’s hand on his leg, fingers stroking his calf. After about thirty minutes of staring at the pretty cards and not absorbing anything Gracie said, he gave up, heaved himself off the bed, and limped over to the cabinet where he knew Jacopo kept the wine.

“Don’t tell him, by the way,” Nate said over his shoulder, as he struggled with the corkscrew.

“That we’re drinking his wine?”

“No, that I’m walking around. I’m supposed to stay in bed.”

“You’ll be fine,” Gracie said. “He worries too much.”

“I know.” Nate settled back onto the bed, taking a long sip from his glass. Thank God for wine. He needed something to soothe the rawness of his nerves now that exercise was off the table. “And there are, like, pallets of cat food in the castle cellar. I saw them. He didn’t need to leave.”

“I don’t think he wants to hang out with me,” Gracie said. She started stacking the cards, putting them back into the box. “He’s not really–how do you say it? A people’s person?”

“I don’t get it.” Gracie was fun, and smart, and Nate was discovering that Jacopo was, too. He thought about his translations, the papers he had taken such care to preserve and transcribe. Would anyone have ever even known, if Nate hadn’t badgered him about it? He had a feeling that there was so much locked away inside Jacopo, waiting to be discovered.

Not that it was his job, or even his business, to unlock Jacopo’s secrets. But the curiosity was killing him.

Gracie drained her glass. “He and I have never been close. Not like it was with Mirabella–she was his favorite, I think. But they barely talk anymore, either. He got a lot more distant after Papà’s accident, and now we hardly see him.”

“What happened?” Nate asked.

“I think Papà had–something with his heart.” She frowned. “I was just a kid. The last duke had died a little while before, and Papà was convinced we would find a relative soon, through the DNA. So he was working very hard to keep the castle up-to-date. He went up there every day, remodeling, and that’s when it happened. He wouldn’t go to the hospital. But you can see that his face is–” she indicated her own left eye and cheek. “Not right. And he doesn’t walk very well anymore. And of course he will not talk about it or admit that he was sick, just calling it an accident, because he doesn’t want to seem weak even now, typical stupid man.” She let out a long sigh and reached for the bottle, pouring herself a hefty slug of wine. “No offense.”

“I’m so sorry, Gracie.”

She shrugged. “Vabbè. It’s been this way for most of my life. But I think it’s why they don’t get along. Jacopo was off at university, and Papà always says if he had taken over the care of the castle earlier, if he hadn’t been gone, then Papà wouldn’t have been pushing himself so hard and–”

She paused, looking at the window. The whine of a motor. Jacopo’s vespa was coming up the hill. “I should let you rest,” Gracie said, standing up. “I don’t need to bother you with all this gossip. I’ll wash the wine glasses before I go.”