Chapter 34
That night … could I have been more casual?
Montagues and Capulets (and not Great-uncle Magno, who had taken himself off to some Significant Event with the other ampelographers) were gathered around the family table, excitedly discussing the events of the previous days.
As I ate our afternoon meal, I listened attentively, expressed joy that we’d discovered our poisoner before he had killed again, laughed at Papà’s jests, appeared modest and virginal—not an illusion, either, damn it!
—and afterward announced, “I’m going to walk in the garden and enjoy the afternoon spent alone on one of my last days in Casa Montague.
” I even managed to dab a fake tear from my eye.
To my surprise, my parents, grandparents, and siblings advised me to wear a warm cloak, hat, and gloves and sent me on my way. Not that that displeased me, but I was more used to everyone doing everything in their power to mess up our plans to …
You did guess, didn’t you? That I was going out to meet Cal? And consummate our marriage in a freezing cold pergola, because thanks to the dear Virgin Mary and Friar Laurence, we are wed, and it’s not a sin. Yet somehow we continue to be thwarted because … because, really, why?
The north wind blew off the slopes of the Alps, and its bite hinted at snow. I bent my head down into it, but it snapped at my cloak, and the gray clouds roiled across the icy blue sky. I reflected bitterly, what better time to roll around outside on an icy bench? Why is fate toying with us?
I had not yet reached the pergola when a broad male arm reached out from a side path and snatched me to a warm male body clothed all in black. You’ll pardon me if I reacted with a punch to the guy’s ribs. Recent events had left me more blade shy than one might like.
He grunted, then kissed me. “Rosaline.”
Of course, by then I knew who it was, and after a lingering exchange of breath and tongues, I charged into the fray. “Why can’t we tell someone that we’re married? Someone who will help us?”
In an irritatingly reasonable voice, Cal said, “Tell someone that the prince of Verona has prematurely married the woman who so infamously captured his heart and thus has deprived the citizens of Verona and his family and hers—hers famous for its quarrels—of the spectacle of their wedding?”
“We’re not depriving anybody. There’ll be a wedding. A second ceremony. And we don’t have to tell everybody.” Here was where my argument faltered. “Just … just my mother.”
“Who will she tell?” Cal sounded oh so reasonable.
“No one.” I spoke too quickly. I do that when I lie.
“She’ll tell your father.”
“Of course. He’s my father. They’re married.”
“A grand man. Good with a sword. Quick with a fart. I admire him.”
“Of course you do.” Was there a man in the world who didn’t admire Romeo Montague for all the important reasons?
“But is my lord Romeo discreet?” A smile played around Cal’s lips. “I think not.”
“He … would perhaps … tell a friend …” I gave up. Papà was a gossip, a man who would rather protect me, his daughter, from slander than worry about the citizens of Verona, their upcoming theatrics, and their swirling speculation that the ceremony and the consummation had been celebrated early.
Cal caught my hand and led me toward our goal. We could see the top of pergola above the thick hedges, but there was only one way in, and thus that was our choice for our assignation.
I wasn’t done arguing. “We’re newlyweds. Surely we deserve something more than being frozen together at the loins.”
“Spring will come soon.” Not a smile touched his lips, but I could tell by his tone of voice he was amused.
“Cold comfort!” Ha ha.
“The ice will eventually melt, and in the meantime, I promise you pleasure.” We mounted the steps, and he gestured to a spot on the board floor close against the evergreen hedge.
There he had created an appealing nest of furs, pillows, and blankets, where we could cavort as we wished. “And I promise to keep you warm.”
I had been prepared to complain further, but his thoughtful arrangement silenced me—as you know, that was no mean feat.
He pulled off my cloak, lifted the coverlets and, with a hand on my waist, urged me to nestle in the soft furs. “Quickly now!”
I did move quickly—the wind almost took my breath away—discarded my shoes and snuggled down under the blankets, which were icy, but they cut the wind. I huddled there, watching while he discarded his cloak, boots and jerkin, and thinking lewd anticipatory thoughts.
When he joined me, I disposed of my hat and gloves and slid my hands around his waist. The man was blessedly warm, even overheated, and I took the time to luxuriate in his scent—he always managed to smell herbaceous, like rosemary blossoms, as if he’d recently come from working in his garden.
He, on the other hand, went promptly to work on the laces of my bodice. “Besides, you must allow me to be selfish.”
“About what?” With his fingers brushing against my breasts and the resulting blood roaring in my ears, I didn’t follow his reasoning.
“Getting married in a midnight ceremony, then sneaking around, trying to steal private time to indulge in illicit passion—”
“Not illicit!”
“It feels illicit.”
His hands deliberately pushing my bodice apart forced me to agree.
We might be married, but the long delay between the ceremony and the consummation had made me focus exclusively on him …
and on my skin, which felt stretched and heated; and on my nipples, which puckered so hard they ached, and that had nothing to do with the cold; and on my body, which ached to be joined to his. …
Cal continued, “Waiting and lusting and skulking makes me feel worthy to join your dramatic family, rather than being forever the staid and somber prince.” I may have gasped, because he at once ceased with his exploration. “Did I alarm you? Hurt you?”
“No. But I never said that.”
With his attention torn between my words and the imminent reveal of my bubbies, he was forced to ask, “Said what?”
“That you are a staid and—”
“Ah. That.” Now his mouth did quirk. “You thought it very loudly.”
We sounded like my parents, teasing each other in low, intimate tones that sounded like … affection. Which gave me a jolt. Were we some kind of different incarnation of Romeo and Juliet? Was there more than one way to be legendary lovers?