Page 78 of Thus with a Kiss I Die
I’d sat with her all the hours, touching her and talking to her.
I’d comforted and counseled Princess Isabella.
I’d gone up to the tower to find Elder and instead found my One True Love and Fabulous Inventor, Lysander placing lamps on the four upright thrusting corner posts—no penile subtlety there!
He’d given me food, thank God, and showed me his luminary intent.
We’d been discovered by my betrothed, Prince Escalus, during an intimate moment. He hadn’t been pleased at our friendly banter, but in my worry about Nonna Ursula, I really hadn’t immediately registered the depth of his disquiet.
I’d descended to care for the prince’s wounded men, and when that was done, to care for Prince Escalus himself.
In a frenzy of horror at the palace kitchen, I’d gone up and, using Master Disapproving Marcellus for muscle, I’d recreated the food-prep, and with my own hands made a delicious soup to feed the men.
I’d gone to the garden and gathered scents, herbs, and flowers, hoping to guide Nonna Ursula back to life, and suffered a few worrisome moments with Friar Camillo, who had been all that was holy, proper, and helpful.
Returning to Nonna Ursula, I’d discovered Cal and Princess Isabella gobbling the rest of my soup, while Cal criticized me . . . I mean, really, what was wrong with the man? With my scents, I attempted to revive Nonna Ursula.
Unsuccessful and frustrated, I’d more or less promised Cal I wouldn’t leave the palace, for he and his men now marched on thedisciplinati,who were rioting throughout Verona. What kind of idiot would go out on such a night?
This kind of idiot.
I’d spoken with Old Maria and realized Pasqueta had disappeared, but before I could investigate, Nurse had arrived with the news my mother, Lady Juliet, desperately needed me. I arranged protection for Nonna Ursula and Princess Isabella and went into the streets with Tommaso and Nurse and . . . well, you remember what happened then. Certainly, I did, in far too great a detail.
And I had delivered my brothers.
I pressed my hand to my gut and tried to lift myself off the pillows.
A hand slid under my back and helped me, and startled, I turned to face the stern face of Prince Escalus.
I must have been a little woozy still, for I smiled, let him support me, and said, “Greetings.” Feeble, but I was alive; he was alive; I was happy.
His stern mouth didn’t smile—of course not. He seldom understood how to tilt his lips up at the corners—but his eyes softened. “Let me help you.”
Other hands plumped my pillows and he put me on them so gently I was almost not in pain. Almost. I touched his dark-stubbled chin. “You were successful.”
“Indeed. Your courage and Lysander’s lights dissipated the riot and the only duty for me and my men was to mop up the last of Baal’s madmen. The realdisciplinati,the flagellants, exited the city gates still alight with holy fervor.” Holding a cup to my lips, he fed me broth thickened with porridge. “Their leader spoke of the dark angel Baal who joined them on the road, and subverted men to his will. He accepted no blame for bringing Baal into Verona, but assured me that through your intervention, God had taken his justice on the demon.”
“In the future, I’d prefer not to intervene in such matters.”
“That would be best.”
“Nonna Ursula?” He wouldn’t be here, would he, if she had passed?
“She stirs.” No smile, but he radiated pleasure. “Wakes, drinks, eats, sleeps.”
I touched the place over my heart. “Such good news. Does she remember?”
“She doesn’t speak.”
That was disappointing. “She needs time. It will come.” It must! “How’s your shoulder?”
He rotated it. “Good. The fighting improved it.”
“Of course, it did.” I closed my eyes for only a moment, but when I opened them, it was afternoon and Lysander sat where Cal had been, holding a tiny, sleeping infant.
Gentle reader, if you’re of the female persuasion, you can probably imagine my thoughts at the sight.
Itty-bitty baby resting asleep on that warm manly chest, utterly trusting and secure. One miniature foot, with its soft, curling toes falling from the blankets, and Lysander fussing, tucking it back in while he pats and rubs and jiggles. Seeing him holding that sweetums, that precious newborn . . . if I weren’t already in love with Lysander, I would be now.
