his words was clear to her, forming in her head as he spoke.
“Please, I told you. I’m not hungry,” he said. “If you’ve brought food, take it away. All I need is some time to myself.”
Caitlyn hid behind one of the curtains by the post at the end of the bed, her heart racing. She peered out at Raphael. What was he going to think if he caught her in his bed, spying on him in his bath? He might think she was infatuated with him. Her soul cringed at the embarrassing thought. She had to get out of there before he saw her.
The fire crackled. Raphael’s brow puckered and he opened his eyes. “Beneto?” He turned around in the tub, water sloshing, and searched the shadows near the door. “Ursino?”
Finding nothing, he shrugged to himself and sank down lower in the bath, closing his eyes again. “Wonderful. Now I’m hearing things.”
This might be her only chance. She slid off the edge of the bed, dropping to all fours. She started to crawl toward the door, cursing silently as her long white nightgown got caught under her knees.
She made it five feet, ten feet, fifteen … She could see the handle of the door, a wrought-iron lever with a decorative spiral of metal at the end. She started to get to her feet, her back hunched.
“Stop!” Raphael shouted, and there was a sloshing splash of water.
Caitlyn yelped and sprang for the door, looking over her shoulder as she reached it and yanked on the latch.
He was right behind her, wet and angry, a towel loosely hung around his waist. He was fast—too fast. Caitlyn shrieked, and fumbled with the latch.
“I said, stop!” He switched to French. “Stop!”
The handle turned and she started to pull open the heavy door, but then he was upon her. He slammed the door shut with the side of his body, drops of water from his wet hair hitting her face.
Caitlyn yelped and danced out of his reach, running toward the bed like a frightened rabbit. She jumped onto the mattress and scrambled across.
The mattress whumphed as he leaped onto it, and then his hands were on one of her ankles. With one strong jerk he pulled her back to the center of the bed, her nightgown riding up her legs, and threw himself down on top of her, pinning her. He grabbed her wrists and held them above her head in one strong hand, while with the other he roughly searched her body.
“What did you take? Were you trying to steal the heart? Who sent you?”
She panicked. “Get your hands off me!” she cried with a French fluency unknown in her waking life, and bucked beneath him. “Stop it!” She raised her head and tried to bite him, snapping her teeth at his neck.
“Enough!” he shouted at her. He ceased his search and put his palm against her forehead, using it to pin her head down and keep her teeth far from his neck. He stared into her eyes, the force of his gaze turning her panic into something deeper and more frightened. She went still, sensing something dangerous in him.
“Who are you?” he asked in French, his voice low, but with a current of intensity in it that warned her she must answer.
“Caitlyn,” she gasped, her breath hard to find beneath his body weight and her own fear.
“Why are you in my room?”
She goggled at him. What could she possibly say?
He gave her a shake. “Why are you here?”
“To … uh …,” she fumbled, and then inspiration struck. “I, uh, I’m a servant and thought you might need help with your bath.”
He stared at her a long moment, and then the severity of his face softened into doubt. His hand on her forehead eased its pressure, and then slid gently down the side of her face, caressing her cheek. “Who sent you? Was it Giovanni? Or Philippe? Did they tell you I needed company?”
“No one sent me.”
A loud rapping at the door interrupted them. “Raphael?” a male voice called. “Are you all right?”
Panic flushed anew through Caitlyn, irrational thoughts of Madame Snowe and the rules against boys flooding her mind.
“Please, I told you. I’m not hungry,” he said. “If you’ve brought food, take it away. All I need is some time to myself.”
Caitlyn hid behind one of the curtains by the post at the end of the bed, her heart racing. She peered out at Raphael. What was he going to think if he caught her in his bed, spying on him in his bath? He might think she was infatuated with him. Her soul cringed at the embarrassing thought. She had to get out of there before he saw her.
The fire crackled. Raphael’s brow puckered and he opened his eyes. “Beneto?” He turned around in the tub, water sloshing, and searched the shadows near the door. “Ursino?”
Finding nothing, he shrugged to himself and sank down lower in the bath, closing his eyes again. “Wonderful. Now I’m hearing things.”
This might be her only chance. She slid off the edge of the bed, dropping to all fours. She started to crawl toward the door, cursing silently as her long white nightgown got caught under her knees.
She made it five feet, ten feet, fifteen … She could see the handle of the door, a wrought-iron lever with a decorative spiral of metal at the end. She started to get to her feet, her back hunched.
“Stop!” Raphael shouted, and there was a sloshing splash of water.
Caitlyn yelped and sprang for the door, looking over her shoulder as she reached it and yanked on the latch.
He was right behind her, wet and angry, a towel loosely hung around his waist. He was fast—too fast. Caitlyn shrieked, and fumbled with the latch.
“I said, stop!” He switched to French. “Stop!”
The handle turned and she started to pull open the heavy door, but then he was upon her. He slammed the door shut with the side of his body, drops of water from his wet hair hitting her face.
Caitlyn yelped and danced out of his reach, running toward the bed like a frightened rabbit. She jumped onto the mattress and scrambled across.
The mattress whumphed as he leaped onto it, and then his hands were on one of her ankles. With one strong jerk he pulled her back to the center of the bed, her nightgown riding up her legs, and threw himself down on top of her, pinning her. He grabbed her wrists and held them above her head in one strong hand, while with the other he roughly searched her body.
“What did you take? Were you trying to steal the heart? Who sent you?”
She panicked. “Get your hands off me!” she cried with a French fluency unknown in her waking life, and bucked beneath him. “Stop it!” She raised her head and tried to bite him, snapping her teeth at his neck.
“Enough!” he shouted at her. He ceased his search and put his palm against her forehead, using it to pin her head down and keep her teeth far from his neck. He stared into her eyes, the force of his gaze turning her panic into something deeper and more frightened. She went still, sensing something dangerous in him.
“Who are you?” he asked in French, his voice low, but with a current of intensity in it that warned her she must answer.
“Caitlyn,” she gasped, her breath hard to find beneath his body weight and her own fear.
“Why are you in my room?”
She goggled at him. What could she possibly say?
He gave her a shake. “Why are you here?”
“To … uh …,” she fumbled, and then inspiration struck. “I, uh, I’m a servant and thought you might need help with your bath.”
He stared at her a long moment, and then the severity of his face softened into doubt. His hand on her forehead eased its pressure, and then slid gently down the side of her face, caressing her cheek. “Who sent you? Was it Giovanni? Or Philippe? Did they tell you I needed company?”
“No one sent me.”
A loud rapping at the door interrupted them. “Raphael?” a male voice called. “Are you all right?”
Panic flushed anew through Caitlyn, irrational thoughts of Madame Snowe and the rules against boys flooding her mind.
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