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Dante's Flame
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Table of Contents
Dante’s Flame
Copyright
Praise for Jannine Corti-Petska
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Dante’s Flame
by
Jannine Corti-Petska
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Dante’s Flame
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Jannine Corti-Petska
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First English Tea Rose Edition, 2012
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-313-9
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-314-6
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Jannine Corti-Petska
“Jannine Corti-Petska paints incredible word pictures.”
~Long and Short Reviews
Dedication
This story is for undying romantics.
And, of course, for the love of my life, my husband.
Chapter One
Naples, Italy; February 1437
Three Frenchmen bore down on Alessandra Podesta. Her legs pumped hard and fast as she ran down one unlit, narrow street then another. The cobblestone pressed painfully into her feet through the soles of her slippers, but she’d not stop her flight, no matter how much they hurt.
Fear lumped in her throat. Heat poured through her body beneath her heavy cloak, and she prayed her lungs would not burst. She was eclipsed by the tall buildings—the cover of night her savior, the unfamiliar layout of the city her enemy. After only one week in Naples, she was acutely aware of the sentiments within the confines of the city walls. Some hated the French intrusion; others were concerned the Spanish were trying to unseat the precarious perch of the French king. And now, well past the curfew hour, she was alone, escaping the clutches of the French, who had been rumored to despoil the young women in the city.
Pain burdened Alessa’s chest. Her lungs expanded, and her quick breaths billowed in the cold like puffs of smoke. She peeked over her shoulder, alarmed by the men gaining ground. The tallest of the three barked an order in French, halting the pursuit of the other two. Perhaps he tired of the chase. Would that she could, she’d disappear into the night. She dared one more glance backward.
“Almighty!” she gasped through the scratch in her dry throat. The man shortened the gap, and Alessa feared he had merely been toying with her. She realized he could have easily caught her and dragged her away to his camp.
Her heart pounded in her ears, giving her strength, keeping her fear alive. It drove her onward as she thought only of reaching the safety of her cousins’ home. Alessa cursed her curious nature, wondering when she would learn to heed danger. If only she wasn’t drawn to that which she should fear. Pray this time she had not endangered her own life, for she had yet to mark her twentieth year and was much too young to die.
In her flight, the cloak hood swept off her head. Alessa jerked the hood up and held the garment tightly at her throat, feeling her pulses racing against her fingers. The Frenchman’s footfalls echoed in her ears as he drew closer. Up ahead she noticed a break between two buildings. She’d disappear behind one of the shops, into the back alley where she hoped stacks of garbage and useless clutter might hide her from her pursuer.
Alessa found a burst of speed. Nearly leaping the last few feet, she fled around the corner of the building and turned to gauge the progression of the man. Confusion knit her brows together. Where had the Frenchman gone? Only a moment ago he was in hot pursuit.
Gulping to calm her nerves and steady her jagged breathing, Alessa hurried to the back of the building. Shrouded in darkness, she gladly took a precious few moments to evaluate her situation. She swung her gaze up one end of the alley and down the other but saw naught of the tall Frenchman. With luck, she outsmarted him.
Inhaling deeply, she left her cover and peeked around the corner of the building. She perused the quiet street. Most of Naples abided by the curfew set by the French. No one but a few harlots hoping to catch the eye of a soldier loitered in this finer part of the city. Then there was herself. She ventured onto the streets for a very different reason, although she’d not argue she was a foolish young woman whose fertile imagination craved adventure to write about.
She stilled her heart enough to draw an easy breath. Ever vigilant, she glanced back now and then while walking rapidly toward her cousins’ home. She shivered, sensing someone watched her, and was relieved when the three level home came into view. Until she shinnied up the messy olive tree and climbed back through the window into her room, she wasn’t safe.
A figure leaped from the shadow of a doorstep and loomed over her. Paralyzed from head to feet, she stared wide-eyed at the man. He wore no hood, and the night veiled his features. When he spoke, her gaze drew automatically to the whiteness of his teeth.
“Know you a curfew has been enforced by Queen Isabelle?”
His smooth voice enveloped her in a warmth that should have been fear. He spoke with authority and something more she couldn’t discern. Then she realized he had spoken in her language.
Tilting her head back, she gazed up into his eyes, wishing he would turn into the moon’s muted light. She saw naught of him but his towering height, a trifle intimidating this close to her smaller stature. Yet she stood her ground, perhaps a little more than foolish for not attempting to flee.
“Have you no tongue?” he asked brusquely.
She had a tongue, all right, and was most valiant in holding it.
Her warm breath hit the cold night air, and more puffs of smoke billowed from her mouth. Alessa noted his breathing showed no signs of exertion. Although she’d controlled her own, her chest ached. How was he not affected at all?
“Must I force an answer from you?”
She dared not take her eyes off him as she finally responded, “Sì. Sì. No.”
He inclined his head.
“The answers to your questions.”
&
nbsp; “Insolence gains no rewards.”
“I beg to differ. I answered with respect. It would have been disrespectful had I not replied at all, would it not?”
He ignored her cheeky tone. “The hour is late. No one is allowed on the streets.”
“I have seen harlots strutting about.”
He gave her a summing glance.
Alessa squared her shoulders. “I assure you, I am not a harlot.”
“What other reason have you for walking the streets at night?”
The Frenchman stepped closer. Alessa remained rooted to the cobblestone. But the scent of him tinkered with her senses, from the aroma of wine drifting off his breath to the smell of horseflesh clinging to his garments.
“Were you meeting a lover?”
“I should say not!” She angled her chin in an affront. “I am new to Naples. And while I am aware of the curfew, I beg ignorance of how strictly it is enforced.” The lie rolled easily past her lips. “If I promise not to do it again, am I free to leave?”
He took another step closer. The warmth of his breath feathered across her face. Alessa’s heart thumped against her ribs.
“Am I free to go?” she asked again, feeling the underlying quiver of nerves in her voice.
“I will see you home.”
Anxiety curled in her stomach. Should her cousins discover she had sneaked out of their home, they’d likely return her posthaste to her parents in Venice. She could not bear to disgrace them further.
“I assure you, I am capable of finding my own way.”
Alessa sidestepped the man and hurried down the street, praying he’d not follow. She did not hear his clicking boot heels. When she turned and found the Frenchman gone, she breathed a sigh of relief.
At the side of the house, she pulled the back of her skirt forward and stuffed the hem into the waistband, fashioning loose breeches in order to scale the tree. In little time she was scooting across a thick branch and climbing into the window of her bedroom.
****
“Did you find the girl?”
Dante Santangelo pulled out a bench and sat with a sigh. He searched the tavern for the serving wench, annoyed to find her cozily sitting on the lap of a grizzled French soldier. He needed a drink. More than that, he needed to still the turbulent palpitations in his chest.
“What say you, Dante? You did not return posthaste. Was she a tasty morsel?”
The lewd tone belonged to Etienne Lemont, a captain in the French army. He was the only man ever to challenge Dante’s authority among the men who had pledged their loyalty to King Rene and his wife Isabelle.
Sliding his gaze to the dark-haired, smirking man, Dante replied smoothly, “She disappeared into the night.”
Guffaws rumbled around the table from the other soldiers.
“You are losing your touch,” Etienne teased.
Dante frowned and cast a foul look at the serving wench. The soldier’s face was nestled into her abundant breasts and his hand had vanished beneath her skirt. Dante would not get a drink anytime soon.
“Was she a harlot?” Etienne assumed every woman in Naples was one.
“I think not.”
The captain’s thick brows rose. “How do you know she disappeared into the night?”
“Suffice to say she was not dressed as such a woman.” Indeed, even in the dark he saw her cloak boasted of means. He’d wager she was barely into womanhood. Her petite stature and impulsive speech bespoke of an immature female. Of that particular breed, he’d had enough experience. For some ungodly reason, young, flirtatious girls flocked to him. “She is not from Naples.”
Etienne stared in curious silence. Dante offered no more information.
He spared one more glance at the serving wench in time to see her body ride the soldier’s fingers and hear her moans. Disgusted, he stood.
“An early night?” Etienne questioned.
Dante nodded and took his leave. Outside the tavern he paused, welcoming the brisk air prickling his cheeks. Breathing deeply, he savored the night smells that reminded him of his youth. Yet he couldn’t stop his thoughts from straying to the girl he’d chased. Something about her continued to disturb him. He had never seen her before tonight. If she was not a whore, then she had to have been returning from meeting her lover.
“Why should I care?” he asked himself.
Leaving the seedier side of town behind, he walked toward the affluent area with the girl’s image captured in his mind’s eye. The shine of her pale blonde hair when her hood had fallen back reminded him of the sun’s rays. He had wanted to touch the strands, to know if they were as silky as they appeared.
He had purposely held back in his pursuit of her, forcing the two soldiers accompanying him to keep their distance. While he didn’t doubt their loyalty to the Anjou, he often questioned their disrespect for the women in Naples. Had they caught up with the girl, Dante knew he’d be forced to defend her from their blatant lust.
The French soldiers thought him too honorable in a time of conflict. Truth be told, he despised war. He had pledged his fealty to King Rene out of respect for his French mother, cousin of the revered Rene. But half of his heart lay rooted deep in the Neapolitan soil. And when Alfonso of Aragon began his battle for Naples, Dante didn’t hesitate to get involved.
The French camp long behind him, Dante paused near the spot where he’d left the girl. Glancing at the neat row of tall houses and shop fronts, he wondered which she hid behind. Using the shadow of an olive tree, he leaned a shoulder against the trunk and set his sight on the Valente home. Fabroni ran his shoemaker business on the first floor. Dante wondered often how a lowly merchant afforded a large home in the wealthier part of the city. The Valente family didn’t suffer as did most merchants who lived within the surrounding walls of Naples. Because of that, Dante’s suspicions leaned toward the family secretly backing the Spanish. But he’d yet to catch them doing anything illegal or out of the ordinary.
He narrowed his eyes on the home. “The day will come when you will be caught and imprisoned, Signor Valente,” came his whispered promise.
Chapter Two
The morning dawned with a frightful chill. Alessa gazed longingly at the unlit hearth, wishing for a blazing fire to warm her bones. At home in Venice, her father made certain all the fireplaces were lit during the colder months. Unfortunately, the Valentes preferred to pile on layers of clothing and blankets for warmth. She didn’t understand why they were stingy with buying logs when in many other aspects of their lives it was obvious they possessed wealth.
Reluctantly dragging herself out of bed, she wrapped the coverlet around her body to keep from shivering. She laid out her clothes, then held her breath and swiftly disrobed. She donned a purple brocade dress, its sleeves snug to just below her elbows. Heavy wool stockings barely kept her legs warm. Neither did the thick shawl she threw around her shoulders to stop them from quivering now and again.
She left her chamber for the great room where her cousin Fabroni awaited her. His youngest son, Attilo, had called upon her an hour ago, but she couldn’t summon the will to leave the snuggled comfort and warmth of her many blankets. Truth be told, she had been dreaming of the rogue from the night before with her rambling imagination conjuring up many tempting scenes of illicit affairs and passionate kisses.
A shiver raced down her spine, caused not from the brittle air within the manor house but from the mere thought of the mysterious Frenchman. His luscious voice and the profound heat from his body remained real, vivid. Oh, it had been dark enough not to see his features, but the shadows from the moon had teased her with glimpses of his truly masculine form.
“Alessandra!”
She jumped from the blaring intrusion of her moody, quick-tempered cousin Benito. “You have kept my father waiting.”
I care not, she might have said, but Benito, at five and twenty and a thumbnail shy of six feet, did not abide impudence. His brooding eyes beheld dark secrets, and she was certain he’d carry
out his repeated threats to beat her.
“I suffered a headache this morn. I will apologize for my tardiness.”
Benito made a sound of acceptance to her non-existent apology. He then twirled on his heels and entered the great room ahead of her.
Fabroni stood hearthside, which, to her utter amazement, was lit. He wore a gray tunic layered with a wool shirt and undertunic. The firelight played off his graying hair, but the dark reproach in his eyes when they settled on her made Alessa balk. Something in their depths spoke of suspicion. The deep lines along his lean face lengthened as he watched her walk into the room.
“You have summoned me here?” She set the tone before one disparaging word left his mouth. It was a poorly kept secret that Fabroni didn’t want her in his home. Even his wife Amalia seemed leery, maybe even uncomfortable, to welcome her with open arms.
“Your father sent you to us for discipline,” Fabroni began in his soft spoken voice. “You have been schooled aplenty for a woman, mayhap too much, and you are not stupid, Alessandra. I fear only one solution comes to mind to cure your willful desire for adventure.”
A terrible feeling landed heavily in the pit of her stomach.
“Your father had sent a letter well ahead of your arrival. He gave his consent for me to find a suitable husband for—”
“No!” Alessa rushed forward, but Benito’s outstretched arm prevented her from getting near Fabroni. “My father said I was coming to Naples to further my education and to leave behind the temptations of a city I well know.” And the doge’s married son. “He said naught of marriage.”
“Mayhap not to you.”
“Nor you.” Her rude reply gained her a backhanded slap to her arm from Benito. She grimaced and closed her fingers around her stinging flesh.
Her father would never grant another man to marry her off. Both he and her mother knew she’d never accept a man she didn’t love with all her heart. He had every right to force her into marriage. Thankfully, he hadn’t…thus far.
Even at her age, when most women were married and having babies, she knew she was too young to settle down. She had yet to experience life as she imagined it, or to write about all those experiences she dreamed of. She wanted not one man but many with whom she could share kisses. Perhaps it was promiscuous, certainly scandalous. So be it. All she wanted was a man to hold her in his arms. A man who regaled her with tender kisses. And even though she was saving her virginity for a husband, she simply was not willing to be bound to one man just yet.