Free The Ruby Ring by Diane Haeger Page A

never cared this much about obtaining a model before,
he heard the echo of Giovanni da Udine’s declaration before he had gone home earlier. And Giovanni was right. The young Florentine woman he had used for the many earlier Madonnas, so blond and serene, had let him sketch her face, study her eyes, nose, and lips, been paid for the trouble, then left his life compliantly.
    Was it merely Margherita’s refusal that had confounded him? Surely not. In spite of a measured attraction to her, he now grudgingly reminded himself, Margherita still was nothing like the lusty Roman women whom he seduced with impressive regularity. Why then was he absolutely compelled to convince her to enter his world? Certainly she was the Madonna. That face, the delicacy of her bones, the luminescence of her skin, her haunting eyes, and the unmistakable pride born by the mother of Christ.
    But she had refused him. Twice.
    In a rage of fatigue and frustration, as a pale pink dawn filtered in through the leaded-glass windows, Raphael began to shred the parchment into small bits. He was destroying what he had only just been driven to spend the night creating.

         
    4
    M ARGHERITA SAT ALONE ON HER OAK-FRAMED BED IN A small, spartan room above the bakery. Beneath the coarse, gray blanket, knees curled to her chest, she gazed beyond the window at the starry night sky. The room would be stifling, even in autumn, were the shutters beside her bed not partially opened to draw in the breeze. On the other side of the wall, Letitia and Donato’s bedchamber was shared with their two smallest sons. The older boys slept in the attic loft of the odd-shaped little house. Living so near a couple long married, Margherita had learned much about the private world of a husband and wife. Those sounds, with their primal rhythms, had ignited the fears she now had of a life with Donato’s brother, Antonio.
    She could not help but think of the two of them like that, softly laughing, murmuring, pleasuring one another, in a private, unhurried way that did not involve inconvenient barriers. Antonio had shown her something else, a world of secretive cloaks, and the pungent smell of horse stalls where he had, twice before, stolen her away for a sensual kiss. Since they were children, Donato’s younger brother had vowed he would marry her. And there was safety in that life. Safety and an end to dreams.
    Until today.
    So, her family truly wished for her to pose for the great Raffaello? And there would be more gold coins to come. If she would only leave Trastevere, risk the unknown, and sit for his painting. A baker’s income was meager. A stableman’s even less. But there was something unseemly about a woman earning the money a family required. Would not the wives of the neighborhood whisper about her? And would they not be right to believe that the family had lowered themselves by allowing her to sit before the probing eyes of another man in exchange for money? “What has she done for the great
mastro?
” they would doubtless titter. What liberties had he taken? As Signor Sanzio stood downstairs, so elegantly clad in velvet and satin, jewels on his fingers, rich embroidery on his doublet, with half the neighborhood peering in through the windows, she had imagined how it would be, and she had despised him.
    But mixed with those thoughts was the memory of his hands. He had such elegant hands, with long, tapered fingers, she had thought, through which magic flowed.
    Hands that could make her immortal.
    The thought had only confused her more.
    The great Raphael Sanzio wishing to paint me! . . . And what more does he wish in return, giving such an honor?
A small voice inside her posed the question with jarring clarity. And therein lay the real dilemma. What did the famous and powerful Raffaello truly want with a baker’s daughter from Trastevere? His wild reputation with women was nearly as well known as his work. He was a master. An icon. He could have