Free The Stargazer by Michele Jaffe Page B

sneaking into the house dressed like a boy.” A very shapely boy, Ian now thought to himself, wondering how he had failed to notice it before.
    Bianca paused, deciding how much to tell Ian. Her concern for his cuts and preoccupation with the loss of her treasures had made her momentarily forget that she hated him. That and the sight of his naked body in the candlelight earlier that night. But his repeated insistence on her “accomplice” and her evil intent—not to mention the ache in her head where he had bashed her—reminded her, and she decided he deserved to know very little. “I was investigating,” she said finally.
    “Investigating?” Ian snorted. “Where, some gambling hall? What sorts of investigations require murderesses,” he used the word to be deliberately cruel, “to dress like men?”
    Bianca ignored his attempt to rile her. “Though you are probably not aware of it, my lord, women’s clothing is quite restrictive. It is impossible to row a gondola in female attire, or scale a wall, or even mount a—”
    “Because,” Ian interrupted, “women are not to do those things. I hardly think, Signorina Salva, that you are in a position to be giving lectures on appropriate dress and deportment.”
    “Nor are you in much of a position to comment on those subjects,” Bianca retorted, looking pointedly at Ian’s attire, or lack of it.
    This was madness, Ian realized. He was completely nude, standing in a freezing room, surrounded by a pool of his own blood, arguing with a tricky female who used logical arguments to avoid giving him any information. It was so mad that it was funny, and for the third time in as many days the unthinkable happened: Ian laughed. It began as a small chuckle but grew and grew until it was reverberating off the walls of the small laboratory. Head thrown back and eyes closed, Ian let wave after long-repressed wave of laughter roll out of him.
    Bianca was first startled, then alarmed, then very alarmed. This was not normal, not for anyone, and especially not for the notoriously mirthless Ian Foscari. Clearly his wounds were more serious than she had realized and he was temporarily out of his sane mind. Slowly she slid up the wall into a standing position, trying not to alarm the hysterical figure in front of her. She watched him in his mad merriment, waiting until he was calm enough to be spoken to.
    “My lord,” she began tentatively, reaching out a hand toward his arm. “My lord,” she tried again, louder. “I really think I ought to tend to your cuts. This behavior is, well, most disturbing.”
    Ian opened his eyes and looked at her, a chuckle caught in his throat. Who was this creature who had turned his sober, well-ordered, content—not really content, he admitted to himself—but definitely rational life upside down? She truly was most exquisitely beautiful, he thought, remembering the comments of the other Arboretti. He reached out and caught one of the dark gold curls that had sneaked out of her black cap, watching the candlelight play over it. He wanted to bring it to his lips, to tickle them with its silky smoothness. Then he would move his mouth to her delightful ear, flicking lightly with his tongue, whispering words to make her ready for him. His hands would caress that body, the body with the small firm breasts and velvety thighs, the body he had dreamt about, the one he now ached to bury himself inside of.
    Why not? Ian asked himself. It was, after all, his privilege as the betrothed. And it was probably the best way to stop having those disturbing dreams about her. He knew from experience that once he had lain with a woman he no longer found her as fascinating. At times this frustrated him, forcing him into a constant search for satisfaction that often took him far from Venice. But at other times, as with that succulent Spanish courtesan the previous year, or with the dangerous but irresistible woman in front of him, it could be handy. He remembered thinking