Courtesan's Lover by Gabrielle Kimm Read Free Book Online Page A

and warmly sticky upon his back; her legs were scissored around his body.
    She still smelled of peaches.
    He could feel his face moving gently up and down as Francesca breathed and was struck by a bitter irony: how singular it was, he thought, that he—a mutilated gelding—should be held gratis in the arms of this beautiful woman, when other whole men regularly paid a king’s ransom for the same privilege.
    He could, he knew, have done more than just lie in her arms. She had offered—several times—at the beginning. On hearing his story that first time, she had gazed at him, her lovely mouth part-open in shock. “Oh, caro ,” she had said in a whisper. “Why? Why would anybody do such a thing? How could they?”
    He had had no answer.
    â€œWhat happened, after…”
    â€œI was very sick, for some time. Where they cut me became infected, and I had a fever. For weeks. They thought I would die.” She said nothing, but a single tear swelled, spilled over, and ran down toward the corner of her mouth. “When I was better, they sent me away. To train my voice. It took nearly eight years. And then I began to sing for a living.”
    She had stared at him without speaking for a full minute. “And then you met me,” she said. “In Salerno.”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œAnd…have you ever…” she paused “… ever lain with a woman?”
    His face burning with shame, he shook his head. Catching the inside of his cheek between his teeth, he bit it, trying to keep his face steady, and he saw her gaze move to his mouth. “If…if you ever want to…to try,” she said, her fingers fiddling absently with the knot of laces at her breast. “If you ever want to try, caro , you have only to ask. Just tell me.” She should have phrased the question differently. He wanted to try almost every day, but wanting to and feeling able to are, he realized, two very different things. The thought of trying, and failing, and…of her witnessing his failure, made him feel quite sick.
    He lifted his head. She opened her eyes.
    â€œOh. Oh, caro. ” Francesca sat up. The soft skin on the inside of her thigh stuck for an instant on Modesto’s belly as she pulled back from him.
    Modesto said nothing. The corners of his mouth lifted a fraction, but he could not quite complete his smile. Embarrassment, shame, gratitude, and flickers of what he realized must be his own pitiful version of desire buzzed about him, and he lowered his eyes in confusion.
    â€œIt hasn’t been that bad in a long while, has it, caro ?”
    Modesto shook his head.
    â€œWhat made you remember this time?”
    He shrugged.
    â€œWhy do you do it?”
    Her question startled him into speech. “Why do I do what?”
    â€œThis: live here with me, watching and listening to what goes on here, day after day. God, Modesto, it must be hell for you. Why? Why do you want this?”
    â€œYou asked me to come here. When I had to stop singing—after I’d been ill. You know that.” He paused. “You need me.”
    It was Francesca’s turn to stare without speaking. After a moment she said, “You had a choice.” Her voice was low, and he heard pity in it, and concern, and her compassion moved him.
    â€œYes. I made a choice,” Modesto said. “And I don’t regret it.”
    â€œEver?”
    He shrugged again.
    Francesca frowned. “Are you ever…ever…jealous? Of the others?”
    Modesto considered.
    At times, his jealousy burned like a brand. There were moments when, seated outside Francesca’s chamber listening to what was happening within, his fist would clench around the handle of his dagger and his loathing of whichever visitor it happened to be would threaten to erupt into rash action. These men had, in such abundance, what had been taken from him—cut from him—with such callous disregard for