Marco obliged, telling me of bringing me back and of what the doctor had said. “It is all my fault,” he finished, burying his head in his hands.
At first, I stopped myself from reaching out to comfort him—old habits of propriety were difficult to be rid of, it seemed—but I was his wife now, and I could comfort him—and touch him—as much as I wanted. I placed a hand on his cheek, lifting his face so that I could see it. “What nonsense,” I said gently. “How should my taking ill be your fault?”
He shook his head shamefacedly. “It was all too much, perhaps—the wedding and the feast and the journey and the heat.”
“None of those things made me sick, I shouldn’t think,” I said. “I am just as yet not used to your Florentine air.” I smiled at him. “I grew up by the sea, remember. I am used to fresh, clean breezes, not a landlocked city such as this, and its…”
“Stench,” he finished for me, a rueful smile on his face.
I laughed. “My mother would no doubt tell me that a lady does not talk of such things,” I said, “but yes.”
He reached out and took my hand where it lay on the bedcovers, his face becoming quite serious. “If you wish it, Simonetta—if you think it will be better for your health—we can return to Genoa,” he said. “I can find a position there, with my connections—I am sure of it. I want to do what is best for you, and nothing else.”
“Oh, but we cannot!” I said. “You are to begin working with Lorenzo, and your whole life is here in Florence!”
His expression did not change. “You are my whole world,” he said quietly. “None of the rest of it means anything to me without you.”
I was quite at a loss for words. “You are so sweet, Marco,” I said softly. “I know not what I have done, that God should have granted me such a wonderful husband.” I squeezed his hand. “We shall stay,” I said. “I like Florence, and your friends. I took a summer fever—what of it? Many do each year, and we are lucky that it was not worse.”
He nodded slowly. “As you wish, mia carissima Simonetta.” He rose from the bed. “I shall fetch you some more wine, and then perhaps it might be best for you to rest again.”
I nodded, suddenly aware of how heavy my eyelids felt. “Yes,” I said. “I think that would be best.”
Marco returned with more watery wine, and once I drank it I lay back against the pillows again. Just before sleep took me, I felt Marco get into the bed beside me, his body curled protectively against mine, as though he would—or could—protect me from illness itself.
I smiled before falling back asleep. It was only the second night I had shared a bed with him, but already I did not know what I would do without him there.
13
Within a few days, I felt perfectly well again. The fever and headaches were gone, and I was itching to leave the house. Marco was finally able to take me through the entirety of the house. We had an entire wing to ourselves, and need not even see his parents if we wanted our privacy. We had a dining room and a receiving room and extra bedrooms for guests and—hopefully someday soon—children.
Marco had continued to sleep beside me during my illness, in case I should need anything in the night, but he did not seek to claim his rights as a husband—something that I was quite glad of, in my weakened state. Yet even once I recovered, he continued to sleep chastely beside me, and I began to worry. Had I done something wrong, in one of the two times that we had been together as man and wife?
I decided to take matters into my own hands. I had a sneaking suspicion that doing so was not strictly in the interest of wifely modesty, but I found I could not wait. Besides, I was curious about these “pleasures” of which I had heard so much.
One night, I lay abed in a clean shift, longing impatiently for Marco to come up to bed. Before dismissing Chiara, I had had her take down my long, heavy hair, rather than keeping it tied back as she had done when I was ill. It spilled over my shoulders, over the pillow and the bedclothes, in a way that I hoped was particularly fetching.
When Marco finally came in, I sat up quickly. “Husband,” I said, pitching my voice low in what I hoped was an alluring tone. I knew nothing of seduction, truth be told, but was willing to try.
He paused upon seeing me. “Wife,” he said, desire flickering across his face. “Have you been waiting for me?”
“I have,” I said, keeping the same tone in my voice. “Our marriage bed is cold and lonely without you.”
“Is it, indeed?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even. Yet I could detect the wanting in his voice, in his eyes.
“It is,” I said. “I was hoping you could come warm it for me.”
He swallowed, and my heart plummeted as I saw that he was fighting the desire to take me in his arms. “Are … are you sure that you are well enough, Simonetta?”
“I have been well enough for days,” I said.
“Only if you are sure,” he said, still not moving. “I would not want to put your health at further risk … or tax your strength…”
Slowly, I slid from the bed and impulsively lifted my shift over my head, and dropped it to the floor. Thus I stood before him, clothed only in my long hair, every inch of my pale flesh bared to his eyes. I tilted my head, raising my eyebrows.
He groaned aloud and swiftly crossed the room to me. He took my face in his hands and kissed me roughly, yet I did not mind. The fabric of his shirt and breeches chafed against my skin, and I drew back. “You are overdressed, husband,” I murmured, my fingers moving to the laces of his breeches.
Once he was as naked as I, we tumbled to the bed, mouths locked, tongues exploring. His body half covered mine as he reached between my legs, his fingers exploring, stroking. I gasped, feeling a hint of the promised pleasure.
“Yes,” I begged. “More.” I was unable to articulate better what I wanted, yet I felt Marco smile against my mouth as his fingers increased their pressure, feeling waves beginning to build within me, aching to crash against the shore.
I cried out as a fierce pleasure that verged on pain ripped through me, causing my whole body to shudder, my head thrown back.
“Yes, my Simonetta,” Marco murmured as the glorious storm subsided. “Good, si?”
“Yes,” I murmured. I wrapped my arms around him hungrily, and my legs twined around his waist, our bodies fitting themselves together. There was no pain this time, only the shadow of that delicious pleasure and the desire for more. I clutched him tighter to me, arching against him as he moved within me, so different, this time, from before.
Yes, I thought as he reached his pleasure, gasping as he fell against me. This, surely, is what the marriage act is meant to be.
After a moment, Marco rolled over onto his back, eyes closed, breathing hard. “Temptress,” he whispered at last, opening one eye and smiling at me.