CHAPTER 32
A plaintive melody carried by a clear voice woke Clara from a dreamless sleep. At first, she did not know if the sweet music rose from the street or fell down from Heaven. Had she died during the night and woken in her Maker's golden hall?
Then her mind roused enough to attend to the lyrics. She grinned into the darkness and smothered a laugh in her pillow. None but her Tom could write a song so dreadful and then stand singing it in the public street!
He'd wake everyone. The mad boy, she must stop him. She flung off her covers and fumbled for her shift. Her cloak hung from a hook by the door. She wrapped it tightly around her body and padded down the dark stairs, bare toes cold on the smooth oak boards. She gave no thought to her intentions. She made no plan. Tonight, her heart knew what it wanted.
She lifted the heavy latch and swung the front door wide, letting in a rush of cold air. Tom stood clear of the overhanging upper story bathed in the white light of the half moon shining directly overhead.
"Amore mia!" He riffled the strings of his lute in a dramatic flourish.
"What do you mean, good sir, by standing in my street and disturbing my neighbors?" Her scolding words were contradicted by the giggle in her voice.
He swung the lute behind his back and stepped toward her. He took her hand and caressed it, his face serious. "My beloved, I've come to tell you. Your husband is dead."
She gasped. "Oh, Tom, you shouldn't have!"
"I didn't."
"Then who? How?"
He drew her closer, stroking her hair, gazing down at her with ardor such as she had never felt before. "Does it matter?"
Did it? How could it not? A man was dead, a man who had once shared her bed. A man from whom she'd fled in terror. Her mind whirled. Caspar was gone. She was free.
"You mad fool!" Clara flung her arms around him, laughing. "Come up with me."
"Are you sure?"
She laughed again, suddenly drunk with joy, with freedom. Of course she wasn't sure. She was certain that inviting this beautiful youth up to her room was utter, shameful, unspeakable lunacy. He was a gentleman of the Inns of Court. He could do as he pleased. She was a tradeswoman whose livelihood depended on her reputation. She'd be ruined if anyone saw her. She didn't care. She would blame the moonlight.
This night, this one night in all her sad life, she, Clara Goossens, would know love.
She took his hands, drawing him silently up the long stair to her narrow room. She lifted the lute from his shoulders and laid it on her worktable. She undressed him, untying every lace with care. He stood and let her take her time, a glittering fire in his eyes.
At last he was naked, as tall and well formed as a Roman statue. She pulled off her shift in one smooth motion and took him to her bed. There she reveled in him, loving him in every way she knew, with her clever hands, her wise heart, and her eager body.