"Maria," he said quietly, gently. "You don't owe me anything. Marco and I, we put a lot into paying back the debt we owed to Caesare. Strikes me we probably owed you just as big a debt. We kind of thought we were paying both of you back. But it wasn't really like that, was it? We are beholden to you. Our place ain't much, but until you get sorted out . . . it's yours. You're already wet. It's going to get colder. Marco would never forgive me if I left you out here." He kissed her cheek. Then, awkwardly: "There's no conditions attached . . . or anything like that. It's yours."
She sighed. "Benito Valdosta. You can be just like your brother, sometimes."
Benito snorted. "Yeah. But I lie down and it goes away. Marco's my conscience. I'm just Benito--the practical one, and trouble. Come on. I'm getting cold, and you must be too."
"I've got a warm heavy blanket on top. But my back is tired of being wet. Let's see if we can sit up without having this thing over."
They managed. Maria saw to her lacing. "Benito," she said. "I'm sorry. I . . . used you. I needed someone and I used you."
Benito shrugged, smiling widely. "I didn't exactly mind! Actually . . ." His smile changed into something very shy. "It was wonderful. We men don't feel the way women do about it."
Maria snorted. She sounded almost her old self. "I've noticed! So. Was it better than with that Sarispelli girl?"
"Uh." Now Benito was embarrassed. "It was--very different. And, yes, much better." He suspected his face was bright red. "The truth is, Maria," he said very softly, "I think . . . well. There's nobody like you. Not for me, anyway."
Maria stared at him, for a moment. Then she snorted again. "Benito. Sometimes you say exactly the right thing. Whereabouts in Cannaregio is your place?"
* * *
Kat cursed the rain. If there was one thing about her night-trips she hated more than anything else, it was getting wet. But she'd decided to never shelter in a church again! Under San Trovaso bridge was safer than San Trovaso itself.
When the rain slacked off, she headed on down the canal. She decided she'd been right to come through town. It was safe enough. There were few people about and they were hurrying to their destinations before they got caught by the rain again. The torch-bearers were scattered and lights from unshuttered windows were few.
She was not prepared for the shout from a torch-bearer. "He's dead! Quickly! Come quickly. Bring lights. The bishop is dead!"
Shutters flew open. Lights spilled onto the rain-wet fondamenta, and the canal.
Kat put her head down and sculled. And as she did so, she saw a man slip from the shadows into the sotoportego. But in the momentary glance she saw him clearly. She started, and their eyes met. Then she hunched her face down and sculled. When she next looked he was gone, and she was into the comparative safety of the Grand Canal.
There was no doubt about one thing. She'd seen Eneko Lopez and he'd seen her. And neither of them, not her nor the creepy Spaniard, had wanted to be caught on the scene.
* * *
"It's not much of a place," said Benito anxiously. Surveying the tiny room by the candlelight, it looked even smaller and dingier than he remembered.
Maria smiled at him. Her hair was wetly plastered about her head. Somehow, this and the candlelight made her definite features stand out. The firm chin; the straight nose and broad cheekbones.
"It looks like heaven compared to the boat in this weather. Going to have some baling to do in the morning." She shivered. "So. How about you help me light this fire?"
"Sure." He knelt in front of the prepared kindling and took a candle to light it. "There's some dry gear here." He pointed to the cupboard. "Boys' clothes, I'm afraid. But they're dry. You should fit into them. And we've got blankets. And there's some wine. Some grappa. Some almond biscotti. But that's all the food, I'm afraid."
He blew on the fire. It caught, sending small tongues of smoky flame to nibble at the bigger twigs. He turned around to see her still standing there, dripping. Those were tears adding to the wetness. He went across to hug her. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Well, everything. I was going to say 'you're a good kid, Benito Valdosta.' " She sighed. "Only you're not a kid any more and I'm not as strong as I thought I was. Can . . . can you stay a while?"
"Sure," said Benito, letting go of her and going to the cupboard. He unstoppered the bottle of grappa with his teeth; then poured a generous dollop into a cracked mug and took it to her. "Here. Get yourself outside this. Let me get you out of those wet clothes."
Her teeth chattered against the edge of the mug. She drank. "I can deal with it myself."
Benito went on loosening the laces. "I saw it all earlier, Maria. Do it yourself if you like. But I want you out of that wet stuff, wrapped in a blanket, eating biscotti in front of the fire in two minutes or I'll do it for you."
This drew a smile. "Help me, then. You can be really bossy, Benito Valdosta."
"Uh-huh. And who do you think I learned it from?"
She laughed. "Well. You'd also better get out of that wet stuff before I help you."
Benito took a deep breath. He wasn't naive enough not to see certain inevitable consequences coming. And . . . he was quite shocked when he understood how much he wanted them to.
This can't be happening! cried out some little corner of himself. You idiot! You'll turn into a fool like your brother!
The rest of him, however, as his hands drifted across Maria's shoulders and back--so feminine, for all the muscle--had a different opinion.
Shut up . . . boy.
* * *
The next hours seemed almost like a dream to Benito. In a bed, well lit by candlelight, Maria was not the fierce and dimly seen rutter she had been in the bottom of a gondola, lit by nothing more than a crescent moon. There was nothing of the hard canaler left in her now. She was soft, rounded, smooth--more velvety and gorgeous than anything Benito had ever imagined.
The muscle was still there. The strong arms and legs coiled around him in passion gave proof of that often enough. But Benito barely noticed. His entire existence seemed nothing but a world of warmth, wetness, softness, all aglow with candlelight and his own dreams, finally boiling to the surface.
The first time he told her he loved her, Maria didn't even scowl at him. Indeed, she smiled.
"You don't have to say that, Benito," she murmured softly.
"I wanted to," he insisted. Feeling a bit of the old street savvy wailing somewhere in his heart--you idiot!--but not much. Hardly any, in truth.
Maria shook her head. "Please--don't. The word is cheap. Caesare showered me with it like false coins. I don't want to hear it any more."
So he subsided, for a time, distracted easily enough by Maria's next wave of passion. She might not want to hear the word with her ears, but every other part of her body seemed eager to listen. Besides, it was hard to stay poetic with Maria. She made him laugh too much.
When she wasn't criticizing him, that is. Usually both at the same time.
"What did that silly Sarispelli teach you, anyway?" she grumbled at one point. "I'm not a wooden plank being nailed on a ship, you know? And that thing of yours is way too big for a nail in the first place."