Challenge Accepted

Despite the successful completion of the portrait, Vinca’s life settled back into a quiet routine. She spent her days working in the workshop painting a variety of objects and faces. She found this rather comforting even if the idea of her moving toward becoming an artist in her own right had been a bit thrilling. And though her own life had calmed, life in the palazzo became busier when Blasio and his wife and child arrived. In the rush Vinca found herself and her triumph quickly forgotten, though, in some ways, she was glad to return to her quiet days.

Marin had returned twice more to sing to her beneath her window and the annoyed glances Agneta gave her over the breakfast table surely meant she knew of his evening visits. Vinca was unsure why she would hold her tongue, however. Surely she wanted nothing more than to give her a verbal lashing over her shameful behavior. She sighed and smiled, her brush gliding through the paint on the canvas before her. She wouldn’t worry about Agneta until she pushed the issue. She enjoyed Marin’s attention, even though she began to suspect it was fleeting.

Today she enjoyed the quiet of the workshop by herself. Papa had taken Blasio somewhere to look at offices to set up his business. Vinca took to the workshop early when the wailing of her newly arrived nephew split the air of the palazzo starting before sunrise and had only stopped for brief intervals since. She frowned and wondered if something was wrong with her that she had not the womanly gift of patience with young children. Fortunately the door from the workshop to the rest of the palazzo was heavy and blocked out the noise of the child.

She stood back from the canvas and studied the dark horse taking shape there. The barding told of his control by the hand of man but she had crafted his shape and facial expression such that it was obvious to all who looked upon him that his spirit would never be held. A wildness radiated from him, his muscles thick and tightly bunched as if he might spring from the canvas at any moment. Clouds of dust swirled around his feet while great, black storm clouds, fat with rain, loomed behind him. Yet even with the power of the storm building to match his great rage, the promise of golden sunlight peeked around one edge of the clouds. She had never been particularly good at painting animals but she was rather proud of how this one was turning out. It also reminded her how much she missed riding through the country. She liked to imagine she was painting a bit of her longing for that freedom into the work.

The door from the street opened and she started, silently cursing herself for not bolting it. Likely someone wanting to commission her father and she could do nothing but apologize for not being able to aid them.

Her heart jumped and her hand tightened around her brush when Domenico stepped into the room. She felt like a mouse trapped by the hungry cat when his gaze settled on her and held her for several moments. It may have only been a few heartbeats his gaze lingered on her before sliding around the room to search it but it seemed like an age for her.

“Your father is not here today?” His gaze returned to her and held her once more. He moved slowly into the center of the room and stopped before drawing too near. She noted his trim frame moved with all the grace of a cat and his footfalls were nearly as silent. She wondered what appointment had brought him to the workshop today. The black velvet of his gonnella stood out in the scattered sea of brushes, pallets and paints in various states of disarray around the workshop. Sunlight streaming in through the windows high on the walls glinted off the silver thread embroidered around his cuffs and collar and off the silver cast buttons marching down the front. Silver lions carefully embroidered around the bottoms of his calze showed the finest needlework she had ever seen. He seemed so out of place in his finery in the midst of the chaos of the workshop.

She absently brushed at the worn and paint stained apron she had pulled on to protect her simple linen gown this morning before she started painting, feeling self-conscious about her own appearance. As fiercely as she did not wish to admit it, she could not help but notice what a fine form he made. “He is not here, Signore Vettori.” She at last responded, realizing she was just standing there gawping at him. “He will return this afternoon.”

“He lets you romp about in his workshop unchecked when he is not here?”

She bristled at the verbal jab and stepped out from behind her easel. “I work in here whenever I need to.”

“Hm.” He flicked a glance at the canvas. “And what 'work' are you doing today? Attempting another portrait?”

She clenched her jaw and tried to remain polite but found it increasingly hard. “I am painting simply for the pleasure of it,” she said.

“Let me see.” The command left her seething and she moved to block the canvas just as he stepped closer.

“No.” She took a hasty breath and continued when he quirked an eyebrow at her. “It is not complete yet. It is not ready to show.”

“It must be terribly wretched then if you can let no other eyes upon it.”

“It is not wretched at all.” She realized he was baiting her. Intentionally he said things to irritate her simply because it amused him. She could see it in the set of his face, and yet she still bristled in anger at him. She also understood he had every intention of standing there all day either to see the unfinished painting or just to chafe her temper. With a huff she turned the easel around and stood back so he could examine it.

His smile of triumph was the final dollop that pushed her anger from simmering to boiling and while he examined the painting with all signs of true interest she imagined the horse leaping from the canvas and pummeling him into the terracotta tiles of the floor.

“Not bad. I want it.” He turned and started away from her as if that were the end of the conversation.

“No,” she said. She moved in front of the canvas and set her hands on her hips. She didn't know why she didn't want him to have this one. Perhaps because he so casually demanded it. But he would not get it.

He turned pinning her with his eyes. She began to tremble but she wasn't sure if it was fear or anger driving it. “No?”

“That is right. No. You cannot have it.” She clenched her hands at her sides to hide her nervous shaking. She knew she should not say such things to this man but her tongue had already run off with her sense; it was far too late to call it back now.

“Is it promised to someone already? I will pay more for it.”

“No.” Papa would call her foolish for this stubbornness but Domenico's careless assumption that he could walk in and claim her painting was more than her temper would abide. “It is not promised to anyone. But you cannot have it.”

The smile that spread across his face as he glided back over to her was terrifying and enthralling all at once. She stood her ground when he stopped within a handspan of her as if testing her will and resolve. His touch as he ran his hand slowly down her arm and took her hand sent a shiver down her spine. His deep brown eyes held hers and he brought her hand to his mouth whispering over it, “Do you truly believe there is anything in this city I could want and not have?”

She could not speak nor could she look away. He did not hold her hand tightly and though she knew she should break this spell, she did not. His hand was warm on hers; soft and enticing. His eyes seemed at once both dangerous and alluring. When a slow smile spread across his face her anger began to simmer again. This was yet another game to him. Another manipulation, and not about the painting at all.

“You may not believe it,” she said, finally finding her voice. She slipped her hand out of his and stepped away with a toss of her head she hoped looked as indifferent as she tried to project, “but truth is, there are some things in this city you cannot have, no matter how badly you desire them.” She turned back to the painting, her courage nearly spent, and pulled the protective cloth over it. Though she knew she should have expected it, she still jumped slightly when he stepped up and whispered in her ear.

“Challenge accepted.”

At that moment the door from the street opened again and Papa's voice echoed into the room. Domenico turned with a gracious smile and greeting for the painter.

“Domenico! So glad I am you have come! You must meet my son, Blasio. Vinca, daughter. Go fetch some wine. Be a sweet child for your Papa. We will be in the sala.”

“Yes, Papa,” she muttered as she rushed from the room. She could still feel the touch of Domenico's hand on hers; could still feel his warm breath on her neck as he whispered to her. Both made her tremble and though she wanted to believe it was fear, she was shamed to admit it was something else entirely.