Sophia said, "I must tell my uncle that his mansion is not as well protected as he thinks it is. His guards must have been asleep tonight."
Her oval face reflected the warm glow of the five or six small candles she had placed around her room. Her dark brown hair was unbound and fell in waves to her shoulders. He felt his heartbeat quicken as he looked at her.
"You did invite me here, Madonna." Simon felt rather proud of the way he had scaled the wall by the courtyard gate, waited till the cardinal's guards were out of sight, then climbed to the roof of the central wing.
"Yes, but I did nothing to help you, and I truly do not see how you got here." She stood facing him, her hands at her sides. He was not sure whether the gown she wore was for bed, or for him, or both. It was a translucent white tunic, sleeveless and cut deep in front, revealing the swelling of her breasts, pulled in at the waist by a cloth-of-gold belt. A large gold medallion stamped with a horse's head hung from a gold chain around her neck. His eyes kept traveling from her shoulders to her bosom to her narrow waist. The effort of holding himself back from touching her was agony. Sweet agony.
"I am trained in the art of stealing into castles."
"I thought the French were more given to marching up to a castello in broad daylight, banners flying, and taking it by storm," she said. Her teeth flashed in the candlelight. He wished she would invite him to sit down. But then he saw in what she said an opportunity to raise the subject of trust.
"True, Madonna. We French excel at open warfare, whereas you Italians seem more adept at intrigue."
"Intrigue? What do you mean?"
He tried to sound lighthearted. "Oh, for instance the clever way you diverted my attention at the Palazzo Monaldeschi while David of Trebizond had the Tartar ambassadors making fools of themselves."
For a moment she did not speak.