Читать книгу The Defiant Mistress - Claire Thornton - Страница 9

English Convent, Bruges, April 1666

‘W hat do you mean—she’s not here?’ the Duke of Kilverdale’s voice rose in angry disbelief.

‘Exactly what I said, your Grace,’ the Abbess replied. ‘I am afraid your cousin is no longer here at the convent.’

The Duke’s black eyebrows snapped together. ‘For the past seven years my mother has made generous contributions to your order,’ he said. ‘With the clear understanding that Athena would be free to live here peacefully under your protection. Why did you send her away?’

‘I did not send her away,’ the Abbess replied. ‘She chose to leave on an errand of mercy.’

‘To go where?’

‘Venice—’

‘What!’ Kilverdale leapt to his feet. At six feet tall he towered over the seated Abbess. He was dressed in the height of fashion in silk brocade and a magnificent black periwig, but his costly garments could not disguise the underlying power in his lean body. Nor could the profusion of black curls, which framed his face and tumbled about his shoulders, soften the somewhat predatory appearance of his hawkish features. The Abbess considered him a dangerous man and a far from suitable visitor to her convent, but in the circumstances she could hardly refuse to speak with him.

The Duke’s mother and Athena’s mother were sisters. Seven years ago the widowed Duchess of Kilverdale and her son had been living in exile in France. When Athena ran away from Samuel, she had made the perilous journey to France to beg for her aunt’s protection. In early 1659 the Duchess had brought her niece to Bruges, to live as a guest within the English convent. A year later Charles II regained his throne. The Kilverdales had returned to England, but the Duchess had continued to give generous donations to the convent and the Duke had come to Bruges at irregular intervals to meet with his cousin.

‘Kindly allow me to finish,’ the Abbess said, before Kilverdale could say any more. She disliked his obvious intention to intimidate her in her own quarters. ‘Mrs Quenell left here of her own free will as, indeed, she first arrived here.’

Kilverdale raised a sardonic eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

The Abbess strove for patience and continued. ‘Several weeks ago the wife of one of the undersecretaries to the English Ambassador in Venice arrived in Bruges. The young woman was brought to us in great distress. We discovered she was urgently seeking to join her husband in Venice—apparently she had not been kindly treated by her husband’s kinfolk in his absence. Mrs Quenell was much moved by her plight and offered to accompany her to Venice as her companion and guide—’

‘Guide?’ Kilverdale exploded. ‘You allowed my cousin, who has not been outside the security of these walls for seven years, to go gallivanting across Europe with only a foolish wench for company—and you say she’s a guide! Where were your wits, madam?’

‘They are accompanied by the manservant the young woman brought with her from England and Mrs Quenell’s own maid. In addition, they are being escorted by a local gentleman of good family who is on his way to study at the university of Padua,’ the Abbess snapped, out of all patience with her noble visitor.

The Duke’s muttered response was barely audible, but supremely uncomplimentary.

‘Your cousin is a woman of great resource and common sense and I have every confidence she will reach her destination unharmed and without difficulty,’ the Abbess retorted. ‘Don’t forget she managed to make her way safely all the way from England to find your mother in France when she was only seventeen.’

‘She cut off her hair, dyed it brown, and pretended to be a boy!’

‘A sensible precaution for a woman travelling alone. She came to no harm. She has often entertained me with the story of her journey.’

‘Entertaining!’ Kilverdale snorted scathingly. ‘Yes, and it is very entertaining for me to come to Flanders to tell her that her husband is dead and it’s now possible for me to escort her back to England—only to find she isn’t here!’

‘She knows her husband is dead. She received a letter from your mother just before she left for Venice.’

‘She knows? Well, why the devil didn’t she wait for me to come and fetch her back?’

‘It is weeks since she heard the news,’ the Abbess said drily.

Kilverdale scowled. ‘I was preoccupied with other business,’ he said. ‘I’m here now.’

‘So you are.’ The Abbess watched as he took a couple of glowering circuits around the room.

He stopped and drew in a deep, annoyed breath. ‘I’ll just have to follow her to Venice and fetch her back from there,’ he announced. ‘Damned troublesome females!’

He strode over to the door and left without a backward glance. The Abbess allowed herself to relax a little. The mercurial Duke could be a most unsettling visitor. Less than thirty seconds later she heard his decisive footsteps once more approaching her room.

He stepped over the threshold and looked straight at the Abbess. For a few moments his penetrating gaze focused entirely upon her with disconcerting intensity.

‘It seems this is the last time we shall meet, madam,’ he said. ‘I thank you for offering your protection and hospitality to my cousin these past seven years.’

He swept her a deep bow, his every movement filled with proud masculine grace. Then he turned once more on his heel and departed without waiting for her to respond.

Venice, May 1666

‘Our bargain is complete, illustrissimo.’ Filippo Correr sat back and smiled with satisfaction. ‘The glass will look beautiful in your new house.’

Gabriel smiled at Correr, just as pleased as the Venetian merchant with the outcome of their bargaining. The two men had first met twelve years ago when they were apprentices in Livorno. They’d both worked hard to learn their respective trades, but they’d enjoyed themselves as well. Gabriel had many happy memories of his youthful exploits in Filippo’s company—but neither man had allowed sentiment to interfere with their afternoon of hard bargaining over Gabriel’s purchase of Murano glass.

‘I am sure it will,’ he said. ‘When you next visit London you must be my guest so that you can see it in place.’

‘I will be honoured,’ said Correr. ‘Is the house finished?’

‘The construction work should be completed by the time I return home,’ said Gabriel, stretching out his legs. Now that the business part of the meeting had been concluded, he relaxed as he discussed his newest project with his old friend. ‘The interior will still need furnishing and decorating. I have some ideas in mind, but I decided not to make any final decisions until I could walk through the rooms.’

‘Ah.’ Correr nodded, and then gave a sly smile. ‘You need a wife,’ he said. ‘Women enjoy that kind of thing.’

Gabriel laughed. ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied easily. ‘If I need assistance—which, after fifteen years in the silk trade, I don’t believe I do— I’ll consult an expert.’

‘But your “expert” won’t give you sons,’ Correr gestured expansively. ‘Children are a joy—’

‘Your children are,’ said Gabriel. ‘Not all men are so blessed.’

‘If you raise them right…they are like little seedlings,’ said Correr. ‘They lift their heads to the sun and grow straight and strong.’

Gabriel grinned. Filippo’s children were the only chink in the hard-headed merchant’s armour.

‘You think I am foolish and sentimental,’ said Correr cheerfully. ‘Just wait, my friend. The first time you hold your son in your arms you will feel exactly the same.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Gabriel, cautiously conceding the point. To his knowledge, he had no children, but he was certainly fond of his various nieces and nephews.

‘But first you need a wife,’ said Correr. ‘I know a sweet and modest maid—’

Gabriel threw up a hand. ‘I don’t need you to act as my marriage broker,’ he said. ‘And I’ve no wish to marry a Venetian.’

‘This lady is Florentine,’ said Correr, unperturbed by Gabriel’s objection. ‘The gracious sister-in-law of my cousin Marco Grimani. Very quiet. Very gentle and modest. Most skilled at housekeeping.’

‘No dowry?’ Gabriel raised an eyebrow as he noted his friend’s emphasis on the lady’s personal qualities.

Correr shrugged. ‘You do not need a wealthy woman,’ he pointed out. ‘You need a wife to make you a comfortable home and give you heirs. Giulietta Orio could do that.’

‘I certainly need heirs,’ said Gabriel, ‘but, with all due respect to the gracious sister-in-law of your cousin Marco, I’ll marry an Englishwoman.’

‘I tried,’ said Correr philosophically. ‘I will tell Marco I tried. Giulietta Orio is a charming lady but, on reflection, she might be a little too timid to begin a new life in London. We will have to look elsewhere for her husband.’ He glanced out of the window.

Gabriel followed the direction of Correr’s gaze. He saw that twilight was falling on the city, cloaking the canals and buildings in mystery.

‘It’s getting late,’ said Correr. ‘Let’s go and find my wife and the children. Will you eat with us?’

‘It will be my pleasure,’ Gabriel replied, and meant it. Gabriel had always appreciated Filippo’s friendship, even though he was less appreciative of the Venetian’s matchmaking tendencies. Gabriel knew he needed a wife, especially in view of the unexpected course his life had taken. He’d been very busy since the death of his brother, but when he returned to England this time he would seek out a suitable bride. A modest, well-bred lady who would understand the duties expected of his wife. He certainly wouldn’t repeat his youthful mistake of thinking himself in love with the woman. He would treat the marriage contract as he would any other business contract, and make sure his prospective wife understood the terms of their union.

‘Oh God, I hope he’s pleased to see me!’ Rachel Beresford muttered. She stared straight ahead, showing no interest in the extraordinary city that rose around her from the waters of the lagoon.

‘Of course he will be,’ Athena said reassuringly. She took one of Rachel’s cold hands between both of hers. ‘He may be a little surprised at first, but I’m sure he will be pleased to have you with him,’ she said.

‘I don’t know how I would have managed without you,’ Rachel said jerkily. ‘I am so grateful… Oh God! I’m so nervous!’ She pressed her free hand to her mouth.

‘It won’t be long now. Soon you’ll be safely together again.’ Athena devoutly hoped Edward Beresford would be pleased to see his young wife. If he wasn’t, she might find herself in the middle of a very difficult situation, but she didn’t regret her decision to travel with Rachel.

As soon as she’d heard the young woman’s story, Athena’s compassion had been stirred. She remembered all too clearly what it was like to be alone, far from home, and unsure of receiving a warm welcome. She’d offered to accompany Rachel for the rest of the journey because she understood and sympathised with Rachel’s obvious anxiety. But Athena was honest enough to admit to herself that she’d been growing restless within the confines of the convent—especially after she’d received the news of Samuel’s death. Rachel’s need for support had given her a legitimate excuse to leave. Unlike her companion, Athena had enjoyed their trip across Europe.

They had arrived in Venice just as twilight was falling. Despite her concerns on Rachel’s behalf, Athena was enthralled by her first glimpse of the city. She turned her head left and right in an effort not to miss anything as the gondola slid through the waters of the grand canal. She was almost sorry when they came to rest at the watergate of the Ambassador’s palazzo.

Rachel didn’t share her companion’s curiosity about their surroundings. Her hands felt icy cold as Athena helped her climb out of the gondola. It was clear she was thinking only of her imminent reunion with her husband.

A member of the Ambassador’s staff appeared before them on the steps. Pieter Breydel, the gentleman who had escorted them from Bruges, spoke to the servant, explaining who Rachel was and that she had come to join her husband. Athena checked that the rest of her little party was complete, and that their luggage was being attended to. Then she took Rachel’s hand. They followed Pieter Breydel and the embassy servant into the palazzo. Her maid and Rachel’s manservant trailed behind them.

They entered a large hall, which appeared to stretch all the way from the front to the back of the building. It was paved with alternating squares of diagonally laid white and red stone. It was a dark and forbidding place, especially since the lanterns had not yet been lit. There were doors on either side, but the page ignored them. He led the party straight through the palazzo and out into the courtyard behind the building.

Athena looked around, fascinated by her introduction to Venetian architecture. She was even more intrigued when she realised that to reach the Ambassador’s quarters on the first floor, they must climb an external staircase located in the courtyard itself.

They were ushered into a grand chamber which stretched the full length of the palazzo from the courtyard at the back to the grand canal at the front. Large windows overlooking the canal admitted what little daylight remained. Several men were present, standing with their backs to the windows, their faces in shadow.

Athena saw one shadowy man step apart from the others, heard his sudden, disbelieving, but welcoming cry of, ‘Rachel!’

Rachel released her convulsive grip on Athena’s hand and rushed forward to throw herself into her husband’s arms.

Athena didn’t need to see Edward Beresford’s face to know that he was overjoyed at his wife’s arrival. The way his arms closed around her as if he never intended to let her go, the way his head bent over hers, and his husky, urgent questions all told their own story.

Athena’s eyes unexpectedly filled with tears. She tried not to dwell on her broken dreams, but this was what she had once yearned for so desperately. She had longed to find Gabriel and fling herself into his arms. Have him tell her that everything would be fine. Everything would be just the way they’d planned it—but he’d left London without a backward glance…

She gave her head a small shake, annoyed with herself for indulging in such romantic nonsense, and gave her full attention to her immediate surroundings.

Pieter Breydel was introducing her to the Ambassador. She curtsied and smiled. It was her plan to return to England from Venice, but she knew she would need the Ambassador’s help in making her arrangements.

‘Since you have now arrived safely, I will take my leave,’ said Pieter in correct, but heavily accented English.

‘Surely you’ll stay tonight, at least,’ the Ambassador protested. ‘I must insist.’

‘I am expected in Padua,’ Pieter demurred.

‘You can leave first thing in the morning,’ the Ambassador assured him. ‘We would not want to keep you from your studies. But for tonight, please enjoy the hospitality of the embassy.’

Pieter hesitated. ‘Thank you,’ he said at last, bowing. ‘You are very kind. As you say, I can leave first thing in the morning.’

Athena bit back a smile. Pieter was a grave and studious young man. He’d taken his responsibilities to his travelling companions very seriously, but she suspected he was eager to get back to his normal routine. She held out her hand to him.

‘You made our journey very comfortable,’ she said. ‘I know Mrs Beresford is as grateful as I am.’ She glanced to where Rachel was still wrapped in conversation with her husband. ‘Thank you.’

He flushed and nodded. ‘It has been my pleasure,’ he said stiffly.

At that moment a member of the embassy household came to stand beside them. ‘My secretary, Mr Roger Minshull,’ the Ambassador introduced him to Athena.

She saw an uncomfortable warmth in the secretary’s eyes as he looked at her, and greeted him with reserved courtesy. She wanted to remain on good terms with everyone she met, but she did not need the complications of an admirer in the embassy.

The pre-dawn light was a blend of cool greys, blues and dark shadows. There was a chill in the air and a slight mist that would only burn away after the sun rose. When Gabriel touched the balcony balustrade the stones felt cold and damp beneath his hand.

Below him the early morning market was in full swing on the grand canal. The surface of the water was crowded with rafts and barges piled high with fruit and vegetables. The vessels jostled constantly for position as the vendors cried their wares.

The busy scene was familiar to Gabriel. He watched absently, his thoughts elsewhere. By all accounts there had been quite a stir at the Embassy the previous day. He’d returned late in the evening from Filippo Correr’s to find the entire household abuzz with excitement. Everyone he had encountered from the Ambassador’s chaplain to the most junior page had been determined to tell him the romantic story of the undersecretary and the devoted new wife who had followed him all the way from England.

Correr’s matchmaking attempt had already put the unsettling idea of marriage into Gabriel’s mind, and the story of Rachel Beresford’s loyalty made a painful contrast to Frances’s treacherous behaviour. By the time Gabriel had reached his temporary quarters in the Embassy, his patience had been in shreds. When his own valet had started to repeat the tale Gabriel had dismissed the fellow with a couple of curt words—but he couldn’t so easily dismiss the story from his mind. Dreams of Frances and the foolish hopes he’d had for their future had disturbed his sleep, until at last he’d risen from his bed to watch the market from the shadows of the balcony.

He tried to focus on the tasks that lay ahead of him later in the day, but his thoughts kept returning to the journey the undersecretary’s wife had made to reach her husband. The presence of a nun in the story puzzled him. Why in the name of all that was holy would a nun leave her cloisters to accompany a stranger halfway across Europe? Perhaps she was on a pilgrimage to Rome?

Annoyed with himself for wasting so much thought on the incident, Gabriel made a final decision to banish the whole matter from his mind. There had been a time when he’d been an idealistic fool who believed in love and fidelity, but now he prided himself on being a man who dealt in the here-and-now of solid reality, not romantic fantasies. And in the here-and-now he was hungry. He leant over the balcony and studied the produce on offer in the nearest barge. His choice made, he called down in Italian to the vendor. After a brief exchange they settled on a price, Gabriel threw down a coin and a loaf of cake-bread was tossed up to him in return.

By now all the nearby traders had noticed the well-dressed man on the balcony and they began to vie eagerly for his custom. Gabriel grinned at their efforts, but refused to purchase anything else. Eventually they gave up and turned their attention elsewhere.

He ripped off a piece of cake-bread and chewed thoughtfully as he planned the day’s business. When he’d eaten his fill he tossed the crumbs on to the balcony for the pigeons and turned to go inside.

Most Venetian palazzi had been built to a standard pattern, even though some dated back two or three hundred years and others were of more recent origin. The Ambassador’s residence was no exception. The first floor, known to the Venetians as the piano nobile consisted of a great chamber that stretched the full length of the palazzo with a series of smaller chambers opening off from it on either side. The large hall, which could be utilised for many purposes, was called the portego. The balcony overlooking the grand canal on which Gabriel currently stood was reached from the portego.

The Ambassador, Sir Walter Cracknell, had his own quarters on the piano nobile. Gabriel, as the Ambassador’s honoured guest, also had his quarters on the same floor. The second floor followed a similar layout and here less important guests and the Ambassador’s gentlemen staff were housed.

Just as Gabriel was about to re-enter the portego, the Ambassador joined him on the balcony. Gabriel was mildly surprised, Sir Walter was not known for being an early riser.

‘Morning, your lordship!’ the Ambassador greeted him. ‘Looks like it’s going to be a fine day, doesn’t it?’ He peered hopefully at the sky.

‘I believe so.’ Gabriel glanced over the balustrade. The floating market had dispersed until the following morning. The first rays of sunlight were beginning to give a hint of warmth to the air.

‘You missed a deal of excitement last night!’ the Ambassador exclaimed.

‘So I heard,’ Gabriel said.

‘Of course. Of course.’ Sir Walter nodded vigorously. ‘No need to tell you old news. But I wonder if I might ask a favour of your lordship—on behalf of young Beresford and myself?’

‘A favour?’ Gabriel raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘For your…undersecretary, is he not? Of course, if it is within my power—but what is your request?’

‘Shouldn’t cause you any inconvenience,’ the Ambassador assured him. ‘You’ll be returning to England in a week or so, will you not? I believe you told me you’d travel to Livorno and then take one of your own ships back to London?’

‘Yes.’

‘Excellent. Then I wonder if you would be kind enough to provide safe passage back to England for Mrs Quenell and her maid?’

‘Mrs Quenell?’ The name was completely unknown to Gabriel.

‘The gentlewoman who was kind enough to act as Mrs Beresford’s companion between Bruges and Venice,’ Sir Walter explained. ‘Mrs Beresford is full of praise for Mrs Quenell. She is sure she would not have managed the journey without her help. Mrs Quenell’s only request is that I might find her a safe escort back to England. It seems the least I can do. Young Beresford is almost beside himself with joy at having his wife with him once more. So, what do you say, your lordship? Mrs Quenell is a very quiet, modest woman. I’ll warrant she’ll be no inconvenience to you at all.’

‘Why does a Flanders nun want to go to England?’ Gabriel asked, puzzled by the request.

Sir Walter stared at him in surprise. ‘She’s not a nun,’ he replied. ‘She was a guest at the convent….’

Gabriel heard a soft rustle of skirts. He turned his head to see a woman being shown on to the balcony by a page. For a moment her face was hidden in shadows, then she stepped into the light.

Gabriel was standing still, but the shock of what he saw had the same impact as slamming into a stone wall. His lungs froze. He couldn’t breathe. Disbelief rang in his ears, blocking out all other sounds. His vision narrowed until he saw nothing and no one but the woman in front of him.

Frances?

It couldn’t be Frances, here in Venice. Surely the resemblance was just a trick of the morning light. Talk of Beresford’s devoted young wife had raised the ghost of another, less than devoted bride in his mind. Memories he’d tried to forget had disturbed his sleep. Somehow he’d now superimposed Frances’s face on to that of another blonde woman.

He deliberately closed his eyes for a few seconds. Remembered to breathe. Rubbed his temple. Opened his eyes. Stared at the woman.

She stared back, shock in her blue eyes. Her lips slightly parted. Colour drained from her face. There was recognition in her stunned expression.

It was Frances.

His blood began to pound sluggishly through his veins once more. The tempo of his heartbeat began to increase. He didn’t hear a word of Sir Walter’s introduction or explanation. He forgot the Ambassador was even on the balcony. His attention was locked on the woman who had betrayed him so badly.

She’d changed her hairstyle, but a single blonde curl had escaped to lie against her cheek, just as he remembered it. Her skin was soft and smooth, unlined by the passing of time. Her eyes were still an entrancing blue. The colour of cornflowers, he’d once claimed in a foolish poem. Her lips were full, her mouth a little wider than true beauty required. But there had been a time when he’s sworn her lips had been created for laughter—and for his worshipful kisses.

His gaze was drawn irresistibly lower. He’d once thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her waist was still as trim as he recalled. How he’d longed for the moment when he would remove her boned bodice and touch her warm, yielding flesh. Today she wore a simple blue gown with an elegance few other women could match. The full silk sleeves of her bodice ended at her elbows, but the soft white cambric sleeves of her chemise extended an inch or two further and were trimmed with a graceful fall of lace that reached almost to her wrists. Matching lace decorated the neckline of her bodice and the hem of her skirt.

He could see the merest hint of the soft swell of her creamy breasts above her bodice. His eyes locked on to that small part of her anatomy. The place he had seen another man kiss her on the very day planned for their own wedding.

For a few seconds he was back in the bawdy house, watching in agonised disbelief as she turned willingly into her lover’s arms. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He heard again her mocking laughter as he sank into the painful oblivion of unconsciousness.

The slow chug of shock exploded into boiling rage. His lip curled into a snarl. Every muscle in his body tensed. Coiled to spring.

‘…and please allow me to introduce you to Lord Halross.’ Gabriel heard the Ambassador’s voice as if it came from a great distance. ‘As I mentioned to you last night, he intends to return to England in one of his own ships. I’m sure he can provide you with a safe passage home.’

Frances opened her mouth, but no words emerged. It was clear she had not expected to see him. Her lips were pinched and pale. Gabriel wondered if she was about to faint and thought savagely that it would be poor justice compared to his own humiliating fate eight years ago. He’d woken in darkness to find he’d been left lying in a stinking ditch outside the City walls. It was only by luck and God’s good grace he hadn’t been stripped of his clothes, and perhaps even his life, while he was unconscious.

And Frances had given the order for his degradation. She had laughed at the prospect of it.

His muscles twitched. Power surged through his body, but he didn’t move an inch. He had made a fool of himself once over this woman. He would not do so again. He drew in a deep breath. His lungs burned. It felt like the first breath he’d ever taken. He took another breath. Air seared through his throat like fire, but when he spoke his voice was harsh and cold as hoar frost. ‘Is it my protection you crave, madam? Or my indulgence? I—’

‘Neither!’ Frances’s chin snapped up. Hot colour suddenly burned in her pale cheeks. ‘I ask nothing of you, my lord. I am sorry to have intruded upon you.’

She whirled about in an angry swish of skirts, clearly intending to leave the balcony.

Fury speared through Gabriel when he saw the disdainful way in which she turned her back upon him. He would not allow her to dismiss him so lightly a second time. He took two long strides towards her, then reached out to seize her arm—

But he was thwarted in his intentions by the sudden appearance on the balcony of the Ambassador’s secretary. Roger Minshull stepped between Gabriel and Frances. He uttered appropriate greetings to Gabriel and Sir Walter but, to Gabriel’s disgust, it was Frances who occupied his attention.

‘Mrs Quenell, if you have rested sufficiently from your journey, I would be honoured to show you the sights of Venice,’ Minshull said, bowing ingratiatingly.

Athena hardly noticed when the secretary took her hand. She saw only Gabriel. Heard only Gabriel. Even when she turned her back on him, every fibre of her body was attuned to every movement he made.

Gabriel.

Lord Halross, the Ambassador had told her yesterday. She’d been prepared to encounter Gabriel’s brother this morning. She’d fretted over it all night. She didn’t want to meet any member of Gabriel’s family. But she’d calmed herself with the thought that she’d never met either of his older brothers. There was no reason for Lord Halross to know that she’d ever had an association with his younger brother.

But it was Gabriel who turned his head to look at her when she walked out on to the balcony. Shock seized her, paralysing her mind and body. But she’d been thinking about Gabriel all night. Wondering how to present herself to one of his brothers. It was a devastating but short step to understand that it was Gabriel himself who stood before her. In some distant corner of her mind she realised his brothers must be dead. There was no other way he could have inherited his father’s title. But that wasn’t important now. The only thing that mattered was that Gabriel was here—standing only a few feet away from her. She stared at him, hungry to look at the man for whom she had sacrificed so much.

He was as tall as she remembered. Perhaps even taller. She did not remember him as this grand, imposing figure. Eight years ago he had dressed soberly, as befitted his status and the austerity of Cromwell’s London. And in her memories he was much younger. A man certainly, but flushed with the fresh enthusiasm of youth.

The Gabriel who confronted her today was a male in the prime of his power. Sure of his authority and his strength. Arrayed in all the magnificence of a wealthy nobleman. His coat of burgundy velvet was edged with gold lace at the cuffs and on the front facings. His coat sleeves ended at the elbow to reveal a contrasting cascade of white lace that extended almost to his wrists. His cravat was edged in a deep band of heavy Venetian lace. His dark brown hair fell in rippling waves around his shoulders. The early morning sunlight gilded a few shining strands with an aura of gold, so that he seemed to be clad from head to toe in extravagant riches.

But the fine clothes could not conceal his raw masculine power. The man who wore the soft velvet was lean and hard-muscled. The fine lace beneath his chin emphasised the unyielding line of his square jaw. Hatred and fury burned in his amber eyes.

His hostile gaze sliced through her, deadly as a sword to the heart. Her very soul reeled beneath his silent assault upon her. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. She saw his body coil with furious intent and still she was held prisoner by the scalding fire in his eyes.

When he spoke, his voice was so laden with contempt she hardly recognised it.

She didn’t understand his anger or the significance of his question—he’d not cared enough to turn up at the church, so why was he angry now? Her first shock receded. Pride came to her rescue. She lifted her chin, found the words to answer him, and turned to leave.

She felt Gabriel’s sudden movement towards her, but then the Ambassador’s secretary stepped between them. She barely noticed the secretary take her hand. All her senses were attuned to Gabriel behind her.

‘Mrs Quenell?’

She jumped and looked at the secretary in confusion, then realised he had asked her a question and was waiting for her answer. She replayed his last few words in her mind.

‘I would be honoured to show you the sights of Venice.’

‘Oh. That is very kind of you…’ She couldn’t remember his name. Somehow she managed a semblance of a smile instead. ‘Sir, but I…if you don’t mind, I think I may…’

‘I’ll show you.’ Gabriel’s hand closed around her arm, just above her elbow.

Her heart jolted at the sudden contact. The anger thrumming through his powerful body almost overwhelmed her senses, splintering her thoughts. It was quite beyond her to frame a coherent response to the secretary or to Gabriel.

She saw the secretary’s eyes widen in surprise. Heard the Ambassador say something but didn’t catch his words. Then Gabriel compelled her to leave the balcony. He strode the length of the portego, his hold on her arm unrelenting.

Athena had no choice but to go with him. Her legs were unsteady with shock and she nearly stumbled. Gabriel hauled her mercilessly upright. He didn’t slow his pace and she was forced into a scrambling run to keep up with his long stride.

He propelled her out of the portego and onto the outside staircase. She tripped. If not for his iron grip on her elbow, she would have pitched headlong down the flight of stone steps.

Muttering furiously under his breath he clamped his arm around her waist and carried her unceremoniously down to the courtyard. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she was too confused and shaken to be angry at his astounding behaviour.

She could feel the barely controlled rage within him. This was not the Gabriel who had courted her so tenderly eight years ago. She didn’t know this man who threatened to erupt with fury at any moment.

He set her on her feet and hauled her through the ground floor hall.

Athena dug her heels in, her feet slipping on the smooth stone paving. ‘Let me go!’ She tried to wrench her arm out of his hold.

Without a word he picked her up and carried her through the watergate. ‘Get in,’ he ordered.

There were several gondolas floating in front of the palazzo. The one he directed her into was painted the customary black, but seemed far more luxurious than the vessel Pieter Breydel had hired yesterday to bring the small party to the Embassy. It possessed a cabin-like structure, which could be enclosed to protect the occupants from the weather—or to provide them with privacy. When she stepped into the cabin she saw it was furnished with a fine carpet and curtains. And the reclining seats were covered with black velvet.

She stopped short at the sight of those couch-like seats, her overstretched nerves jangling at the prospect of almost lying beside Gabriel in his present mood.

‘Sit down,’ he said in her ear.

She trembled at his proximity and did as he commanded, perching upright on the very front of the velvet cushion. The gondola rocked gently as Gabriel stepped into it.

‘Where are you taking me?’ She watched nervously as he sat down beside her.

‘To see Venice.’ His smile was all predator.

‘Halross? What are you about, man?’ Sir Walter shouted.

The Ambassador’s voice seemed to come from above. Startled, Athena looked up. The roof of the cabin hindered her view, but after a moment’s confusion she realised Sir Walter must have seen Gabriel’s gondola from the balcony.

Gabriel leant out of the cabin to reply. ‘Showing your guest the sights of the city. You will allow I am better qualified than any member of your household to do so.’

‘Humph. Oh. Yes. Your advice has been invaluable,’ Sir Walter acknowledged, disgruntled. ‘But is Mrs Quenell warm enough? Surely a moment to prepare herself before you carry her—’

‘She will be warm enough.’ Gabriel settled back on to his seat, clearly considering the exchange at an end. Already the swift-moving gondola was beyond comfortable shouting distance from the palazzo.

There was a gondolier standing at the back of the gondola and another one in front of the cabin, but Athena knew she could expect no help from the two men. She’d heard Gabriel give them curt orders in Italian. They were in his pay, they would do whatever he said.

He leant back in the seat, stretching out his legs in a semblance of relaxation. Athena sat upright, staring straight ahead, her hands gripped together on her knees. Gabriel’s casual posture didn’t fool her. She could feel the fierce emotion vibrating through his body, sense his angry gaze burning the back of her neck. She didn’t turn her head to look at him. Instead she glanced down and a little sideways. She saw his hand lying on his thigh. It was a large hand, with long, strong fingers. The last time she’d seen Gabriel’s hand he had stroked a finger tenderly across her cheek. As she watched, it clenched into a fist.

In the years since she’d discovered he hadn’t turned up at the church for their wedding she’d taught herself to accept he hadn’t loved her as she’d loved him. She’d forced herself to face the fact that, if they ever met again, he would treat her with indifference. Perhaps wouldn’t even remember her.

She’d never anticipated this hostility.

She waited for him to speak. He didn’t say anything. She took a breath. Her ribs felt as if an iron band had been placed around them and she had to force her chest to expand when she inhaled.

When she heard him take a harsh breath, she wondered dizzily if he had the same problem with his ribs.

She stared at his hand on his leg. Gabriel’s hand. Gabriel’s leg. The fine cloth of his breeches touched her petticoats. He was only inches away from her. And more distant than she’d ever imagined.

She knew he was watching her. She could feel the intensity of his gaze. Like a deer caged with a hunting lion she felt compelled to look at him. His eyes burned into hers. His visual assault was so devastating her body went slack with shock.

Athena swayed. The world swirled about her.

He caught her arm and pulled her back on to the seat beside him. A second later he loomed over her, his large body half-covering hers, pinning her in place.

‘Gabriel,’ she whispered. She lifted a trembling hand to touch his cheek.

He was real. The weight of his body on hers was real. The slight rasp of stubble on his smooth-shaven jaw was real.

‘Gabriel.’ Her eyes filled suddenly with tears. She touched his face with quick, fluttering gestures, hungry for more assurance of his reality. Stroked his hair, traced his dark eyebrow. ‘I wanted you so much.’ Her voice caught on a sob and she flung her arms around his neck, clinging desperately to him.

She buried her face in his shoulder, momentarily forgetting his hostility in the miracle of being once more able to touch him. But his hard body was unyielding as oak in her embrace.

She became aware of his silent rejection and began to pull away, shaken anew by his inexplicable anger.

He growled low in his chest, moving suddenly, forcing her back against the velvet upholstery. His action triggered memories of another man who’d used force against her.

‘No!’ Panic shot through her. She struggled wildly, pounding at Gabriel’s shoulders with her fists. Water slapped against the sides of the rocking gondola.

‘My God!’ He lifted his head a few inches.

‘No!’ she panted, twisting her face away from him, thrusting at his chest in an unavailing effort to shove him away from her.

His curse emerged as little more than a snarl.

‘How much will it cost to make you say yes?’ he demanded.

‘What?’

‘You thought you could play your tricks on some poor bastard who’d be fooled by your innocent face,’ he said savagely. ‘It must have been a shock to discover this particular pigeon has already been plucked.’

Athena stared up at him, bewildered by his accusation. ‘What? What pigeon?’

He laughed harshly and lifted himself away from her. ‘Save your breath, madam. I’ve seen you unmasked. I’ll not be duped again.’ He flung a curt order at the gondoliers. ‘I might have guessed you’d one day find your way to Venice,’ he said bitterly. ‘A whore belongs in the city of whores. You’ll fit in very well.’

The gondola stopped at a landing stage. In one lithe movement Gabriel sprang out. He issued another incomprehensible order to the gondoliers and turned to stride away across a large square.

‘Wait…’ Athena’s voice faded. Gabriel had already disappeared into the crowds. The gondola was once more gliding through the waters of the grand canal. Life continued all around her as if nothing of moment had happened.

She swallowed and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear with shaking fingers. Emotion suddenly threatened to overcome her. She propped her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her trembling hands.