Читать книгу The Shadowed Heart - Nina Beaumont - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Downstairs in the entry Luca barked an order that had the lackey scurrying to get his things.

Emotions—anger, horror, disgust at the violence he had displayed—rushed through him like a roaring river. A candle flickered on the opposite wall and he concentrated on that point of light as he fought to deal with them.

He had always believed that uncontrolled violence was his brother’s province. From the time when they had been small boys he had seen it. He had seen Matteo strike out at servants and torment playmates. He had stopped it when he could, knowing all too well that Matteo would again do the same thing. And he’d done it because, despite everything, he had loved Matteo. He’d done it because he had always known that some of the same violence, the same cruelty lived within him.

But Luca had always believed that he had the violence under control, like a dangerous criminal locked in a secure dungeon. Instead, he had found tonight that all it took was the right moment—and the right woman—for it to escape its cage and spread its poison.

Was this urgency that drove him like a whip when he looked at the Gypsy girl the same madness that had overtaken Matteo when he had raped and killed Antonia? Had Matteo merely taken the same passion, the same compulsion that he himself felt for this black-haired seductress one step further? Oh, God, he thought as he scrubbed his hands over his face, was he like his twin brother after all?

Luca remembered how he had found Matteo, standing over Antonia’s bruised and broken body. He had sworn then that he would never give in to the evil that lived within him. Not even to avenge the girl he had loved so tenderly. But, he thought, he had given in to the evil now. And the bitter knowledge shamed him.

He had put his hands on this girl until she had cried out in pain. He had been within a breath of taking her where they had stood, with no care, no tenderness. Cursing silently, he told himself that he had to let her go. He could not force an unwilling woman to go with him just because he found himself wanting her beyond all reason.

Had he gone mad? he asked himself. And if he had, would the madness pass? Was it only the madness of an instant, born of his violent fury, or would it stay with him like a witch’s curse?

Even as his blood grew calm, he found that the venom had unfurled within him like a pernicious flower. He was unable to forswear his own wickedness. Unable to undo what madness had wrought Unable to follow his conscience and let Chiara go.

It did not occur to him that he had thought of her by name for the first time.

Chiara watched him. He had released her hand and he was ignoring her as they waited in the small entry for the footman to return. Perhaps, she thought, he was already losing interest. A small shoot of hope burgeoned within her. Perhaps he was already regretting the trouble he was putting himself to.

She eyed the door. There was no key in the lock and the bolt was open. If she was quick enough, she could slip past him and out the door before he noticed her. Or should she wait and try to escape once they were outside in the narrow, dark alley?

Carefully Chiara took a small step. He was staring at the candle in the gilt sconce on the opposite wall and gave no sign of having observed her movement. Slowly, her gaze never leaving his scowling face, she began to edge toward the door.

The sound of footsteps jolted her. The footman! She gauged the distance to the door. Three steps, perhaps four. Taking a deep breath, she prepared to run.

Luca knew the moment she took the first step. He would let her go, he told himself. Perhaps then he would be able to look himself in the eye again. She was almost behind him when she paused. If she stayed now, he bargained with himself with shameless sophistry, it meant that she was staying of her own free will. If she tried to escape, he would let her go.

As she leaped toward the door, he swung around, blocking her way, forswearing the promise he had made to himself.

“Going somewhere?”

Chiara dragged in a breath that was almost a sob. He would never let her go now, she thought. She was his property and this was a man who guarded his possessions. She looked up at him.

“I was going to let you escape.” He lifted his hand to her face, but when she flinched, he let it fall back to his side. “But I find that I can’t.”

“Won’t.”

“Can’t.” He shrugged. “And won’t.”

“Your tabarro, Don Luca.”

Not taking his eyes off Chiara, Luca let the long, black cloak settle on his shoulders and clapped the black tricorn hat on his head. Letting the molded white mask, which the footman handed him, dangle from his fingers by its laces, he took her arm and stepped out into the alley.

As they turned onto the Piazza San Marco, the blast of wind met them head-on. Chiara shivered in her torn blouse but said nothing.

Even at this late hour, the piazza was full of life. The cafes and even some of the shops were brightly lit. A violin began to play a melody from a popular opera and was joined by the high, pure voice of a castrato tenor. A couple had linked arms and was whirling in a dizzying dance that needed no music, save that in their heads.

Chiara glanced at the groups of people that dotted the square, wondering if there was someone among them who would help her. Some were garbed in colorful costumes as Moors or harlequins or Chinamen, but most looked like ghosts in their long, black cloaks, their heads covered with the black bautta topped by tricorn hats, their faces disguised with white, beaked masks. Laughter and chattering voices drifted over and she understood just how alone she was.

Luca hurried them past the cathedral, with its Byzantine facade that seemed to glow even at night, past the Doge’s palace, to the quay, where the black gondolas bobbed on the dark water silvered by moonlight.

“Olà, Tommaso,” he called out toward the group of gondoliers who were huddled together at the base of one of the Egyptian columns. Immediately one of the men detached himself from the group and came toward them.

“You are early tonight, Don Luca.” He slid a sly glance toward the girl at his master’s side. “Do you wish to go—”

“Home, Tommaso.”

The gondolier acknowledged the command with a small bow, but his eyebrows shot up in surprise. In silence he herded his passengers around the column, in obeisance to the long-standing superstition that to pass between the columns, where on occasion the scaffold or a gibbet stood, would bring misfortune.

Luca stepped down from the dock onto the stern of the gondola, balancing his body against the gentle pitching of the craft with the ease of long practice. He turned and held out his arms.

“Come, I will lift you down.”

Her gaze darting around, hoping to find yet another way to escape, Chiara shrank back and bumped into the gondolier’s stocky body.

“Don’t be timid,” the gondolier whispered on a laugh. “He’s generous and, from what I hear, well skilled.” He gave her a push.

She stumbled forward. Before she could brace herself against his touch, he had lifted her into the gondola and released her.

“Sit down in the felze.” Luca pointed to the cabin in the center of the gondola.

When she hesitated, he jerked the door open. “Get in,” he growled. When she still did not move, he grasped her arm to maneuver her inside.

“Dio, you’re freezing.” Her gaze skittered up to his as he stroked his hand up her arm. He wanted to put his arms around her and warm her. Giving in to the desire, he pulled her closer only to see her eyes widen with alarm. Swearing, he pushed her away and toward the cabin so that she tumbled onto the cushioned bench.

Unhooking the clasp of his cloak, he shrugged it off and tossed it at her. Damn her, he thought, as he leaned his elbows on the roof of the felze. When she looked at him like that, her huge eyes full of loathing, she made him feel like a beast. Glancing up, he caught Tommaso’s cheeky grin. Swearing again, he ducked into the cabin and sat down beside her.

Although he could feel her shivering, she had not touched the cloak, but sat staring at it. With an impatient sound, he picked it up and slung it quickly around her, forcing himself not to allow his hands to linger. Then he leaned back into the corner and closed his eyes.

Gradually Chiara stopped shivering beneath the soft woolen fabric of the cloak. Letting her head fall back against the cushioned back of the bench, she closed her eyes. Why did this evil, cruel man show her compassion, generosity? Those small flashes of kindness made her doubt what her eyes told her was true.

Again she gathered all her power and probed. But it was as if a black curtain had descended before her sight. She was exhausted, she comforted herself. She had exhausted herself in body and spirit tonight. Surely when she had rested, her sight would be clear and true again.

Since her sight could not help her, she opened her eyes and slanted a look toward him. A thin band of light from the lantern on the stern crept in through the narrow window on the back of the cabin, illuminating his profile.

Again her heart jolted against her rib cage. She had not been mistaken. It was him. It could be no other. Maybe his hair was longer now and the cruelty in his eyes hidden under his charm, but the face was the same. The horror, the revulsion flooded over her anew, almost obliterating the pull of his beauty.

Luca felt her eyes on his as he might have felt a touch of her hand. Turning his head, he looked at her.

“Why do you look at me as if I were the very devil?” It hurt him, he realized with surprise and displeasure. Deep inside him was a place she could touch at will. A place she could ease as effortlessly as she could hurt it. But she said nothing and only stared back at him.

“Ah, yes. You’ve told me that I am supposed to know why.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Well, perhaps I will learn it by and by.”

The gondola bumped gently against wood and Chiara started.

“We’re here.”

There was the scrape of a key in a lock and the grating sound of rusty hinges. The gondola slid into a vaulted, shadowy entry, lit by a single torch, the smell of burning pitch mingling with the smells of dampness and decay.

Within moments Chiara was standing on the slippery stones, watching the gondola glide back out onto the dark canal. A silent servant closed the water gate, the hollow clank of metal on metal sounding like a final judgment.

It was done, she thought, as she looked through the gate’s intricate wrought iron design that allowed a teasing glimpse of the dark canal and freedom. Now she was truly his prisoner.

Despair welled up within her, but she fought it. It was fate, she told herself, and for a purpose that this man had been put in her path. She could not believe that she was here only to be used by him. Perhaps it was a bounty given her by fate. An opportunity for a revenge she had not hoped for.

Yes, she thought. She would defer the revenge she would take upon her father. But this revenge that fate was putting into her hands would be hers. And soon.

“Welcome to the Ca’ Zeani, Chiara.”

She stiffened at the soft, mocking words but refused to look at him. Even as he took her arm and led her up a stone staircase, she kept her eyes stubbornly averted from his face.

Luca closed the door to his apartments and leaned back against it.

“Don Luca!” The servant who had looked after his needs since he was a boy, jumped up from the chair where he had been dozing and came running up to him.

“Santa Madonna! What has happened to you?” he demanded. “Were you set upon?” His gaze slid over to the girl who stood next to his master then back to Luca.

“A minor scuffle.” He pushed away from the door. “Now listen.”

Chiara watched him give his orders to his servant. Watched him give the man a familiar, friendly clap on the shoulder. It occurred to her that he treated his servant with more courtesy than her father had accorded her mother.

“Signore, let me care for your wounds.”

“Later, Rico. Go now.”

When the door had closed behind the servant, Luca walked to a round table inlaid with alabaster and serpentine that he had brought back from Constantinople and poured himself a glass of wine. As he raised it to his lips, he felt Chiara’s gaze upon him and remembered how cold her skin had been to his touch.

Turning around he walked to where she stood, still wrapped awkwardly in his cloak.

“Here.” He thrust the goblet at her.

She reached for it before she remembered that she wanted no more kindnesses from this man. Pulling her hand back, she shook her head.

“Have it your way.” Lifting the wineglass, Luca drank deeply without taking his eyes off her face.

Chiara felt herself grow warm under his gaze. She wanted to look away, but pride would not allow it.

“Where do you come from?”

“Gypsies come from everywhere.” She shrugged. “And nowhere.”

He acknowledged the evasion with a nod. “But you’re only half a Gypsy.”

“In my heart I am pure Gypsy.” Even as she spoke the words, she knew she was lying. She remembered too well how it had been for the short time they had traveled with the Gypsy caravan. She had been almost as much an outsider as the gadjé, the pale-skinned men and women, who had come to have their fortunes told. It galled her to see the faint amusement in his eyes that told her he knew it, too.

“But your eyes are not Gypsy eyes,” he said softly. “They are the color of the sea when the sun is upon it.” He tipped his glass toward her. “To your eyes, Chiara.”

His words, the mellow sound of his voice touched her, no matter how she tried to deny it. She watched him put the goblet of cobalt blue glass to his lips again, watched his throat move as he swallowed the wine and she felt something flicker to life within her. She had never felt it before, but she knew instinctively that this was the heat a woman felt for a man.

As the horror washed over her, she spun her head away from him. How could she feel this for him? What kind of monster was she? No wonder her sight had deserted her.

Luca saw the spark and, eager to see it again, he lifted a hand to her face to turn it back toward him. Just as he was about to touch her, the door opened to admit a procession of servants carrying buckets of water and bed linens.

Luca stepped back from her and gestured his manservant over. “Rico will take you to your room now.”

She turned to look at him then, but her gaze was as cold as yesterday’s ashes. He wondered if he had imagined that one flare of heat.

“Rico, this is Chiara. She’s my—”

She looked at the manservant, her chin lifted in defiance of the hated word.

“My guest.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. She looked back at Luca, but he had turned away. Silently she followed the servant.

Luca stood in front of the mirror in its ornate gilt frame that stretched from the mantel of the fireplace almost to the ceiling, watching her progress until the door had closed behind her. As he turned away, he caught sight of his reflection. Dio, she had managed to carve him up nicely, he thought. He touched the scratches on his face, then the sticky, scarlet stain on the shredded silver lace at his throat. He laughed with something like admiration. He need feel no guilt, he assured himself. She would be a worthy adversary.

“I left the women with her,” Rico said. “May I tend to your wounds now?”

Luca nodded and began to shrug out of his coat.

A fire burned brightly in the fireplace that was edged with pale yellow marble, but a chilly edge still remained in the room. Chiara pulled a coverlet of sapphire-colored silk off the bed and, hugging it around her, walked over to the window.

Below her the canal wound like a wide black ribbon. Moonlight and the flickering torches that were fastened to the walls of some of the houses made reflections of gold and silver on its surface. She tried the bar that closed the window. To her surprise it opened easily and she pulled the casements open and leaned out.

Somewhere there was the echo of music and voices and faint laughter. She looked down to where the water was lapping gently against stone and wood. The water came flush up to the foundations so that the house seemed to be growing out of the canal. A narrow wooden dock surrounded by striped mooring posts was built out over the water. Tied to one of the posts, a lone gondola, coffin like under its cover of dark canvas, rocked gently.

“It’s a long way down. If you’re contemplating jumping, I wouldn’t advise it.”

Chiara started at the sound of his voice. Slowly she straightened and turned to face him.

They stared at each other in silence as his manservant placed a tray on the table and unloaded platters of food and dishes before scurrying out of the room.

Without taking his eyes off her, Luca reached behind him and turned the key in the lock. Then he tucked it into the pocket of his robe of dark blue silk.

Understanding the message well, Chiara stiffened as she waited for him to come toward her, but he remained where he was and merely looked at her.

“Well?” she finally demanded, unnerved by his stillness, his silence. “Am I clean enough for you now?” When he gave her no answer, she tilted up her chin. “I would not have thought that a thing like that mattered for a man like you.”

He still did not speak, but he began to walk toward her then. When he stopped in front of her, he looked at her for a long moment before he spoke.

“And how is a man like me?”

His face was calm, his eyes seeming to carry only a faint interest in whatever she had to say, but she could feel the edgy anger within him.

She shrugged. “As I have seen him this evening.”

“Seen with your sight?”

Her eyes narrowed a little as she wondered if he somehow knew that what her sight told her was in discord with what she saw with her eyes.

“My sight? No.” She shook her head. “I need only my eyes to know what manner of man would mark a woman’s skin like this.” She pulled back the sleeves of her nightgown and held out her hands.

The bruises that marred the skin at her wrists had Luca’s stomach turning over in disgust with himself. Perhaps he was not a murderer like Matteo, but the same mad, wicked blood flowed in his veins. Slowly he reached up and cradled her hands in his.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly as he raised his gaze. Then, his eyes on hers, he lifted her hand and pressed his lips against the marks he had made.

A treacherous pleasure drifted through her. She jerked her hands, but to her annoyance found herself too weak to pull them out of his grasp.

“Stop it.” Her breath hitched. “What are you doing?”

“Soothing a hurt. Apologizing. Making amends. Doing penance.” He shifted his head and stroked his lips over her other wrist. “Take your pick.”

“Stop touching me.”

He smiled. “That wasn’t one of the choices.” His eyes still on hers, he touched his tongue to her skin.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Touch you? Kiss you? Taste you?”

His warm breath flowed over her skin like a caress. Her body was betraying her, she thought. How could she feel pleasure and excitement from this man’s touch when it was horror and revulsion that he roused within her?

“Don’t do anything,” she said. “Let me go.”

“I’m touching you, but I’m not holding you.” He pressed his mouth against the pulse point of her wrist and was rewarded by the pounding of her blood against his lips. “All you have to do is step away.”

She wasn’t held captive, Chiara realized. She was captivated. Captivated by his touch, by the warmth in his eyes that promised every earthly delight. She felt the pleasure race through her in tandem with the loathing as if they were two halves of the same whole. Panic licked at her as flames lick at parchment.

He must be truly evil, she thought. He must have sold his soul to the devil to be given this power to enchant, to seduce, although she knew him to be capable of the vilest abomination.

She closed her eyes, gathered all her strength and lifted her hands from his.

Luca watched her, felt her tremble as she might under a heavy weight. And he smiled, although his own desire was so sharp that it slashed at him as fiercely as her dagger had slashed at him an hour before. It would not be easy, he thought. But it would be worth it.

He took a step back from her and then another.

“Come,” he said softly. “Rico has brought us some food.”

Chiara felt the warmth from his body recede and she opened her eyes, hating herself for her own weakness.

“Come,” he repeated. “You must be hungry.” He smiled. “I know I am.”

The merest hint of sensual suggestion tinged his smile. Forcing herself to look away from him, she crossed the room toward the table.

Luca picked up the silk coverlet that had slipped from her shoulders and followed her.