Читать книгу The Shadowed Heart - Nina Beaumont - Страница 13

Chapter Five

As the delicious scents rose toward Chiara, she twisted her hands in the folds of her nightgown to prevent herself from rushing toward the table and stuffing handfuls of food into her mouth. She’d eaten nothing for the past three days but some bread and cheese the man on the burchiello, the barge that had brought her to Venice, had given her and an apple she had stolen that afternoon from a street vendor’s basket

Because the enormity of her hunger was like a beast within her, she sat down and took a deep breath before she reached for a piece of bread. She began to eat, forcing herself to break off small pieces of the bread.

Luca watched her eat with a steadiness that indicated both extreme hunger and extreme control.

“Here.” He stopped behind her and slid the coverlet around her shoulders. This time he allowed his hands to linger for a moment. “It’s still chilly in here. This room hasn’t been used for a long time.”

Chiara pulled it around her closely and tied it in a loose, large knot.

“You mean, you don’t bring women here every night?” She glanced at him over her shoulder.

“No.” He sat down and, in an attempt to keep his hands to himself, picked up a slice of cheese. “But if you truly had the sight, you would not need to ask that.”

Her hand paused an inch from her mouth. “I do not waste my sight on what has no importance.”

“I see.” He leaned back with a mocking smile. “And I suppose it was important for you to use your sight to peer into the lives of a few indolent patricians?”

“I needed the money,” she said simply.

“What for?”

For my sister. For Donata, whom you raped and turned into a lunatic. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them and merely shrugged.

“So tell me,” he drawled. “What else do you do for money?”

Chiara heard the mocking insinuation in his voice and her fingers tightened on her fork. Resolutely she kept her eyes on her plate, knowing that if she looked at him now, she would not be able to control herself.

“I do what I must,” she said quietly. “But I have never lain with a man for money.”

“There’s always the first time.”

She raised her eyes now and met his. “But that time is not going to be with you.”

The moment the words were said, she stilled, remembering that snatch of a vision she had had when he had kissed her. If the vision was true, she thought with horror, it would not be for money that she lay with him. Nor for revenge.

Fighting against the memory of the vision and her own words, she sent him a cool look and returned to her food.

Damn her, Luca thought. Damn her pride and the way she cleverly mimicked aloofness when he knew she was anything but indifferent to him. He had felt her respond to him, damn it. He had felt it.

He splashed wine into two goblets of indigo-colored glass, lifted one, emptied it and filled it again.

“I will have you, money or no. And you will be willing,” he said, his voice soft and urgent. “Here.” He pushed a goblet toward her. “Let us drink to that.”

“No, thank you.”

“Drink.”

His voice had hardened and Chiara looked up at him. Traces of the fury she had seen earlier were in his eyes. Even as she took stock of it, she sensed the struggle within him. Sensed how he fought to harness the wildness within himself that was flaring like fire in a forest of dry pines.

Slowly she picked up the goblet. Not because he had ordered her to do so, but because she needed the time to come to terms with what she had sensed.

She took a stingy sip and then another one before she set down the goblet.

“Is the wine not to your taste?”

“It’s fine.”

“Then why do you not drink as much as you would like?” he demanded. “Are you trying to keep your head clear?” As if in defiance, he lifted his goblet to his lips and drank deeply.

“Yes,” she said cautiously, and edged her chair back. “Yes, I am.”

“Why?” He leaned a little closer and picked up the ends of the coverlet around her shoulders to toy with the silk fringe. “Do you think you can escape?”

She would not even try to escape, she thought. Fate had put her here. And fate would give her her revenge. And the price? What will be the price of revenge? a voice within her whispered. But she knew that whatever the price, she would pay it.

“No, I know I cannot escape.” she said.

“That’s very wise of you.” He wound a length of blue silk around his hand. “Then why do you want to keep a clear head?” He gave the coverlet a tug, bringing her to the edge of her chair. “Are you afraid the wine will make you willing?”

“Wine can make me weak, but it can never make me willing.” She closed her hands over the soft linen of her nightgown. “Nothing can make me willing.”

“You’re wrong. I can make you willing and we both know it.”

He had leaned close enough so that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips. Already she could feel her body softening. He could do it, she thought desperately. He could make her body willing. But surely never her spirit. Never her mind. Never her soul.

As if he could read her mind, he smiled. “And you do feel. No matter how you lie about it, I make you feel.” Rising, he twisted yet another length of silk around his hand, pulling her onto her feet so that she stood flush against him.

As her body made contact with his, Chiara felt a jolt of fear so strong that for a moment she lost all awareness, as if she had slipped into a faint or a trance. But as the fear faded, she felt the waves of Luca’s emotions breaking against her like waves break upon the beach.

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

The violence she had felt earlier was still there, but it only hovered at the edge like a banished spectator. Desire was there, strong and hot, and need, deep and powerful. The need of a man for a woman. The need of one human being for another.

Confused, she shook her head. How could he hide his evil so smoothly? She had no doubt that he could feel desire, but how could there be such true, deep need within a man such as this?

Against the back of his hand, Luca felt the soft give of her breasts, the pounding of her heart. He saw how fear flashed into her eyes, but only for a moment. Then he saw confusion there and surprise. And something softer that was gone before he could identify it.

Dio, he wanted her. Desire swept through him. Had he ever wanted, had he ever needed a woman so badly? Unable to resist, he lowered his mouth to hers.

He was holding her so close, so tightly that she could not move away. Unable to do more, Chiara turned her head aside so that his mouth missed her lips and brushed her cheek instead. She felt his fingers cup her chin and she tensed.

But his fingers did not tighten. Nor did he try to turn her mouth back to his. Instead, his thumb stroked her skin while his lips drifted to her ear. Nudging her still-damp hair aside, he kissed his way along the contours of her ear. Chiara heard herself sigh.

Again he traced the contours of her ear, this time with his tongue. When Chiara heard herself make a sound like a hungry kitten, she remembered where she was. And just who it was that was touching her.

How could she respond to him like this? She knew what brutality, what cruelty he was capable of committing. She had heard his mocking laughter as Donata had screamed m terror. She had seen the gleam of evil in his eyes. No matter how well he hid it now behind a mask of gentleness, she knew what manner of man he was.

“Let me go.”

He let her go so swiftly that her legs gave way. Biting back a cry, she managed to grasp the edge of the table for support. Relief and surprise warred with anger. Anger at him. But most of all, anger at herself and at her own weakness.

“As you wish, my dear.”

Chiara straightened, hoping that her legs would hold her up. The fact that they did had some of her audacity returning. “I thank you for your generosity.” She inclined her head in a mocking little bow.

“And so you should. Believe me, it would have been quite easy to ignore your plea—” he laughed “—and concentrate instead on those tempting female noises you made.”

His eyebrows lifted in a mocking curve, giving him the aspect of a fallen angel. Chiara said nothing, but she could feel heat flooding into her face. Heat from the way his closeness stirred her senses. Heat from his soft laugh that seemed to make tender promises. Heat from the shame that filled her because he could make her feel this way.

“You see it as a weakness. Perhaps I should not tell you this, but it is a great strength.” His voice softened, lowered. “Do you know how much power it gives you over a man, when you respond to him like that? Even when it is against your will. Especially when it is against your will.”

Reaching out, he drew a single finger down her throat and let it rest in the hollow at its base. “Do you have any idea how it makes a man feel to know he can make your pulse beat like a drum, even though you would rather take a knife to him.”

His last words had Chiara’s gaze skittering down to his chest where the deep V-shaped neck of his robe exposed the wound she had made with her knife.

“You should put a poultice on that so it doesn’t become inflamed.” The words were out before she could stop them and she bit her lip.

“I’m touched by your care.”

She tried to counteract her incautious words with an insolent shrug. Her movement had his finger shifting in the hollow of her throat and she tensed against her involuntary shiver of pleasure.

Luca felt her tremble. Because he wanted badly to cup her neck and draw her toward him, he let his hand fall to his side and took a step back.

“Ah, Chiara, what am I going to do with you?” He looked at her for a long moment. “No suggestions? No requests?”

Chiara met his gaze. There was a sort of tired amusement in his eyes and a kindness that she found herself responding to, even as she had responded to his touch, his kiss. God help her, she thought. How could she fight against him, when he could make her forget who he was so easily?

“Well?”

She shook her head. “No suggestions.”

“Then I will wish you a good-night.” He paused. “Don’t get any ideas about making a ladder of your sheets. Your window will be guarded.”

“Don’t worry. I will not try to escape.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, she saw his eyes narrow with suspicion and knew she had made a mistake.

“At least not tonight,” she corrected quickly, looking away from his sharp gaze.

“What plan are you hatching in that sly Gypsy head of yours?” he demanded. “Look at me.”

Sullenly she obeyed him but said nothing.

“I’ll find out by and by.”

Yes, Chiara swore silently, you will find out. No matter how you can make me feel, you will find out and you will pay.

His eyes still on hers, he picked up her hand and pressed his mouth against the bruises he had left on her wrist.

“It is not my way to touch a woman’s skin with so heavy a hand as to mark it.” Pleased, he felt her pulse jump. “This you will find out by and by.”

Chiara stood very still and watched him leave the room without once looking back.

He had to be in league with the Supreme Evil to be so powerful, she thought. Her body still warm, her blood still pounding, she sank down where she stood and prayed incoherently, desperately for the strength to resist him.

She awoke to the clatter of dishes and the sinfully tempting fragrance of rich chocolate. Remembering where she was, she sat up quickly.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Chiara returned the serving girl’s smile.

“Come and eat your breakfast. The dressmaker is coming in an hour.”

“The dressmaker?” Chiara slid down from the bed and padded over to the table. “Whatever for?” Greedily she broke off a piece of the fresh, crusty bread.

“Don Luca has ordered that a dressmaker come to fit you with new clothes.”

“I don’t want any new clothes. I have my own clothes.” She looked around the room. “Where are they?”

“They’re gone. Don Luca said they should be burned.” She made a vague gesture toward the door.

Chiara jumped up, ready to storm, but then she saw the girl take a step back. There was no sense in raging at this poor girl, she thought, and there was no sense bewailing something she could not do anything about.

Slowly she sat back down and picked up the bread she had tossed down onto the plate.

“Do you need anything else?” the girl asked in a cautious voice.

She shook her head and, when the girl turned to leave, she grasped her arm. “What is your name?”

“Zanetta.”

“Sit down, Zanetta, and tell me about—” her tongue almost tripped over the polite address “—Don Luca.”

The girl darted a glance over to the door and sat down on the very edge of a chair. “Don’t you know him?” she asked, her eyes curious. “The whole house is talking about you,” she added.

“I can imagine.” Chiara took another bite of bread spread with butter and honey and almost closed her eyes with the sheer pleasure of it.

“Rico, Don Luca’s manservant, says you are his guest. Some whisper you must be his mistress. One of the footmen heard Don Luca arguing with Don Alvise and Signora Emilia.” The words came out in a rush.

“Who are they?”

“Don Luca’s older brother and his wife. He is a good master, but strict.” She paused, as if considering her next words. “He said he would not allow a loose woman under his roof.”

Chiara felt a flash of pain as she remembered how her father had cast her mother out into the street with those same words.

“And you, Zanetta?” she asked. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” The girl twisted her fingers nervously at her waist. “But if you are his mistress—” Her mouth curved in a mischievous smile “—then you have chosen a beautiful man. Not like—”

There was the sound of footsteps outside the door and the girl jumped up.

“I must go now.” Curtsying quickly, she moved toward a door that Chiara had not noticed the night before. As the girl opened the door, Chiara caught a glimpse of a corridor. Thinking to explore, she rose, but immediately heard the key turn in the lock.

So everyone was locking her in, she thought, even the servants.

She had barely finished breakfast when the corridor door opened and Zanetta returned, followed by a plain woman wearing a severe brown gown. Several maids carrying gowns, hoops and bolts of fabric trailed after them.

The woman immediately marched up to Chiara, briefly mustered her up and said, “Take off your nightgown so that we can measure you.”

She snapped her fingers and one of the maids came running up carrying a shift. “Put this on.” She fluttered her fingers, first at the flimsy undergarment, then at Chiara. “Quickly now. I don’t have all day.”

Chiara began to protest but thought better of it. After all, if her own clothes had really been burned, she would need something to wear. She quickly exchanged the nightgown for the thin shift and the maids swarmed around her to take her measurements.

“The yellow gown.” The dressmaker gestured at the maids behind her and they came running like well-trained soldiers, carrying the gown and the necessary accoutrements.

Chiara took one look at the gown of yellow silk, the hoop and corset and stepped back. “No.”

“You’re right.” The dressmaker gave her an approving nod. “Yellow makes you look sallow. The blue one.”

The yellow silk was exchanged for pale blue satin.