Читать книгу Veiled Passions - Tracy MacNish - Страница 11

The Republic of Venice wore its history with an elegance borne of hundreds of years without real strife. The buildings aged gracefully amidst the peaceful lagoons and canals that comprised its unique charm; unscarred by the cannons and fire of battle. Lack of hardship, however, breeds complacency.

The Doge saw the need for strength, as the Barbary pirate attacks at sea had shown him just how defenseless the peaceful Republic had become. A law was passed; no ships left Venice unless in a convoy. Requests were put out to other countries, offering the opportunity to build Venice new ships well-suited for attack and defense.

Rogan Mullen abandoned the bid, much to Samuel Ellsworth’s great disappointment. But with every one of Emeline’s former pregnancies miscarrying in the second trimester, it was of utmost importance to get back to England as quickly as possible.

However, with Rogan leaving, Samuel lost the bid. It went to the French, and so Ellsworth and the other Englishmen joined the convoy of three ships leaving Venice, all bound for London.

Daybreak approached, the first few rays of light shining up from behind the sea. The crew was ready to go, and shots fired three in a row, signaling their intent to the other two ships.

Shots fired in reply, and the great triple-masted, full-rigged frigate shuddered with readiness.

Kieran was up on deck for the send-off, keeping out of the fray as the crew rushed through the final stages of departure.

The ropes were untied from the hawsers, and the ship began to move with the tide. The sails slapped and snapped with the brisk breeze and finally took the full weight of the wind, billowing tight. The keel sliced through the water, which foamed and purled around the prow as they picked up speed. The other two ships did the same, and soon they were out to sea, the Republic of Venice behind them.

Kieran watched until the sun was up, and Venice was nothing more than a dark shadow on the horizon. Her belly growled, ready for breakfast, and she was about to seek it until she saw Matteo de Gama standing alone at the rail.

She studied him discreetly. His dark, shoulder-length hair was unbound and blowing in the wind around his face. He wore garments that were similar to everything else she’d seen him wear; it seemed he favored black leather sewn with quilted, colored linings that were visible when he moved. He wore a red shirt, open at the collar, and the color set a striking contrast to his hair and skin.

He looked every inch the gambler he was, except for one thing: his expression. As he stood there, unaware that she watched him, he was unguarded, and without his usual debonair, sardonic expression, he looked young and rather lost, watching as his home disappeared.

Kieran looked at him with a woman’s eye and admitted it to herself: He was handsome. Very much so, with his lean cheeks and soul-deep, amber flecked eyes. His mouth was expressive, sensual, and when he looked in a woman’s eyes and smiled, he was dangerously compelling.

But now, looking like a little boy who was being carted away from the only home he’d ever known, he was ever more so, because he reached to the heart that Kieran protected so fiercely, and touched it.

He turned and saw her, and strangely, he did not guard his expression. His country faded on the horizon behind him, now barely visible, and he spread his hands as he looked at her, as if to say that they were empty and he was completely alone.

And Kieran, despite herself, had the urge to go and wrap her arms around him, and lend comfort.

The feeling unsettled her, and in her confusion, she did what she always did these three years past. She pushed aside her feelings, reached for the comfort of coldness, and turned and walked away.

Kieran sought out her stateroom and remained there the rest of the day, reading and sewing. Four lit lanterns swung from their iron hooks, casting light and shadows in equal measure. In the corner of her tiny room burned a fat-bellied coal stove, and atop it she heated water for tea. The hour was late; she should have been abed hours ago. Yet, she was still gowned, too chilled to dispense with her woolen clothes.

Dinner had been served in her room, as had her lunch. Kieran had made excuses, pleading a queasy belly so she could avoid dining with Matteo de Gama. She did not feel up to his scrutiny, nor the disappointment in her brother’s eyes. He had not yet forgiven her for the lies and her unwillingness to explain the reason for her dishonesty.

Kieran sighed heavily. The seconds crawled by.

She’d long since dismissed her maid for the evening, and Nilo slept in the cabin directly across the low, narrow passage that led to the upper deck. Three locks barred Kieran’s room, along with an iron bar that she slid into place at night.

She rubbed her hands together and held them over the stove. It seemed nothing could warm her when she was at sea; the dampness permeated the woolen clothes she wore and seeped to her bones.

She prepared her tea with expert motions though her mind was distracted. The golden honey slid into the hot water and melted, but Kieran did not bother to admire its amber color or earthy, sweet scent.

Her mind was elsewhere.

She could feel the hard press of him behind her when they had been aboard his burchiello. The feel of his breath on her ear, and his words: thrilling, obscene, and tempting.

“There is a singular delight in serving justice from one’s own hand.”

Kieran lifted her cup and held the tea she’d brewed for its warmth. A shiver took her. She sipped her hot tea.

It did not warm her.

You’ve grown too cold for your youth. Rogan’s words, apropos of the chill permeating her bones, echoed in her mind.

She cast a glance to her berth, and imagined the night she would spend in shivering, fitful sleep, tortured by her dreams, captive to the night.

The ship shuddered as it crested a huge swell, and tea sloshed over the rim and scalded her fingers as she struggled to keep her feet beneath her.

Find something that warms your heart. Again, Rogan, always commanding her with hard words and harsh prompts.

And in that moment, she was finished fighting.

Kieran set down the cup and grabbed her cloak. With the flare of fur-lined wool, she settled it over her shoulders and fastened it beneath her chin. She reached back and pulled up the deep hood, hiding her face in the dark cowl. She turned down the lanterns and reached for the locks of her door, hesitating for only a moment to ease the shivering tremble that seized her body.

She eased the locks open one by one, and noiselessly slid the iron bar away from the door. Then, heart racing, Kieran opened the door. The musty odors of damp wood and tallow smoke permeated the dark passage, and a few lonely, swaying lanterns sent crazy, shifting shadows roaming over the floorboards. The crack beneath Nilo’s room was dark; he slept. Stepping out into the corridor, she closed her door behind her.

The ship pitched and rolled beneath her feet. Kieran braced both hands on either side of the narrow passage and walked aft. Reaching a short stack of stairs, she climbed up to another deck and saw a yellow sliver of light beneath the door of the cabin she’d heard being readied for a passenger.

Braced against the frame of the door, Kieran hesitated.

What would he think? Would he laugh at her, or worse, think her of a lascivious bent as she sought him out alone in the night? She chased her worries with reason.

No, she told herself. Matteo would breakfast with Emeline and Rogan in the morning. Surely he would not attempt anything untoward. He would know better than anyone else that he’d be at the mercy of Rogan, Nilo, and an entire crew of sailors if Kieran sounded a single cry.

Buoyed by those thoughts, Kieran raised her fist and rapped on the door, two quick, hard knocks before she lost her resolve.

A few long moments dragged by, and as she was turning to leave she heard the metallic rasp of the doorknob being turned.

Matteo leaned his shoulder against the doorway when he saw her, his body limned with the light of many lanterns burning behind him. Though his face was shadowed, Kieran saw the question in his eyes. It was quickly followed by the half-smile that took his lips as he peered into the darkness of her hood and knew who knocked on his door. “Cuore solitario, what brings you?”

“I am here to discuss your previous offer,” she said crisply. If she did not feel brave, she could at least feign it.

His smile broadened. “Ah, yes. I should not be surprised. Come in.” He gestured to the tiny cabin as if it were the grand room aboard his elegant burchiello.

The cramped space was stuffed with steamer trunks that had been stacked and secured with thick ropes. Every surface bore piles of papers weighted with brass disks to prevent them from falling as the ship lurched and moved beneath them. A quill was bleeding on a piece of scrap paper, the open ink pot beside it smudged with use. Books were piled everywhere, the leather volumes cracked and worn. In a corner a cello had been lain in its open case, its rich mahogany gleaming in the golden lantern light.

And it was warm in the room, so warm that Kieran felt her fingers begin to thaw.

“I am sorry to intrude,” Kieran said shyly, feeling suddenly out of place. She pushed the hood of her cloak down so it hung at her back. “You are obviously quite occupied.”

“Writing.” He waved his hand absently at the papers. “It is nothing. The story goes nowhere.”

“You are a man of letters, then?”

“Si. Yes. Uomo di lettere,” he murmured softly. “For whatever that is worth.”

Kieran glanced again at the cello. “And a musician as well?”

“Of sorts.”

“And a scholar.” Some of the books were in languages she did not know.

“One could say that.”

“Anything else?”

Matteo shrugged. “Of course. I am many things. One cannot be interesting if one is not first interested.”

“A philosopher, too.”

“Are you here to know me better, bella? If that is so, you may want to take a seat. Such a venture will take some time.”

Kieran became very aware of the way he watched her, his eyes lingering on her lips, eyes, and neck. His casual posture belied the look in his eyes. He was observant, and Kieran found herself the object of his study.

Time to get to the point, she thought, before he thinks her purpose to be something more than business.

“I have money,” she said bluntly. “I have sold various pieces of needlework, and I have a tidy sum tucked away.”

“This is good news for you.”

“I am offering it to you, signore, in exchange for your tutelage. Do you recall your offer…” Her voice faltered and she cleared her throat. “To help me?”

“I offered you revenge, eh?” Matteo’s eyes swept over her in a way that made Kieran want to run out the door. “Vendetta.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Will you? I will give you all of my money.”

“This is what you want? You want to pay back the one who hurt you?”

“I think I do.” She faltered, but only for a moment. “I do not know. It seems wrong, the idea of revenge. ’Tis an ugly thing to contemplate, and yet, I am…conflicted.”

“Come, sit.” Matteo pulled out a chair and held it. “This is obviously something that requires deep discussion.”

She hesitated. His hands were on the back of the chair, long, tapered fingers stained with ink. He saw where she looked and laughed softly.

“Ah, cuore solitario, still afraid of me? What can I say, but that I did not drag you from the water this time, nor did I send a letter asking you to come. You came to me of your own volition.” Matteo lifted a hand and gestured to the door. “It is unlocked. And I shall stay well away from you.”

To illustrate, he moved away from the chair he’d pulled out for her. Kieran took the seat and undid the fastenings of her cloak. The stove, well-stocked with coal, pumped enough warmth to heat three rooms, and she shrugged out of the confines of the garment.

Matteo poured them each wine in short, stout glasses. He set one in front of Kieran without asking if she wanted it. She looked at the beautiful handwriting on the parchment before her, but could not read the Italian words.

“What are you writing?” Kieran asked.

“Another satire. Venetian. Pointless in my exile, no?” The corners of his lips turned down, and he looked away.

He looked so disappointed that Kieran felt compelled to offer him hope. “Perhaps you could write something else. A novel, for instance.”

“I have written many novels and the like. Plays, music. Some of it gets published or performed, most does not.” He waved his hand as if to say it was all nothing.

Kieran nodded as if she understood, but in reality she did not. He watched her over the rim of his wine glass, and as before, he saw right through her.

“Let me explain,” Matteo said patiently. “The art does not support me. It is I who supports my art.”

“With your music?” Kieran asked, and she glanced again at the cello.

Matteo laughed long and loud. “Ah, if that were possible. No, bella, certainly not with music.”

Matteo could not drag his gaze from her. The heat had flushed her skin until it turned pink and dewy and her lips were moist with wine. She kept bringing her eyes up to his, if only for a moment, before glancing away in nervousness. She kept looking at his books, his work, his cello.

“Have you never met an artist?” he asked.

“Not that I am aware of.”

“Would you like to hear me play?”

“If you desire.”

Yet, there was a spark of interest in her expression, and again, she looked to the corner where his instrument rested.

“It would be my privilege.”

Matteo rose and retrieved his cello and bow. He returned to the table and pulled the chair further out into the cramped cabin. Taking his seat, he tightened the bow and rested the cello between his spread legs, the scroll up by his left ear, the neck cradled in his left hand.

Pausing, he glanced at Kieran again, assessing her. She was fascinating: those eyes, so primitive and fragile with pain, the exact color of the canal at dusk.

She kept her demeanor unaffected and cold. Perhaps that was sufficient in keeping men at bay in a world where female coyness and flirtatious fluttering was the norm. But Matteo didn’t believe that cool exterior for a moment. He remembered well the woman he’d dragged from the canal, a spitting wildcat lunging toward a gun with eyes that begged for release. And then there was that confused woman on the deck that morning, torn by her own emotions. Oh, but she was a puzzle.

“This is a violoncello, or as you say, a cello. I will play a piece I wrote about a year ago, written for a character I had just created. The melody haunted me until I wrote it, but the character haunts me still.” Matteo poised the bow over the strings, and then played for her. His eyes never left her face as his fingers and bow moved like the music itself.

And Matteo relished the moment, because she’d come back for him, exactly as he’d hoped when he dangled the idea of revenge like a worm before a bird.

Seduction was its own distinct pleasure, and Matteo reveled in it as he played for her.

Kieran felt the music more than she heard it, a deep, resonating melody that vibrated to her bones. It filled the small cabin, louder than her thoughts, and she wanted to close her eyes and let it take her.

His fingers on the strings oscillated up and down slightly over each note so that it wavered like a tenor’s voice, controlled and expressive, like song. His bow was like a fencer’s sword, slim and elegant, sometimes slow, often quick. There was poetry in the music, the man, and the instrument, moving her with the force of its beauty.

Sliding down the narrow neck, his fingers tight against the strings, the melody grew higher, more urgent. Kieran felt the music swell in her chest, and she was swept away on the crest of it, taken to a place she’d never been.

Small motes of rosin dust rose from beneath the bow, and in the light of the cabin the cello gleamed, its polished wood warm shades of mahogany and deep amber. Behind it, Matteo watched her as he played, his angular face shadowed with lantern light, his dark eyes hooded and heavy-lidded, as if he, too, were in thrall.

And then, he stopped playing.

Silence hung in the room.

“Why did you stop?” Kieran finally whispered, not wishing to break the spell, wanting more.

“It is the only piece I never finished. That is all there is.”

Suddenly aware of herself, Kieran realized she was leaning forward. She pulled back to perfect posture and wiped her face of interest. “Well, you are the composer.”

Matteo stood and carried his cello back to the corner. He then opened a trunk and removed a sheaf of papers that were bound with a leather cover and tied shut with thick, black ribbon. He held it up for her inspection. “Here is what you need, cuore solitario. This is what you came for.”

Lonely heart, her mind translated. Stop calling me that, she wanted to shout. But she could not, for it was true, and he alone seemed to understand it in a way that she could never convincingly deny.

“What is it?” Kieran asked, her hands folded.

“It is a story of a woman just like you: cold on the outside, simmering with rage in her heart. She seeks her revenge.”

“Does she get it?” And damn herself, she could not keep the need out of her own voice.

“She does. I think you will find the story very engrossing.”

Kieran reached out to take it, and Matteo lifted it into the air. He smiled, and her heart began to race.

“There is a price, of course.”

“I told you, you can have my money.” Her voice wavered and she watched his smile deepen. He’d heard the fear in her tone. Damn him, as well.

“I do not want your money. I so enjoy taking it from those who do not want to part with it, but that joy dims when it is given freely.” He reached out his other hand to her. “I want a kiss in exchange for the story. I do not think that a too high price; after all, it took me many months to write it. It will only take you but a moment to kiss me.”

“No,” Kieran said flatly, and she stood. Grabbing her cloak, she turned and moved toward the door. She cast a haughty glare over her shoulder as she placed her hand on the doorknob. “Perhaps you should have been more clear when you offered to help me. Had I known there would be a physical price, I never would have allowed myself to be tempted.”

“But you are tempted, because you know this is what you need.”

“What I need, signore, is to be left alone.”

“Alone with your pain. For how long?” The tone of his voice changed, dropped low, and grew rough. “What you need is vengeance. To punish the one who hurt you. Punish him for what he did, and then you will have satisfaction. You can rise above how you feel when you think of him, and instead of the rage and the hurt, you will feel peace in knowing he paid for his sin, and that it was you who exacted payment.”

Again, his words rooted her in place and fired her imagination. It was as if he offered food to a starving person. Kieran craved that knowledge, hungered for it. “How?”

Matteo held the manuscript up to her again. “A kiss.”

“You are a bastard.”

“You really have very little idea how correct you are,” Matteo said, unperturbed. “What will it be?”

“Why?” Kieran asked in what came out as nearly a whimper.

“We all want things, bella. Every single human who haunts this earth wants, yearns, craves, desires. We are creatures of such need. At this moment, I desire to kiss you.” Matteo shrugged his shoulders in a careless motion, and his lips quirked in a way that communicated ironic amusement. “I always seem to crave that which does not belong to me.”

Kieran looked at the sheaf of papers and then back to his eyes, trying to ascertain his truth. The dark eyes were mesmerizing in their velvety softness: they glistened in the lantern light, lit with flecks of amber and fringed with long, thick lashes beneath slashing black brows. Matteo lifted a brow as she studied him, his full lips twitched with humor.

“Behold the ice princess as she weighs her decision.”

She lifted her chin. “Do not mock me.”

“I apologize, bella, but I fail to see the gravity of this trade. I am Venetian; to us kisses are like wine and food: pleasurable, to be enjoyed. Perhaps your reluctance is an English problem?”

The gauntlet was thrown down, the price named. And Kieran could not walk out of that door. Not when her mind whirled with images of retribution, an avenger of her own honor. Her decision, she realized, was made.

“There is no problem. I want the story, so kiss me and get it done with. The hour grows late.”

Matteo tossed the sheaf of bound papers onto the chair that Kieran had recently vacated as he walked toward her.

Her heart was in her throat. No man had touched her since that night, not so much as a kiss had been pressed upon her glove. Ice princess, he’d called her, and the sobriquet stung, for it was a label lain on her by many a shunned suitor.

Lonely heart. Ice princess. And the truth was that Kieran hated those names because they were true and she did not know how to get herself back. She’d lost herself, and scarcely recognized the woman she’d become.

Matteo stood in front of her, and with cold disdain perfected from years of concealing any real feeling, Kieran looked up to him.

“Quickly,” she said, as if impatient. She cast her eyes to the ceiling and pursed her lips.

Matteo laughed and placed his hands on her shoulders. To her surprise, he turned her until she faced away from him, her back to his chest. She could feel the rise and fall of his breath, and the slight exhalation against her cheek, warm and scented with wine.

“I said a kiss is to be savored, no?”

She felt him lower his head to her hair, heard him inhale deeply. His fingers gripped her shoulders; they bore the pine scent of rosin and the acrid tang of ink. The warmth of his hands sank through her gown, and though his grip was strong, it wasn’t imprisoning.

“A woman is God’s most beautiful creation,” he said, his mouth by her ear. His breath was warm and humid, and Kieran tried to not feel the tingle that coursed through her body to her toes. “Her curves are like the cello.” Matteo’s left hand slid down her left arm, and grasping her wrist, he lifted it high above her head. “She is a delicate instrument, finely tuned, perfectly made, incredibly responsive.”

Matteo’s hand moved up and down over Kieran’s bare wrist, his fingers lightly oscillating as they’d done on the neck of the cello.

Shivering despite the warmth of the room, she pulled her wrist away.

“I agreed to a kiss. Will you not see out the bargain?” Kieran heard her own voice, the tremble in it.

Matteo simply reached down and pulled her arm back up, his fingers resuming the motion that made her breath come short.

“This is how I kiss,” he said softly, his mouth against her ear. With his right hand, he ran his fingers up the column of her neck until they reached her jaw, tracing the outline of her bone beneath her skin. He cupped her face and turned her head slightly until her neck was turned toward his lips.

And then, so lightly she could scarcely feel it, he kissed her beneath her ear. Sensations unlike any Kieran had ever felt coursed in her blood like liquid warmth. The brush of his stubble contrasted with the soft heat of his lips. His mouth moved and she leaned back against his chest, all the power gone from her legs. His fingers continued to slide up and down her wrist as his mouth moved over her neck, and suddenly there was no more breath in her lungs. She closed her eyes and gave in, just for a moment, to the music he was making in her body. A veritable symphony of sensations. A small, low murmur came from her throat, pulled by a force she did not control.