Читать книгу Veiled Passions - Tracy MacNish - Страница 12

The sound snaked its way through Matteo’s blood. Kieran was warm and fluid and supple in his arms. Beneath his fingers her pulse pounded under soft skin, fine in its fragility. He cradled her wrist, the bones of which were slimmer than the neck of his cello. And she was infinitely more pleasurable to play. He nuzzled her neck; tasted her sweetness. He moved his lips up and breathed in the scent of her hair once more. She smelled wonderful, an exotic garden of sandalwood and jasmine. Why did she wear such an unusual scent?

She was everything he pursued in life: beauty and intrigue and thinly veiled passions. She awoke in him the urge to possess her, to solve her mysteries, to unlock the heat that simmered beneath her icy veneer.

The ship rocked like a gondola, and somewhere Matteo could hear a man call out to another on the upper decks. For a brief moment Matteo considered what Rogan Mullen would think about how his young sister was spending the midnight hour.

And then Matteo pushed that worry away. No matter whose sister she was, she was a woman, not a girl, and in Matteo’s opinion, desperately in need of a man’s touch. Did she not sigh in his arms, melt beneath his kisses?

So why was he plagued with what was, for him, the rarest of emotions: guilt.

Even as he held her, he felt guilty for bargaining for her kiss. So much so, that when she reluctantly gave what he had demanded, he could not take those lips beneath his own.

Not when she looked at him with those eyes, the beauty and the pain in them combined, each magnified by the other.

If he would seduce her, he would first have to find a way to dispense with his remorse.

He kissed the delicate skin behind her earlobe again, and once more the sound came from her throat. It was her noises that were feeding his lust, making it impossible to stop what he was doing, no matter how remorseful he felt for doing it. Those little sounds were of pure pleasure, won from an unwilling woman. Matteo was many things, but at the basest core, he was only human.

“Your melody,” he said against her ear. His fingers were still cupping her face, and he ran his thumb across her lips. They parted beneath his caress, the wetness of her mouth touched him with erotic promise. He held her like the cello, an instrument that would sing under the right touch. “Oh, bella, I would love to play you.”

Suddenly Kieran was aware of his size, his strength, his height. He was playing her, like a symphony, and the worst of it was she was letting him. Where was her pride, her resolve, her icy guard? How could she have allowed him to so easily manipulate, and yes, play, her? Kieran wrenched free of him and turned like a feral cat, back arched, breath hissing.

“You’re finished. Give me the manuscript.”

Surprise registered in his eyes, but Matteo did not otherwise react. He simply gestured to the papers on the chair. “Take it.”

Kieran stalked across the tiny stateroom and snatched up the bound volume. She made a quick retreat from the cabin, lurching out into the passage as a swell took the ship. With the manuscript clutched to her breasts, she rushed back to her cabin and hurried inside. A few deft motions had the door closed, locked, and barred, and she dumped the bundle on her table before fetching a lantern. There would be no waiting until morning; she would read it now. She set the lantern, its wick burning high and bright, down beside the papers.

And Kieran damned herself again for the slight burning on her neck, where his stiff stubble had scraped her skin. It no doubt had left marks that branded her as the needy fool she had allowed him to know her to be. Well, she thought nastily, he can put that knowledge in his growing bag of insights into her character. It seemed that when it came to Matteo de Gama, she was forever one step behind.

With shaking fingers that were growing steadily colder in the damp, chilly confines of her solitary stateroom, she plucked open the ribbon that bound the papers and removed the leather cover.

A moan of dismay was followed quickly by a hot ball of rage. She pounded her fists on the table and snarled down at the words. The entire story was written in Italian, save for one small piece of paper on top, which said in English:

My dear, lonely heart,

Please accept my offer of translation. I am available nightly. You know where to find me.

Warmly,

Matteo de Gama

And her thoughts mocked her like a Greek chorus: dispassionate and eternally amused at her stupidity. One step behind, indeed.

Morning spread its light across the ocean, a pink and yellow-tinged miracle that turned the sea to rippling gold. Kieran stood by the rail, bundled in her warmest clothes and fur-lined cloak. She held both her hands around a thick mug full of strong, steaming tea. The sun climbed the sky, the sea-winds snapped the sails, and the ship’s hull cut through the waves as they sped toward England.

Off in the distance, the other two English ships were visible, and Kieran knew that Samuel Ellsworth was aboard one of them.

Men climbed and crawled all around The Boxer, high in the rigging, down in the galleys, and across every deck. And though many stopped to peer at Kieran’s cold, pale-skinned beauty, none dared speak to her. If the sight of her frigid gaze and disinterested demeanor was not enough to discourage talk, the hulking African who stood at her side was. Kieran watched the sunrise in peace.

Rogan came from the lower deck and spotted his sister and Nilo. He clapped a friendly hand on Nilo’s shoulder and turned to Kieran. “We missed you at dinner last night, but I’m glad to see you’re feeling well enough to emerge.”

Kieran smiled at her brother; he looked fit and rested and strong, his skin readily darkening with the sun, his eyes a sparkling green. Being at sea had always agreed with him. “How is Emeline?”

“She’s doing well, I think. I arranged for her meal to be brought into our cabin, though. She was tired last night, and I asked her if she would nap after she ate.”

“And she agreed?”

Rogan grinned. “She did. I didn’t have to press the point; the child moved inside her late last night. She was too excited to sleep after that. Stayed awake, hoping to feel it again.”

“’Tis soon for that, no?”

“I thought so. Perhaps she is yet farther along.” Rogan shrugged casually, but his face bore the worry they both felt. “I am certain she will be fine, but I asked her to lie abed for my peace of mind.”

“How long do you think we’ll be at sea?”

“We could make it in a fortnight, if these winds keep up.”

Kieran stood on tiptoes to brush a kiss on her brother’s cheek, and then pressed another. “One for Emeline,” she said softly, and turned to make her way back to her stateroom.

Rogan watched his sister walk away, followed, as always, by Nilo. The former slave dwarfed his sister by two heads and ten stone, and still, she managed to look completely alone.

He shook his head, wishing again that he knew how to penetrate her walls of cold silence and fragile dignity.

She’d never been the same since that night that their cousin, Simon, had taken her. Whatever had happened in that house had changed her from the petulant, bratty, funny, and precocious sister he’d once known into who she’d become: A thin shell of a girl, lovely to look upon, impossible to know.

He resigned himself to that fact that he might never know what had happened. Kieran would not discuss it, not with him, their parents, or his wife. She’d shut herself off, sheathed herself in ice, and grown distant.

Rogan sighed heavily and turned toward the horizon. He’d hoped Venice would bring a change of pace, a fresh perspective, and perhaps, a taste of another life so that she might reach for something beyond her daily, mundane existence.

Thinking of Venice, Rogan cast his attention to Matteo, who stood at the rail on the forecastle deck, holding onto the lines and straining into the winds as if he and the ship were one. The Venetian wore a black leather coat and breeches, tightly fitted, elegantly made, and tall boots to his knees. He held a black hat to his side as his hair streamed free in the wind. He stood out like a pirate amidst the plain cotton breeches and thick wool sweaters of the crewmen milling around him.

“Enjoying the morning?” Rogan asked as he approached Matteo de Gama.

“Yes, yes, it is…” he struggled to find the appropriate word in English. “Awesome.”

Matteo gestured to the sky, a vivid blue dotted with fluffy clouds, the horizon that stretched into forever, and the ocean, a frothy, white-tipped deep blue. Matteo suddenly laughed out loud, a deep, joyous sound, and pointed below where dolphins raced the ship, cleaving from the water in half-crescent arcs before shooting back into the sea. Flying fish joined the fray, jumping the wakes, their silvery bodies winking in the sunlight.

“Incredible!” Matteo shouted with glee. He leaned over the rail and then looked back to Rogan, his lean face alight with discovery. “One must never grow tired of this, eh?”

Rogan grinned. “Aye, when the sea is calm and the winds are good, there’s nothing that compares.” He joined Matteo at the rail, clasped his hands behind him and enjoyed the sea for a moment, casting off his worries and the work that never ended. The wind stung his face, full of salt and spray.

Matteo spread his arms and let the wind fill his coat, billowing it out behind him. He laughed again, an easy sound nearly lost in the winds. “Now I see why painters, poets, and writers never grow tired of trying to capture this!” he shouted into the winds. “It is magnifico!”

Rogan found himself swept up in the man’s enthusiasm. Seeing it through Matteo’s fresh eyes brought back some of the old delight, and with it, the memory of his first time at sea.

Their father, Patrick, a sea merchant, had taken Kieran and Rogan out for a week, and his first morning had been just like Matteo’s, full of wonder and thrilling joy. He’d had Kieran beside him at the rail, and he recalled how she’d been so taken with the feel of the ocean, the movements of the ship, and the invigorating rush of wind that she’d felt compelled to dance and spin on the deck. His adorable sister. Their father had taken to calling her sidhe gaoithe, the wind fairy.

There wasn’t anything that Rogan wouldn’t give to see his sister like that again.

“Enjoy,” Rogan bade Matteo, before turning to leave him.

“One moment, Your Grace,” Matteo said. He joined Rogan and they began to walk down the gangway together. “I am off to find some breakfast.”

Rogan noticed that Matteo de Gama did not seem to mind the rolling pitch of the ship. He moved on the ship as if he were born to it. “You do well for a man who has never been out to sea.”

“I live on the canals. Gondolas, burchiellos, and the like. An entire city built on water.” He grinned. “Even the buildings move, no?”

“And you left it to follow my sister to England.” He raised a brow. “I saw the way you looked at her in the Palace of the Doge.”

To his credit, Matteo never faltered in his step. “I left Venice in exile, and I come to England at your invitation. However, I will admit that your sister made England look far more interesting than France.”

“Are you interested in courting her, then?”

“Ah, do you play matchmaker? Surely the sister of an English duke would not curry the favor of a shamed Venetian pauper. And certainly you would want much more for her than me, no?”

“I know you are not a pauper, and far from it, but such things are meaningless to me. I only wish to tell you this: If you’re looking to increase your wealth, know that you don’t have to court my sister to get at my coffers. I’ll pay you well enough to stay away from her, aye?” Rogan paused long enough to make his point. He met the man’s dark eyes and was surprised to see a flash of shame there, when he’d expected greed.

His estimation of the Italian stranger rose a bit more, but still, Rogan continued, “I had a man look into you before we set sail. I know what kind of man you are, signore. And forgive me for saying so, but ’tis my sister we speak of.

“I ask that you keep away from her. And while I’m not generally the sort of man to make threats, you need to know that if you do anything to hurt her, I’ll see to it that you spend the rest of your days wishing that you’d asked me to take you to France.”

Rogan paused before enunciating his warning a second time, hoping the emphasis would hit the point home. “Seduce her, upset her, or do anything that I might interpret as the slightest bit disrespectful of the lady she is, and I’ll deal with you personally, aye?”

Matteo met his gaze evenly before sweeping into a slight bow. Rogan knew the man was a consummate swindler, but still, he thought he saw sincerity in Matteo de Gama’s guileless face and cunning brown eyes.

“Your Grace, your sister is exquisite, and I, being a man, am not immune to her beauty. I am not a good man, it is true, and assuredly not good enough for Miss Kieran. I cheat, I lie, I manipulate. I do not steal so much, anymore, but I have in the past, and if the need arose, I would again.”

Matteo shrugged carelessly, and his lips quirked up at the corners. With his narrow, black leather garments, darkly handsome looks, and devilish demeanor, he looked worldly. Yet somehow he seemed unguarded, even vulnerable, as if he were a boy posing as a knave. Just as quickly as Rogan thought that, Matteo’s expression changed and he was once again brashly confident. “Yet, you see, Your Grace, you must know this about me, too: I only steal from those who deserve it. The sort of men who come to my table with their money and their greed are courting my kind of trouble. They only get what they came for, eh?

“I seduce women, that is also true. Your man will have told you this, if he is worth his salt. Again, I ask you to consider that while I am a thief and a romancer, I am not entirely without honor.” Matteo paused, as if considering his words. When he spoke he said, “Your sister, however, is a sad, lonely girl. I agree with you. She does not need my kind of trouble.”

Nilo walked behind Kieran, and she heard him take a few deep, steadying breaths before they ducked down into the narrow galley leading to the staterooms. Nilo was alternately queasy and stricken with panic in the small, cramped interior spaces, reliving, no doubt, his experience on the slave ships. Kieran knew what it cost Nilo to accompany her on this journey.

Kieran reached out and patted his arm while they made their way to the staterooms. “Only a little longer.”

Nilo looked back at her and managed a smile for her benefit. His face inspired such affection in Kieran, regal and handsome, like an African king. The bones beneath his black skin stood out prominently, chiseled and elegant, with high cheekbones and a flared, proud nose. And his eyes, sharply observant, shimmered like liquid obsidian. They walked in silence, then, as thought occurred to Kieran. After a moment’s hesitation, she asked him, “Are you lonely, Nilo?”

“I have you.”

She loved how he did not hesitate. His loyalty touched her heart.

“But are you lonesome for companionship?” Her face burning, and grateful that he was not looking at her, she pressed, “For a woman?”

Nilo chuckled, a deep baritone melody. “Why do you worry?”

“You do not do anything but watch over me.” Kieran did not say what she really felt: She wanted Nilo to tell her that he was satisfied, that he would never leave her, and that being her guardian was enough for him as a man. She knew better. Nilo had once had a wife, children, and a tribe of his own. Surely keeping guard over her was less than satisfactory to a man who’d had so much stolen from him. Unselfishly she said what was in her heart. “I want you to be happy.”

Nilo paused in the narrow galley, his head nearly reaching the ceiling, his shoulders barely clearing the walls. Turning toward her so he could look down into her eyes, Nilo reached out and touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“You first.” He smiled gently. “Then it will be my turn.”

“You’ll have your turn, I swear it.”

There was a look in his black eyes that she’d never seen before. Pity? Doubt? Before she could say anything, he turned and they fell back into step.

The night before flashed in Kieran’s mind, her wrist caught in Matteo’s hand, his fingers playing over her skin, the feel of his lips on her neck. The bargain: a kiss in exchange for his manuscript.

She’d tumbled right into his trap.

Matteo de Gama had manipulated her, played her, and ultimately, tricked her. And he had known all along what she would do, what she would want, and exactly how to get her to agree to his terms.

All night Kieran simmered with anger. She’d felt like his fool. Rogue. Libertine. Swindler. She’d called him every name she could think until, out of the blackness of her rage, she realized what Matteo had done. And her new resolve dawned with the morning sun.

Who better to instruct her?

When in Venice, Rogan had counseled her to find something that warmed her heart.

In the darkness of her cabin’s bunk, Kieran decided that revenge would serve that purpose, and quite nicely.

“Will you wait a moment? I have a favor to ask of you,” she said to Nilo as they reached the door to her stateroom. At his nod, she rushed inside.

She lifted a penned letter from her table and she returned to the door, handed it to Nilo. She’d taken pains with it, written on the finest vellum in her best hand, and sealed with red wax that she’d pressed with her initials. “Please deliver this to Matteo de Gama.”

High in the crow’s nest on the mainmast the lookouts sounded a warning: Two thundering rings of a bell that hung from the mast, followed by four fast, sharp gongs on the side. Smoke on the horizon.

The crew took their emergency posts. If the ship was on fire or under siege, each hand knew what to do. Men manned the cannons and primed the guns; others unlashed the lines that held oiled tarps over huge barrels of seawater and readied hoses and pumps. Long before the acrid stench of burning oil and wood was carried to The Boxer, they were ready for the possibility of pirates or an untamed blaze, ready to give help or lend a hand in battle. And below decks, the ship’s doctor and his assistants readied bandages, instruments, medicines, and bunks.

Matteo tried to stay out of the fray, keeping to the rail of the upper deck. He saw Rogan at the helm, his hands spread wide over his instruments and his brow furrowed with concentration.

Unsure of what usefulness he could serve, Matteo withdrew his pistols and checked their priming. He was not a sailor, but if the ship came under attack, he could certainly do his part to defend it.

Soon Matteo could see the tall masts of the ship, tiny in the distance, plumes of black smoke billowing around the crisp white sails.

Sailors pulled lines and cranked pulleys to slow The Boxer as they approached. They could see that passengers were lined alongside the rails near the nested stack of dories that were lashed to the side. The crew of the vessel was scrambling about, calling to each other as they swarmed to try to put out the fire.

The Boxer sailed closer, until it finally slowed to a stop, bobbing on the waves a safe distance from the other ship. Dories were lowered bearing crewmen, and Rogan among them, to see what the trouble was.

Matteo watched as the sailors rowed over the giant swells.

Soon enough the problem was revealed and solved: A small fire had broken out and caught in a sail, which licked its way upward. The crew had been able to extinguish the blaze; however, the main mast had been damaged and they’d lost a mainsail.

Rogan stood in the dory and used sign language to communicate with the men who watched through their looking glasses: Bring The Boxer in closer; gather sails to give to the other crew so they could make temporary repairs; ready cabins, they’d be taking on the civilian passengers for the rest of their voyage to England. The closest port was Lisboa, and the ship would sail there for repairs.

Within hours they were boarding passengers from the other ship, and Matteo watched in amusement as the overweight aristocrats had to heft their bulk up rope ladders. The ladders swayed and bumped the hull, nearly knocking people off to fall into the waiting sea below. Matteo leaned over the rail and hoped to see a particular man get dumped; he wore enough velvet, brocade, jewels, and furs that he would no doubt sink to the bottom of the sea. Red-faced and indignant, he cursed the captain of his former ship as sailors leaned down and grasped his upper arms, finally pulling him onto the deck in a most unceremonious boarding.

The man scrambled to his feet, sneering at the crew as he smoothed his rumpled sleeves. “Mind yourselves, chaps. This coat is worth more than all of you combined.”

Rogan ascended the ladder, easily brought himself aboard, and ran a hand through his wind-ravaged hair. He turned to Samuel, the Duke of Westminster, annoyance and dislike written on his face for all to see. “Ellsworth, while aboard my ship, mind your manners, aye? I’ll not have you insulting my men.”

Samuel drew himself up to his full height but said nothing.

Matteo watched the man, paying especial attention to the jewels that studded the collar of his coat and sparkled from his necklace and rings. There was something familiar about his speech, and Matteo tucked that tidbit away to think about later.

Ellsworth, Rogan had called him. Matteo made note of that, and of the arrogance of his posture, the way he sniffed at the crewman who mopped too closely to his feet. A curl of excitement tightened in Matteo’s belly as he studied what came only second to the pleasure he took at looking at a beautiful woman. His next mark.

Hours passed. Kieran paced the tiny cabin. She wrung her hands, agitated. The needlework did not soothe her. Her books could not hold her attention. She kept returning to tap Matteo’s papers neatly in alignment.

A knock sounded, and Kieran swung around. She grabbed the doorknob and held still, eyeing the three bolted locks. “Who is there?”

“Matteo de Gama. I come at your invitation, no?”

Relief had her sagging against the door.

“You certainly took your time.” She heard her tone, cold and detached and full of resentment.

After a pause, she heard him ask, “I should go?”

Nothing like presenting a dignified appearance, she chided herself. Humiliation stung her cheeks. Could she do nothing right anymore? If she could only forget the memory of Matteo de Gama holding her like a cello whilst he kissed her neck, perhaps she could feign a semblance of normalcy. Kieran opened the door. “No. Of course not. I apologize.”

Matteo de Gama stood, a puzzled look on his face. He offered a crooked smile. “If you are angry that it took me so long to respond to your note, I received it only moments ago, and it was not my intention to keep you waiting. Indeed, would I not run to see why a beautiful woman summoned me?”

Matteo leaned on the doorjamb. He offered her a seductive smile. “What do you want?”

Kieran ignored the thrill that ran through her and moved to allow him entrance, then spoke to Nilo. “Would you wait out here, please? I need to speak with Signore de Gama privately.”

Nilo tapped his ear and grinned down at her. “I will listen for you, Miss Keerahn.”

“Thank you, Nilo,” Kieran said softly, grateful as ever for his presence. She closed the door, turned, and looked straight into Matteo’s eyes.

He was confident in his demeanor, a swaggering smoothness in his charm. He bowed as if he were an exiled prince, and not a romancer who got caught with a married woman.

Kieran permitted a tight smile for his benefit and swept across the small room. She laid her hand on the papers for which Matteo had duped her into the exchange.

“I am ready for my translation, signore. I believe ’tis already paid for.”