Читать книгу Veiled Passions - Tracy MacNish - Страница 8

Venice, 1777

There are those who grow cold over the course of time, a slow, subtle erosion that takes place over many years until they are no longer the person they once knew.

But not so for Kieran Mullen. She could pinpoint the precise event that had changed her, and she guarded the secret of that night the way a wolf guards its kill.

However, released by the costumes and festivals of Carnivale, she found a tiny reprieve from her self-imposed prison.

Kieran accepted a man’s proffered hand and let him sweep her back onto the floor and into his arms.

She did not know who he was; he wore a white, beaked plague mask, a cloak, and a tricorn. His identity was concealed, as was her own. He could be a butcher or a king; Kieran did not know, and she did not care.

The dance ended, and as Kieran went looking for her sister-in-law, Emeline, a man in a leopard mask with a spotted cape bowed before her, and outstretched his hand. With abandon, Kieran accepted his invitation and whirled back onto the floor. He smelled of wine and sweat, tanned fur and raw silk, and Kieran laughed behind her mask as he twirled her once, twice, three times.

A chorus of castratos sang, their high voices soaring over the orchestral music, combining with the sounds of hundreds of conversations, laughter, and clinking glasses. Costumed people danced and drank, sweeping across the marble floor, butterflies dancing with ghouls, mermaids taking the arms of men in tricorns and animal masks. The heavy air reeked of a party, redolent of melting wax and candle smoke, perfumed bodies and spilled wine, simmering food and cured meats.

The dance ended, and Kieran declined another. Her head was hot beneath the wig and her face sweated behind her mask. She needed to step into one of the rooms that had been set aside for the women, so they might remove their masks.

She found Emeline, seated by an open window.

“Are you unwell, Emeline?” she inquired as she drew near.

Emeline’s gold mask turned to face Kieran, and her eyes, visible in the jeweled openings, looked glassy.

“I was quite fine, until suddenly I began to feel fatigued and dizzy. I think I am overheated.”

“Come with me, and we’ll get you out of the mask and wig. You need a drink of water.”

Emeline nodded and made to stand, but sat back down abruptly. “I fear I will faint.” She reached for Kieran’s hand and gripped it. “I have been feeling this way intermittently since we left England. I told myself all was well, just seasickness. I dared not hope, but now cannot dare ignore it. I am certain there is another child, and I fear what will become of me, being so far from home, and facing the voyage. And Rogan, he will be afraid of another miscarriage, and this will spoil his business venture.” She shrugged and sighed, and her voice quavered. “I cannot bear to see him disappointed again. I hate failing him.”

Emeline never revealed any fear when she became pregnant, and so it made Kieran nervous to hear her admit to it. Still, Kieran showed no sign of her own feelings, keeping her voice brisk and matter of fact.

“Nonsense. You do not fail him by trying to give him a child. You make my brother happier than I’ve ever seen him, child or no. And dismiss your worries regarding Rogan’s business proposals. Such things are meaningless compared to his love for you. Do not worry, Emeline. All will be well.”

Kieran motioned to the door, where Nilo was posted, and signaled for him to come to her aid. Her guardian and friend, Nilo was a former slave who now was paid by her brother, Rogan, to see to Kieran’s protection.

Kieran could not send Nilo to get Rogan; Nilo’s position as servant did not allow him access to the private rooms.

Kieran instructed him to wait, and then turned her attention to Emeline. “Just take deep breaths, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Kieran rushed through the crowded ballrooms of the palace, her heels clicking on the marble floors as she searched for Rogan.

Since the death of their uncle, Rogan had assumed his role as the Duke of Eton with remarkable ease, taking the family fortune and making it grow with his knowledge of trade, seafaring, and shipbuilding. Whispers around England were that he was richer than the king, and while Kieran didn’t know if that were true, it certainly seemed that everything Rogan touched turned to gold.

She smelled cigar smoke and heard masculine voices peppered with laughter. Kieran approached the room with a sense of caution, well aware that she was unescorted and as a female, unwelcome in such a setting. The men would just have to overlook her breach in etiquette. Emeline’s health came first, as Kieran was certain her brother would agree.

Emeline had longed for a child ever since she’d married Rogan, and several failed pregnancies had not dampened her determination and her hope. Still, Kieran recognized the danger in staying in Venice too long; all of Emeline’s pregnancies had miscarried in mid-trimester, and if she had been feeling it since the voyage, she was already well along. A ship’s voyage possessed inherent dangers for a healthy person. Kieran hated to think what it would mean for Emeline.

She opened the door a crack and peered in, hoping that she could catch her brother’s eye and not interrupt more than necessary. The room was a library, towering with bookcases. Curved niches showcased sculptures, and the giant windows were hung with red velvet. In the Venetian style, every table was carved and gilt with gold, and on the far side of the room a fire burned behind an ornate, golden screen. The men had doffed their costumes, and their unmasked faces were bright and animated as they talked politics and business over their brandy and cigars.

Kieran sighed in resignation as she spied Rogan seated by the fire, all the way across the crowd of men. She leaned in to signal him, but Rogan was deep in conversation.

Cold horror settled in Kieran’s belly as she saw who Rogan spoke with. He was the man of her nightmares, the man who in one horrible night, had changed Kieran Mullen forever.

Samuel Ellsworth, the Duke of Westminster, leaned forward and conversed intently with Rogan. He was handsome for his age, dignified in carriage and refined in appearance. He wore his black and silver hair pulled into a bagwig, and his gray eyes were sharp.

Kieran knew a different man, however. She knew a man who had violated everything she knew about herself, and left her naked and broken on a dirty floor.

She watched as he talked with her brother, and the cold feeling in her gut turned to sickness.

Kieran had hidden her true feelings for three years, and would not reveal them now. With bearing as regal as a queen’s, Kieran swept into the room and, ignoring the shocked look on some of the men’s faces, walked over to where her brother conversed.

“Forgive me Rogan, but I must have a word, please. ’Tis an emergency.”

Rogan turned to his sister, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

Kieran leaned in to her brother and whispered in his ear, “Emeline feels ill.”

Rogan stood, offered his excuses, and made to leave, but was stopped momentarily by Samuel, who spared Kieran an odd look before he spoke to Rogan. “Sorry to hear your wife is ailing, but do we have a deal, then?”

Rogan started walking toward the door. “We’ll hammer out the details another day.”

“Right. Excellent. I’ll call on you tomorrow, then.”

Rogan didn’t reply but kept going. Kieran walked by his side. She waited until they were out in the corridor.

“What’s this deal with that man? Is he not the Duke of Westminster?” she asked, struggling to keep her tone neutral.

“Aye. Just business.” Rogan glanced over to her, his pace never lessening. “Did Emeline get sick?”

“No, she’s only dizzy and very tired.” Kieran tried to sound offhand as she added, “You’ve never done business with Ellsworth before, have you? ’Tis seems odd that you’d suddenly be doing so in Venice, so far from home.”

“The opportunity has never arisen,” Rogan replied. “Is Emeline still in the ballroom?”

“Yes, by the windows near the terrace. So, what opportunity is this?”

He frowned and shot her a look that spoke of the exasperation of one who has bigger concerns. Still, he answered her. “Shipbuilding. Venice is looking to strengthen her presence at sea because the Barbary pirates raid the moment they’re out on open waters.

“There’s an open bidding for shipbuilding companies like mine—this is the reason we came to Venice, aye? Right now, ’tis likely the bid will go to a much larger French operation. Ellsworth wants it as much as I do. Perhaps more. He suggests a merge of our companies, making us bigger than the French. ’Tis a good proposal.”

“Do you know him well enough to undertake such a venture?” Kieran asked, and winced behind her mask as she heard the sharpness of her tone. She softened it, hoping that Rogan would not become suspicious. “What I mean is, I have never heard you speak of the man, so ’tis a surprise to me that you would trust him.”

In her mind’s eye, Kieran saw Samuel as he’d been that night, naked from the waist down, laughing at her.

“Trust is for marriage, Kieran. Contracts are for business.”

They neared the ballroom, and Rogan looked at his sister with a piercing stare. “Why the interest?”

“Curiosity.” Kieran shrugged and spoke the truth, something she so rarely did. “Were I a man, I would most certainly be involved in such pursuits.”

Rogan smiled at her briefly and reached for her hand. He squeezed it lightly. “You’d have been a worthy adversary, sidhe gaoithe. But since you are not able to put your mind to business, why don’t you do something else? Be a part of life, Kieran. I miss the sister I once knew.”

Kieran withdrew her hand. “You speak nonsense, Rogan. I am very much alive.” She gestured across the room. “There is Emeline; let’s go see to her needs.”

She saw the look in her brother’s eyes before he turned away: disappointment in her, frustration with her.

As usual, it stuck a barb in her heart, but she dared not tell her brother why she’d changed, and what had caused it.

The future played out in front of her, and she knew that if Rogan did business with Samuel, it would put him in her life in a way she could not escape. Samuel would dine with them, attend their gatherings, perhaps even come to the country for their annual hunting festival.

If Rogan did as he planned, Samuel Ellsworth would be inescapable to Kieran.

That was something that she could not allow.

She’d stuffed away her shame and her self-hate, and in doing so, she’d become cold and distant from the people who loved her. It was impossible to be otherwise when she spent every day living a lie.

And now, Samuel Ellsworth thought he could conduct business with her brother as if nothing had happened? She’d kept it all secret, and now he had the audacity to think that she would tolerate his presence?

Kieran would die first.

As Rogan and Kieran made their way through the ballroom, they saw that Nilo had removed his hat and was fanning Emeline, who still leaned against the window.

Rogan knelt at his wife’s side and spoke softly with her. He stood then, and turned to Kieran. “I’ll carry her out. Let’s go.”

Kieran hesitated only for a moment. Inwardly cringing at how it would hurt them and how callous she would seem, she said, “Would you mind overmuch if I stayed on here for a time, and enjoyed a bit more of the festa?”

Rogan’s expression became incredulous. “Emeline is ailing, and you want to dance?”

“I was merely thinking that Emeline needs to lie abed, and there’s naught I can do for her. ’Tis not indifference, Rogan, but simply practicality.”

“Yes, stay,” Emeline said softly, settling the matter. “I have seldom seen you have such fun. ’Tis a good diversion for you, and I would be pained to have caused you to miss it.”

“Thank you, Emeline,” Kieran said softly, and she moved to embrace her. “I do so hope all is well with the child,” she whispered in her ear.

Emeline squeezed Kieran tight. “Pray ’tis so.”

“Of course,” Kieran lied again. She’d ceased praying years ago, after a night spent praying to be spared a horrific choice, and months after, praying for an absolution that never came. “Sleep well.”

Rogan consulted his timepiece. “Two hours, Kieran, and see to it that Nilo knows where you are at all times.”

“Thank you, Rogan.”

Rogan lifted his wife and cradled her in his arms. He left the ballroom by way of the terrace. Kieran took Emeline’s evacuated seat and waited until she was certain that Rogan would have had time to get into a gondola and head back to their rented palazzo.

When she decided enough time had passed, she rose and turned to Nilo. “I need to go above stairs.”

Her tactful phrase told Nilo all he needed to know: his mistress needed to use the facilities. The great, hulking African escorted her through the crowded ballroom and to the bottom of the steps that curved to the upper level.

Kieran ascended them, her heart pounding, her belly churning. Never mind what she felt, her determination was set. She would personally see to it that whatever the cost, Samuel Ellsworth would not enter into business with her brother.

Aboard his elegant burchiello, Matteo de Gama hunched over a high stakes bank of faro. They played with real money, no checks or chips. Sequins and ducats were piled around each punter, the biggest stack in front of Matteo. The banker tried to cover his dismay behind a disaffected mien. He could not, however, hide the bead of sweat that formed on his upper lip. The man was all in, and had just bet the turn. Matteo didn’t mind the case keeper; he counted cards the way he seduced women: After years of practice, it had simply become second nature. Though Matteo’s expression never changed, he coppered the bet and waited for the banker to make the turn.

The swaying of the burchiello picked up as the rowers turned onto the Grand Canal, heading in the direction of a man who had summoned Matteo to ask a favor. Because Matteo had a game slotted for that evening, the other players joined him on his burchiello to play en route.

The turn revealed the final three cards in Matteo’s favor, and the banker let out a small moan as he slid the last of his sequins across the board and added to the glittering pile in front of Matteo.

“Time to take a break, gentlemen?” Matteo asked. He rose and crossed the marble floor to his well-stocked liquor and wine cabinet. At his orders, small, bite-sized finger foods had been set out, dried dates and cheeses, anchovies and olives. “Come, eat. We will play again after I see what Vincenzo is in need of.”

The banker, Leonardo, accepted a large glass of wine and took a piece of cheese. While the other men talked and laughed about the game as they counted their remaining monies and loaded up the dealing box, Leonardo drank and ate as if it were his final meal.

“My wife will slay me,” Leo said with finality. “First she will cut off my penis and feed it to the pigeons in the square. And then she will cut out my heart and leave me to lay dying in our bed.”

“Playing with your wages again?” Matteo inquired.

“Worse. Playing on credit.” Leo took a huge gulp of wine, glanced over his shoulder, and leaned in with a confidential whisper. “I am in debt to several men, a few of whom are unsavory.”

Matteo shook his head in sympathy. Gambling, for Matteo, was a way of life. It was how he paid his rents, padded his coffers, and afforded life’s luxuries. For others, however, it could become something much darker, a compulsion, and it had led to many a man’s death when creditors came calling. Sadly, it seemed Leonardo had succumbed to that sickness.

“More wine?” Matteo offered.

“All I need is a few chips and a chair, and I’m certain I can recoup my losses.” Leo held out his glass as Matteo poured, and as he watched the dark red liquid fill the goblet, he chewed his bottom lip pensively. “You know, for a price, I would let a little information slip your way.”

A desperate man’s final plea. Pitiful. “What price, and how am I assured this information pertains to me?”

Leo glanced back to the table at the bank of faro. “I assure you, if I were you, I would want to know.”

The piles of coins by Matteo’s seat glittered, and Leo looked on longingly. The thing about desperate men was they were often willing to go to extreme lengths to save their necks. Matteo studied Leonardo for a moment: wide, earnest eyes, sweaty brow, trembling hands. He was afraid of his wife, definitely, and was frantic to get back into the game, but was not likely lying about having information. Matteo was curious enough to wonder exactly how little Leo would take in exchange for his tidbit. “Two sequins.”

“You insult me. Twenty.”

“Ten, and nothing more.”

“Twelve, and I will divulge names.”

“Done.”

Leo sent a searching look around them, making certain none of the other men listened. It was painful for Matteo to watch him; every thought, emotion, need, and desire stood out in plain relief on his thin face. It really wasn’t a wonder as to why he’d been reduced to selling information.

“Gia, the daughter of Paulo DelAmicio, has gone to her father and revealed that a certain man seduced her and left her with no virtue and no promise of marriage.”

Cold dread formed in Matteo’s gut. Paulo DelAmicio was a dangerous man. But his lusty daughter had been irresistable.

“Whomever that man was,” Leo said, his tone indicating he knew precisely who wooed the beautiful young girl, “might want to consider leaving Venice before he is divested of his head. I hear there’s been a high price lain upon it.”

“Interesting information, indeed, though useless. Shame on me for falling for your ruse.” Matteo bowed slightly, his demeanor unaffected despite the apprehension that gripped him. He turned to the other men. “As always, our time was enjoyable, but I must cut it short. As you know, I have an appointment.” He swept his winnings into a leather pouch, counted out twelve sequins and pressed the payment into Leo’s waiting palm.

Matteo excused himself and left the grand room of his burchiello to seek out his boatmen. Within minutes the vessel was brought to the side of the canal, the gamblers were asked to leave, and a man was discretely dispatched to send word to the man who was expecting Matteo.

Signore de Gama, it seemed, had pressing matters that required immediate attention.

Kieran slipped down the servants’ stairwell and wended her way through the palace until she reached the library. From the sounds and smell of it, men were still enjoying their brandy and cigars.

She opened the door and peeked inside again. She saw Samuel at a table, playing cards. He had a brandy snifter by his side, stacks of chips in front of him, and cards in his hand. He laughed and made a bet.

Kieran thought of the dagger she wore strapped to her thigh, and was suddenly set with the urge to thrust it between his ribs. Such longings were not unusual, but they were rarely so potent. She could feel his hot blood on her skin, and it sent a shameful, exciting surge to her loins.

Nilo waited for her, thinking she was seeing to her physical needs. Knowing her time was short, Kieran did not linger in the doorway. She opened the door and entered, swept across the room as she had before, as if she were above the rules of decorum.

As Kieran neared Samuel, she steeled herself. Using every ounce of her nerve, she approached him. She could smell his scent, expensive musk and spices. It turned her stomach.

Kieran leaned down and spoke to him through her mask. “Your Grace, my brother has sent me with a message for you.”

Samuel’s gray eyes glittered with interest as he cocked his head up to look at her, his recognition apparent on his unmasked face. “Is that so? Well, give it to me.”

“Come with me, Your Grace. ’Tis a private matter.”

Kieran turned and walked briskly from the room. Behind her, she heard him rise and make his excuses before following. She led the way through the palace until she found a quiet corridor. Nervousness had her in a tight grip, and she forced herself to focus. She needed to make certain that Samuel dropped his business offer, and stayed away from her.

Kieran had her dagger beneath her skirts; she was not the defenseless, naïve girl Samuel had taken advantage of, assaulted, and abused.

Samuel had donned his costume in keeping with Venice’s laws, and approached her wearing a plain white mask, its mouth curved in an eerie grin.

He drew close, his manner far too casual and confident for Kieran’s comfort.

“What is the message?” he asked without preamble.

“The message is mine. Stay away from my family, and abandon this business venture with my brother. I will not tolerate your presence in my life.” Kieran heard her voice tremble, but she kept her chin raised, so he would not read her posture and know her fear.

Samuel considered her words before responding. “And if I do not?”

“I will do whatever I must to ruin my brother’s opinion of you. As you might recall, that shouldn’t present too much trouble for me.”

Her voice was gaining strength, and the chilly tone of it resembled the frigid girl she’d become, the one that caused suitors to name her ice princess when she spurned them.

“This is due to our previous encounter, is it not?” Samuel sighed as if he were deeply troubled. “Please, accept my apologies for my behavior that night. I was quite drunk, and decidedly out of line.”

Behind her mask, Kieran wore the expression of one stunned. “You dare to stand before me and offer an apology? Firstly, there is no forgiveness for what you did, and second, if there were, ’tis three years late.”

“Well, I cannot undo what I’ve done. All I can do is say that I’m sorry for my part in it.”

“You are disgusting,” Kieran hissed. “My brother would kill you if he knew ‘your part.’”

“Kieran, please, I beg you,” he began, using the sort of tone one reserves for squalling babies and agitated horses. “Try to remain calm. For three years I have seen you, at the theater, at balls, and for dinners of mutual acquaintance, and you seem to look right through me, almost as if you did not remember. Why the sudden concern over a business venture that will not involve you?”

Kieran did not speak, for no words could escape the knot in her throat. How could he be so casual about something so horrid?

“I was drunk,” he continued, shrugging his shoulders as if that excused his actions. “What I recalled when I woke, however, had me expecting a visit from your brother or the magistrate the next day, the next week, the next month. I rushed to secure alibis and witnesses. I crafted denials, and I sweated the consequences.” He cocked his head to the side, as if infinitely puzzled. “Nothing happened. You obviously never told Rogan. So I assumed you were not too upset by the matter.”

Kieran found she was too angry to be afraid of him. His grinning mask seemed to mock her and his voice was an echo of her worst nightmare.

“Not upset?” Her voice came louder than her intention, and it echoed from the high ceiling.

“Shhh.” Samuel cast a glance down the corridor and back to the room where his associates gathered. “Someone will hear you.”

“You disgusting, horrid, vile man,” she raged.

Samuel grabbed her by the upper arm and hauled her around the corner, and through a set of French doors to the outside. She screeched and struggled and he clamped a hand over her mask. “Hush, you fool. I will not have you causing a scene.”

He dragged her further from the house until they were down by the bank of the canal, where no one was likely to hear them.

“We’ll settle this now,” he said harshly. “Five thousand pounds for you to do as you’ve been doing: holding silent. Now think rationally. This shipbuilding deal is lucrative for me, but also for Rogan. Make no mistake, he wants this—he knows it will make him richer than Midas. I should hope you have enough affection for your brother to not stand in the way of that.”

“Let go of me. How dare you lay your hands on me!” She wanted to reach for her dagger, but he held her so tightly she could not break free.

“Five thousand pounds for your silence,” he repeated, his tone insistent and angry. “You’ve kept it secret all this time. Why change that now, when it will hurt your brother?”

“I don’t want you in my life,” she bit out. “It makes me sick to look at you.”

“I will stay away, I give you my word. I shall take pains to avoid your company.”

“No. I don’t want you near my family. You’ll drop this deal or I will tell Rogan.”

“He won’t believe you,” Samuel said with assurance. “You go and toss out your tawdry slander, and see what comes of it. I’ll make it my mission to paint you as a hysterical spinster whose interest I’ve spurned. Think on it. After all this time, who will believe you? Your brother? I think not. ’Tis been three years. A virtuous woman would have immediately called for her honor to be avenged. How will you explain your years of silence?”

“I could tell the truth,” Kieran said, and she heard the doubt in her own voice. His grip on her arms was not too hard, but it imprisoned her just the same. The sound and smell and touch of him had her once again feeling the victim. It transported her back to that night, and it was every bit as frightening as the first time.

Samuel laughed lightly. “The truth is rather ambiguous, is it not? I say, ’twould be most interesting to see what would happen. My alibi places me well away from London that night, and you will make claims three years late. You’ll certainly seem mad. Perhaps your brother will think you’ve gone daft, or more likely, he’ll think you in need of a husband so you can produce a child or two and relive your hysteria. ’Tis a proven fact, you know, that women of a certain age begin to lose their grip on reality if they remain a spinster.”

When Kieran didn’t respond, Samuel squeezed harder, and gave her a little shake. “What will it be? Five thousand pounds and your silence, or your insane allegations matched to my alibis?”

The pressure on her arms snapped her to reality. A primal shriek of rage tore from her throat and pure bloodlust sang in her veins. She fought him with all she had. He crushed her to the bulk of his chest and tried to restrain her. But she was wild, out of control. She wanted to rake the skin from his body, to pull the hair from his head, to make him bleed and to make him scream in pain. She kicked, slapped, scratched, pinched, and punched like a wild woman, no longer wanting her dagger, but to flay him alive with her bare hands.

Matteo de Gama loved Venice passionately, but he despised Carnivale for its noise, crowds, foreign visitors, and the mess it left behind. He sought solace where he could, in the drunken English lords who couldn’t refuse a bet, and in the tender beauties who lost their inhibitions while hiding behind their masks.

This night, however, he had to contemplate leaving his fair city, if only for a time. How long until Signore DelAmicio realized that Gia had been no more a virgin in Matteo’s bed than he himself had been? Matteo thought of Gia and her sultry eyes as she begged him to marry her, and how they’d narrowed in rage when she’d threatened her father’s wrath if he refused.

Well, it seemed she’d meant it, enough to play the mistook virgin to her powerful, protective papa.

Matteo ran a hand through his hair and considered his options. He would need to visit his casino before leaving Venice, to gather clothing, monies, and to make certain his landlady had all her rents paid for the next year. He would be back in Venice in a few months; Gia was far too lusty a young woman to go long without a lover. She would find another man, and her father’s anger would be redirected.

As he sailed, he heard a female voice calling out to him from a bridge. A delay, but one he would gladly make time for.

He had his burchiello pulled beneath it where Mariuccia, the daughter of the butcher, leaned down to him, the high curves of her breasts the only exposed flesh available for his viewing.

“You never come to see me anymore,” she pouted.

Because her mother and father were good people, he thought, and their daughter was their treasure. But he did not say that. “I am a busy man.”

“Busy, busy man. And while you are so busy, I am an abandoned flower, wilting on the vine.”

“Your father would shoot me if I were the one to pluck you, my delightful angel. He wants you properly wed, and a son-in-law to pass his trade to.”

“Matteo, you are wicked to worry about my papa when I tell you I am so forlorn.” She shifted her posture and changed tactics. “I read your satire, and I hope you would bring me aboard your burchiello so we might discuss it. Unless you think I am too young….”

“Youth is such a charming flaw,” Matteo replied softly. His burchiello drifted beneath his feet, the stars shone overhead, and before him a maid dipped down low so he could view her soft breasts. He would not seduce her, no matter how tempting, but as a man who enjoyed life’s pleasures, he did not suffer her flirtation.

A scream rent the air, destroying the peace and sending shivers down Matteo’s spine. He looked around and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He lifted his gaze back up to Mariuccia. “Did you hear that?”

She shrugged, obviously restless to be on his burchiello or on her way. “Do I charm you, Matteo?”

Matteo smiled softly, dismissing the sounds he’d heard. Probably a domestic dispute of some sort, or a lover’s quarrel.

“Many things charm me, Mariuccia. Do you hope to be amongst them?”

The scream came again, this time full of such rage that Matteo felt his blood grow cold. It was a rare thing to hear something so primal, and curiosity, as it so often did, decided the matter for Matteo.

Without another word to Mariuccia, he called out to his boatmen and applied himself alongside them to the task of moving the burchiello. The vessel was low-slung, heavy in the center, and made to move with the wind, so it was with great effort that they pushed the oars into the water and heaved the craft into motion. Another sound reached them, this one the grunt of a man being injured, as if by a jab or kick, and the noises were growing closer.

Soon enough he saw them, a struggling woman in the grip of a man. Matteo could make out the sounds of her distress, muffled by the grip of his hand over her mask.

Matteo wasn’t the sort of man who got involved in others’ problems, but neither was he a man who would calmly sail by as a woman was assaulted.

He pulled two pistols from his belt and leveled them both on the man. His voice rang out, “Let the woman go.”

They both stopped, long enough to look around. The man kept a grip on the woman, as if trying to fend her off. The woman began to fight in earnest once more.

Matteo cocked both pistols. “Let her go,” he said again. And then, realizing how many visitors littered the city, said it again in French, and once more in English. “Let her go, or I will kill you.”

As the man struggled with the woman he called out, “Go away. This is a private matter.”

“Three seconds, and your brains feed the fish.”

The man, seeming resigned, let her go.

Just as he released her, the woman swung around, and losing her balance, toppled over the side of the bank and fell into the water with a splash.

The two men looked at the water in horror, and then at each other.

“I can’t swim,” the Englishman said from behind his mask.

And then, Matteo de Gama, who thought he’d seen the very bottom of human indecency, watched as the man turned and hurried away, leaving them both behind.

The water filled Kieran’s mask, saturated her many layers of clothes, and sucked her to the bottom. She kicked and thrashed, but could not force her way to the top.

The dark water dragged her down, cold and unfeeling; the only sound, bubbles rising from her mask. It would not take long, she knew, for death to come. Only minutes, and then it would be over.

In her mind’s eye, Kieran saw her mother’s face, stained with tears.

And then another image appeared, this one of the years that stretched in front of Kieran, loveless, lonely, and tainted with memory.

In all the time that had passed, nothing had taken away the shame and pain of that night. Why should she fight the one thing that would most assuredly wipe it all away?

Kieran stopped struggling and let the water take her into its silent darkness.