Читать книгу Veiled Passions - Tracy MacNish - Страница 9

Matteo could not give chase and leave the girl to drown. He tossed his pistols to the deck and yanked off his cloak before diving into the canal. The water was murky and dark, and he held his breath until his lungs burned for air, his outstretched arms feeling around for her. He felt the touch of fabric, grabbed a fistful, yanked, and began swimming upward, desperate for air.

When he broke the surface, Matteo grasped her around the middle and swam back, careful to keep her masked face above water. Once alongside his burchiello, he handed her up to his boatmen and then climbed aboard to collapse on the deck.

Matteo’s manservant rushed over. “What is happening?”

“Help me bring her inside.”

Together the men made to lift the woman to her feet, but she whirled and yanked herself from their grasp.

“Do not touch me,” she hissed.

Matteo waved his manservant away. Maintaining a distance from the frightened woman, he gestured to the doors of the large cabin. He spoke in English, as she had. “There are blankets and dry cloaks inside.”

She glanced around wildly, her mask and wig still in place, though her hat was gone. Her cloak and gown must be heavy, Matteo thought, sodden as they were with water. Something in her posture, however, spoke of desperation, and Matteo felt a prickling on his skin that had nothing to do with the cold water.

“I will not hurt you,” he assured her.

Her face snapped around, her eyes glittering behind the frozen mask of icy silver and vivid blue.

He moved to the door of the living quarters and opened it, revealing a well-lit room with walls of mirrors and creamy woods, marble floors, and velvet furniture. A huge gaming table dominated the room, and atop it a case held chips and decks of cards.

He glanced in and viewed the sumptuous room as if through her eyes, wondering why she perceived him as a threat when he’d just saved her life. “I cannot help you unless you come in, dry off, and tell me where you need to go.”

She took two steps back and looked at the water, as if thinking of pitching herself back into the canal to escape him.

Matteo’s patience snapped. He hadn’t gone to the trouble of saving the girl only to have her take her life by jumping off the deck of his vessel. He gestured for his boatmen to grab her and haul her into the cabin.

He retrieved his pistols and shoved them back into his waistband, following his men and the squirming, screaming girl. The boatmen did as they were instructed and then left, closing the door behind them.

Matteo locked the door lest the girl get more ideas about escaping. How absurd that she seemed so fearful, as if he were her abductor.

He removed his wet jacket and tossed it to the floor, then reached for her wig and mask. She slapped his hands away and hesitated as if unsure of what to do. Finally, the discomfort must have decided for her and she ripped them away herself.

She stared at him defiantly, the silver wig dripping from her left hand, the mask dangling from the right.

Wet auburn tresses hung in thick locks around an oval face, finely boned and exquisitely formed, her skin so fair as to be likened to ivory. But it was her eyes that captivated him, dark and stormy blue, fringed by thick, spiky lashes. Water beaded on her skin like wobbling, silvery tears beneath those eyes, and her mouth was pink and full and beguiling.

As if of its own volition, his hand moved to brush away hair that clung to her damp cheek.

She pushed his hand away again, straightened her posture even further, an admirable task for one wearing several stones worth of soaked clothes.

“Your cloak,” he murmured. “Take it off, and I will get you a blanket.”

His fingers brushed one of the silken frogs as if he longed to undress her himself.

Kieran felt dizzy, sick, enraged. How dare he touch her?

No more, she thought. Never again. She’d had enough of being manhandled and abused to last a lifetime, and was not about to be raped aboard this Venetian’s boat.

Kieran met his eyes and, with all the practice of dissembling for three years, offered a tremulous smile to put him at ease. He smiled in return, and she let out a little sigh of exasperation. “’Tis been a most trying evening.”

“Of course. I understand completely,” he said, but his eyes did not move from her lips and his fingers brushed the line of her jaw.

“I have a stone in my slipper. It pains me. One moment, signore, whilst I remove it.”

She bent at the waist as if to take it out, and slid her hand up under her skirts to her dagger. The catch released without a sound and she was upright in an instant. She thrust the weapon out at him, catching the edge of his shirtsleeve, just missing his arm. She lashed out again, this time aiming for his middle.

“Stand away from me.” Her voice quavered and broke. She sharpened it like a blade. “Get back.”

He took two steps back, his eyes locked on hers. He considered her for a moment, glanced at the slice in his shirt, and then yanked a pistol from his waist. He calmly leveled it at her. “Forgive me, but I will be damned if I will let you stab me aboard my own burchiello.”

“Touch me again and you will die,” she said, and she meant it.

He paused, his head slightly to the side. It irritated her that there was no fear in his eyes, as if she brandished a parasol and not a dagger.

“Back away,” she commanded him.

Damn him, he grinned, still unafraid. “It seems we have reached a stalemate,” he said. “Why do we not both set aside our weapons and don dry clothing. If you do not mind civility, we could enjoy a glass of port while I return you to your…keeper.”

He strolled casually to the little bar in the corner and, with one hand still holding his pistol, poured two glasses of port, his eyes all the while trained on her reflection in the mirror.

Kieran considered her options. True, it seemed he meant her no harm, but neither had her cousin Simon seemed evil the night he’d convinced her to betray her word to her brother and accompany him. Kieran no longer trusted her instincts.

Her gaze kept returning to his pistol. It was crafted of light wood and black iron, possessed a long barrel, a short grip, and an ornately curved hammer. He held it with careless grace, his forefinger resting on the trigger, his thumb lightly riding the hammer.

She took a step closer to him, and he raised the gun and the port, one in each hand. “Your choice. What will it be?”

Kieran looked down at her hand. Saw the silver wink of the metal and the grip of her hand on the pommel, so hard her knuckles shone whitely. For three lonely years she had suffered in silence, and now, Samuel would do business with Rogan. She had been powerless to cow him.

And what could she do to stop it from happening? Debase herself and reveal her greatest shame to Rogan, the only person’s opinion in England she cared about. Risk his disbelief, or worse, his disappointment in her.

No. She couldn’t do that. And so she’d have to suffer Samuel’s presence in her life, feign normalcy, and let it eat away at her like a cancer.

A lame apology and five thousand pounds, as if he could buy back the memories that haunted her days, disturbed her nights, and poisoned her soul.

She looked again at the man who held wine and a gun, as if he offered life in one hand and death in the other.

And suddenly, that pistol was liberation. Freedom. The cost of the gunshot a momentary payment for the engulfing black that would take all her pain away forever. For once, Kieran would test her fate.

She dove at him, knife outstretched and brandished like a sword.

He tossed the glass of port in her face, the wine blinding her as the glass crashed to the floor, the crystal exploding in a shatter against the marble tiles. He feinted left and grabbed her by the cloak as she lunged at him, used the fabric to yank her down to the ground. His hand caught her wrist as they went down. He landed on top of her, her breath whooshing from her lungs as he used his body to subdue her. With a deft motion he pried the dagger from her hand and flung it across the room.

Beneath his weight she thrashed like a wounded, captured beast, desperate for release. And then, beyond all her control, she whimpered, “Please don’t. I cannot bear it. Please just shoot me.”

He went still, his hands pinning hers to the floor as he stared down at her. His dark brown eyes were soft, velvety. His face, for all the hard angles of it, possessed a strikingly soft mouth, and it curved down at the corners with rage or frustration she knew not, maybe both. He was close, so close she could see the dark bristles of his incipient beard beneath his skin, and could smell his breath, pleasantly scented with wine. His long, dark hair hung into her face, brushing cold and wet against her skin.

Finally, he seemed to make a decision. He released his hold and moved from her. Studying her, his body coiled as if he were poised to grab her again if she made a strike at him, he smiled debonairly and inclined his head in a mock bow.

“I am Matteo de Gama, a stranger to you, and so you have no cause to esteem me. Yet, I pulled you from the canal when another man would have left you to drown, and make no mistake,” he met her eyes again, his sincere and soul-deep, “if I wanted to ravish you, the deed would be done by now.”

Kieran pulled herself to a seated position beside him, her breath rapid, her heart pounding. She used the hem of her cloak to wipe the port from her face before she twisted her hands in the fabric, at a loss of what to do or say.

She looked at the floor where broken glass lay in a puddle of wine on the creamy marble. He’d known what she meant to do; she’d seen the flash of recognition in his eyes. It shamed her that she’d allowed him to know something so deep and dark about her. He was speaking, she realized, asking her who she was.

She introduced herself as a shiver took her, and she tried not to let it show, holding her body as rigid as possible, clamping her jaw tight lest it chatter. He did notice, however, and he got to his feet and fetched a thick blanket. When he returned he held it beyond her grasp.

“You must remove the sodden cloak if you hope to get any warmer.”

It felt like capitulation to remove it, and yet, it was foolishness to continue to wear the soaked garment. She was freezing, her corset a strangling, wet vise around her middle, her gown clinging to her like a sticky film. The cloak draped over her with its saturated weight, the only thing she could modestly remove. Finally, Kieran undid the frogs and pushed the cloak from her shoulders, letting it sag to the floor.

The blanket was warm and soft, an instantly soothing comfort as he wrapped it around her with a gentleness she did not expect, given that she’d tried to stab him in order to force him to commit a murder. She brought her eyes up to his and found him staring down at her with that same expression as before, an odd mix of curious, cautious compassion.

It was a stare that prompted her to repay his manners with her own. “I am in Venice with my brother, Rogan Mullen, the English Duke of Eton, and his wife, Emeline. We are staying at the Palazzo Morosini del Giardino.”

Kieran swallowed heavily against the lump of embarrassment in her throat for attacking him with no provocation. She also knew Nilo would be sick with worry, and wondered what Rogan would think when she turned up, soaking wet and without her escort. She had many lies to tell if she wanted to keep her secret safe, and the thought did not sit well with her.

“Does your offer to take me home still stand?” she asked shyly.

“Of course.” Matteo went to the door, unlocked and opened it, called for his boatmen, and informed them of their next destination.

The burchiello lurched into gentle motion as Matteo returned to Kieran’s side. He offered her his hand, and she accepted the help in getting to her feet, as the weight of her garments would have made that task impossible without his aid.

A pair of armchairs sat on either side of a table, and Matteo gestured for Kieran to take a seat in one of them. “Do not worry about the wetness. Be comfortable. I hope we can be civil?”

Kieran nodded her assent. “Yes, of course, and I apologize. I was quite overcome by all that had just happened. ’Tis clear to me you meant only to help me.”

“Think nothing of it.” He avoided the worst of the spillage and shattered glass at the bar, poured another glass of port, and brought it to Kieran. “It will warm you.”

She sipped and the sweet flavor burst on her tongue, the scents of currants and berries filling her sinuses. Once again she was aware of the way he studied her, and found the intensity of his stare unsettling.

“Who was that man?” he asked.

Kieran hesitated, trying to decide what she would reveal, not only to this man, but to her brother. “I don’t know.”

Matteo took the chair across from Kieran and openly studied her. “If that is so, how odd that he would call it a ‘private matter.’ That speaks of something more than strangers, no?”

“I don’t know why he said that, and I don’t know who he was. I am just relieved you came along when you did.”

Matteo leaned back in his armchair, his soft mouth quirked up on one side. “You lie. How fascinating.”

Kieran feigned confusion. “Why would I lie?”

Matteo grinned, but he didn’t take the bait. “The man took you against your will, no?”

“Of course.”

“And when caught, he left you to drown. Why would you lie to protect him?”

“Precisely,” Kieran agreed stiffly. “Wouldn’t I want the man punished?”

“Ah, good,” Matteo said, as if cheering her on. He raised his glass in a toast. “Continue to answer each question with a question. It is an excellent ploy when employing falsehood.”

“You don’t know me well enough to make such distinctions of my motivations or my character, signore.”

“Knowing when a man bluffs is how I afford the luxuries life can offer. You are good, and obviously well-practiced, but you are not the best I’ve seen.”

He held his port by the rim, the glass dangling from his thumb and two of his long fingers as he gestured to her face with the tip of his index finger. “The color rides high on your cheeks, and your lips flatten with defiance even as your chin slightly raises. You may want to watch the chin and mouth. Practice in the mirror if you must. There is nothing you can do about the blush but try to remain calm, and most will likely mistake it for the discomfort of speaking of upsetting matters.”

“You overstep your bounds.”

“Indeed I do. It is my life’s passion, in fact.”

“You are a libertine, then.”

“All Venetians pursue pleasure, art, romantic intrigues. Wine, food, beauty. The things that make a life rich. I will not apologize for taking joy in my life. Indeed, if you do not pursue the same, why come to Venice?”

“I told you, I came with my brother and his wife.”

“To see Carnivale, no?”

“Combining business with a holiday. He seeks a bid for shipbuilding.”

“But you said he is a duke? An aristocrat?”

“He is many things, signore. A sea-trader and a former pugilist, as well, and in England he owns multiple properties and a fleet of ships. My brother is successful in everything he endeavors.” Kieran knew she sounded boastful, but she was proud of her brother. They were the children of a common sea-merchant, and though their mother had been a lady, Kieran and Rogan had not been raised to such wealth and privilege.

But when the laws of primogeniture put Rogan in succession for the dukedom, he threw himself into the position with all the grace and diligence it demanded. He’d found love with a common woman, defied convention and propriety when he deemed it honorable, and had earned the grudging respect of his peers.

Matteo sipped his port and considered her over the rim with a scrutiny that made Kieran want to squirm, but she did not give in to that urge. She leveled a glare on him, cold, withering, and unrelenting, that had repelled many a potential suitor. But Matteo did not seem to notice.

“He may well be all those things and more, cuore solitario. But your brother does not know you very well, does he?”

“He used to,” she replied softly, more to herself than to him, “a long time ago.”

Silence fell over them as the burchiello moved in time with the gentle current of the canal. The room was warm with candles and lamps, the light reflecting off the mirrored walls and dark windows as if they were caught in a floating cocoon.

“So what will you tell him,” Matteo asked, finally breaking the silence, “when he asks what happened to you tonight? That some unknown man attacked you for no particular reason?”

Kieran tilted her head at an imperious angle. “Such things happen.”

“Were you walking along the strand alone?”

“No,” she replied indignantly. “I was attending a festa.”

“Were you unescorted?”

“Of course not.” She thought again of Nilo, and wondered if there was a search going on for her. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, looking for warmth in its soft folds.

Matteo continued on. “You expect your brother will believe that your escort was thwarted and you were grabbed and taken against your will by some unknown assailant?”

His eyes swept over her, taking in all her details, and Kieran felt her color deepen. “You were costumed, escorted, and in a crowd of people who were likewise garbed. No one could see the beauty of your face or the superb form of your body. So, why would he take this risk, why choose you, and not one of our Venetian women, many of whom stroll about unfettered by a doyenne?”

Kieran flushed deeper. This man picked apart her lies with ease, and it unnerved her even as it made her angry. She asserted herself, hiding her doubt. “My brother will believe me.”

“He might. As you say, these things do happen. But if you want his unquestioning belief, you would do well to craft your story better.”

The burchiello came to a rocking stop as they pulled alongside the bank of the canal and the boatmen called out, announcing their arrival.

Matteo didn’t move, but kept his eyes on Kieran. “I suspect that you know precisely who grabbed you, and why he did so. I do not know why you would lie to protect him, but I am certain you will continue your ruse.” His voice dropped and gentled. “I also suspect you would very much like to think life a better option than death.”

“You do not know anything about me. Nothing at all,” Kieran whispered fiercely, and she jumped to her feet. How dare he speak so casually of her darkest longing? “Good night, signore.”

She whirled on her heel and hurried to the door. A moan of dismay escaped her lips as she found it still locked. Before she could turn to demand he open it, Matteo was behind her, so close she could feel the heat of him. His jaw was above her ear, and he spoke quietly as he handed her the discarded pieces of her costume, along with her dagger.

“Perhaps you should stay a while on my burchiello, and allow me to school you in the Italian art of vendetta. It is a tradition in my country, and we believe that when one wrongs another, they deserve to be repaid in full. There is a singular delight in serving justice from one’s own hand.” Matteo moved even closer to her, lowered his voice until it was an urgent whisper. “Only then can one find peace in their soul.”

Kieran turned and looked up at him, her lips parted and trembling. She could not move, but was rooted by his words and the images they created in her mind.

“Ah, you have the most beautiful eyes,” he murmured. “Like the canal at twilight.”

He looked as if he would kiss her, and that was enough to break Kieran’s reverie. She grabbed her things and held them to her chest. “Good night, Signore de Gama. Thank you for your aid, the blankets, and the port.”

“I will tell my men to watch you as you approach the palace, and for them to take care they are not seen. I would not want their presence to spoil whatever falsehoods you might invent.”

Matteo unlocked and opened the door, then stood back so she could depart. A smile played about his lips as he bowed. “And thank you, for a most interesting evening. It has been a long time since a woman threatened to kill me, and longer still since I met such a captivating liar. I also cannot forget that never before have I had the happy privilege of saving a life, let alone, the life of someone so beautiful. So, thank you for the many pleasures.”

Matteo gave brisk orders in Italian to his men.

Kieran hesitated for a moment, but turned and walked away, her wet things clutched to her chest as the boatmen flanked her in escort. She stopped and turned around, saw Matteo standing in the open doorway, limned with candlelight, his face cast in shifting shadows.

He seemed to read her mind. “I have a small casino on the isle of San Giorgio Minore. I shall not be there long, as I will be traveling, but send for me if you wish. If I am available, it would please me very much to see you again.”

“A casino?”

“House,” Matteo corrected after thinking of the English word. “You can send for me at my house.”

“I shall not.”

“I understand, cuore solitario. Someday, when you are ready to let go of some of your hauteur, perhaps you can take back some of your pride. Until then, I wish you the best with your deceit.”

Kieran found herself without words. The man knew no boundaries at all. She turned back around and stalked away, her head held high.

“And remember,” Matteo called out to her departing form, laughter rich in his voice, “mind your lips and chin.”

Kieran left the boatmen on the fringes of the property. She thanked them, but none of them spoke English. They smiled, nodded, and pressed kisses to Kieran’s hand before sauntering away, their light-colored jackets disappearing into the darkness.

She hesitated before the two ornate, double doors, her hand on the iron handle. Taking a few deep breaths to sustain her, she steeled herself against the guilt for the lies she would tell Rogan. Kieran had kept her silence this long; she would not allow the events of this night to rob her of her privacy.

She’d be damned if she’d spend the rest of her life suffering Rogan’s efforts to conceal his shame when he looked at her. She knew well what kind of honor her brother possessed. She would not allow him to find out that his sister had none.

With her mind made up, Kieran opened the door and went inside.

The household was in an uproar, and Rogan was in the process of gathering a search party. Everything stopped as Kieran entered.

“What the hell happened to you?” Rogan demanded. He strode across the room and grabbed Kieran, pulled her into a fast, fierce hug, and then held her by the shoulders for inspection. “Are you hurt?”

“No. I’m fine.” Kieran struggled for normalcy as she spoke the lies she’d formed. She told as much of the truth as possible, so that if there had been any witnesses, her tale would hold up. “I had heard a noise and sought to see the source, and when I emerged into the corridor, a masked man grabbed me and dragged me outside. I fought him, and fell into the canal as a result. Thankfully, a kind man in a burchiello saw me fall and he rescued me as my assailant ran off. Overall, I’m fine, Rogan, other than a bit shaken. Please do not worry.”

As Kieran finished speaking, Nilo dropped to his knees before her, his head bowed.

Kieran lay her hand gently on his head, her fingers resting on the warm curve of his shorn scalp. “Faithful Nilo. How you must have worried.”

Rogan stood before her, his eyes hard, his face unreadable. “Nilo has asked me to dismiss him.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Kieran turned her attention back to Nilo. “Rise, and face me. There is no room for shame. You are not at fault.”

Nilo stood tall, and met her eyes. “It is my duty to protect you.”

“Yes, and you have stood at my back for three years. By your own vow, you swore that not a hair on my head would be harmed under your watch, and so it has been. You had no control over the events that happened this night; you cannot protect me when you are not present.”

His lips flattened but he remained upright, at attention, as she had commanded him. “Were you hurt in any way?”

“No. I swear it.”

He frowned and sucked in his bottom lip. The expression tore at her heart, calling to mind the one time he’d told Kieran of his life in Africa, when another tribe killed his wife and children, and how sick he’d been on the slave ships, in body and soul. He’d been unable to save his family, and unable to save himself.

The thought that he would think he’d failed her had Kieran speaking from the heart.

“Please don’t leave me, Nilo.” Kieran’s voice broke over the words, and she swallowed hard against the lump that formed in her throat at the thought of losing him. “Please,” she whispered, and the tears that shone in her eyes were honest and real.

“I will not,” he said after a time. His face softened. “I am sorry. I will not fail you again.”

“Go, and think no more about this night. You are my protector, and more, my friend. I rely on you, Nilo. That will never change.”

Nilo hesitated. He’d been there the night Kieran was in the “house of lords,” posted as a guard by her cousin Simon and ordered to kill Rogan when he arrived. Through a crack in a shutter, however, Nilo had witnessed much of what had happened inside.

That night may have poisoned Kieran’s soul and wounded her heart, but it had also deeply affected Nilo. He’d been Simon’s slave then, and if he’d acted on his impulse, he would have hung the next day. Standing outside in the dark, he’d been helpless to intervene while two women were assaulted.

The day Rogan hired him as Kieran’s guard, Nilo had made a solemn vow to Kieran that he would lay down his life before he’d stand by helplessly again.

And in their mutual, unspoken understanding of why Kieran held silent, their friendship was galvanized.

Nilo reached out and brushed a finger against her wet hair, his touch so light she scarcely felt it. With sadness in his eyes, he turned and left the room.

Rogan stood with his hands jammed in his pockets as he studied his sister beneath a scowl.

Kieran held to her resolve and adopted a flippant tone. “Why do you look so fierce, Rogan? I did not kidnap myself, nor set out to worry the household.”

“Perhaps you take this lightly, but I don’t. You could have been raped or murdered.”

“But I wasn’t. Why don’t we put the matter to rest. I am freezing cold and exhausted. I need a bath and bed.”

Rogan continued on, ignoring her. “Raped or murdered, and ’twould have been my fault for leaving you.” He raked a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. “What a fool.”

Kieran could not bear to have Rogan taking the blame. “’Tis not your fault, any more than Nilo’s. I should have not left the room alone.”

He met her eyes, and in his she saw the need to do something, and the helplessness he felt that there was nothing he could do.

“Do you have any idea who grabbed you?” Rogan asked. “Did you see his face?”

Because she loved him, she answered his questions. But also because she loved him, she lied. “Of course not. He was costumed. If I knew, would I not demand you go find him, and see to the matter?”

She moved to stand by the fire, shivering in her wet clothes. And she ignored the stab of guilt as she over-exaggerated how cold she felt so her brother would relent in his questioning. The fewer questions asked, the fewer falsehoods she would tell.

“Was anything familiar about him?”

“No, Rogan.” Kieran let her teeth chatter, providing ample proof that she was indeed quite cold.

“I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.” Rogan began to pace the room. He removed his jacket as he walked and handed it to Kieran. “Something feels odd.”

She slid the garment over her shoulders. It hung to her knees and was warm from Rogan’s body, but she kept up the shivering. “I can only surmise he had been watching me and had found out my relationship to you. He said something about me bringing a fine ransom.”

Rogan grunted. “Perhaps.” But he didn’t look satisfied. “He spoke English, then?”

“Yes, with an accent. Italian, I think. ’Tis difficult to say. He did not speak much.”

Rogan made a noise in his throat, still pacing.

“I hope I don’t take ill,” Kieran murmured through her chattering teeth.

He paused and glanced at her, and for a moment Kieran thought he knew. She held her breath, releasing it as he spoke.

“Aye, you’re cold. Not just from the wet, aye? You speak about your ordeal as if it happened to someone else. You’re not afraid, not worried, and you don’t even seem to want to find out who did it, and see him brought to justice.

“And it scares me for you. I actually worry nights, wondering if you’ll ever come back to that girl you once were. I despair for it, and aye, I miss that girl. You’ve grown far too cold for your youth, Kieran, and I can only pray that one day you will find something to warm you.”

He paused, those green eyes watching her with a cold, hard stare that made Kieran feel like a child. “For tonight, however, go to your rooms and call for a bath. We’ll talk more on this in the morning.”

She turned to leave, ready to put it all behind her, but her brother’s voice stopped her. “The man who pulled you from the canal and returned you safely—do you know where I can find him? He needs to be properly thanked and rewarded.”

Kieran hesitated before answering. In her mind she considered the possible outcome of Rogan speaking with Matteo de Gama. “No. I’m sorry. I fear I was too overwrought to think clearly, and did not even ask his name. I have no idea where to find the man, other than aboard one of the many burchiellos I’ve seen on the canals. I was in such haste to get back home, and was just grateful for his help.”

Rogan waved his hand. “’Tis understandable. You’d just been assaulted and nearly drowned. Put the matter aside for now, go and take your bath, get warm, and to bed with you. Perhaps if you relax a bit, you’ll recall more details.”

“As you say,” Kieran said softly, her guilt a weight in the pit of her belly. The feeling didn’t relent even as she spoke the complete and absolute truth. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, Rogan.”

He waved his hand in her direction, dismissing her.

Kieran left her brother’s presence to seek out comfort. Her rooms beckoned with the promise of a hot bath, a fire, and peaceful solitude.

Her mind, however, was anything but quiet. It spun with snippets of conversation. Most of all, with one particular sentence, spoken into her ear like a tantalizing secret. There is a singular delight in serving justice from one’s own hand.

Kieran stopped in the hallway and looked down at her hands. Smooth, white, and slender, with long tapered fingers. She’d felt helpless to the memory of that night for so long.

The words Samuel had spoken screamed in her mind. A virtuous woman would have called for her honor to be avenged.

She pictured Samuel’s face and imagined his suffering as she had, knowing that her honor was avenged, and that she saw to it herself.

That familiar, shameful spurt of excitement warmed her once more.

A servant walked down the corridor, his eyes downcast, step brisk, arms full of folded linens. He was a member of the palace staff, a native Venetian.

“Signore, do you speak English?” Kieran asked him.

The servant stopped and smiled. He shifted his burden so he could show her his forefinger and thumb, held apart to indicate he knew a small amount. “I am of your service,” he replied in heavily accented English.

“A translation, please. What is cuore solitario?”

“Ah, si.” He fumbled through a few words in Italian until he formulated a reply. He stammered out two English words, leaving Kieran certain she never wanted to see Matteo de Gama ever again. “Lonely heart.”