The Shadowed Heart

Some of the fire had returned to her low, smoky voice. The fire drew him, aroused him, and Luca shifted forward until his body was pressed against hers.

Chiara sucked in her breath as he pressed against her, pushing herself back further against the wall, but he moved closer still—so close that it seemed as if their bodies were one. He was pressed against her so tightly that she could feel the rise of his aroused sex against her belly. He was crushing her. She wanted to cry out, but she knew there would be no help for her here. And she had never been one to waste her energy on useless gestures.

He would move any second now, she though Every muscle turned to ice as she stiffened in expectation of his rough touch. He would push up her skirt. He would penetrate her body with his.

But he did none of those things. Instead he remained still, his eyes on hers, as if he thought to find her secrets there.

The dagger! How could she have forgotten it? Relief rushed through her. Chiara lifted her hand, but she could not reach for it without alerting him. Her mind raced. Before he tried to rape her, he would have to step away from her to free his body. Then she would be able to reach the dagger, she thought. Then she would kill him.

She felt a little flicker of regret that she would have to do it quickly, and not be able to tell him why she was planting her knife in his heart. But perhaps it was better to do it swiftly, before she had time to think about the light she had seen when she had looked inside him. Before she had time to question why her sight was showing her what her eyes knew was false.

The decision made, a small part of the tension seeped out of her even as she braced for his attack.

Luca felt the slight relaxing of her body against his and smiled. She had been hurt by some rough, careless man, he thought. He would show her what it could be like.

His hands still propped against the wall framing her head, he lowered his head toward her.

Chiara stilled when he touched his mouth to hers. Because she’d been expecting a brutal assault, the light, gentle touch took her breath away. She found herself incapable of movement as he rubbed his mouth back and forth over hers. When he slid the tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips, she trembled but still could not move.

With infinite patience he traced her lips again and again. When they parted, his mouth curved against hers.

“Sì,” he murmured, “così. Yes, like this.”

Desire was urgent in his blood, but even now he did not take what she offered. Instead, he leisurely dipped his tongue inside.

Chiara could see them together. They lay on a couch, surrounded by bright-colored cushions. Her shoulders were bare and pale against the coverlet of crimson silk. Somewhere there was the sound of water lapping against wood. The smell of sweet incense drifted through the room and mingled with the scent of arousal—his and hers. Then he moved over her so that she could see only her eyes—wide-open, smiling with welcome.

“No.” The single word was directed at the vision, not at the kiss.

Luca withdrew far enough so that he could see her face. “No?” He smiled, his anger forgotten in the sensual pleasure of the moment. “Are you sure? That certainly felt like a yes.” Without giving her time to reply, he took her mouth again.

Chiara wanted to fight him, but she found herself unable to move, as if her limbs had suddenly turned to water. He filled her mouth with his tongue, tasting her.

There was an answering heat within her, but she told herself that it was the heat of hatred. Desperate, she tried to hold on to that, but the heat merged and melded with the light, blinding her as if she were standing in the full sunlight.

His taste filled her. In a reflexive curiosity, she touched her tongue to his.

Luca felt that first tentative touch of her tongue go through him as if it were a bolt of lightning. Grasping her head, he gave in to the consuming need to plunder.

As he plunged into her mouth, possessing her with all the fever of a virile man’s passion, Chiara jolted, as if shaken awake from a dream. Rational thought returned, reminding her of just who this man was. She began to struggle to free herself from his voracious kiss, just as she struggled against that unfamiliar ache in her belly.

Luca felt her move against him. Pleased, he slid his hands into her hair and delved more deeply into the pleasures of her mouth. Only gradually did he realize that her movements had nothing to do with passion.

Luca pulled back, trying to ignore the desire that was making his blood race, his body throb. The moment he freed her mouth, she went still.

Realizing that he had twisted his hands in her hair, Luca loosened his fingers and began to rub her scalp lightly.

“I did not mean to hurt you.” He let his hands drift down slowly, caressingly until they lay on her shoulders. He brushed his mouth against hers and felt her stiffen.

“What’s the matter?” Leaving his hands on her shoulders, he took a step away.

She waited for the malevolence to come into his eyes, but it did not. Traces of passion were there and questions, but none of the evil she had been waiting to see there ever since she had first laid eyes on him an hour ago. How long could he pretend? How long could he keep up this facade? Where did he get his power? Why could she not see? It was the last question that frightened her most of all.

“Did I frighten you?” He slid his thumbs beyond the neckline of her coarse linen blouse to stroke her skin. “Was I too rough?”

“I am not easily frightened.” She swallowed and fought—unsuccessfully—to suppress the involuntary shiver of pleasure.

“Perhaps not.” He smiled at both her evasive answer and the shudder of response that went through her. “Have you ever lain with a man before?”

His words reminded her of who he was. Reminded her of what she needed to do.

“What difference does it make to you?” As she spoke, her hand crept upward, then across her middle. Her fingers closed around the hilt of the dagger, and she slid it out of the sheath.

Strike! Strike! The command thundered through her head, but her hand remained still, as if she could not force it to do her bidding.

“None.” He laughed softly. “None at all.” His fingers continued to stroke her skin. “I want you. That is all that matters.”

The soft, lightly mocking laughter struck a chord in her memory and she lifted her hand and plunged it down toward his heart.

Ensnared in his arousal, Luca did not give heed to her movement. By the time the realization hit him that what she held was a weapon and he had flung his hand upward to ward off the blow, the momentum of her downward stroke was too strong, too fast to stop completely.

He felt—and ignored—the hot flash of pain as the tip of the dagger pierced his skin and sliced through his flesh a moment before he struck her hand.

The dagger clattered to the floor. His hands captured hers. For a moment, they remained still, as if frozen in a dance of violent beauty.

Luca’s fury exploded like a volcano spewing forth hot lava. His fingers tightened around her wrists and he bore her back so brutally that her head hit the wall with a sharp crack.

“Damn you. I have killed men for less.”

“I’m not afraid to die.”

“Perhaps not.” He ground his hips against hers. “But you are afraid of this.”

Chiara could feel the cry growing in her throat, but she battled the weakness, clamping her mouth shut until her teeth ground against each other.

Luca saw her fear, saw how she fought it, saw how she still defied him. And her desperate courage seemed to feed his fury.

“Why did you try to kill me?” he demanded. “Is it such a terrible fate to lie with me?” He gave a short laugh. “Some women might even envy you.”

Chiara thought of her sister’s blank eyes. She thought of the pitiful whimpering sounds Donata sometimes made in her sleep, and felt the fear recede before the hatred of this man.

“I hate you. And I despise you.”

“Why?”

“I told you. If you do not know it, you should.”

“My patience with your riddles is at an end,” he snarled. “Tell me.”

For a moment Chiara was tempted to tell him who she was. But only for a moment. He would find a way to use that knowledge against her. The less he knew about her the better it was. She would bide her time and someday she would tell him, right before she killed him.

She shook her head.

“Tell me.” He tightened his grip on her wrist.

“No,” she whispered.

“Do you know how easy it is to make someone talk?” The wildness was roiling within him like a storm-swept sea. He grappled for control, but it slipped away like water. “With just a small movement I could snap your wrist.”

She could feel his hot breath on her face. “What good would a slave with a broken wrist be?”

His mouth curved in a hard smile. “You don’t need your hands for what I want from you.”

“And you will take what you want no matter what I do or say.”

“Perhaps.” He shifted his fingers a fraction of an inch to increase the pressure on her wrist. “Try me.”

Chiara understood then that she had exhausted all her possibilities.

“You are a Venetian patrician,” she said, trying desperately to keep her voice steady. “That is why I hate you.”

It was surprise more than anything else that had him easing his hold on her wrist. The wildness within him eased as well, as if it had been a seizure that was now passing.

“Why?”

She hesitated, but feeling his hand tighten again, she decided to give him part of the truth. “Because my father is one.”

“Your father?” His eyes narrowed, but he did not dismiss her words. “What is his name?”

“I don’t know,” she lied. “I came to Venice to find out.”

Luca caught the tiny flicker in her eyes that told him she was lying, but he kept the knowledge to himself.

“So...” His voice held a touch of humor. “Did you come here planning to kill all Venetian aristocrats?”

Chiara gave a shake of her head. Understanding that the greatest danger had passed for the moment, she allowed disdain to color her words. “Only those who try to rape me.”

“I don’t intend to rape you.”

She said nothing, but the contempt that darkened her eyes made it quite clear to Luca that she thought he was lying.

“You don’t believe me, I see.” He did not release her hands, but he moved a step back.

Chiara flinched at his movement and despised herself for it. When she saw that he was stepping back, relief and a new wave of bravado flowed through her.

“I have no reason to lie,” he said.

“And I have no reason to believe you.”

He stared at her for a moment. Then he laughed richly. “It’s a pity that you’re not a man. With audacity like yours we could whip the Barbary pirates in a few weeks.” He paused. “And then again—” his gaze drifted down to her breasts “—I’m very glad that you are not a man.”

A whisper of hope drifted through her. “If it is true that you do not intend to rape me, will you let me go then?”

His smile died and his gaze returned to her face. “No.”

Hope grew cold. “Why not?”

“I want you. But then I told you that, didn’t I?”

The accusation returned to her eyes, stronger than before. “So, rape after all.”

“No, not rape.” His grip loosened and his thumbs began to rub the inside of her wrists. “I trust that I shall be able to persuade you that it is not such an ugly fate to lie with me.”

“Persuade a slave?” She made a sound that might have been a harsh laugh. “Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“Believe what you wish. But you can believe me when I tell you that I do not find the thought of rape arousing. I, for my part, have always preferred persuasion.”

Chiara’s eyes narrowed at his lie, yet just the fact that he had gone to the trouble to tell it had her relaxing a little.

“And when you have persuaded me,” she asked, “will you let me go then?”

“Let you go?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I think that is a question for another day.”

Chiara was used to taking risks. After all, she had been living on the edge for so long that she had almost forgotten what it was like to know what the next hour would bring. Perhaps, she calculated quickly, perhaps it would be worth it to give him her body. He would be careless in the throes of passion and then she would k—

“Enough talk now.” He released one of her hands but, keeping the other firmly in his, he turned. “Come.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Home.” He moved toward the door.

Tears, unexpected, unwanted, shot into Chiara’s eyes as the single word struck a long-forgotten chord deep within her soul. Once, long ago, she had thought to have a home. She almost lost her balance as he pulled her along. Swallowing the tears, she stumbled after him.

Chapter Four

Downstairs in the entry Luca barked an order that had the lackey scurrying to get his things.

Emotions—anger, horror, disgust at the violence he had displayed—rushed through him like a roaring river. A candle flickered on the opposite wall and he concentrated on that point of light as he fought to deal with them.

He had always believed that uncontrolled violence was his brother’s province. From the time when they had been small boys he had seen it. He had seen Matteo strike out at servants and torment playmates. He had stopped it when he could, knowing all too well that Matteo would again do the same thing. And he’d done it because, despite everything, he had loved Matteo. He’d done it because he had always known that some of the same violence, the same cruelty lived within him.

But Luca had always believed that he had the violence under control, like a dangerous criminal locked in a secure dungeon. Instead, he had found tonight that all it took was the right moment—and the right woman—for it to escape its cage and spread its poison.

Was this urgency that drove him like a whip when he looked at the Gypsy girl the same madness that had overtaken Matteo when he had raped and killed Antonia? Had Matteo merely taken the same passion, the same compulsion that he himself felt for this black-haired seductress one step further? Oh, God, he thought as he scrubbed his hands over his face, was he like his twin brother after all?

Luca remembered how he had found Matteo, standing over Antonia’s bruised and broken body. He had sworn then that he would never give in to the evil that lived within him. Not even to avenge the girl he had loved so tenderly. But, he thought, he had given in to the evil now. And the bitter knowledge shamed him.

He had put his hands on this girl until she had cried out in pain. He had been within a breath of taking her where they had stood, with no care, no tenderness. Cursing silently, he told himself that he had to let her go. He could not force an unwilling woman to go with him just because he found himself wanting her beyond all reason.

Had he gone mad? he asked himself. And if he had, would the madness pass? Was it only the madness of an instant, born of his violent fury, or would it stay with him like a witch’s curse?

Even as his blood grew calm, he found that the venom had unfurled within him like a pernicious flower. He was unable to forswear his own wickedness. Unable to undo what madness had wrought Unable to follow his conscience and let Chiara go.

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

Chiara watched him. He had released her hand and he was ignoring her as they waited in the small entry for the footman to return. Perhaps, she thought, he was already losing interest. A small shoot of hope burgeoned within her. Perhaps he was already regretting the trouble he was putting himself to.

She eyed the door. There was no key in the lock and the bolt was open. If she was quick enough, she could slip past him and out the door before he noticed her. Or should she wait and try to escape once they were outside in the narrow, dark alley?

Carefully Chiara took a small step. He was staring at the candle in the gilt sconce on the opposite wall and gave no sign of having observed her movement. Slowly, her gaze never leaving his scowling face, she began to edge toward the door.

The sound of footsteps jolted her. The footman! She gauged the distance to the door. Three steps, perhaps four. Taking a deep breath, she prepared to run.

Luca knew the moment she took the first step. He would let her go, he told himself. Perhaps then he would be able to look himself in the eye again. She was almost behind him when she paused. If she stayed now, he bargained with himself with shameless sophistry, it meant that she was staying of her own free will. If she tried to escape, he would let her go.

As she leaped toward the door, he swung around, blocking her way, forswearing the promise he had made to himself.

“Going somewhere?”

Chiara dragged in a breath that was almost a sob. He would never let her go now, she thought. She was his property and this was a man who guarded his possessions. She looked up at him.

“I was going to let you escape.” He lifted his hand to her face, but when she flinched, he let it fall back to his side. “But I find that I can’t.”

“Won’t.”

“Can’t.” He shrugged. “And won’t.”

“Your tabarro, Don Luca.”

Not taking his eyes off Chiara, Luca let the long, black cloak settle on his shoulders and clapped the black tricorn hat on his head. Letting the molded white mask, which the footman handed him, dangle from his fingers by its laces, he took her arm and stepped out into the alley.

As they turned onto the Piazza San Marco, the blast of wind met them head-on. Chiara shivered in her torn blouse but said nothing.

Even at this late hour, the piazza was full of life. The cafes and even some of the shops were brightly lit. A violin began to play a melody from a popular opera and was joined by the high, pure voice of a castrato tenor. A couple had linked arms and was whirling in a dizzying dance that needed no music, save that in their heads.

Chiara glanced at the groups of people that dotted the square, wondering if there was someone among them who would help her. Some were garbed in colorful costumes as Moors or harlequins or Chinamen, but most looked like ghosts in their long, black cloaks, their heads covered with the black bautta topped by tricorn hats, their faces disguised with white, beaked masks. Laughter and chattering voices drifted over and she understood just how alone she was.

Luca hurried them past the cathedral, with its Byzantine facade that seemed to glow even at night, past the Doge’s palace, to the quay, where the black gondolas bobbed on the dark water silvered by moonlight.

“Olà, Tommaso,” he called out toward the group of gondoliers who were huddled together at the base of one of the Egyptian columns. Immediately one of the men detached himself from the group and came toward them.

“You are early tonight, Don Luca.” He slid a sly glance toward the girl at his master’s side. “Do you wish to go—”

“Home, Tommaso.”

The gondolier acknowledged the command with a small bow, but his eyebrows shot up in surprise. In silence he herded his passengers around the column, in obeisance to the long-standing superstition that to pass between the columns, where on occasion the scaffold or a gibbet stood, would bring misfortune.

Luca stepped down from the dock onto the stern of the gondola, balancing his body against the gentle pitching of the craft with the ease of long practice. He turned and held out his arms.

“Come, I will lift you down.”

Her gaze darting around, hoping to find yet another way to escape, Chiara shrank back and bumped into the gondolier’s stocky body.

“Don’t be timid,” the gondolier whispered on a laugh. “He’s generous and, from what I hear, well skilled.” He gave her a push.

She stumbled forward. Before she could brace herself against his touch, he had lifted her into the gondola and released her.

“Sit down in the felze.” Luca pointed to the cabin in the center of the gondola.

When she hesitated, he jerked the door open. “Get in,” he growled. When she still did not move, he grasped her arm to maneuver her inside.

“Dio, you’re freezing.” Her gaze skittered up to his as he stroked his hand up her arm. He wanted to put his arms around her and warm her. Giving in to the desire, he pulled her closer only to see her eyes widen with alarm. Swearing, he pushed her away and toward the cabin so that she tumbled onto the cushioned bench.

Unhooking the clasp of his cloak, he shrugged it off and tossed it at her. Damn her, he thought, as he leaned his elbows on the roof of the felze. When she looked at him like that, her huge eyes full of loathing, she made him feel like a beast. Glancing up, he caught Tommaso’s cheeky grin. Swearing again, he ducked into the cabin and sat down beside her.

Although he could feel her shivering, she had not touched the cloak, but sat staring at it. With an impatient sound, he picked it up and slung it quickly around her, forcing himself not to allow his hands to linger. Then he leaned back into the corner and closed his eyes.

Gradually Chiara stopped shivering beneath the soft woolen fabric of the cloak. Letting her head fall back against the cushioned back of the bench, she closed her eyes. Why did this evil, cruel man show her compassion, generosity? Those small flashes of kindness made her doubt what her eyes told her was true.

Again she gathered all her power and probed. But it was as if a black curtain had descended before her sight. She was exhausted, she comforted herself. She had exhausted herself in body and spirit tonight. Surely when she had rested, her sight would be clear and true again.

Since her sight could not help her, she opened her eyes and slanted a look toward him. A thin band of light from the lantern on the stern crept in through the narrow window on the back of the cabin, illuminating his profile.

Again her heart jolted against her rib cage. She had not been mistaken. It was him. It could be no other. Maybe his hair was longer now and the cruelty in his eyes hidden under his charm, but the face was the same. The horror, the revulsion flooded over her anew, almost obliterating the pull of his beauty.

Luca felt her eyes on his as he might have felt a touch of her hand. Turning his head, he looked at her.

“Why do you look at me as if I were the very devil?” It hurt him, he realized with surprise and displeasure. Deep inside him was a place she could touch at will. A place she could ease as effortlessly as she could hurt it. But she said nothing and only stared back at him.

“Ah, yes. You’ve told me that I am supposed to know why.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Well, perhaps I will learn it by and by.”

The gondola bumped gently against wood and Chiara started.

“We’re here.”

There was the scrape of a key in a lock and the grating sound of rusty hinges. The gondola slid into a vaulted, shadowy entry, lit by a single torch, the smell of burning pitch mingling with the smells of dampness and decay.

Within moments Chiara was standing on the slippery stones, watching the gondola glide back out onto the dark canal. A silent servant closed the water gate, the hollow clank of metal on metal sounding like a final judgment.

It was done, she thought, as she looked through the gate’s intricate wrought iron design that allowed a teasing glimpse of the dark canal and freedom. Now she was truly his prisoner.

Despair welled up within her, but she fought it. It was fate, she told herself, and for a purpose that this man had been put in her path. She could not believe that she was here only to be used by him. Perhaps it was a bounty given her by fate. An opportunity for a revenge she had not hoped for.

Yes, she thought. She would defer the revenge she would take upon her father. But this revenge that fate was putting into her hands would be hers. And soon.