The Shadowed Heart

“Welcome to the Ca’ Zeani, Chiara.”

She stiffened at the soft, mocking words but refused to look at him. Even as he took her arm and led her up a stone staircase, she kept her eyes stubbornly averted from his face.

Luca closed the door to his apartments and leaned back against it.

“Don Luca!” The servant who had looked after his needs since he was a boy, jumped up from the chair where he had been dozing and came running up to him.

“Santa Madonna! What has happened to you?” he demanded. “Were you set upon?” His gaze slid over to the girl who stood next to his master then back to Luca.

“A minor scuffle.” He pushed away from the door. “Now listen.”

Chiara watched him give his orders to his servant. Watched him give the man a familiar, friendly clap on the shoulder. It occurred to her that he treated his servant with more courtesy than her father had accorded her mother.

“Signore, let me care for your wounds.”

“Later, Rico. Go now.”

When the door had closed behind the servant, Luca walked to a round table inlaid with alabaster and serpentine that he had brought back from Constantinople and poured himself a glass of wine. As he raised it to his lips, he felt Chiara’s gaze upon him and remembered how cold her skin had been to his touch.

Turning around he walked to where she stood, still wrapped awkwardly in his cloak.

“Here.” He thrust the goblet at her.

She reached for it before she remembered that she wanted no more kindnesses from this man. Pulling her hand back, she shook her head.

“Have it your way.” Lifting the wineglass, Luca drank deeply without taking his eyes off her face.

Chiara felt herself grow warm under his gaze. She wanted to look away, but pride would not allow it.

“Where do you come from?”

“Gypsies come from everywhere.” She shrugged. “And nowhere.”

He acknowledged the evasion with a nod. “But you’re only half a Gypsy.”

“In my heart I am pure Gypsy.” Even as she spoke the words, she knew she was lying. She remembered too well how it had been for the short time they had traveled with the Gypsy caravan. She had been almost as much an outsider as the gadjé, the pale-skinned men and women, who had come to have their fortunes told. It galled her to see the faint amusement in his eyes that told her he knew it, too.

“But your eyes are not Gypsy eyes,” he said softly. “They are the color of the sea when the sun is upon it.” He tipped his glass toward her. “To your eyes, Chiara.”

His words, the mellow sound of his voice touched her, no matter how she tried to deny it. She watched him put the goblet of cobalt blue glass to his lips again, watched his throat move as he swallowed the wine and she felt something flicker to life within her. She had never felt it before, but she knew instinctively that this was the heat a woman felt for a man.

As the horror washed over her, she spun her head away from him. How could she feel this for him? What kind of monster was she? No wonder her sight had deserted her.

Luca saw the spark and, eager to see it again, he lifted a hand to her face to turn it back toward him. Just as he was about to touch her, the door opened to admit a procession of servants carrying buckets of water and bed linens.

Luca stepped back from her and gestured his manservant over. “Rico will take you to your room now.”

She turned to look at him then, but her gaze was as cold as yesterday’s ashes. He wondered if he had imagined that one flare of heat.

“Rico, this is Chiara. She’s my—”

She looked at the manservant, her chin lifted in defiance of the hated word.

“My guest.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. She looked back at Luca, but he had turned away. Silently she followed the servant.

Luca stood in front of the mirror in its ornate gilt frame that stretched from the mantel of the fireplace almost to the ceiling, watching her progress until the door had closed behind her. As he turned away, he caught sight of his reflection. Dio, she had managed to carve him up nicely, he thought. He touched the scratches on his face, then the sticky, scarlet stain on the shredded silver lace at his throat. He laughed with something like admiration. He need feel no guilt, he assured himself. She would be a worthy adversary.

“I left the women with her,” Rico said. “May I tend to your wounds now?”

Luca nodded and began to shrug out of his coat.

A fire burned brightly in the fireplace that was edged with pale yellow marble, but a chilly edge still remained in the room. Chiara pulled a coverlet of sapphire-colored silk off the bed and, hugging it around her, walked over to the window.

Below her the canal wound like a wide black ribbon. Moonlight and the flickering torches that were fastened to the walls of some of the houses made reflections of gold and silver on its surface. She tried the bar that closed the window. To her surprise it opened easily and she pulled the casements open and leaned out.

Somewhere there was the echo of music and voices and faint laughter. She looked down to where the water was lapping gently against stone and wood. The water came flush up to the foundations so that the house seemed to be growing out of the canal. A narrow wooden dock surrounded by striped mooring posts was built out over the water. Tied to one of the posts, a lone gondola, coffin like under its cover of dark canvas, rocked gently.

“It’s a long way down. If you’re contemplating jumping, I wouldn’t advise it.”

Chiara started at the sound of his voice. Slowly she straightened and turned to face him.

They stared at each other in silence as his manservant placed a tray on the table and unloaded platters of food and dishes before scurrying out of the room.

Without taking his eyes off her, Luca reached behind him and turned the key in the lock. Then he tucked it into the pocket of his robe of dark blue silk.

Understanding the message well, Chiara stiffened as she waited for him to come toward her, but he remained where he was and merely looked at her.

“Well?” she finally demanded, unnerved by his stillness, his silence. “Am I clean enough for you now?” When he gave her no answer, she tilted up her chin. “I would not have thought that a thing like that mattered for a man like you.”

He still did not speak, but he began to walk toward her then. When he stopped in front of her, he looked at her for a long moment before he spoke.

“And how is a man like me?”

His face was calm, his eyes seeming to carry only a faint interest in whatever she had to say, but she could feel the edgy anger within him.

She shrugged. “As I have seen him this evening.”

“Seen with your sight?”

Her eyes narrowed a little as she wondered if he somehow knew that what her sight told her was in discord with what she saw with her eyes.

“My sight? No.” She shook her head. “I need only my eyes to know what manner of man would mark a woman’s skin like this.” She pulled back the sleeves of her nightgown and held out her hands.

The bruises that marred the skin at her wrists had Luca’s stomach turning over in disgust with himself. Perhaps he was not a murderer like Matteo, but the same mad, wicked blood flowed in his veins. Slowly he reached up and cradled her hands in his.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly as he raised his gaze. Then, his eyes on hers, he lifted her hand and pressed his lips against the marks he had made.

A treacherous pleasure drifted through her. She jerked her hands, but to her annoyance found herself too weak to pull them out of his grasp.

“Stop it.” Her breath hitched. “What are you doing?”

“Soothing a hurt. Apologizing. Making amends. Doing penance.” He shifted his head and stroked his lips over her other wrist. “Take your pick.”

“Stop touching me.”

He smiled. “That wasn’t one of the choices.” His eyes still on hers, he touched his tongue to her skin.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Touch you? Kiss you? Taste you?”

His warm breath flowed over her skin like a caress. Her body was betraying her, she thought. How could she feel pleasure and excitement from this man’s touch when it was horror and revulsion that he roused within her?

“Don’t do anything,” she said. “Let me go.”

“I’m touching you, but I’m not holding you.” He pressed his mouth against the pulse point of her wrist and was rewarded by the pounding of her blood against his lips. “All you have to do is step away.”

She wasn’t held captive, Chiara realized. She was captivated. Captivated by his touch, by the warmth in his eyes that promised every earthly delight. She felt the pleasure race through her in tandem with the loathing as if they were two halves of the same whole. Panic licked at her as flames lick at parchment.

He must be truly evil, she thought. He must have sold his soul to the devil to be given this power to enchant, to seduce, although she knew him to be capable of the vilest abomination.

She closed her eyes, gathered all her strength and lifted her hands from his.

Luca watched her, felt her tremble as she might under a heavy weight. And he smiled, although his own desire was so sharp that it slashed at him as fiercely as her dagger had slashed at him an hour before. It would not be easy, he thought. But it would be worth it.

He took a step back from her and then another.

“Come,” he said softly. “Rico has brought us some food.”

Chiara felt the warmth from his body recede and she opened her eyes, hating herself for her own weakness.

“Come,” he repeated. “You must be hungry.” He smiled. “I know I am.”

The merest hint of sensual suggestion tinged his smile. Forcing herself to look away from him, she crossed the room toward the table.

Luca picked up the silk coverlet that had slipped from her shoulders and followed her.

Chapter Five

As the delicious scents rose toward Chiara, she twisted her hands in the folds of her nightgown to prevent herself from rushing toward the table and stuffing handfuls of food into her mouth. She’d eaten nothing for the past three days but some bread and cheese the man on the burchiello, the barge that had brought her to Venice, had given her and an apple she had stolen that afternoon from a street vendor’s basket

Because the enormity of her hunger was like a beast within her, she sat down and took a deep breath before she reached for a piece of bread. She began to eat, forcing herself to break off small pieces of the bread.

Luca watched her eat with a steadiness that indicated both extreme hunger and extreme control.

“Here.” He stopped behind her and slid the coverlet around her shoulders. This time he allowed his hands to linger for a moment. “It’s still chilly in here. This room hasn’t been used for a long time.”

Chiara pulled it around her closely and tied it in a loose, large knot.

“You mean, you don’t bring women here every night?” She glanced at him over her shoulder.

“No.” He sat down and, in an attempt to keep his hands to himself, picked up a slice of cheese. “But if you truly had the sight, you would not need to ask that.”

Her hand paused an inch from her mouth. “I do not waste my sight on what has no importance.”

“I see.” He leaned back with a mocking smile. “And I suppose it was important for you to use your sight to peer into the lives of a few indolent patricians?”

“I needed the money,” she said simply.

“What for?”

For my sister. For Donata, whom you raped and turned into a lunatic. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them and merely shrugged.

“So tell me,” he drawled. “What else do you do for money?”

Chiara heard the mocking insinuation in his voice and her fingers tightened on her fork. Resolutely she kept her eyes on her plate, knowing that if she looked at him now, she would not be able to control herself.

“I do what I must,” she said quietly. “But I have never lain with a man for money.”

“There’s always the first time.”

She raised her eyes now and met his. “But that time is not going to be with you.”

The moment the words were said, she stilled, remembering that snatch of a vision she had had when he had kissed her. If the vision was true, she thought with horror, it would not be for money that she lay with him. Nor for revenge.

Fighting against the memory of the vision and her own words, she sent him a cool look and returned to her food.

Damn her, Luca thought. Damn her pride and the way she cleverly mimicked aloofness when he knew she was anything but indifferent to him. He had felt her respond to him, damn it. He had felt it.

He splashed wine into two goblets of indigo-colored glass, lifted one, emptied it and filled it again.

“I will have you, money or no. And you will be willing,” he said, his voice soft and urgent. “Here.” He pushed a goblet toward her. “Let us drink to that.”

“No, thank you.”

“Drink.”

His voice had hardened and Chiara looked up at him. Traces of the fury she had seen earlier were in his eyes. Even as she took stock of it, she sensed the struggle within him. Sensed how he fought to harness the wildness within himself that was flaring like fire in a forest of dry pines.

Slowly she picked up the goblet. Not because he had ordered her to do so, but because she needed the time to come to terms with what she had sensed.

She took a stingy sip and then another one before she set down the goblet.

“Is the wine not to your taste?”

“It’s fine.”

“Then why do you not drink as much as you would like?” he demanded. “Are you trying to keep your head clear?” As if in defiance, he lifted his goblet to his lips and drank deeply.

“Yes,” she said cautiously, and edged her chair back. “Yes, I am.”

“Why?” He leaned a little closer and picked up the ends of the coverlet around her shoulders to toy with the silk fringe. “Do you think you can escape?”

She would not even try to escape, she thought. Fate had put her here. And fate would give her her revenge. And the price? What will be the price of revenge? a voice within her whispered. But she knew that whatever the price, she would pay it.

“No, I know I cannot escape.” she said.

“That’s very wise of you.” He wound a length of blue silk around his hand. “Then why do you want to keep a clear head?” He gave the coverlet a tug, bringing her to the edge of her chair. “Are you afraid the wine will make you willing?”

“Wine can make me weak, but it can never make me willing.” She closed her hands over the soft linen of her nightgown. “Nothing can make me willing.”

“You’re wrong. I can make you willing and we both know it.”

He had leaned close enough so that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips. Already she could feel her body softening. He could do it, she thought desperately. He could make her body willing. But surely never her spirit. Never her mind. Never her soul.

As if he could read her mind, he smiled. “And you do feel. No matter how you lie about it, I make you feel.” Rising, he twisted yet another length of silk around his hand, pulling her onto her feet so that she stood flush against him.

As her body made contact with his, Chiara felt a jolt of fear so strong that for a moment she lost all awareness, as if she had slipped into a faint or a trance. But as the fear faded, she felt the waves of Luca’s emotions breaking against her like waves break upon the beach.

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

The violence she had felt earlier was still there, but it only hovered at the edge like a banished spectator. Desire was there, strong and hot, and need, deep and powerful. The need of a man for a woman. The need of one human being for another.

Confused, she shook her head. How could he hide his evil so smoothly? She had no doubt that he could feel desire, but how could there be such true, deep need within a man such as this?

Against the back of his hand, Luca felt the soft give of her breasts, the pounding of her heart. He saw how fear flashed into her eyes, but only for a moment. Then he saw confusion there and surprise. And something softer that was gone before he could identify it.

Dio, he wanted her. Desire swept through him. Had he ever wanted, had he ever needed a woman so badly? Unable to resist, he lowered his mouth to hers.

He was holding her so close, so tightly that she could not move away. Unable to do more, Chiara turned her head aside so that his mouth missed her lips and brushed her cheek instead. She felt his fingers cup her chin and she tensed.

But his fingers did not tighten. Nor did he try to turn her mouth back to his. Instead, his thumb stroked her skin while his lips drifted to her ear. Nudging her still-damp hair aside, he kissed his way along the contours of her ear. Chiara heard herself sigh.

Again he traced the contours of her ear, this time with his tongue. When Chiara heard herself make a sound like a hungry kitten, she remembered where she was. And just who it was that was touching her.

How could she respond to him like this? She knew what brutality, what cruelty he was capable of committing. She had heard his mocking laughter as Donata had screamed m terror. She had seen the gleam of evil in his eyes. No matter how well he hid it now behind a mask of gentleness, she knew what manner of man he was.

“Let me go.”

He let her go so swiftly that her legs gave way. Biting back a cry, she managed to grasp the edge of the table for support. Relief and surprise warred with anger. Anger at him. But most of all, anger at herself and at her own weakness.

“As you wish, my dear.”

Chiara straightened, hoping that her legs would hold her up. The fact that they did had some of her audacity returning. “I thank you for your generosity.” She inclined her head in a mocking little bow.

“And so you should. Believe me, it would have been quite easy to ignore your plea—” he laughed “—and concentrate instead on those tempting female noises you made.”

His eyebrows lifted in a mocking curve, giving him the aspect of a fallen angel. Chiara said nothing, but she could feel heat flooding into her face. Heat from the way his closeness stirred her senses. Heat from his soft laugh that seemed to make tender promises. Heat from the shame that filled her because he could make her feel this way.

“You see it as a weakness. Perhaps I should not tell you this, but it is a great strength.” His voice softened, lowered. “Do you know how much power it gives you over a man, when you respond to him like that? Even when it is against your will. Especially when it is against your will.”

Reaching out, he drew a single finger down her throat and let it rest in the hollow at its base. “Do you have any idea how it makes a man feel to know he can make your pulse beat like a drum, even though you would rather take a knife to him.”

His last words had Chiara’s gaze skittering down to his chest where the deep V-shaped neck of his robe exposed the wound she had made with her knife.

“You should put a poultice on that so it doesn’t become inflamed.” The words were out before she could stop them and she bit her lip.

“I’m touched by your care.”

She tried to counteract her incautious words with an insolent shrug. Her movement had his finger shifting in the hollow of her throat and she tensed against her involuntary shiver of pleasure.

Luca felt her tremble. Because he wanted badly to cup her neck and draw her toward him, he let his hand fall to his side and took a step back.

“Ah, Chiara, what am I going to do with you?” He looked at her for a long moment. “No suggestions? No requests?”

Chiara met his gaze. There was a sort of tired amusement in his eyes and a kindness that she found herself responding to, even as she had responded to his touch, his kiss. God help her, she thought. How could she fight against him, when he could make her forget who he was so easily?

“Well?”

She shook her head. “No suggestions.”

“Then I will wish you a good-night.” He paused. “Don’t get any ideas about making a ladder of your sheets. Your window will be guarded.”

“Don’t worry. I will not try to escape.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, she saw his eyes narrow with suspicion and knew she had made a mistake.

“At least not tonight,” she corrected quickly, looking away from his sharp gaze.

“What plan are you hatching in that sly Gypsy head of yours?” he demanded. “Look at me.”

Sullenly she obeyed him but said nothing.

“I’ll find out by and by.”

Yes, Chiara swore silently, you will find out. No matter how you can make me feel, you will find out and you will pay.

His eyes still on hers, he picked up her hand and pressed his mouth against the bruises he had left on her wrist.

“It is not my way to touch a woman’s skin with so heavy a hand as to mark it.” Pleased, he felt her pulse jump. “This you will find out by and by.”

Chiara stood very still and watched him leave the room without once looking back.

He had to be in league with the Supreme Evil to be so powerful, she thought. Her body still warm, her blood still pounding, she sank down where she stood and prayed incoherently, desperately for the strength to resist him.

She awoke to the clatter of dishes and the sinfully tempting fragrance of rich chocolate. Remembering where she was, she sat up quickly.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Chiara returned the serving girl’s smile.

“Come and eat your breakfast. The dressmaker is coming in an hour.”

“The dressmaker?” Chiara slid down from the bed and padded over to the table. “Whatever for?” Greedily she broke off a piece of the fresh, crusty bread.

“Don Luca has ordered that a dressmaker come to fit you with new clothes.”

“I don’t want any new clothes. I have my own clothes.” She looked around the room. “Where are they?”

“They’re gone. Don Luca said they should be burned.” She made a vague gesture toward the door.

Chiara jumped up, ready to storm, but then she saw the girl take a step back. There was no sense in raging at this poor girl, she thought, and there was no sense bewailing something she could not do anything about.

Slowly she sat back down and picked up the bread she had tossed down onto the plate.

“Do you need anything else?” the girl asked in a cautious voice.

She shook her head and, when the girl turned to leave, she grasped her arm. “What is your name?”

“Zanetta.”

“Sit down, Zanetta, and tell me about—” her tongue almost tripped over the polite address “—Don Luca.”

The girl darted a glance over to the door and sat down on the very edge of a chair. “Don’t you know him?” she asked, her eyes curious. “The whole house is talking about you,” she added.

“I can imagine.” Chiara took another bite of bread spread with butter and honey and almost closed her eyes with the sheer pleasure of it.

“Rico, Don Luca’s manservant, says you are his guest. Some whisper you must be his mistress. One of the footmen heard Don Luca arguing with Don Alvise and Signora Emilia.” The words came out in a rush.

“Who are they?”

“Don Luca’s older brother and his wife. He is a good master, but strict.” She paused, as if considering her next words. “He said he would not allow a loose woman under his roof.”

Chiara felt a flash of pain as she remembered how her father had cast her mother out into the street with those same words.

“And you, Zanetta?” she asked. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” The girl twisted her fingers nervously at her waist. “But if you are his mistress—” Her mouth curved in a mischievous smile “—then you have chosen a beautiful man. Not like—”

There was the sound of footsteps outside the door and the girl jumped up.