Across Time E-Book

Nina Beaumont

• Herausgeber: Aventurine Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Plummeted through time from one dangerous world to another, a brave woman may hold the power to change history ... but what if she fails? It is 1794, and Countess Adrienne de Beaufort is smuggling French aristocrats to England to save them from the guillotine. In a moment of mortal danger, fate plunges her across time to 1499 Siena. Adrienne is stunned to find herself inhabiting the body of her ancestress Isabella, a woman for whom deceit and treachery are a way of life. And she is about to come face to face with Isabella’s new husband, Alessandro di Montefiore, the heir to the Dukedom of Siena, on their wedding night. Alessandro expects duplicity and betrayal from his beautiful new wife. Why then is he seduced by the innocence in her eyes? Why then does he find himself prepared to take unimaginable risks because her spirit touches his heart? As Adrienne navigates Isabella’s life, her mind and her soul remain her own. She fights to overcome the darkness of Isabella’s story, knowing that only she can prevent Alessandro’s betrayal and death. Fearlessly, she risks her heart, her soul, and her life to save the man she loves.

Leseprobe

Across Time

Magic in Italy Historical Romance Series

Nina Beaumont

Aventurine Press

Contents

About the Book

Also by Nina Beaumont

Author’s Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

Bonus Chapter - Twice Upon Time

About the Author

About the Book

Plummeted through time from one dangerous world to another, a brave woman may hold the power to change history ... but what if she fails?

It is 1794, and Countess Adrienne de Beaufort is smuggling French aristocrats to England to save them from the guillotine. In a moment of mortal danger, fate plunges her across time to 1499 Siena. Adrienne is stunned to find herself inhabiting the body of her ancestress Isabella, a woman for whom deceit and treachery are a way of life. And she is about to come face to face with Isabella’s new husband, Alessandro di Montefiore, the heir to the Dukedom of Siena, on their wedding night.

Alessandro expects duplicity and betrayal from his beautiful new wife. Why then is he seduced by the innocence in her eyes? Why then does he find himself prepared to take unimaginable risks because her spirit touches his heart?

As Adrienne navigates Isabella’s life, her mind and her soul remain her own. She fights to overcome the darkness of Isabella’s story, knowing that only she can prevent Alessandro’s betrayal and death. Fearlessly, she risks her heart, her soul, and her life to save the man she loves.

ACROSS TIME

Copyright © 2021 by Nina Gettler

Second and revised edition, 2021

This title was previously published by Harlequin Books

Cover Art by Tammy Seidick Graphic Design

Proofreading and Formatting by Maria Connor, My Author Concierge

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, whether by electronic, mechanical, or any other means now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, copying, and recording or in any information storage or retrieval system without written permission, with the exception of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, contact Aventurine Press c/o My Author Concierge, 2456 Bentwater Dr. W., Jacksonville FL 32246 USA.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author‘s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Print ISBN:

Ebook ISBN:

Also by Nina Beaumont

Magic in Italy Historical Romance Series

Across Time

Twice Upon Time

The Shadowed Heart

Fearless Women Historical Romance Series

Sapphire Magic

Promises to Keep

Tapestry of Fate

Tapestry of Dreams

Surrender the Heart

Author’s Note

The Renaissance (from the late 14th to the early 17th century) was a time of economic, scientific, and artistic rebirth after the Middle Ages and the plague pandemic that swept Europe in the mid-14th century.

This was a period when a rediscovery of classical antiquity led to an explosion of creativity in every form of culture—literature, painting, sculpture, architecture. Europe and especially Italy overflows with priceless works of art from this period. But even though the same period espoused a faith in the dignity and the power of man, it also spawned incredible cruelty that was often dispensed with unrivaled casualness.

At the same time, the world of the Middle Ages with its deep faith, its mysticism, its spirits and superstitions was still very much a part of life.

Another feature of this age was the lax morality that was practiced from the Pope down. Noblemen sired bastards wherever their roving eye happened to land, and these children were often raised together with the legitimate offspring. Being an illegitimate child was usually considered only a minor blemish, and they often made brilliant marriages and were given titles or large estates. Sometimes—if there were no legitimate sons—they inherited everything from their fathers, like the hero of ACROSS TIME, Alessandro di Montefiore.

As soon as children left the nursery, they were dressed like small adults and were, for all practical purposes, considered adults. This may have contributed to the fact that children were in constant danger of sexual abuse. Incest was common and, in this light, the accusation by some historians that Lucrezia Borgia had incestuous relations with both her brother, Cesare, and her father, Pope Alexander, is not far-fetched.

Italy was an anarchic conglomeration of city-states, tiny republics, marquisates, dukedoms, and kingdoms held together, or apart as the case may be, by constantly shifting alliances.

All Italian rulers were, at least in theory, feudal lords who owed allegiance and thus military service to either the Holy Roman Emperor or the Pope. This fact contributed to the tradition of the mercenary warriors or condottieri.

As time went by, war became a business for both noblemen and rulers of the smaller states. Some of the more famous ones were Gonzaga of Mantua, Malatesta of Rimini, and Visconti and Sforza of Milan. These warriors, called condottieri, were hired by rulers to wage war for them. For a fixed sum of money, they furnished armies, fed and quartered their troops, supplied arms, and waged war, all in one fell swoop. The word condottiere (plural condottieri) comes from condotta, which was the contract between the condottiere and his employer. The word also means conduct, so it was also construed to mean that the contract guaranteed the warrior's good conduct.

Since these condottieri were professionals, merchants selling war, it was in their interest to keep their overhead as low as possible. Thus, Italian wars often came to resemble tournaments with little bloodshed and much taking of hostages. Obviously, it was far more profitable to take prisoners than to slaughter them. It was not until the first French invasion of 1494 that war with enormous bloodshed was brought back to Italy.

The condottieri often had to give their employers their wives or children as hostages, which was supposed to ensure their loyalty. And still they lived an uncertain life. If they were successful, they were in danger of being liquidated, either because their employer was afraid of their power or because he wished to avoid payment. Being unsuccessful could prove just as hazardous to their health.

With one exception, all the characters in this story are fictitious. That exception is Cesare Borgia, the illegitimate son of Pope Alexander VI. It's impossible to open a book about the Renaissance without running across the infamous exploits of the Borgia family, and having Cesare Borgia as a villain was simply too good an opportunity to pass up.

I have followed historical accounts of the period very exactly except for one or two very minor chronological details to accommodate my story.

The only major liberty I took was dictated by my choice of Siena as the setting. This city is a jewel, and its beauty and harmonious ambiance are unequaled even in a country of superlatives like Italy. This made it necessary for me to make Siena a dukedom and invent the Montefiore family as the rulers of Siena. During the period of my story, Siena was actually a city-state ruled by a rather colorless small-time tyrant, Pandolfo Petrucci, whose greatest claim to fame was that he took part in a conspiracy against Cesare Borgia and lived to tell about it. But he would hardly have made an appealing hero.

Alessandro di Montefiore, however, embodies all the attributes of a hero (and a little more). Enjoy.

To Maria Connor, awesome virtual assistant and friend.

Thank you for making my author adventures possible.

1

Normandy, France, March 1794

Although the March sun, which was beginning to burn through the morning mist, was warm on the back of Adrienne’s neck, she could not shake the chill a long, sleepless night had settled in her very bones. Her hands deep in the pockets of the ragged breeches one of the stable boys had left behind, she lingered along the path, loathe to return to the château, where the walls seemed to echo and close in on her now that the last servants had gone.

Her mission had gone well, but despite the relief, her nerves were still jangling. Every time she stood on the beach with the cold surf swirling around her feet and watched old Père Duroc’s fishing boat with its human cargo push out into the Channel, she waited for the fear for their safety that curled in the pit of her stomach to disappear, but it never did.

Rolling her shoulders against the band of tension, she haphazardly kicked at the gravel gathered in clumps from the rainstorm two days ago. Her generous mouth curved in a small, sad smile as she remembered how the path had looked when it had been tidily raked with that slightly wavy pattern her mother had insisted on. She allowed herself a small sigh at the memory, blinking her eyes furiously at the tears that threatened.

A faint sound had her head snapping up. Her dark eyes narrowed, she turned around slowly. But all she saw were the still bare bushes and trees in the overgrown, neglected park.

Then she heard the sound again. Even before her tired brain had consciously identified it as the whimper of a child, she began to run. Skidding to a stop near the jungle the rose garden had become, she called out softly, but there was no answer. Ignoring the thorny branches that caught at her shirt, she ducked under the broken trellis, moving quickly. So quickly that had not the child cried out again, she would have walked right past the spot.

Pivoting, Adrienne pushed aside the thick almost waist-high weeds that had withstood the winter. A young woman, her thin face streaked with dirt, crouched in the shelter of the high grass. With both arms, she pressed a small child to her chest.

“Please, don’t hurt my child,” she pleaded, but her eyes were fierce and determined. “You can do whatever you want with me, but don’t hurt my child.”

Adrienne dropped down to her knees so that she was eye to eye with the woman. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “No one will hurt you here.”

The woman’s eyes filled with tears and overflowed. The soft, gentle voice seemed to sap the remainder of her strength. “Aren’t you one of them?” she whispered, her eyes darting back and forth. “They saw me on the road. I’m sure they saw me.”

“Who saw you?”

“The men.” She swallowed convulsively. “The men who followed me from Paris.” The woman’s eyes blurred, and she stared past Adrienne’s shoulder. “The men who killed my husband.” She focused her gaze again, and her shoulders seemed to straighten a bit with a remainder of pride. “I am Charlotte de Lambert. Jean de Lambert was my husband.”

Adrienne recognized the name of the nobleman who had tried to steal the little Dauphin away from his jailers and had paid for his courage with his life. “I will help you.”

“Who are you?” she managed.

“I am Adrienne de Beaufort.”

Realizing that she was at the destination she had almost lost hope of reaching, the woman’s shoulders slumped, and she lowered her face to her child’s hair, the last of her energy gone.

Adrienne reached out to touch the woman’s shoulder. “Did someone send you to me?”

The woman raised her head and nodded, unable to speak through the tears that ran down her face.

The ache between her shoulders forgotten, Adrienne slid her arm around the woman and helped her rise. “Come on, let’s get the two of you to the château.”

They were almost there when Adrienne heard the baying of the dogs.

Her stomach knotted, but her hands were steady as she guided the woman toward the château, pulling her along to speed their steps. Once inside, she took the time to lock the heavy oaken door behind her.

Her ears trained on the sound of the dogs, she tried to gauge how far away they were. She would manage, she told herself. It would be close, but she would manage.

Quickly, softly, although there was no one to hear her, she spoke to the woman. “I shall hide you in a secret chamber. You’ll be safe there until I can come for you.”

The woman stopped. “Oh, God, please no. Don’t make me go into some dark, closed place.” Her fingers bit into Adrienne’s arm. “I couldn’t stand that.”

But Adrienne pulled her on. “There are candles there,” she soothed. “You’ll be all right.” She tried to smile, although the baying of the dogs was closer. “There’s food there, too, and water. You can rest. And I will come for you as soon as I can.”

The woman began to cry softly, and the child, too, began to whimper. Adrienne would have wanted to stop and comfort them, but she knew she could not spare even a moment.

Pulling them through the library, she slipped inside the adjacent small study. Letting the woman go, she rushed forward. Adrienne heard her slip to the floor, but she could not afford to stop, even when the child let out a wail.

Her breathing was uneven, but she forced her hands to be steady as she reached the painting that guarded the entry to the chamber. As always, she looked into the eyes of her ancestress, Isabella di Montefiore. They looked back at her, cool, distant, and imperious, but Adrienne felt the habitual jolt of intimacy. The cool eyes had never fooled her. Not even before she’d read Isabella’s journals and become privy to the passions and secrets Isabella had shared with no one.

She placed both hands against the inside edges of the ornate gilt frame and, although her racing heart tempted her to hurry, she carefully slid her hands toward the center of the portrait. When she felt first one barely detectible bump beneath the canvas and then the other, she pressed down and then stood back to let the painting spring away from the wall on its well-concealed hinges to reveal a small door.

She swiveled and gestured to the woman. “Come quickly. There is no time to lose.”

The woman shook her head wildly, her eyes huge and frightened.

Adrienne ran back to her, and although she hated herself for her roughness, she half pulled, half pushed the woman toward the chamber. Once inside, she took time she could ill afford to light a candle. Gripping the woman by the shoulders, she shook her gently. “You’ll be all right here. Do you understand?”

The woman’s crying had subsided a little, and she managed a shaky nod.

Adrienne smiled and laid her hand against the woman’s cheek. Her heart heavy, she slipped out of the chamber, closing the door behind her.

She ran back through the rooms. As she took the stairs two at a time, she was already pulling her shirt over her head.

Tossing shirt, breeches, and boots into an armoire, she slipped into a simple gown with more speed than elegance. She was still barefoot when she heard the pounding at the front door.

Adrienne opened her window and leaned outside. “Who’s there?” she called loudly, although she knew full well that her uninvited, unwelcome visitor could only be Marcel Fabien. Her lips curled with contempt. Fabien. She had not forgotten that he had worn Beaufort livery. Just as she had not forgotten that her father had threatened to take a whip to him before he had thrown him out of the château for abusing one of the maids. And now Fabien preached the revolution, but he wore lace at his cuffs and had appropriated the Comte de Louvelle’s carriage and his hunting dogs after he had intrigued his way to becoming chairman of the Committee of Public Safety in Calais.

A large, thickset man whom Adrienne recognized as one of Fabien’s thugs appeared around the corner of the château. “Citizen Fabien has come to speak with you, Citizeness Beaufort,” he barked up at her, obviously displeased that he had to crane his neck upward.

“I shall be down in a moment.” Adrienne shut the window loudly.

Picking up a shawl, she went down the stairs as slowly as she dared. Perhaps it was petty, she thought, but that small gesture of defiance sweetened the bitterness of being at Fabien’s mercy.

When she opened the door, Fabien stood on the threshold, backed by several of his men loitering on the stairs. He greeted her with a charming smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and a bow casual enough to be an insult. Even as his gaze took a leisurely trip over Adrienne’s body, he continued to tap his silver-topped cane against the granite doorstep.

Her mouth thinned as she fought the impulse to step back and shut the door in Fabien’s face. “Is there a particular reason you have come to call on me this early in the morning, Monsieur Fabien?”

His bright blue eyes narrowed. “I could have you arrested for that alone, you know. Or have you forgotten that our government has deemed that people of our republic no longer have titles but are all equal citizens and must be addressed as such?” He leaned closer. “Or perhaps since you refuse so stubbornly to address me as Citizen Fabien”—he reached out and drew a finger down her cheek—“you would prefer to call me by my first name?”

Adrienne felt an icy shiver travel down the length of her spine. This was not the first time that Fabien had come to harass her with his suggestive remarks, but he had never dared touch her before. Her nerves were jumping, and when she spoke, her tone was cooler than was wise. “It is not my habit to address strangers by their first name.”

Fabien placed a slender, well-cared-for hand against his chest and shook his head. “I’m hurt that you think of me as a stranger. I had hoped that you would come to think of me as a friend.”

“Indeed?” With a disdainful toss of her head, Adrienne flicked her thick black braid back over her shoulder.

Fabien’s hands tightened on his cane at the contempt so vividly audible in that single word. Smiling to disguise the rage that had begun to smolder within him, he asked, “May I come in?” His tone was deceptively light. “I would speak with you.”

Reluctantly, Adrienne stepped back from the door to let him pass. She pushed the door closed and preceded Fabien into the salon where cold, stale air greeted her.

Wrapping her shawl more closely around her shoulders, Adrienne strode to the window. Her hands stilled on the window latch when she saw Fabien’s henchmen on the path she had taken with Jean de Lambert’s widow and child just minutes ago. The hounds were whining and barking, pulling wildly against their leashes.

“They seem to have picked up an interesting scent.”

Caught off balance, Adrienne whirled around at the sound of Fabien’s voice right next to her ear and found herself flush up against the Jacobin.

“Is something wrong, Citizeness Beaufort?”

Adrienne fought down both the fear and the angry, direct words that rose to her lips. “Yes.” She moved to step past him, but he reached out to grip her shoulder.

Forcing herself to stand still, she met his eyes. “Yes, something is very wrong, Monsieur Fabien.”

He heard the slight emphasis on the last two words and understood well the insult that lay behind it. His hand on her shoulder tightened.

“I am not accustomed to being accosted and manhandled in my own home.”

Fabien heard the centuries of breeding in her icy tone, and for a moment, he needed all of his control not to throw her down onto the floor and take her on the spot. She needed badly to be shown who the master was these days. But there would be time for that, he thought. His mouth curved in a smile, and he released her. “My apologies.” He stepped back. “Perhaps you should accustom yourself to the manners of the day.”

Scathing words on her tongue, Adrienne suppressed them as she remembered the distraught woman in the secret chamber.

Although she would have liked to put more distance between them, she remained where she was and met Fabien’s eyes squarely. “Just what is it that you want from me?”

“You don’t know?”

The softly posed question sent a shiver down her back, but she managed a cool smile. “No.”

Fabien felt the fury close his throat. “I want you, Adrienne,” he rasped, all the subtlety, all the carefully rehearsed words forgotten. “I’ve always wanted you. And I’m going to have you.”

He reached for her again, but this time, she avoided his hand. “Don’t I have any say in the matter? Or are those rights so touted by your revolution only for the male of the species?”

“Don’t bring the revolution into this, Adrienne.” He lunged for her again. “This is between you and me.”

“No!” Adrienne felt the panic rise and lodge in her throat. She remembered the knife that was strapped to her calf and felt a flash of relief. But it was gone as soon as it had come. If she used it, she realized, Fabien would call out and one of his pet butchers out in the garden would be upon her in a minute. Then both she and the fugitives in the chamber would be lost.

Fabien gripped her shoulder and dragged her back to the window. The hounds, whining with excitement, were retracing the path back to the château. “Where are they?” She could feel his hot breath against the side of her face. “I know you’ve been harboring fugitives. I’ve known it for months.”

“There is nothing to know.” Adrienne fought to keep her voice even. “Besides, if you’d known anything, you would have arrested me long before this.”

“Ah, but Adrienne, what good would you do me in prison?” His hold on her gentled and became a caress as he turned her to face him. “Do you think that I wish to see that pretty head separated from that lovely body?” His hand slid down, molding the curve of her breast.

Nausea rose in her throat at his touch, and Adrienne instinctively struck his hand away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she cried. “Where’s your proof?”

“Proof?” Fabien rubbed his wrist where Adrienne had struck him. She would pay for that, too, he thought almost gleefully. And he would enjoy extracting payment. “I don’t need proof, my dear. Whose word do you think the revolutionary tribunal would believe? Yours or mine?”

Adrienne felt her throat closing. Desperate, she played her last trump card, although she was more than a little unsure of the truth of her words. “My brother Charles might have something to say about that.”

Fabien laughed softly. “Your brother has other worries now.”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems that Charles has fallen out of favor with Citizen Robespierre.” He toyed with a ring that had once graced the hand of an aristocrat, but his eyes remained on hers. “A small matter of misappropriated funds. The incorruptible Citizen Robespierre was very grateful for the information.”

“You!” Her hands fisted, she moved forward. “How dare you?” She despised Charles for selling himself to the revolution in exchange for the safety of his aristocratic neck, but he was still her brother.

“Don’t do something you may have cause to regret later on, chérie.” His mouth smiled, but his eyes remained cold. “If you behave yourself, I may even be moved to do something for that hypocrite brother of yours.”

As all the implications sank into her brain, Adrienne stopped so suddenly that she almost over-balanced. Not only her own safety depended on her submission to Fabien’s desires, she realized, but Charles’s safety and the safety of the woman and child in the chamber behind Isabella’s portrait.

“So, you’re going to be sensible. Good.” Fabien rubbed his palms together slowly. “On the other hand, I wouldn’t have minded a little rough and tumble.”

He moved past her and unlatched the window. “Jacquot!”

Adrienne watched him beckon to the thickset man who had summoned her earlier.

“Leave me one of the horses and go back to town. And take the hounds with you.”

The man’s broad face seemed to split in half as he grinned broadly, showing more gaps than teeth. “Allez-y, mon ami. Go to it, my friend.” With a wave, he moved around the corner of the château.

Still staring out of the window, Adrienne didn’t even notice it when Fabien turned toward her. She was still seeing Jacquot’s face breaking into that lewd grin. No! Her mind spun as defiance churned within her. She could not, would not do it! Not for herself. Not for others. She still had the knife, after all. After she’d used it, she would think of something.

“Come along, my dear.” Fabien stepped closer so that they were separated by no more than the breadth of a hand. “I’ve wondered for years what it would be like to lie with you in that virginal bed of yours.” He slid a finger down her neck. “And now, I’m going to find out.”

She needed time, Adrienne thought, as fear edged toward terror. Just a few minutes until Jacquot was gone so that Fabien could not call for help. She raised her eyes to his face. “I need a moment. Please.” She let her eyes flutter closed and swayed.

“You disappoint me.” He sniffed. “I wouldn’t have thought you the type to simper and faint.” Gripping her arm, he pushed her down into a chair and paced away across the room.

Adrienne leaned back, her eyes closed, concentrating on the sounds outside. When she heard the crunch of gravel beneath the wheels of the carriage, all her muscles tightened in anticipation. She let a minute go by and then another. Then she carefully, surreptitiously reached under her skirt for the knife strapped to her calf. When it was hidden in the folds of her gown, she rose, telling herself that she would have the courage to use it.

Fabien stopped his pacing the moment Adrienne stood.

She stood very still, watching him walk toward her, his slow steps a menacing promise. The knife’s carved handle bit into her palm that was slick with sweat.

He was close now—less than an arm’s length away. And still, she did not move. Even when he raised his hands and reached out, she remained motionless. Then he smiled, and Adrienne struck out at him with the hand that was empty.

“No!” She fell back a step. “Don’t touch me!”

“Don’t make me come after you, Adrienne.”

He spoke so softly that she could barely hear him above the hammering of her heart and her ragged breathing.

“Come here.” Fabien stretched out his hand, palm upward toward her.

Adrienne shook her head.

He took a half step forward. Then his hand moved as quickly as a snake striking. Hooking his fingers into the neck of her gown, he pulled. The sound of the thin fabric tearing was like an explosion in her ears. Instinctively, she brought the knife up, aimed squarely at Fabien’s belly. But at the last moment, she found herself unable to make the lethal strike, and her hand veered aside, sending the blade through the flesh above his hip.

Barely registering his cry, Adrienne ran. The study! She had to reach the study! A vase tumbled to the floor and shattered as she jostled the table, but she did not hear it. Nor did she feel her shoulder collide with a doorjamb as she skidded into the library.

She detoured toward the French doors, hoping that if she opened them, Fabien would be fooled into thinking she had escaped onto the balcony. Clumsy with panic, her fingers fumbled with the stubborn rusted latch. In a burst of frustration, she struck the door with her fists, and her hand slipped and went through the glass. She saw the blood but felt no pain. She struck the door again. This time it sprang open, and she ran toward the study.

When she slammed the study door behind her, her breath was burning in her throat, and for a fraction of a moment, she leaned back against the door. A bizarre pattern of red and black swirled in front of her eyes blinding her for a moment. Then she was moving again.

Twisting the key in the lock, she dashed toward the portrait. Her fingers were sliding over the canvas when she heard Fabien’s fist against the door. She jerked, and her hands slid upward. Beginning again, she placed them on the edges of the painting. Something heavy crashed into the door behind her once and then again.

Adrienne froze at the sound of splintering wood, then her hands began to move again—feverishly, frantically. She knew she had to slow down, find the right place at the edge of the painting, and move inward, but she could not make her hands obey. Her palms raced over the canvas. Again and again.

There was another deafening crash behind her. Adrienne looked into Isabella’s eyes watching her from the canvas. “Help me.” Her lips formed the words, but no sound emerged. “Help me.”

Suddenly, Adrienne felt a jolt as if someone had struck her on the back. She hurtled into a void—completely black, completely silent. She wanted to struggle against it, but she could not move. She wanted to cry out, but she could not make a sound. Panic was clogging her throat until she thought she would suffocate with it.

Then, as suddenly as the void had sucked her in, it spewed her out, and she found herself staring at a painting she had never seen before. A painting depicting a naked, alluring Venus cavorting with an amorous, virile Mars.

Afraid to move, Adrienne shifted her gaze and saw elaborately carved posts and wine-red velvet curtains gathered by tasseled golden ropes. She was lying on a bed, she realized, and the voluptuous painting lined its canopy. Where was she? How had she come to be here? Had she fainted before she’d reached the secret chamber? Was she dreaming?

Sitting bolt upright, she saw she no longer wore the blue gown that Fabien had torn at the bodice. Unbelieving, she drew her hands down her body. She now wore a nightdress of the finest white linen covered by a wide-sleeved robe of a richly patterned brocade in scarlet and purple.

Disoriented, she looked around the room. Closing her eyes, she shook her head, wanting to clear it. Surely, she was in the midst of some mad, opulent dream. But every time she opened her eyes, she saw the same lavish bedchamber with dark and richly carved furniture and walls covered by tapestries and hangings of brocade and velvet.

Adrienne slid off the coverlet of purple silk and stood. Carefully, unsure that her legs would carry her, she began to wander around the room. A table loaded with decanters of ruby-red wine, platters of sweetmeats, each one a perfect, tiny sculpture, and bowls of fruit caught her attention. How strange, she thought. It was as if preparations had been made for guests.

She wandered farther. On a low oblong table, a large casket made of finely inlaid mother-of-pearl spilled its precious contents onto the polished wood as casually as children’s toys. Hesitantly, she reached out to touch, barely believing that what she saw was real. Golden chains, strings of sapphires and emeralds, a ruby as large as a pigeon’s egg, ropes of pearls—white, pink, gray, black—shone up at her. She dipped her hands into the jewels for a moment.

Then she looked up and found herself looking into a clever painting made to resemble a mirror. Lifting her hands to touch it, she saw the movement reflected in the glass. She shook her head, certain that it was some kind of trick. The movement of her head was reflected back at her. Disbelief gave way to panic.

Adrienne moved closer and ran her fingers over the features she saw reflected in front of her. Instead of the pert, heart-shaped face with its tip-tilted nose that she was accustomed to seeing, she saw elegant cheekbones and classic features. Instead of black, curly hair, she saw hair that was a rich auburn that curled gently over her shoulders and fell to her hips. She stared into the mirror, shock turning into recognition. She met the dark brown eyes that looked back at her. Eyes she knew well. A minute passed. And then another. Finally, the moment came when she could no longer deny that she, Adrienne de Beaufort, had—through some mysterious quirk of fate—slipped across time and into the body of Isabella di Montefiore.

2

Siena, Tuscany, June 1499

Covering her face with her hands, Adrienne spun away from the mirror in terror. How could this happen? Was this a dream? A nightmare? Was she hallucinating? Had she gone mad? Opening her eyes again, she turned around in a circle, hoping against hope that she would see something familiar. That by some miracle, she would find herself in the surroundings she had known since childhood. That the next time she looked in the mirror, she would see her own features.

But as her gaze skimmed over the glass, she saw the fall of auburn hair over her shoulders, glimpsed features of an imperious beauty. The room remained a luxurious bedchamber of a bygone era. But then her eyes settled on the far wall, and she saw something she had missed when she had first examined the room. There, almost within touching distance, hung the portrait she had grown up with. The portrait of Isabella di Montefiore that guarded the entry to the secret chamber in the Château de Beaufort.

She approached it slowly, step by step. Just as she raised her hand to touch it, the door burst open. Adrienne whirled around and watched a crowd of revelers led by a dwarf in the multi-colored clothes of a jester fill the room.

“There she is!” he cried and danced up to her. “Our blushing bride.” He cackled and brandished a puppet that was loosely stuck on a stick, making its bells jingle.

Her heart in her throat, Adrienne retreated a step. Hidden by the long, wide sleeves of her robe, her hands clenched and unclenched. Her gaze skimmed over the crowd attired in festive, rich clothes. But it was not the clothing of France in 1794. Although her mind was spinning with confusion, she recognized the ornate dress of the Renaissance she had read about.

Her eyes came to rest on the dwarf. Gianni. The realization that she knew his name struck her like a lightning bolt.

I had the dwarf, Gianni, whipped today but only with silken cords. Perhaps that will fire his imagination so that he can better amuse me.

She felt a strange lurch in her stomach as she remembered the offhand comment in Isabella’s journal. She had always wondered what the poor fellow had looked like. She shook her head. No, she thought, this couldn’t possibly be happening. This had to be a bizarre dream. Surely, she would wake up any moment and find herself in her own bed in the Beaufort château.

The dwarf pursued her, his oversize head bobbing as if his thin neck was too weak to support it properly. He jumped up on a tasseled hassock and leaned closer to her, so close that she could smell the spiced wine on his breath. When she retreated a step, he turned to his laughing audience with a grimace.

“Isabella la bella. Isabella the beautiful.” Gianni looked up at her again and something—surprise or perplexity—flickered in his sad clown’s eyes. “Why do you stand there like a cornered doe when you have a night of sport with our new master to look forward to?” He vaulted down from the hassock, hunching his shoulders and pulling in his head as if he were expecting her hand to strike him.

When the blow did not seem to be forthcoming, he straightened. “What’s this?” he demanded, capering out of reach of his mistress’s hands just in case. “Is this the Isabella we know?” Sending his audience an oblique look, he slowly moved his head from side to side. “The Isabella who can slay a man at twenty paces merely by raising an eyebrow?” He pressed his hands that seemed overlarge for his size against his chest and again shook his head.

The crowd laughed uproariously and proceeded to make their own ribald jests.

Adrienne watched the scene with disbelief, her mind insisting that it had to be some kind of illusion or dream. And yet in her heart, she knew that here, now, some supernatural power was at work. She understood what they were saying, she realized. It was the same melodious cadence of the archaic Italian she had painstakingly learned so that she could read Isabella’s journals.

But it couldn’t be, she thought desperately. It was impossible. Surely, if she repeated it often enough, it would be so.

But no matter how her mind, schooled in the logic of the Enlightenment, fought against the realization, in some inexplicable, mystical way, she knew that this was as real as anything in her life had ever been. The mind and soul of Adrienne de Beaufort had traveled back across time almost three centuries to enter the body of Isabella di Montefiore on her wedding night.

“She’s shaking her head,” the dwarf shrieked, hopping from one foot to the other. “Does that mean, Madonna Isabella, that you do not want a night of sport with our new master?” He rattled his puppet again.

A young woman in a dark blue gown rich with precious stones pushed through the crowd. “How could she not want it, my friends?”

Her voice was as high and melodious as the notes a musician coaxes from a flute, yet Adrienne shivered at the sound.

“A night with Alessandro di Montefiore, the most beautiful man in Siena.” She raised a goblet of the finest Venetian glass and drank deeply of the ruby-colored wine within. “The first of many nights,” she added, her mouth curved in a knowing smile.

With a practiced toss of her head, she sent a wealth of golden hair over her shoulder. Putting her goblet into someone’s hand, she fixed her gaze on the man who stood in the doorway, arms crossed in front of him, his expression as dark as his coloring.

“Come forward, Alessandro, and claim your bride.” She laughed. “We cannot wait to see if your prowess and your stamina are as great as those who extol you would have us believe.” Hooking an arm around Adrienne’s shoulders, she beckoned to Alessandro with the other.

Again, Adrienne felt the lightning bolt of recognition. Luisa. This was Luisa Barbiano, Isabella’s bosom friend, with whom she had shared so many secrets. Why then did she feel an icy shiver snake along her spine? Why did she feel an aura of malevolence that seemed to surround the beautiful young woman like a noxious cloud? She jerked away so that Luisa’s arm dropped from her shoulders.

She saw Luisa’s sky-blue eyes narrow, and she met the suddenly appraising gaze as resolutely as the terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach would allow. The smile on Luisa’s lips did not waver, but she did not try to touch her again.

Glancing at the colorful crowd and beyond, Adrienne’s gaze met the jet-black eyes of the man who stood in the doorway, his brows drawn together in a frown. His hair, the blue-black color of a raven’s wing, just brushed his shoulders, framing a face of such perfection that it might have been chiseled of Carrara marble by a master’s hand. Her eyes skimmed over him, and she could not help noticing how his doublet and legwear of white velvet slashed with gold and scarlet were a perfect foil for his dark beauty.

I saw Alessandro di Montefiore face to face for the first time yesterday when we signed the marriage contract in the great hall of the Palazzo Montefiore. I burned with hatred for him. Hatred instilled in me from childhood by my brothers. I burned with hatred, but from the moment I looked into his black eyes, I burned for night to fall. Burned for him to share my bed.

Her eyes widened as she stared at him, and her hand fluttered up to lie between her breasts as if it could still her heart that had begun to pound like a dozen horses galloping in a dead heat. So, this was Alessandro di Montefiore, Adrienne thought, as Isabella’s words spun around in her head. Alessandro, whom Isabella had hated, loved, and finally betrayed. Alessandro, whose death Isabella had atoned for with her own.

As her heart drummed against her hand, Adrienne looked beyond the frown on Alessandro’s beautiful face, beyond the arrogant challenge in the jet-black eyes and saw something she could not quite define. Intensity? Power? Passion? Violence? Yes, she thought. All of them. This was not a restful man. And yet there was something more there. Something softer. Something that made her want to reach out...

Before she could think further, the women in the crowd surged forward to pull her toward the bed. Giggling, chattering, tossing about bawdy remarks and speculation about the night to come, they tugged off Adrienne’s robe before she realized what was happening. But when hands reached for the laces of her nightdress, she pushed at them and tried to turn away. But there were more hands than she could fight off, and the laughter around her rose to a still higher pitch as the laces began to give.

Desperation lending her strength, she swung her arms upward, striking the grasping hands away from her body. Wheeling away, she twisted herself out of the circle of women surrounding her, the carved bedpost a reassuring brace at her back. Realizing suddenly what a picture of disarray she presented, she snatched up the bed curtain, holding the wine-red velvet so that it covered her where her nightdress gaped over her lush breasts.

“No!” she cried. “Lasciatemi! Leave me be!” Her words echoed in her ears as she heard a voice that was not her own speak in a language she knew only in theory.

There was a moment of utter silence before the confusion of voices and laughter rose again, even louder than before. The women surged toward her like a wave, gowns billowing, hands outstretched.

“Stop!” The voice was mellow, but the unmistakable tone of command cut through the noise like a hot knife through butter. All sound, all movement ceased. “Leave her alone.”

As Alessandro moved forward, the crowd parted to let him pass. He strode toward his bride, stopping an arm’s length from her when he saw her dark brown eyes widen still further. What kind of game was she playing, he asked himself testily, a good portion of his irritation directed at himself for allowing her clever performance to touch him. Why was she playing the role of modest, shy virgin when rumor had it that she was not a virgin at all? He had seen her hand flutter helplessly to her heart when their eyes met across the crowd. He had seen the gamut of emotions on her face—shock, distress, bewilderment, fear, wariness. If she was really this good an actress, he cursed silently, she would lead him a merry chase.

His gaze swept over her again, taking in her expression, her stance. He saw the knuckles of her hands that clutched the velvet curtain whiten still further, and his eyes narrowed. This could not possibly be the woman who ordered a servant dealt twenty lashes as casually as she commanded a jester to divert her. The woman who whipped her horse until the beast bled. The woman who, it was whispered, had lain with more than one man.

The din behind him recommenced, and he began to turn around, stilling when he saw Isabella’s hand reach out to him, tremble, and return to clutch the velvet curtain.

“Please, send them away.” Her whisper was barely audible. “Send them all away.”

His dark eyebrows curved upward.

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---