The Shadowed Heart E-Book

Nina Beaumont

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

What if you cannot discern between good and evil—even if you have second sight? Chiara, a young, clairvoyant Gypsy, arrives in Venice on the first day of Carnival in 1767. When she sees Luca Zeani with his face of a fallen angel, she believes him to be the man who violated her sister—the man she has vowed to destroy. Why then does her second sight show her a man surrounded by light when she is sure he is a man of darkness? As she starts falling in love with Luca, her quest for the truth becomes all-important. At the same time, Luca becomes involved in a risky conspiracy. Even when the truth is revealed to Chiara, danger and treachery threaten what she holds dear. Will knowing the truth be enough to survive?

Leseprobe

The Shadowed Heart

Magic in Italy Historical Romance Series

Nina Beaumont

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

Epilogue

Bonus Excerpt - Sapphire Magic

About the Author

THE SHADOWED HEART

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: 978-3-903301-18-4

Ebook ISBN: 978-3-903301-17-7

About the Book

What if you cannot discern between good and evil—even if you have second sight?

Chiara, a young, clairvoyant Gypsy, arrives in Venice on the first day of Carnival in 1767. When she sees Luca Zeani with his face of a fallen angel, she believes him to be the man who violated her sister—the man she has vowed to destroy. Why then does her second sight show her a man surrounded by light when she is sure he is a man of darkness?

As she starts falling in love with Luca, her quest for the truth becomes all-important. At the same time, Luca becomes involved in a risky conspiracy.

Even when the truth is revealed to Chiara, danger and treachery threaten what she holds dear. Will knowing the truth be enough to survive?

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

Venice is like no other Italian city, and it is not just its geographical location and network of canals that makes it so. Most Italian cities have a very checkered history, changing hands and type of government multiple times throughout the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Many of them were besieged, plundered, and destroyed in the local conflicts and European wars that took place on Italian soil from the Middle Ages to the 19th century.

Venice, known as La Serenissima or the Most Serene Republic of Venice, was erected on a network of small islands in a swampy area near the northern end of the Adriatic Sea, making it far less accessible to invaders than other Italian cities. It also had a Navy that was willing to defend La Serenissima. As early as the 12th century, it had already become a significant economic power. By the 15th century, the Venetian Republic was not just the city of Venice proper, but included the cities of Padua, Vicenza, Verona, and Ravenna.

This geographical isolation kept Venice away from much of the turmoil that other Italian cities had to endure. However, this isolation also made it a rule-bound, rigid society, where the patricians, who were the ruling class in this oligarchic social order, might have died out if they hadn’t been conquered by Napoleon at the end of the 18th century.

The Libro d'Oro della Nobiltà Italiana (The Golden Book of Italian Nobility), which was published between the early 14th century and Napoleon’s conquest in 1797, was the formal directory of the patriciate in the Republic of Venice. If your name was not in the Golden Book, you were not a proper patrician. In other words, Venetian patricians became a hereditary caste.

The patricians may have been the rich upper-class, but they were still subject to many laws and rules. For example, only one son of a family was permitted to get married, in order not to dilute the inheritance among too many children. Consequently, if this son’s wife did not give birth to a son, this could result in the family dying out. If no male child was forthcoming, sometimes a younger son, was permitted to marry, but this was rare. As early as the late 16th century, the rate of patrician marriages had declined enough that the Great Council decided to sell membership titles for 100,000 ducats each. (Trying to figure out historical currencies in today’s money is always a bit dicey. However, we know that a ducat contained 3.5 grams of gold, so at today’s gold price of $58.08 per gram, this would have been over $20 million.)

The low number of marriages resulted in women being coerced to enter convents as the only proper status for a patrician woman was deemed to be wife and mother or nun. There were periods in Venice when as many as 60% of all patrician women were forced to take the veil.

As a result, some nunneries were more dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure than to the pursuit of prayer and good works.

In The Shadowed Heart, I do take some liberties with the marriage laws to give my characters their HEA.

The Venetian patriciate was supposed to be an egalitarian society. This resulted in so-called sumptuary laws, which prohibited clothing and accessories that were deemed too ostentatious. “Displays of magnificence” were thus forbidden. Many of these sumptuary laws were aimed at limiting wedding expenses, which had become outrageous. However, from what I’ve read during my research, these sumptuary laws were not particularly effective. Conspicuous consumption appears to still have been the order of the day.

There were also dowry laws on the books, but they also appear to not have been very effective at limiting dowry inflation. Apparently, dowries could go as high as 40,000 ducats because patricians decided to interpret dowry laws as minimum requirements instead of maximum limits.

From the 16th century on, the political and economic power of Venice began to gradually decline and by the mid-18 century, the time when The Shadowed Heart is set, it was in its sunset years. Venice still offered a rich trove of works of art and attracted visitors from all over Europe. And, as is so often the case when a culture or society is on the down swing, it was decadent and offered many amusements and pleasures. During this period, Venice became party central for the glitterati of Europe. It is not a coincidence that one of the famous men of this period was Venetian native Giacomo Casanova.

For anyone interested in exploring any of these questions further, I can recommend the website

https://nobilitytitles.net/nobility-articles/Nobility-of-Venice.html

This website also provides information on purchasing a title today, with prices between €1500 and €20,000.

For some amusing information about being a woman in Renaissance Venice, check out

http://www.gildedkisses.com/2016/08/keep-thee-from-nunnery-primer-on-being.html

1

Venice, October 1767

The first day of Carnival

Chiara’s hand stole toward the slim dagger concealed at her waist as the man who held her arm so tightly turned her away from the brightly lit Piazza San Marco. Her breath quickened as he steered her down a shadowy passageway, which was just wide enough for three people to walk abreast, but the handle of the weapon dug comfortingly into the palm of her hand and kept panic at bay.

If he noticed her apprehension, the man ignored it as he hurried her along. Finally, he stopped in front of a door, the wood faded and cracked with age and moisture. Raising his hand, he knocked twice with his fist.

“We’re here,” he announced, giving her a fleeting look.

“You told me you would take me to the house of a great lady.” Chiara wrenched her arm out of his grasp and shifted away, prepared to run or to use her dagger, whichever seemed more expedient. “I do not believe that a great lady would go near such a miserable place.”

The man looked down at the young Gypsy. The flickering light of the single lantern that hung above the door gave her skin a sallow cast, but he had seen it in daylight and knew that it had the golden color of a ripe apricot. The eyes of a startling blue were wary but held no fear.

She had spirit, he thought. He would keep her for a while, and she would make him a tidy sum. And when he was done with her, there were plenty of back-alley pimps who would take her off his hands. He felt a small flash of guilt, but it was easy to suppress it with the image of his daughter, who lay so still in her bed no matter what new and expensive treatments the doctor invented for her.

“It is as I told you. This is the casinò of Signora Giulietta Baldini, the widow of Ser Luigi Baldini.” He had no trouble injecting a smooth confidence into his voice, for—this time—he happened to be telling the truth.

“If you were from Venice,” he continued, “you would know that he was a very rich man. And you would know that Venetian ladies receive guests in their homes only on formal occasions. They have little houses like this one where their guests can enjoy themselves as they please in more intimate surroundings.” His fleshy mouth curved in a mocking grin. “But isn’t that something you should know? If you truly have the sight, that is?” He reached for her arm.

“I see what is given to me to see. Sometimes it is a great deal, and sometimes it is nothing at all.” Chiara evaded his grasp. “Having the sight does not make me all-knowing.”

The man laughed, the sound echoing a little between the high buildings. “You don’t have to be all-knowing, little one.”

In fact, he thought, it was better for her that she was not. He leaned down toward her, his movement distracting her from the hand that snaked out from beneath his voluminous black cloak to curl tightly around her arm.

“All you have to do is tell a few fortunes like you did in the piazza this afternoon.” She had wrapped a shabby black shawl tightly around her, but an expanse of pale skin remained visible above the ruffle of her dress, and his gaze skimmed approvingly over her. “And be pleasant to Donna Giulietta’s guests.”

The door opened with a creak, and Chiara turned to see a footman in costly green and gold livery holding a large candelabra.

“You are late, Manelli. Donna Giulietta is getting impatient.” The footman turned sharply and moved toward the narrow staircase.

Her fingers on the hilt of her dagger, Chiara allowed herself to be pulled into the small entry.

A small table with curved legs, chairs upholstered in rich wine-red velvet, and expensive candles in gilt sconces on the walls gave some small reassurance that this house was indeed that of a great lady. Laughter and the sound of a mandolin drifted down the stairs, together with the scent of coffee, perfume, and warm candlewax.

She thought of the coins she had earned today and tucked into the shabby purse she wore around her waist. She thought of the coins she had been promised for the evening’s work and how they would enable her to pay for her sister’s care at the small farm she had found near Padua. But, most of all, she thought of how it could bring her one step closer to finding her father and getting the revenge that had been the focus of her life for more than two years.

Chiara lifted her gaze to the florid face of the man the footman had called Manelli. “Let go of my arm,” she said softly. As a surge of power pulsed through her, she divined greed and an almost casual brutishness, but the anxiety she sensed in him was stronger than either one, so she looked at that more closely. An image rose of a young woman lying in a bed. She saw the woman sit up and hold out her hand to Manelli. “Babbo,” the woman said and smiled. “Daddy.”

As Manelli looked into the young Gypsy’s eyes, they lost all expression until they became as blank as glass. After a moment, he watched the strange light fade from her eyes. He felt an icy chill along his back and told himself that it was only the October wind blowing in from the still-open door.

Blinking, Chiara focused on Manelli’s face. He had grown a little pale beneath the ruddiness, and she gave a satisfied little nod. “Don’t worry. Your daughter will be healthy again.” He stared at her, and she saw a desperate hope seep into his eyes. “It is so,” she said. “I have seen it.”

Turning away, she moved to follow the footman up the stairs toward the blazing lights.

Irritated by Giulietta’s inane chatter, Luca Zeani turned away and slung one leg carelessly over the arm of his chair. Picking up a mandolin, he plucked its strings absently. He heard the jingle of coins in the next room and briefly considered joining one of the games. Perhaps a few hands of faro at high stakes would speed his pulse a bit and burn off the indolence that had crept into his blood since his return to Venice.

But the languor that seemed to infect all of Venice kept him in his chair, his long, slender fingers idly strumming the mandolin. His half-open eyes were fixed on a gilded stucco border near the ceiling, but what he saw was the sunlit blue of the open sea.

The ache of longing for the sharp, clean air of the sea drifted through him, but even that did not rouse him from the languidness. It was so easy to give oneself to pleasure in this city where no one seemed to think of anything else.

The atmosphere of temptation and sensuality took hold like a fever, he mused, making the pleasures it offered the only reality. More real than the fact that he was in Venice to speak to the Great Council in the name of Admiral Angelo Emo, demanding more men and ships to fight the Barbary pirates. More real than the masked man who had approached him to speak seductively of freedom and renewed vigor for the sickly Venetian Republic.

He felt Giulietta rise from her seat beside him and gave a small sigh of relief. She was very beautiful, and in bed, she was as accomplished as a high-priced courtesan, but otherwise, she was a tiresome woman. The showy necklace of rubies and diamonds that he had thought to give her as a parting gift had been in a cabinet in his apartments for weeks, but somehow it always seemed simpler to allow things to go on as they were.

When he felt a touch on his shoulder, Luca looked up in surprise, not having heard anyone approach. But there was no one beside him.

Sitting up straight, he looked around him to see who could have touched him. Across from him, an elderly man dozed in his chair. On his other side, a masked couple was engaged in such fervid flirtation that they seemed in imminent danger of forgetting that they were in public.

He looked across the room to where Giulietta stood speaking to a heavy-set man and a tall young woman, wearing a multi-colored skirt that molded to her hips—and again felt an impact. But this time he would have sworn that it was a woman’s hand that brushed against his skin just above his heart.

Putting the mandolin aside, he leaned forward, his hands propped on his ivory-colored silk breeches. Deliberately, he met the young woman’s gaze. She was staring at him with such undisguised animosity that he stiffened, his own eyes narrowing.

Intrigued, he rose and sauntered to where Giulietta stood, cupping his hand around her neck more by habit than desire.

“What have we here?” he asked, never taking his gaze away from the Gypsy’s eyes. In the blue depths that were the color of the Adriatic when the midday sun shone upon it glimmered hatred, colder and more relentless than he had ever encountered.

“A Gypsy fortune-teller. She will look into our guests’ future and then”—Giulietta paused and gave a malicious little laugh—“entertain them. An amusing little diversion, don’t you think, caro?” She looked up at Luca, while leaning back to press her neck still more firmly against his fingers.

Giulietta’s words passed by Luca unheard as he stared into the young Gypsy’s eyes. He had made his share of enemies in his twenty-seven years, but he had never seen such loathing, not even over the point of a sword.

For the first time in weeks, he felt the prickle of real excitement. A riddle to solve, he thought. A riddle involving a woman whose face would have done justice to one of Titian’s portraits. As he tore his gaze away from her eyes to allow it to drift over her, he felt an absurd pleasure in her lack of artifice.

The curls that fell beyond her shoulders in a tangled black mass had obviously never seen the creams and lotions Venetian women used to bleach their hair to a fashionable blond color. Her lips, the color of a ripe peach, needed no rouge. Her golden skin was untouched by powder, and instead of a beauty patch, there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

He felt his body tighten with that first, pure, sweet rush of arousal, untainted by skillful tricks or stimulants. His gaze returned to her eyes.

They were still trained on him, but they were strangely unfocused now as if she were looking far beyond his face. Baffled by the sudden change, he found his interest piqued still further. This was definitely a puzzle he wanted to solve.

It was him. Chiara stared over the lady’s shoulder, not quite believing what she was seeing. That hair, the color of ripe wheat, unpowdered and uncurled in defiance of fashion, merely tied back carelessly with a dark ribbon. That chiseled, perfect profile.

No, she thought, shaking her head to clear it. She must be mistaken. It could not possibly be him. She could not possibly have the good fortune to stumble by chance across the man she hated so fiercely. Perhaps even more than she hated her father.

Then he turned to face her, and she knew she was not mistaken. There could not be another mouth like that in the whole world, its sensuality promising both pleasure and cruelty. This is what Lucifer must have looked like, she thought. The fallen angel who had chosen to rule in hell rather than serve in heaven.

Despite the hatred within her that left a vile taste on her tongue, she found herself aware—much too aware—of the man’s beauty.

He stood in front of her, close enough that she could have reached out and touched him. Beneath the cover of her shawl, her hand moved to the dagger hidden in the folds of her clothes and touched the hilt. This dagger had spilled his blood once before, and it would spill his blood again.

She drew her hand away from the metal with an effort. Not today, she told herself. She would have her revenge, she swore, but not today.

As Chiara stared at him, the hatred inside her was suddenly pushed aside as if by an invisible hand, and she heard that voice within her. The voice of the spirit that sometimes called to her, telling her to dip down to that shadowy region of half-hidden perceptions and images and look inside the man who stood before her.

She saw light. A clear, pure light like the rays of the rising sun. She searched for the darkness, for the evil she was certain would be there. But all she saw was the light. And still she looked. Surely, this was some kind of trick, a clever ruse to blind her.

It was then that she saw it.

Behind the figure wreathed in light, she saw the dark apparition. She recognized his perfect features, his fine form. Recognized, too, the evil aura that surrounded the dark figure. The aura that was almost palpable.

So, he was versed in the secrets of the occult, she thought. He wanted to trick her, to blind her with his light so that she would not see his darkness. But he would not succeed, she thought triumphantly, for she had seen the evil.

Pulling herself from the world of images back to reality, she saw that he was still looking at her. There was more than curiosity in his expression. He was looking at her in the way that men looked at women.

But it was not the devilish, naked lust that she had seen that night in the Gypsy camp on the outskirts of a small town in Tuscany. The lust that had been glittering in his dark eyes even after he had slaked it on the unwilling body of her sister.

This time it appeared in a different guise. This time it was a desire that was far more subtle, far more seductive. For a fraction of a moment, it reached out to touch her before she was able to draw back and protect herself against it.

“Well, get on with it.”

Giulietta’s sharp voice intruded into Luca’s sensual reverie. He watched the odd glow fade from the young Gypsy’s eyes. For a fraction of a moment before the hatred returned, he saw a softening, as if he had touched a string within her that had resonated with a harmonious sound.

“But get rid of that ugly black shawl of hers.”

The petulant tone of his mistress’s voice had Luca looking at her with irritation. It occurred to him that this was the strongest emotion that he had felt toward her in days. Perhaps it really was time to finally give her the ruby necklace and send her on her way.

“You really could have cleaned her up a bit, Manelli.” The ivory sticks of her finely painted parchment fan clattered as she waved it in front of the Gypsy’s face. “But I suppose some might find that wild, crude look appealing.” She shrugged. “Oh, well, just make sure my guests are well pleased, Manelli. I’m counting on you.”

Obediently, Manelli plucked the shawl from Chiara’s shoulders and pulled her toward the first group of guests who were already tittering expectantly.

Giulietta hooked her hand through Luca’s arm to pull him away from the clutch of people who had drawn close together to hear what the young Gypsy had to say, but he resisted.

“You seem inordinately interested in her, caro.” Her rouged mouth pursed in a pout, she leaned close, inviting his caress.

“Wasn’t that what you wanted?” Luca raised an eyebrow. “To pique your guests’ interest?”

“But you’re not a guest, you are—”

He lifted a finger to her mouth to silence her and, extracting his arm from her grasp, shifted so that he could watch the young Gypsy’s face.

The guests crowded around her, thrusting their palms toward her, their voices raised in a babble of questions.

“I do not read palms.”

Luca straightened at the sound of her voice. It was low and husky for one so young. A voice that would go well with Gypsy fires.

“I cannot look at your whole life. You can ask me a question, and if I am allowed to see the answer, I will tell you.”

Murmurs greeted her statement that had been made in a clear voice that carried no apology.

“What a sham,” Giulietta hissed. “Manelli will not see a lira from me.”

Absently, Luca shushed her as someone wearing a bautta, a kind of domino that was the simplest and most popular Carnival disguise, stepped forward. The molded white mask covered the upper two thirds of the face and a black lace hood fell to the shoulders, making it impossible to say if the person beneath the disguise was a man or a woman.

The figure briefly lifted a black tricorn hat in a mocking salute and sketched a bow, revealing the dark silk breeches beneath the floor-length black cloak.

“Tell me, will the woman I love finally surrender?” The question was spoken in a scratchy whisper.

Luca watched the young Gypsy’s eyes again grow unfocused, glassy. She went completely still, so still that she did not even seem to be breathing.

Minutes passed. Then Luca saw her chest move with a deep breath, saw her eyes lose that odd, empty expression. She looked directly into the eyes visible through the slits of the mask.

“The woman you love will surrender many times,” she said. “But she will never surrender her heart.”

“Why not?” the masked figure asked in a scratchy whisper.

“Because her heart belongs only to herself.”

The figure made a gesture of disbelief with a gloved hand.

“No man will ever love you better than you love yourself, madonna.”

Gasps of surprise and flustered giggles greeted her words.

Manelli gripped her arm and leaned close to her ear. “In Venice, the mask is to be respected above all things.”

Chiara wrenched her arm away and stepped away from the man’s smell of onions and cheap wine. “Those who do not want to know the truth should not ask me questions.”

“Leave the poor girl alone,” the masked figure said, the voice undisguised now and obviously female. “She truly spoke only the truth.”

The woman laughed, reached into a pocket, and handed Chiara a gold coin. Then she turned sharply, her cloak belling out for a moment before it settled around her again and strode toward the door.

There was a moment of stillness, for everyone had recognized the voice, although no one was impolite enough to acknowledge that openly. It was the fabulously wealthy and eccentric Lucrezia Paradini. Lucrezia Paradini who had broken every rule in an already permissive society. Lucrezia Paradini who had outlived three husbands while half the patrician women in Venice took the veil for lack of marriage-minded men.

Everyone in the room seemed to start talking simultaneously at this sign of approval and began to press closer to her. Suddenly, everyone was eager to have the Gypsy answer their questions.

But Chiara pushed her way past the people milling around her. She had to talk to the woman in the mask. For the few moments she had looked inside this woman, she had felt the presence of her father. She had not envisioned him, but he had been there just the same. In some odd way, he had been there.

She had to discover if the woman knew him. Perhaps she was the key to finding her father. Perhaps she was the key to her revenge.

“Madonna!” Chiara reached the door to see that the woman was already halfway down the stairs. “Wait, please.”

The woman turned, her mask ghostly in the dim light. “I must hasten to find that surrender you promised me.” She raised her hand in a wave. “Perhaps we will meet again.” She waved again and ran down the stairs, her cloak floating behind her.

“What do you think you’re doing? Are you mad?” Manelli rushed to her side and grabbed her, afraid that she would flee. He did not want Donna Giulietta even more displeased with him.

Chiara shook off his hands. She would find the woman, she swore to herself, and through her, she would find her father—after she had wrought the retribution that a kind fate had placed in her path. Her eyes searched out the blond man in the crowd.

Yes, she thought, as she returned to where the crowd stood waiting for her. Today had brought her good fortune and vengeance—more vengeance than she had ever hoped for—would be hers.

His arms folded across his chest, Luca leaned against a wall covered with leather stamped in a fine gold pattern. He had not taken his eyes off the young Gypsy for the past hour. He had watched as she seemed to descend time after time into some secret place, her eyes becoming unfocused and blank, her body growing as still as if she were dead. And when she moved again, she had every time said something that impressed the questioner with its accuracy.

He considered himself an enlightened, pragmatic man. A man who did not believe in the supernatural—not in Gypsy fortune-tellers, not in divine deities—so he was certain that this had to be some kind of trick. And he was determined to find out just what her trick was.

He was even more determined to find out why she looked at him with such hatred in her eyes. And perhaps—perhaps to change the hatred to something softer. He acknowledged the excitement she aroused in him. Acknowledged it and relished it. It had been a long time since he felt anything so strong, so real.

“No! That is untrue what you say there!” The man’s reedy voice rose hysterically over the hum of conversation. “I will have you turned over to the Inquisitors …”

Giulietta moved quickly toward the man shouting, her hooped skirts of oyster-shell colored satin making her look like a caravel in full sail.

“But my dear Savini, how can you get so agitated about the words of a silly little Gypsy?” She wound her arm around his and tugged him away, at the same time signaling Manelli with her eyes. “Would you expect her to speak gospel truth?” She smiled up at him. “Now, I have a little proposal for you on how we shall resolve this.” Leaning closer, she whispered in his ear.

Luca watched how Giulietta skillfully soothed the disturbance. Within moments, she had poor Savini under her spell. The guests had dispersed around the room and were drinking coffee and brandy again, gossiping desultorily as if nothing unusual had happened. And Manelli had bundled the young Gypsy off to one of the small side rooms.

He pushed away from the wall and followed them.

2

“Are you mad?” Manelli shouted. “How can you speak of such things as alchemy?”

Luca stepped into the room and closed the door behind him so softly that neither Manelli nor the young woman heard him.

“I know nothing of al-alchemy.” Chiara stumbled over the unfamiliar word. “I only said what I saw. And I saw the man putting a black stone in a bowl of liquid, waiting for it to turn into gold.”

“Dio, be silent.” Manelli pressed his hands to his ears. “Just listening to you would make me guilty in the eyes of the Inquisitors.”

“Why did you bring me here if you did not wish me to speak the truth?” Chiara demanded. She wanted to run, but something kept her standing there, as if her feet had been planted in the ground. “I want the coins you promised me.” She held out her hand.

“Sei pazza! You’re mad!” Manelli tapped a finger against his forehead. “You may have called down the Inquisitors upon my head.” He began to pace. “The bravest man trembles at the mere thought of the dungeons in the Doge’s Palace. And now you”—he pointed a meaty finger at her—“you dare to ask for money?”

“You promised you would pay me to use the sight.” There was no petulance, no whining in her voice, only a resolute tenaciousness.

“Be grateful if all I do is not pay you.” He stopped in front of her, towering over her menacingly. “I could turn you over to the Holy Office to be tried for witchcraft.”

Chiara stared up at him. Rage had lived within her since she was a child, watching her father treat her mother worse than he would treat a servant. Now it sprang to life, just as a smoldering fire springs into flame at a breath of air. Her arm brushed against the dagger at her waist, but it did not even occur to her to reach for it. She had a better weapon for this toad of a man.

“It would not go well for you to cheat me.” Her voice lowering, she shifted closer to him. “Do you know what Gypsies do to those who cheat them?”

Paling, Manelli retreated from her, making the horned sign against il malocchio, the evil eye, with forefinger and little finger of his right hand. “I-if you promise to do what you are told, I will pay you.” His gaze shifted away from her face.

Chiara’s eyes narrowed. If he thought to cheat her, she thought, she would …

“Leave us, Manelli. I wish to speak to the Gypsy.”

Like matching puppets, both whirled to face Luca.

“B-but, signore, Donna Giulietta—”

“Leave Donna Giulietta to me.” Although he was not aware of it, Luca’s chiseled features grew as cold as if they were carved from ice at the unaccustomed contradiction. “Out.” He looked at Manelli’s sweating face in disgust and tipped his head toward the door.

The door behind Luca opened, and he turned to see Giulietta with Savini in tow.

“Why are you here, Luca?” Giulietta demanded.

“I could ask you the same question, cara.” Even as he addressed her, his gaze skimmed over Savini. The man was staring at the young Gypsy with undisguised lecherousness, and Luca’s eyes narrowed as he returned his gaze to his mistress. “Or have you brought Savini here to take his pound of flesh from the girl for telling the truth?”

Chiara’s eyes widened as the terrible understanding of what was happening penetrated her mind. Why she had been brought to this room. She understood that this scarecrow of a man with his protuberant eyes intended to take her body. And all these people standing around her intended to allow him to do it.

She suppressed the cry of protest, of fear that rose in her throat. Like a wild animal circled by hunters, she remained perfectly still for one moment, her eyes darting from one to the other. Then she ran.

Luca had his back to the Gypsy, but by some instinct, he was aware of her intention before she ever moved. Spinning on his heel to face her, he blocked her way so that she slammed fully into his body. Capturing her in his arms, he held her relentlessly as she began to fight like a wild thing, twisting and turning within his harsh embrace.

Confident of his muscular body, toughened from years of seafaring life, Luca curbed his strength, not wishing to hurt her.

Grimly determined, Chiara fought on. He was a soft fop, she assured herself, with his silks and brocades and lace. He was evil and brutal, but he was a coward. He had run from her once before, after all.

Twisting her body, she raised her bent arm as high as she could and then drove it back, plowing her elbow into his middle.

Luca swore as she struck his midriff, but he only tightened his grip. Still, she fought him. Suddenly, she bent like a poplar sapling in the wind, and before he realized what she intended, she had sunk her teeth into his wrist.

Dropping all pretense of civility, he grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her head back. “Be still, damn it,” he growled into her ear. “I mean you no harm.”

“No!” Her voice rose. The memory of how his eyes had glittered so demoniacally that night almost three years ago enabled her to fight on even though her strength was flagging. “Let me go!” She managed to free one hand and, forming her fingers into claws, gouged deep scratches into his neck and cheek before he captured her hand again.

His patience snapped. Unleashing his full power, Luca manacled her hands with his and twisted them behind her back, ignoring her cry of pain. Holding her wrists with one hand, he pressed his other arm against her throat, drawing her flush against him.

Suddenly he laughed, surprising himself and everyone else. “What a wildcat!”

As he pinned her against him, Chiara stilled, the strength flowing out of her abruptly, as if he had severed some lifeline by pressing her against his body. The light surrounded her again. And warmth. She shook her head in disbelief. Again, she looked for the dark apparition, but this time it eluded her.

As she surfaced from the vision, her head was pressed against his shoulder, the arm under her chin forcing her head upward. He had bent his head toward her so that she found herself staring directly into his eyes.

They were the color of the night sky at its darkest hour, but there were tiny specks of gold strewn throughout the blackness, like points of light. She waited for the malevolent glitter, but it did not come. Then she realized that his eyes were smiling at her.

“Well?” he asked, his voice reflecting the friendly curve of his lips. “Have you decided to surrender?”

Because life had taught her that it was sometimes wise to yield in order to fight another time, she lowered her eyes in a gesture that could be taken for assent.

“I do not surrender,” she said softly. “But I cannot fight against your strength.”

“A wise decision. Now, if I release you, will you remain still and not try to maim me?”

She gave a jerky nod.

“Look at me.”

Hesitating for a long moment, Chiara felt him push her chin upward with his arm. Reluctantly, she lifted her lids. As their eyes met and held, she felt the hatred within her pale. Panicking, she tried to hold it, but all she could see was the brilliance that rose from the recesses of her mind to surround the man who held her until he seemed enclosed in an orb of light.

Luca saw the panic in her eyes and felt something within himself soften.

“I won’t hurt you.” He lowered his arm slightly so that it lay just above her breasts. Cautiously, he loosened the fingers that shackled her wrists.

When Chiara immediately tried to move away from him, his hands tightened again.

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---