Nina Beaumont - The Shadowed Heart

“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.

“I must go now.” Curtsying quickly, she moved toward a door that Chiara had not noticed the night before. As the girl opened the door, Chiara caught a glimpse of a corridor. Thinking to explore, she rose, but immediately heard the key turn in the lock.

So everyone was locking her in, she thought, even the servants.

She had barely finished breakfast when the corridor door opened and Zanetta returned, followed by a plain woman wearing a severe brown gown. Several maids carrying gowns, hoops and bolts of fabric trailed after them.

The woman immediately marched up to Chiara, briefly mustered her up and said, “Take off your nightgown so that we can measure you.”

She snapped her fingers and one of the maids came running up carrying a shift. “Put this on.” She fluttered her fingers, first at the flimsy undergarment, then at Chiara. “Quickly now. I don’t have all day.”

Chiara began to protest but thought better of it. After all, if her own clothes had really been burned, she would need something to wear. She quickly exchanged the nightgown for the thin shift and the maids swarmed around her to take her measurements.

“The yellow gown.” The dressmaker gestured at the maids behind her and they came running like well-trained soldiers, carrying the gown and the necessary accoutrements.

Chiara took one look at the gown of yellow silk, the hoop and corset and stepped back. “No.”

“You’re right.” The dressmaker gave her an approving nod. “Yellow makes you look sallow. The blue one.”

The yellow silk was exchanged for pale blue satin.

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