The Shadowed Heart. Nina Beaumont

then I told you that, didn’t I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Where are you taking me?”

      “Home.” He moved toward the door.

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

      Chapter Four

      

      

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Going somewhere?”

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

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

      “Won’t.”

      “Can’t.” He shrugged. “And won’t.”

      “Your tabarro, Don Luca.”

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

      

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

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

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

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

      “Olà, Tommaso,” he called out toward the group of gondoliers who were huddled together at the base of one of the