Winds of Nightsong. V. J. Banis

But by God, she isn’t going to get anything,” Lydia swore, throwing back the coverlet. “I’m getting dressed now, and then you and I are going to pay a visit to our attorneys. That bitch will regret picking a fight with me.”

      Evelyn clapped her hands. “That’s my girl. Welcome back to the living, kiddo.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      Italy was beginning to settle down after the year-long war with the Turks over the rights of Italians in the Turkish colony of Libya in North Africa. Though Libya and the Dodecanese Islands were again under Italian control, there was brewing unrest in the northern parts of Europe. The Balkan Wars had started, the Balkan countries fighting each other for more territory. There were constant rivalries over trade and commerce, everyone battling to control the raw materials, competing for new food sources and new regions to colonize. The German navy was threatening British supremacy on the high seas, and the Russians were hoping to dominate all of the Balkans.

      The city of Venice was a fantasy place where Caroline Nightsong tried to forget her unhappiness as she travelled the canals that took the place of streets, visited the museums, churches, and palaces. The city seemed far removed from all turmoil. This peaceful serenity was what kept Carolina rooted to the place. She wanted to think of herself as a woman alone in an enchanted land where the sordidness of her past did not exist. Though only twenty-four and extremely beautiful, she didn’t feel beautiful. She always wore her thick black hair as plainly as possible, hid her sparkling green eyes and flawless complexion behind broad-brimmed hats.

      Part of her wanted desperately to go back to Nob Hill. But a larger part of her shivered at the thought of returning to the home of her grandmother, who’d only serve as a constant reminder of everything Caroline wanted to forget. Caroline still found it almost impossible to believe that Adam Clarendon was her brother. How could she have had sex with him and not have felt some intuitive warning of their blood-relatedness? He wasn’t a full brother, only a half-brother, according to her grandmother. Still, it terrified her to recall the sexual pleasure she’d experienced in the arms of a man forbidden her.

      “Dear God, I still love him,” Caroline cried aloud, feeling the sting of tears at the back of her eyes. He was several years younger than she, but that didn’t matter. He was so sophisticated, so British, with his charming accent and courtly manners. She was sure he loved her as desperately as she loved him. He had to love her.... He had to, she kept telling herself.

      She cried into her hands and then began shaking her head. “No, this is madness.” She would have to put Adam out of her mind, forget she’d ever even met him.

      Of course she’d been telling herself that every day since running away from him that afternoon in London. She still insisted to herself that there was no actual proof that he was Adam MacNair and not the son of Lord and Lady Clarendon. But deep down, she knew the truth.

      As Caroline stood on the balcony of the Palicio D’Oro looking through her tears at the bobbing gondolas, she thought she might have made a mistake coming to Venice, land of beauty and romance. A gondolier with his straw hat and fluttering red ribbon was crooning softly to a couple wrapped in each other’s arms, oblivious of Caroline standing there, crying softly. The sky was the color of a robin’s egg, with clouds as wispy and white as fluttering feathers. It was a clear, perfect day, a day she should be spending happily out-of-doors instead of moping here in her room, wishing for the impossible.

      She pushed herself away from the balustrade and went into the sitting room with its high, ornate ceiling and heavy Italian Renaissance furnishings. She’d go into Saint Mark’s Square and have some lunch at a little cafe, she decided. The square was one of her favorite spots in Venice, a place where she could sit, almost unnoticed, sipping an aperitif as she watched the constantly changing parade.

      She put on a blue dress and wide, floppy hat. Her hair she knotted tightly in a bun at the back of her neck. The mirror told her she looked the way she wanted to look, like a woman alone who wanted to be left alone.

      The sun was warm but not hot on her back as she turned along the canal, crossed one of the stone bridges with its wrought-iron railing, and headed toward the square. She’d been warned of the canals’ odious smell during the hot summer days, but she noticed nothing objectionable. But then, she thought with a sigh, so many people constantly found fault with perfection. And Venice, to her, was the perfect city.

      As always, the moment she stepped into the square something propelled her to its very center. There she stood gazing up at the giant arches, the elaborate carvings, the vaulted windows, the gilt and rich colors, all fused together in one magnificent tapestry so breathtakingly beautiful one could only stare in disbelief. Pigeons fluttered, circling and recircling before alighting as one white mass.

      She saw Count Cambruzio sitting alone at one of the small tables under an orange-and-white awning. He was engrossed in his newspaper and didn’t look up as she walked toward him. Caroline hesitated, wondering for a moment whether she wanted the company of this handsome young man or would rather sit alone and think about Adam.

      Adam is lost to you, a voice inside her chided. She stepped forward and spoke the count’s name. “Tonio.”

      He got to his feet immediately, a brilliant smile showing perfect white teeth. His hair was black and slicked back from his forehead; his eyes were the color of polished onyx.

      “How nice to see you,” she said, extending her hand.

      He bowed over it, touching it with his lips. “My dear Caroline, this is a wonderful surprise meeting you like this.”

      “I know I should be back at the hotel catching up on my correspondence, but the day was too lovely to waste indoors.”

      “You did not return my call last evening,” he said, sounding hurt.

      “I met some American friends who invited me to the opera. I didn’t get your message until I’d returned to the hotel and then it was much too late to call you.”

      “And this morning?”

      “I slept late. I was going to call later today.”

      He shrugged. “It wasn’t of any great importance, only that I would have liked to have had dinner with you again.” He reached for her hand. “I am afraid I am becoming much too fond of you, Caroline.”

      Caroline laughed softly and tactfully took back her hand, motioning with it to a passing waiter. “Cinzano, per favore.”

      “Signore?” the waiter asked Tonio.

      “Due,” he said curtly, annoyed at the man’s failure to address him by his royal title.

      Tonio leaned across to her. “And did you enjoy the opera with your American friends?”

      “Yes, very much, though Otello is not one of my favorites, I’m afraid.”

      “Your friends...they didn’t, er...make you homesick for your San Francisco?”

      Caroline laughed. “No, I have no plans to return to the States for quite some time, Tonio, if that is what you’re asking.”

      He smiled broadly. “Good.” He took her hand again, rubbing his finger suggestively over the palm. “You will have dinner with me this evening, yes?”

      “If you like.”

      “I would like very much. There is something I want to ask you.”

      “Oh?”

      He looked around. “It is not a question a man asks of a woman in a public place like this. There must be flowers and music and soft candlelight and wine.”

      Caroline felt a slight tingling sensation as she withdrew her hand. “Ah, you romantic Italians,” she sighed. “I trust your question will not be an indelicate one, Signore,” she said with an impish smile and a raised eyebrow.

      He continued to smile. “And if it were, would that frighten you away from me?”

      Caroline cocked her head as her wineglass was set before