Veiled Passions. Tracy MacNish

springs, needed to be let go with a firm, slow release. Let them go too quickly and they would bounce around, wild and uncontrolled.

      Matteo had once been one of those boys himself, running the streets after dark, stealing, pick-pocketing, and cheating at cards. He knew a few things about being let go too early and with no care.

      One of them wrested the coin from another and held it up to the moonlight to assess its value. Shouts of thanks followed Matteo, who waved them off.

      The boldest of their bunch stepped aside, the coin in his fist. He called up to Matteo, who was already three-quarters up his walkway, with his boatmen behind him. “Not a good night to sleep in your own bed, signore.”

      The boys took off at a run like a pack of wolves startled by a gunshot. In the dim light he saw the door to his casino was ajar, and instantly Matteo was on the move, his men on his heels. It was probably DelAmicio’s men, and if so, Matteo and his men would be outnumbered and outgunned.

      Shouts came from inside his rooms, echoing in the entrance alcove. Matteo dashed down his walkway, ran as fast as he could, hearing the footsteps hit a few seconds behind him. They were in pursuit, but Matteo and his men had a good lead.

      They rounded a corner to slip down an alley. It had plenty of doorways that led to other alleys and gardens like a maze, and had served them well in similar situations.

      There were other men posted there, and Matteo was tackled and grabbed as he entered, along with his boatmen. Stilettos hit the ground with metallic twangs and a few shots from pistols rent the air in warning. Two men held Matteo’s arms, one had an ankle. Scrabbling around on the gritty, dirty ground Matteo nearly broke free, but he stopped fighting and froze in place as a cold, iron muzzle pressed against his head.

      “Your time is up,” said the man who held the pistol, his voice muffled behind a mask that bore the face of grinning ghoul.

      Kieran sat by Emeline’s bedside, the two of them working on sewing projects, Kieran on a tapestry and Emeline on a baby’s nightgown in a soft blue cotton. The light of afternoon spilled in through the open windows, as did the air, fragrant and fresh.

      Fully recovered from the previous night’s ordeal, Kieran was gowned in pink silk and ivory lace. Her hair spilled down her back in shiny, dark auburn waves, held back from her face by carved, gold combs.

      The door opened and Rogan stepped in. He smiled at his wife and then addressed his sister. “A word, Kieran?”

      “Of course,” she replied, setting her sewing to the side. Emeline caught her gaze and lifted an eyebrow in question. Kieran shrugged a reply, and followed her brother out of the rooms with an insouciance she did not feel. Her belly flipped over and again and her palms began to sweat. She knew her brother well enough to not like the expression on his face.

      Rogan led the way to Kieran’s rooms, far enough away from his and Emeline’s that they would not be overheard by his wife, an ominous sign. Kieran’s mouth grew very dry when Rogan shut and locked her door. When he turned and faced her, his eyes gleamed like hard, glittering emeralds beneath the black slash of his brows.

      “Why did you lie to me?”

      A dangerous question, for Kieran had lied to her brother so many times she knew not in which falsehood she’d been caught. She remembered Matteo’s words, and kept her chin steady, lips soft. “I don’t know what you mean.”

      Rogan took two steps closer to her. Kieran planted her feet beneath her, determined not to show her fear.

      “Who was the man who pulled you from the canal?”

      “I do not know. I told you last night, I neglected to ask his name.”

      “You are lying. Why?”

      “That would be such a silly thing to lie about, Rogan. Don’t be absurd.”

      Rogan grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to his chest, his fist a hard band around her arm that burned and hurt.

      “I have never been so close to smacking you, Kieran.”

      Real anger gathered in Kieran’s chest like a thundercloud. Yes, she’d lied. That did not give him the right to threaten her. “Go ahead. Hit me. See if you feel better for it.”

      Rogan reached into his coat pocket with his free hand, not relaxing his grip on her arm in the slightest. He withdrew a piece of tattered, stained parchment. “This was delivered less than thirty minutes ago. Why don’t you explain how a man called Matteo de Gama not only knows your name, but he also knows mine and where we are staying? And when you finish with that explanation, you can tell me why he apologizes for contacting you lest your brother find out.”

      Kieran tried to snatch the paper but Rogan was too quick. He held it high above her head. The action was so brotherly in manner that Kieran kicked him in the shins, hard.

      “How dare you read something addressed to me.”

      “Aye, I dared. I suspected you of lying last night, but couldn’t find a reason for your mendacity. I still cannot, but at least now I know my instincts are correct.”

      Rogan dragged Kieran over to the chair by her fireplace and pushed her down. He threw the letter onto her lap, and loomed over her as she unfolded the parchment. Tiny grains of sand fell onto her lap as a musty odor rose from the paper, and she noticed the handwriting, loopy and artistic amidst various blotches and smudges.

      Signora Kieran,

      I write to you from the Leads, trapped in a prison cell across a bridge from the Doge’s palace.

      I ask you for your help. There are false charges brought against me, the most nonsensical of allegations, in fact, that of freemasonry and treason. I ask, who loves Venice more than I? If there is such a man, make him known to me.

      Sadly, there is a powerful man who would see me spend the rest of my days in this cell, and while I do not deny that I once loved his wife better than he, I do not care to accommodate him in this way to satisfy his vendetta.

      Please go to the Doge’s palace and inquire when I will be brought before the Court of the Esecutori contro la Bestemmia. Pity that it is, I am not privy to that information. Once the date and time is known to you, I implore you come and speak on my behalf to the Council of Ten. The events that transpired between us last night will provide some defense of me, as the man claims I committed one of my transgressions just this evening past.

      I do so apologize if this letter jeopardizes anything you may have told your brother, but I am in the direst of straits and you are my shining ray of hope. Surely the Council of Ten will listen to you during this Inquisition, and if possible, your brother Rogan, a duke. Indeed, to have aristocrats vouch for me and my whereabouts will not hurt my case, even if they are English. I mean no offense in this.

      Most sincerely,

       Matteo de Gama

      Kieran brought her face back up to her brother’s after she reached the end of the letter. Honor demanded she do as Matteo asked. He’d pulled her from the canal when she was nothing but a stranger to him. However, she had to deal with Rogan first.

      She stood and calmly laid the letter on the gold, marble-topped table by the chair. “I will go to the Doge’s palace, now, if you care to accompany me.”

      A muscle flexed in Rogan’s jaw. “You’ll first explain why you lied to me.”

      But Kieran knew better than to back down.

      “No. I won’t. I lied for motivations that are mine alone, and they shall remain my private reasons. ’Tis not your concern.”

      “You are my ward. ’Tis nothing but my concern, aye?”

      “Wrong. I am your sister, not your wife or your servant or your child. If I wanted a man to give me orders and demand my honesty, I would marry one of the many who have offered for my hand.”

      Rogan narrowed his eyes, obviously toying with the idea of