Veiled Passions. Tracy MacNish

am sorry for your troubles,” Rogan said simply.

      Indeed, Matteo thought, grasping his hand in a firm grip. What more can a man say to another when he has witnessed his ultimate disgrace?

      “I must thank you. I know it is a small recompense for the life of my sister, but I am leaving Venice and returning to England. If you choose, you may come with us. It would be my pleasure to allow you usage of one of my London homes, for as long as you wish to remain. ’Tis the least I can do for what you have done for my family.”

      Kieran heard his words and her heart dropped to her feet. No, she thought wildly: No! She could not have Matteo so close to her. Matteo de Gama saw too much, and knew too much for her comfort. How long before Rogan and Matteo became friendly enough for Matteo to tell her brother what she said that night, and worse, what she’d done.

      Memories flashed in sequence. Standing aboard the burchiello, ready to launch herself back into the dark, killing canal; lunging at Matteo with her dagger, trying to provoke him into shooting her; the final disgrace, his lying on top of her and her words, telling him volumes. Her final plea. Please just shoot me.

      Kieran stepped forward. “Rogan, perhaps we are presumptuous in our offer. Signore de Gama speaks French as well as English, and may find Parisian life more to his liking. I have heard that in Paris the climate is far less constraining than life in London. As a Venetian, Signore de Gama may feel quite—inhibited—in England.”

      Rogan faced Kieran, listening, and behind his back Kieran saw Matteo smile at her words. He caught her eye and with the smallest of motions he pointed to his lips and then his chin.

      She averted her eyes and turned her attention fully on her brother, all the more determined that Matteo de Gama not accompany them home to England. This man must not be housed nearby. He must not be afforded entrance to their homes. He just simply needed to not be anywhere that Kieran was.

      Rogan turned back to Matteo. “Whatever you decide, Signore de Gama, I am at your service. Passage to France is certainly something I can provide you.”

      On the heels of Matteo’s greatest disgrace came a new opportunity, handed to him by the intriguing girl’s own brother. He looked at Kieran, her pink dress setting that fine, fair skin to glowing. The wet, ropy hair of the night before gleamed a deep, shining auburn that begged for his fingers. And those eyes, mysterious for all their stormy blue beauty, silently pleading for him to decline Rogan Mullen’s offer.

      It was just as obvious to Matteo that Rogan loved his sister, as it was that he did not know her at all. How desolate it must be for her, he thought to himself, knowing that the greatest loneliness was felt when surrounded by others with whom there is no understanding. Matteo knew that truth with hard-earned knowledge, and looking at her before him, so young and lovely with her raw, ancient eyes beseeching with him to stay at a distance, his decision was made.

      Matteo bowed low. “Your Grace, you honor me with your munificence. I understand your gratitude toward my helping your sister. I maintain that I did not do a great thing, but simply the right thing. However, as my circumstance has been unjustly affected, it is with deep humility and appreciation that I accept your generous offer.”

      Kieran stood helpless. Matteo de Gama was coming to England, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

      He grinned at her, a recklessly inappropriate smile for a man who had just been humiliated and exiled.

      She turned up her nose and sniffed, and that only widened his grin. He swept low into a bow, then straightened and turned to go. Two of the Doge’s guards followed.

      She watched as Matteo was stopped by a woman who’d been seated by the rear of the room, just beside the doors.

      Like most all young women Kieran had seen in Venice, the woman was beautiful: long, shining dark hair framing an exotic face that betrayed her Spanish ancestry. Slashing dark brows moved expressively over vibrant black eyes, and plump red lips pouted as if she held back tears. She grabbed his arm first, to get his attention, her husky voice a stream of rapid Italian. Her hands gestured wildly from her heart to her hair to the Doge’s abandoned seat. She began to weep.

      “Non ci credo,” she cried. Tears fell unheeded down her cheek. “Non lasciarmi, amore!”

      “Mi dispiace,” he replied, his tone soothing. “Mi mancherai.”

      Kieran studied him with interest as he comforted the woman. Matteo de Gama’s appeal to women made perfect sense, she thought, as he held her hand, stroked her arm, and listened to her weep and wail. He paid attention to her the way he had to Kieran on the burchiello, as if she were the only woman in the room, the only woman in the world.

      Matteo withdrew a linen handkerchief from the pocket of his leather coat, and tenderly wiped the woman’s tears. She clung to his arm, her head tilted up to his ministrations, and she seemed to be begging him to take her with him.

      He shook his head to the negative and said, “Tesoro mio, non ti dimenticher moi.”

      These words brought fresh wails. Matteo simply lifted her hand, kissed the back of it, and walked away from her.

      She called after him.

      He kept going.

      She fell to her knees and cried out another plea. “Torna da me!”

      Kieran looked on at Matteo’s retreating form. He strolled away as if taking a walk on a summer day, indifferent to both the weeping woman and the armed guards.

      The dark-haired beauty screamed his name, her voice resounding in the great hall. She remained heedless of the people who watched her undignified display, and buried her face in her hands, dissolving into sobs.

      Matteo de Gama’s footsteps echoed off the marble walls and high ceilings.

      He did not look back.

      4

      The Republic of Venice wore its history with an elegance borne of hundreds of years without real strife. The buildings aged gracefully amidst the peaceful lagoons and canals that comprised its unique charm; unscarred by the cannons and fire of battle. Lack of hardship, however, breeds complacency.

      The Doge saw the need for strength, as the Barbary pirate attacks at sea had shown him just how defenseless the peaceful Republic had become. A law was passed; no ships left Venice unless in a convoy. Requests were put out to other countries, offering the opportunity to build Venice new ships well-suited for attack and defense.

      Rogan Mullen abandoned the bid, much to Samuel Ellsworth’s great disappointment. But with every one of Emeline’s former pregnancies miscarrying in the second trimester, it was of utmost importance to get back to England as quickly as possible.

      However, with Rogan leaving, Samuel lost the bid. It went to the French, and so Ellsworth and the other Englishmen joined the convoy of three ships leaving Venice, all bound for London.

      Daybreak approached, the first few rays of light shining up from behind the sea. The crew was ready to go, and shots fired three in a row, signaling their intent to the other two ships.

      Shots fired in reply, and the great triple-masted, full-rigged frigate shuddered with readiness.

      Kieran was up on deck for the send-off, keeping out of the fray as the crew rushed through the final stages of departure.

      The ropes were untied from the hawsers, and the ship began to move with the tide. The sails slapped and snapped with the brisk breeze and finally took the full weight of the wind, billowing tight. The keel sliced through the water, which foamed and purled around the prow as they picked up speed. The other two ships did the same, and soon they were out to sea, the Republic of Venice behind them.

      Kieran watched until the sun was up, and Venice was nothing more than a dark shadow on the horizon. Her belly growled, ready for breakfast, and she was about to seek it until she saw Matteo de Gama standing alone at the rail.

      She