Veiled Passions. Tracy MacNish

his face. He wore garments that were similar to everything else she’d seen him wear; it seemed he favored black leather sewn with quilted, colored linings that were visible when he moved. He wore a red shirt, open at the collar, and the color set a striking contrast to his hair and skin.

      He looked every inch the gambler he was, except for one thing: his expression. As he stood there, unaware that she watched him, he was unguarded, and without his usual debonair, sardonic expression, he looked young and rather lost, watching as his home disappeared.

      Kieran looked at him with a woman’s eye and admitted it to herself: He was handsome. Very much so, with his lean cheeks and soul-deep, amber flecked eyes. His mouth was expressive, sensual, and when he looked in a woman’s eyes and smiled, he was dangerously compelling.

      But now, looking like a little boy who was being carted away from the only home he’d ever known, he was ever more so, because he reached to the heart that Kieran protected so fiercely, and touched it.

      He turned and saw her, and strangely, he did not guard his expression. His country faded on the horizon behind him, now barely visible, and he spread his hands as he looked at her, as if to say that they were empty and he was completely alone.

      And Kieran, despite herself, had the urge to go and wrap her arms around him, and lend comfort.

      The feeling unsettled her, and in her confusion, she did what she always did these three years past. She pushed aside her feelings, reached for the comfort of coldness, and turned and walked away.

      Kieran sought out her stateroom and remained there the rest of the day, reading and sewing. Four lit lanterns swung from their iron hooks, casting light and shadows in equal measure. In the corner of her tiny room burned a fat-bellied coal stove, and atop it she heated water for tea. The hour was late; she should have been abed hours ago. Yet, she was still gowned, too chilled to dispense with her woolen clothes.

      Dinner had been served in her room, as had her lunch. Kieran had made excuses, pleading a queasy belly so she could avoid dining with Matteo de Gama. She did not feel up to his scrutiny, nor the disappointment in her brother’s eyes. He had not yet forgiven her for the lies and her unwillingness to explain the reason for her dishonesty.

      Kieran sighed heavily. The seconds crawled by.

      She’d long since dismissed her maid for the evening, and Nilo slept in the cabin directly across the low, narrow passage that led to the upper deck. Three locks barred Kieran’s room, along with an iron bar that she slid into place at night.

      She rubbed her hands together and held them over the stove. It seemed nothing could warm her when she was at sea; the dampness permeated the woolen clothes she wore and seeped to her bones.

      She prepared her tea with expert motions though her mind was distracted. The golden honey slid into the hot water and melted, but Kieran did not bother to admire its amber color or earthy, sweet scent.

      Her mind was elsewhere.

      She could feel the hard press of him behind her when they had been aboard his burchiello. The feel of his breath on her ear, and his words: thrilling, obscene, and tempting.

      “There is a singular delight in serving justice from one’s own hand.”

      Kieran lifted her cup and held the tea she’d brewed for its warmth. A shiver took her. She sipped her hot tea.

      It did not warm her.

      You’ve grown too cold for your youth. Rogan’s words, apropos of the chill permeating her bones, echoed in her mind.

      She cast a glance to her berth, and imagined the night she would spend in shivering, fitful sleep, tortured by her dreams, captive to the night.

      The ship shuddered as it crested a huge swell, and tea sloshed over the rim and scalded her fingers as she struggled to keep her feet beneath her.

      Find something that warms your heart. Again, Rogan, always commanding her with hard words and harsh prompts.

      And in that moment, she was finished fighting.

      Kieran set down the cup and grabbed her cloak. With the flare of fur-lined wool, she settled it over her shoulders and fastened it beneath her chin. She reached back and pulled up the deep hood, hiding her face in the dark cowl. She turned down the lanterns and reached for the locks of her door, hesitating for only a moment to ease the shivering tremble that seized her body.

      She eased the locks open one by one, and noiselessly slid the iron bar away from the door. Then, heart racing, Kieran opened the door. The musty odors of damp wood and tallow smoke permeated the dark passage, and a few lonely, swaying lanterns sent crazy, shifting shadows roaming over the floorboards. The crack beneath Nilo’s room was dark; he slept. Stepping out into the corridor, she closed her door behind her.

      The ship pitched and rolled beneath her feet. Kieran braced both hands on either side of the narrow passage and walked aft. Reaching a short stack of stairs, she climbed up to another deck and saw a yellow sliver of light beneath the door of the cabin she’d heard being readied for a passenger.

      Braced against the frame of the door, Kieran hesitated.

      What would he think? Would he laugh at her, or worse, think her of a lascivious bent as she sought him out alone in the night? She chased her worries with reason.

      No, she told herself. Matteo would breakfast with Emeline and Rogan in the morning. Surely he would not attempt anything untoward. He would know better than anyone else that he’d be at the mercy of Rogan, Nilo, and an entire crew of sailors if Kieran sounded a single cry.

      Buoyed by those thoughts, Kieran raised her fist and rapped on the door, two quick, hard knocks before she lost her resolve.

      A few long moments dragged by, and as she was turning to leave she heard the metallic rasp of the doorknob being turned.

      Matteo leaned his shoulder against the doorway when he saw her, his body limned with the light of many lanterns burning behind him. Though his face was shadowed, Kieran saw the question in his eyes. It was quickly followed by the half-smile that took his lips as he peered into the darkness of her hood and knew who knocked on his door. “Cuore solitario, what brings you?”

      “I am here to discuss your previous offer,” she said crisply. If she did not feel brave, she could at least feign it.

      His smile broadened. “Ah, yes. I should not be surprised. Come in.” He gestured to the tiny cabin as if it were the grand room aboard his elegant burchiello.

      The cramped space was stuffed with steamer trunks that had been stacked and secured with thick ropes. Every surface bore piles of papers weighted with brass disks to prevent them from falling as the ship lurched and moved beneath them. A quill was bleeding on a piece of scrap paper, the open ink pot beside it smudged with use. Books were piled everywhere, the leather volumes cracked and worn. In a corner a cello had been lain in its open case, its rich mahogany gleaming in the golden lantern light.

      And it was warm in the room, so warm that Kieran felt her fingers begin to thaw.

      “I am sorry to intrude,” Kieran said shyly, feeling suddenly out of place. She pushed the hood of her cloak down so it hung at her back. “You are obviously quite occupied.”

      “Writing.” He waved his hand absently at the papers. “It is nothing. The story goes nowhere.”

      “You are a man of letters, then?”

      “Si. Yes. Uomo di lettere,” he murmured softly. “For whatever that is worth.”

      Kieran glanced again at the cello. “And a musician as well?”

      “Of sorts.”

      “And a scholar.” Some of the books were in languages she did not know.

      “One could say that.”

      “Anything else?”

      Matteo shrugged. “Of course. I am many things. One cannot be interesting if one is not