Veiled Passions. Tracy MacNish

eyes, the beauty and the pain in them combined, each magnified by the other.

      If he would seduce her, he would first have to find a way to dispense with his remorse.

      He kissed the delicate skin behind her earlobe again, and once more the sound came from her throat. It was her noises that were feeding his lust, making it impossible to stop what he was doing, no matter how remorseful he felt for doing it. Those little sounds were of pure pleasure, won from an unwilling woman. Matteo was many things, but at the basest core, he was only human.

      “Your melody,” he said against her ear. His fingers were still cupping her face, and he ran his thumb across her lips. They parted beneath his caress, the wetness of her mouth touched him with erotic promise. He held her like the cello, an instrument that would sing under the right touch. “Oh, bella, I would love to play you.”

      Suddenly Kieran was aware of his size, his strength, his height. He was playing her, like a symphony, and the worst of it was she was letting him. Where was her pride, her resolve, her icy guard? How could she have allowed him to so easily manipulate, and yes, play, her? Kieran wrenched free of him and turned like a feral cat, back arched, breath hissing.

      “You’re finished. Give me the manuscript.”

      Surprise registered in his eyes, but Matteo did not otherwise react. He simply gestured to the papers on the chair. “Take it.”

      Kieran stalked across the tiny stateroom and snatched up the bound volume. She made a quick retreat from the cabin, lurching out into the passage as a swell took the ship. With the manuscript clutched to her breasts, she rushed back to her cabin and hurried inside. A few deft motions had the door closed, locked, and barred, and she dumped the bundle on her table before fetching a lantern. There would be no waiting until morning; she would read it now. She set the lantern, its wick burning high and bright, down beside the papers.

      And Kieran damned herself again for the slight burning on her neck, where his stiff stubble had scraped her skin. It no doubt had left marks that branded her as the needy fool she had allowed him to know her to be. Well, she thought nastily, he can put that knowledge in his growing bag of insights into her character. It seemed that when it came to Matteo de Gama, she was forever one step behind.

      With shaking fingers that were growing steadily colder in the damp, chilly confines of her solitary stateroom, she plucked open the ribbon that bound the papers and removed the leather cover.

      A moan of dismay was followed quickly by a hot ball of rage. She pounded her fists on the table and snarled down at the words. The entire story was written in Italian, save for one small piece of paper on top, which said in English:

      My dear, lonely heart,

      Please accept my offer of translation. I am available nightly. You know where to find me.

      Warmly,

       Matteo de Gama

      And her thoughts mocked her like a Greek chorus: dispassionate and eternally amused at her stupidity. One step behind, indeed.

      Morning spread its light across the ocean, a pink and yellow-tinged miracle that turned the sea to rippling gold. Kieran stood by the rail, bundled in her warmest clothes and fur-lined cloak. She held both her hands around a thick mug full of strong, steaming tea. The sun climbed the sky, the sea-winds snapped the sails, and the ship’s hull cut through the waves as they sped toward England.

      Off in the distance, the other two English ships were visible, and Kieran knew that Samuel Ellsworth was aboard one of them.

      Men climbed and crawled all around The Boxer, high in the rigging, down in the galleys, and across every deck. And though many stopped to peer at Kieran’s cold, pale-skinned beauty, none dared speak to her. If the sight of her frigid gaze and disinterested demeanor was not enough to discourage talk, the hulking African who stood at her side was. Kieran watched the sunrise in peace.

      Rogan came from the lower deck and spotted his sister and Nilo. He clapped a friendly hand on Nilo’s shoulder and turned to Kieran. “We missed you at dinner last night, but I’m glad to see you’re feeling well enough to emerge.”

      Kieran smiled at her brother; he looked fit and rested and strong, his skin readily darkening with the sun, his eyes a sparkling green. Being at sea had always agreed with him. “How is Emeline?”

      “She’s doing well, I think. I arranged for her meal to be brought into our cabin, though. She was tired last night, and I asked her if she would nap after she ate.”

      “And she agreed?”

      Rogan grinned. “She did. I didn’t have to press the point; the child moved inside her late last night. She was too excited to sleep after that. Stayed awake, hoping to feel it again.”

      “’Tis soon for that, no?”

      “I thought so. Perhaps she is yet farther along.” Rogan shrugged casually, but his face bore the worry they both felt. “I am certain she will be fine, but I asked her to lie abed for my peace of mind.”

      “How long do you think we’ll be at sea?”

      “We could make it in a fortnight, if these winds keep up.”

      Kieran stood on tiptoes to brush a kiss on her brother’s cheek, and then pressed another. “One for Emeline,” she said softly, and turned to make her way back to her stateroom.

      Rogan watched his sister walk away, followed, as always, by Nilo. The former slave dwarfed his sister by two heads and ten stone, and still, she managed to look completely alone.

      He shook his head, wishing again that he knew how to penetrate her walls of cold silence and fragile dignity.

      She’d never been the same since that night that their cousin, Simon, had taken her. Whatever had happened in that house had changed her from the petulant, bratty, funny, and precocious sister he’d once known into who she’d become: A thin shell of a girl, lovely to look upon, impossible to know.

      He resigned himself to that fact that he might never know what had happened. Kieran would not discuss it, not with him, their parents, or his wife. She’d shut herself off, sheathed herself in ice, and grown distant.

      Rogan sighed heavily and turned toward the horizon. He’d hoped Venice would bring a change of pace, a fresh perspective, and perhaps, a taste of another life so that she might reach for something beyond her daily, mundane existence.

      Thinking of Venice, Rogan cast his attention to Matteo, who stood at the rail on the forecastle deck, holding onto the lines and straining into the winds as if he and the ship were one. The Venetian wore a black leather coat and breeches, tightly fitted, elegantly made, and tall boots to his knees. He held a black hat to his side as his hair streamed free in the wind. He stood out like a pirate amidst the plain cotton breeches and thick wool sweaters of the crewmen milling around him.

      “Enjoying the morning?” Rogan asked as he approached Matteo de Gama.

      “Yes, yes, it is…” he struggled to find the appropriate word in English. “Awesome.”

      Matteo gestured to the sky, a vivid blue dotted with fluffy clouds, the horizon that stretched into forever, and the ocean, a frothy, white-tipped deep blue. Matteo suddenly laughed out loud, a deep, joyous sound, and pointed below where dolphins raced the ship, cleaving from the water in half-crescent arcs before shooting back into the sea. Flying fish joined the fray, jumping the wakes, their silvery bodies winking in the sunlight.

      “Incredible!” Matteo shouted with glee. He leaned over the rail and then looked back to Rogan, his lean face alight with discovery. “One must never grow tired of this, eh?”

      Rogan grinned. “Aye, when the sea is calm and the winds are good, there’s nothing that compares.” He joined Matteo at the rail, clasped his hands behind him and enjoyed the sea for a moment, casting off his worries and the work that never ended. The wind stung his face, full of salt and spray.

      Matteo spread his arms