Veiled Passions. Tracy MacNish

moved to the door of the living quarters and opened it, revealing a well-lit room with walls of mirrors and creamy woods, marble floors, and velvet furniture. A huge gaming table dominated the room, and atop it a case held chips and decks of cards.

      He glanced in and viewed the sumptuous room as if through her eyes, wondering why she perceived him as a threat when he’d just saved her life. “I cannot help you unless you come in, dry off, and tell me where you need to go.”

      She took two steps back and looked at the water, as if thinking of pitching herself back into the canal to escape him.

      Matteo’s patience snapped. He hadn’t gone to the trouble of saving the girl only to have her take her life by jumping off the deck of his vessel. He gestured for his boatmen to grab her and haul her into the cabin.

      He retrieved his pistols and shoved them back into his waistband, following his men and the squirming, screaming girl. The boatmen did as they were instructed and then left, closing the door behind them.

      Matteo locked the door lest the girl get more ideas about escaping. How absurd that she seemed so fearful, as if he were her abductor.

      He removed his wet jacket and tossed it to the floor, then reached for her wig and mask. She slapped his hands away and hesitated as if unsure of what to do. Finally, the discomfort must have decided for her and she ripped them away herself.

      She stared at him defiantly, the silver wig dripping from her left hand, the mask dangling from the right.

      Wet auburn tresses hung in thick locks around an oval face, finely boned and exquisitely formed, her skin so fair as to be likened to ivory. But it was her eyes that captivated him, dark and stormy blue, fringed by thick, spiky lashes. Water beaded on her skin like wobbling, silvery tears beneath those eyes, and her mouth was pink and full and beguiling.

      As if of its own volition, his hand moved to brush away hair that clung to her damp cheek.

      She pushed his hand away again, straightened her posture even further, an admirable task for one wearing several stones worth of soaked clothes.

      “Your cloak,” he murmured. “Take it off, and I will get you a blanket.”

      His fingers brushed one of the silken frogs as if he longed to undress her himself.

      Kieran felt dizzy, sick, enraged. How dare he touch her?

      No more, she thought. Never again. She’d had enough of being manhandled and abused to last a lifetime, and was not about to be raped aboard this Venetian’s boat.

      Kieran met his eyes and, with all the practice of dissembling for three years, offered a tremulous smile to put him at ease. He smiled in return, and she let out a little sigh of exasperation. “’Tis been a most trying evening.”

      “Of course. I understand completely,” he said, but his eyes did not move from her lips and his fingers brushed the line of her jaw.

      “I have a stone in my slipper. It pains me. One moment, signore, whilst I remove it.”

      She bent at the waist as if to take it out, and slid her hand up under her skirts to her dagger. The catch released without a sound and she was upright in an instant. She thrust the weapon out at him, catching the edge of his shirtsleeve, just missing his arm. She lashed out again, this time aiming for his middle.

      “Stand away from me.” Her voice quavered and broke. She sharpened it like a blade. “Get back.”

      He took two steps back, his eyes locked on hers. He considered her for a moment, glanced at the slice in his shirt, and then yanked a pistol from his waist. He calmly leveled it at her. “Forgive me, but I will be damned if I will let you stab me aboard my own burchiello.”

      “Touch me again and you will die,” she said, and she meant it.

      He paused, his head slightly to the side. It irritated her that there was no fear in his eyes, as if she brandished a parasol and not a dagger.

      “Back away,” she commanded him.

      Damn him, he grinned, still unafraid. “It seems we have reached a stalemate,” he said. “Why do we not both set aside our weapons and don dry clothing. If you do not mind civility, we could enjoy a glass of port while I return you to your…keeper.”

      He strolled casually to the little bar in the corner and, with one hand still holding his pistol, poured two glasses of port, his eyes all the while trained on her reflection in the mirror.

      Kieran considered her options. True, it seemed he meant her no harm, but neither had her cousin Simon seemed evil the night he’d convinced her to betray her word to her brother and accompany him. Kieran no longer trusted her instincts.

      Her gaze kept returning to his pistol. It was crafted of light wood and black iron, possessed a long barrel, a short grip, and an ornately curved hammer. He held it with careless grace, his forefinger resting on the trigger, his thumb lightly riding the hammer.

      She took a step closer to him, and he raised the gun and the port, one in each hand. “Your choice. What will it be?”

      Kieran looked down at her hand. Saw the silver wink of the metal and the grip of her hand on the pommel, so hard her knuckles shone whitely. For three lonely years she had suffered in silence, and now, Samuel would do business with Rogan. She had been powerless to cow him.

      And what could she do to stop it from happening? Debase herself and reveal her greatest shame to Rogan, the only person’s opinion in England she cared about. Risk his disbelief, or worse, his disappointment in her.

      No. She couldn’t do that. And so she’d have to suffer Samuel’s presence in her life, feign normalcy, and let it eat away at her like a cancer.

      A lame apology and five thousand pounds, as if he could buy back the memories that haunted her days, disturbed her nights, and poisoned her soul.

      She looked again at the man who held wine and a gun, as if he offered life in one hand and death in the other.

      And suddenly, that pistol was liberation. Freedom. The cost of the gunshot a momentary payment for the engulfing black that would take all her pain away forever. For once, Kieran would test her fate.

      She dove at him, knife outstretched and brandished like a sword.

      He tossed the glass of port in her face, the wine blinding her as the glass crashed to the floor, the crystal exploding in a shatter against the marble tiles. He feinted left and grabbed her by the cloak as she lunged at him, used the fabric to yank her down to the ground. His hand caught her wrist as they went down. He landed on top of her, her breath whooshing from her lungs as he used his body to subdue her. With a deft motion he pried the dagger from her hand and flung it across the room.

      Beneath his weight she thrashed like a wounded, captured beast, desperate for release. And then, beyond all her control, she whimpered, “Please don’t. I cannot bear it. Please just shoot me.”

      He went still, his hands pinning hers to the floor as he stared down at her. His dark brown eyes were soft, velvety. His face, for all the hard angles of it, possessed a strikingly soft mouth, and it curved down at the corners with rage or frustration she knew not, maybe both. He was close, so close she could see the dark bristles of his incipient beard beneath his skin, and could smell his breath, pleasantly scented with wine. His long, dark hair hung into her face, brushing cold and wet against her skin.

      Finally, he seemed to make a decision. He released his hold and moved from her. Studying her, his body coiled as if he were poised to grab her again if she made a strike at him, he smiled debonairly and inclined his head in a mock bow.

      “I am Matteo de Gama, a stranger to you, and so you have no cause to esteem me. Yet, I pulled you from the canal when another man would have left you to drown, and make no mistake,” he met her eyes again, his sincere and soul-deep, “if I wanted to ravish you, the deed would be done by now.”

      Kieran pulled herself to a seated position beside him, her breath