Veiled Passions. Tracy MacNish

looked at the floor where broken glass lay in a puddle of wine on the creamy marble. He’d known what she meant to do; she’d seen the flash of recognition in his eyes. It shamed her that she’d allowed him to know something so deep and dark about her. He was speaking, she realized, asking her who she was.

      She introduced herself as a shiver took her, and she tried not to let it show, holding her body as rigid as possible, clamping her jaw tight lest it chatter. He did notice, however, and he got to his feet and fetched a thick blanket. When he returned he held it beyond her grasp.

      “You must remove the sodden cloak if you hope to get any warmer.”

      It felt like capitulation to remove it, and yet, it was foolishness to continue to wear the soaked garment. She was freezing, her corset a strangling, wet vise around her middle, her gown clinging to her like a sticky film. The cloak draped over her with its saturated weight, the only thing she could modestly remove. Finally, Kieran undid the frogs and pushed the cloak from her shoulders, letting it sag to the floor.

      The blanket was warm and soft, an instantly soothing comfort as he wrapped it around her with a gentleness she did not expect, given that she’d tried to stab him in order to force him to commit a murder. She brought her eyes up to his and found him staring down at her with that same expression as before, an odd mix of curious, cautious compassion.

      It was a stare that prompted her to repay his manners with her own. “I am in Venice with my brother, Rogan Mullen, the English Duke of Eton, and his wife, Emeline. We are staying at the Palazzo Morosini del Giardino.”

      Kieran swallowed heavily against the lump of embarrassment in her throat for attacking him with no provocation. She also knew Nilo would be sick with worry, and wondered what Rogan would think when she turned up, soaking wet and without her escort. She had many lies to tell if she wanted to keep her secret safe, and the thought did not sit well with her.

      “Does your offer to take me home still stand?” she asked shyly.

      “Of course.” Matteo went to the door, unlocked and opened it, called for his boatmen, and informed them of their next destination.

      The burchiello lurched into gentle motion as Matteo returned to Kieran’s side. He offered her his hand, and she accepted the help in getting to her feet, as the weight of her garments would have made that task impossible without his aid.

      A pair of armchairs sat on either side of a table, and Matteo gestured for Kieran to take a seat in one of them. “Do not worry about the wetness. Be comfortable. I hope we can be civil?”

      Kieran nodded her assent. “Yes, of course, and I apologize. I was quite overcome by all that had just happened. ’Tis clear to me you meant only to help me.”

      “Think nothing of it.” He avoided the worst of the spillage and shattered glass at the bar, poured another glass of port, and brought it to Kieran. “It will warm you.”

      She sipped and the sweet flavor burst on her tongue, the scents of currants and berries filling her sinuses. Once again she was aware of the way he studied her, and found the intensity of his stare unsettling.

      “Who was that man?” he asked.

      Kieran hesitated, trying to decide what she would reveal, not only to this man, but to her brother. “I don’t know.”

      Matteo took the chair across from Kieran and openly studied her. “If that is so, how odd that he would call it a ‘private matter.’ That speaks of something more than strangers, no?”

      “I don’t know why he said that, and I don’t know who he was. I am just relieved you came along when you did.”

      Matteo leaned back in his armchair, his soft mouth quirked up on one side. “You lie. How fascinating.”

      Kieran feigned confusion. “Why would I lie?”

      Matteo grinned, but he didn’t take the bait. “The man took you against your will, no?”

      “Of course.”

      “And when caught, he left you to drown. Why would you lie to protect him?”

      “Precisely,” Kieran agreed stiffly. “Wouldn’t I want the man punished?”

      “Ah, good,” Matteo said, as if cheering her on. He raised his glass in a toast. “Continue to answer each question with a question. It is an excellent ploy when employing falsehood.”

      “You don’t know me well enough to make such distinctions of my motivations or my character, signore.”

      “Knowing when a man bluffs is how I afford the luxuries life can offer. You are good, and obviously well-practiced, but you are not the best I’ve seen.”

      He held his port by the rim, the glass dangling from his thumb and two of his long fingers as he gestured to her face with the tip of his index finger. “The color rides high on your cheeks, and your lips flatten with defiance even as your chin slightly raises. You may want to watch the chin and mouth. Practice in the mirror if you must. There is nothing you can do about the blush but try to remain calm, and most will likely mistake it for the discomfort of speaking of upsetting matters.”

      “You overstep your bounds.”

      “Indeed I do. It is my life’s passion, in fact.”

      “You are a libertine, then.”

      “All Venetians pursue pleasure, art, romantic intrigues. Wine, food, beauty. The things that make a life rich. I will not apologize for taking joy in my life. Indeed, if you do not pursue the same, why come to Venice?”

      “I told you, I came with my brother and his wife.”

      “To see Carnivale, no?”

      “Combining business with a holiday. He seeks a bid for shipbuilding.”

      “But you said he is a duke? An aristocrat?”

      “He is many things, signore. A sea-trader and a former pugilist, as well, and in England he owns multiple properties and a fleet of ships. My brother is successful in everything he endeavors.” Kieran knew she sounded boastful, but she was proud of her brother. They were the children of a common sea-merchant, and though their mother had been a lady, Kieran and Rogan had not been raised to such wealth and privilege.

      But when the laws of primogeniture put Rogan in succession for the dukedom, he threw himself into the position with all the grace and diligence it demanded. He’d found love with a common woman, defied convention and propriety when he deemed it honorable, and had earned the grudging respect of his peers.

      Matteo sipped his port and considered her over the rim with a scrutiny that made Kieran want to squirm, but she did not give in to that urge. She leveled a glare on him, cold, withering, and unrelenting, that had repelled many a potential suitor. But Matteo did not seem to notice.

      “He may well be all those things and more, cuore solitario. But your brother does not know you very well, does he?”

      “He used to,” she replied softly, more to herself than to him, “a long time ago.”

      Silence fell over them as the burchiello moved in time with the gentle current of the canal. The room was warm with candles and lamps, the light reflecting off the mirrored walls and dark windows as if they were caught in a floating cocoon.

      “So what will you tell him,” Matteo asked, finally breaking the silence, “when he asks what happened to you tonight? That some unknown man attacked you for no particular reason?”

      Kieran tilted her head at an imperious angle. “Such things happen.”

      “Were you walking along the strand alone?”

      “No,” she replied indignantly. “I was attending a festa.”

      “Were you unescorted?”

      “Of course not.” She thought again of Nilo, and wondered if there was a search going on for her. She pulled the blanket tighter