Veiled Passions. Tracy MacNish

are my protector, and more, my friend. I rely on you, Nilo. That will never change.”

      Nilo hesitated. He’d been there the night Kieran was in the “house of lords,” posted as a guard by her cousin Simon and ordered to kill Rogan when he arrived. Through a crack in a shutter, however, Nilo had witnessed much of what had happened inside.

      That night may have poisoned Kieran’s soul and wounded her heart, but it had also deeply affected Nilo. He’d been Simon’s slave then, and if he’d acted on his impulse, he would have hung the next day. Standing outside in the dark, he’d been helpless to intervene while two women were assaulted.

      The day Rogan hired him as Kieran’s guard, Nilo had made a solemn vow to Kieran that he would lay down his life before he’d stand by helplessly again.

      And in their mutual, unspoken understanding of why Kieran held silent, their friendship was galvanized.

      Nilo reached out and brushed a finger against her wet hair, his touch so light she scarcely felt it. With sadness in his eyes, he turned and left the room.

      Rogan stood with his hands jammed in his pockets as he studied his sister beneath a scowl.

      Kieran held to her resolve and adopted a flippant tone. “Why do you look so fierce, Rogan? I did not kidnap myself, nor set out to worry the household.”

      “Perhaps you take this lightly, but I don’t. You could have been raped or murdered.”

      “But I wasn’t. Why don’t we put the matter to rest. I am freezing cold and exhausted. I need a bath and bed.”

      Rogan continued on, ignoring her. “Raped or murdered, and ’twould have been my fault for leaving you.” He raked a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. “What a fool.”

      Kieran could not bear to have Rogan taking the blame. “’Tis not your fault, any more than Nilo’s. I should have not left the room alone.”

      He met her eyes, and in his she saw the need to do something, and the helplessness he felt that there was nothing he could do.

      “Do you have any idea who grabbed you?” Rogan asked. “Did you see his face?”

      Because she loved him, she answered his questions. But also because she loved him, she lied. “Of course not. He was costumed. If I knew, would I not demand you go find him, and see to the matter?”

      She moved to stand by the fire, shivering in her wet clothes. And she ignored the stab of guilt as she over-exaggerated how cold she felt so her brother would relent in his questioning. The fewer questions asked, the fewer falsehoods she would tell.

      “Was anything familiar about him?”

      “No, Rogan.” Kieran let her teeth chatter, providing ample proof that she was indeed quite cold.

      “I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.” Rogan began to pace the room. He removed his jacket as he walked and handed it to Kieran. “Something feels odd.”

      She slid the garment over her shoulders. It hung to her knees and was warm from Rogan’s body, but she kept up the shivering. “I can only surmise he had been watching me and had found out my relationship to you. He said something about me bringing a fine ransom.”

      Rogan grunted. “Perhaps.” But he didn’t look satisfied. “He spoke English, then?”

      “Yes, with an accent. Italian, I think. ’Tis difficult to say. He did not speak much.”

      Rogan made a noise in his throat, still pacing.

      “I hope I don’t take ill,” Kieran murmured through her chattering teeth.

      He paused and glanced at her, and for a moment Kieran thought he knew. She held her breath, releasing it as he spoke.

      “Aye, you’re cold. Not just from the wet, aye? You speak about your ordeal as if it happened to someone else. You’re not afraid, not worried, and you don’t even seem to want to find out who did it, and see him brought to justice.

      “And it scares me for you. I actually worry nights, wondering if you’ll ever come back to that girl you once were. I despair for it, and aye, I miss that girl. You’ve grown far too cold for your youth, Kieran, and I can only pray that one day you will find something to warm you.”

      He paused, those green eyes watching her with a cold, hard stare that made Kieran feel like a child. “For tonight, however, go to your rooms and call for a bath. We’ll talk more on this in the morning.”

      She turned to leave, ready to put it all behind her, but her brother’s voice stopped her. “The man who pulled you from the canal and returned you safely—do you know where I can find him? He needs to be properly thanked and rewarded.”

      Kieran hesitated before answering. In her mind she considered the possible outcome of Rogan speaking with Matteo de Gama. “No. I’m sorry. I fear I was too overwrought to think clearly, and did not even ask his name. I have no idea where to find the man, other than aboard one of the many burchiellos I’ve seen on the canals. I was in such haste to get back home, and was just grateful for his help.”

      Rogan waved his hand. “’Tis understandable. You’d just been assaulted and nearly drowned. Put the matter aside for now, go and take your bath, get warm, and to bed with you. Perhaps if you relax a bit, you’ll recall more details.”

      “As you say,” Kieran said softly, her guilt a weight in the pit of her belly. The feeling didn’t relent even as she spoke the complete and absolute truth. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, Rogan.”

      He waved his hand in her direction, dismissing her.

      Kieran left her brother’s presence to seek out comfort. Her rooms beckoned with the promise of a hot bath, a fire, and peaceful solitude.

      Her mind, however, was anything but quiet. It spun with snippets of conversation. Most of all, with one particular sentence, spoken into her ear like a tantalizing secret. There is a singular delight in serving justice from one’s own hand.

      Kieran stopped in the hallway and looked down at her hands. Smooth, white, and slender, with long tapered fingers. She’d felt helpless to the memory of that night for so long.

      The words Samuel had spoken screamed in her mind. A virtuous woman would have called for her honor to be avenged.

      She pictured Samuel’s face and imagined his suffering as she had, knowing that her honor was avenged, and that she saw to it herself.

      That familiar, shameful spurt of excitement warmed her once more.

      A servant walked down the corridor, his eyes downcast, step brisk, arms full of folded linens. He was a member of the palace staff, a native Venetian.

      “Signore, do you speak English?” Kieran asked him.

      The servant stopped and smiled. He shifted his burden so he could show her his forefinger and thumb, held apart to indicate he knew a small amount. “I am of your service,” he replied in heavily accented English.

      “A translation, please. What is cuore solitario?”

      “Ah, si.” He fumbled through a few words in Italian until he formulated a reply. He stammered out two English words, leaving Kieran certain she never wanted to see Matteo de Gama ever again. “Lonely heart.”

      3

      Matteo de Gama sailed his burchiello home to his small casino. The noise of the street performers jarred his nerves as his vessel navigated the waters of the canal and the rio that led to his home. He disembarked with his boatmen, and together they proceeded with caution. There was more than one man angry with Matteo: vengeful brothers, jealous husbands, furious fathers.

      Outside his entrance, a group of adolescent boys gathered in a cluster, and Matteo grinned to himself as he wondered what mischief they were plotting. He flipped them a sequin as he passed them, and they scrambled to catch