In the Tudor Court Collection. Amanda McCabe

are my wife—because I care for you. Surely you know that, Madonna?’

      ‘I thought that you left me because you did not want me. I thought you did not find me attractive enough to want to lie with me on our wedding night.’ Kathryn gazed up at him, her eyes filled with an innocent appeal. ‘Was that not so?’

      Lorenzo laughed, the sound of it making her heart race as he reached out, drawing her into his arms, his eyes dark with some deeply felt emotion.

      ‘Can you be so foolish, my love?’ he asked. ‘How could you think it was for my sake that I did not stay that night?’

      ‘Was it not?’

      ‘You married me because you had no choice. I would not force you to lie with me, Kathryn. I wanted you to become accustomed to the idea of a husband before you were forced to your duty. I want you warm and willing in my arms—not out of wifely duty.’

      ‘I do not think I should mind my wifely duty so very much,’ she said, her cheeks pink as she saw the laughter in his eyes. ‘I think it might be pleasant…’

      ‘Pleasant?’ Lorenzo shook his head at her, wickedness in every line of his face. He seemed to her then a man she had never seen before, the man he might have been had life been kinder to him. ‘It may be wonderful, exciting and passionate, but I do not think pleasant is a word I would use concerning my feelings for you, Madonna.’

      ‘Then would you please kiss me?’

      ‘Sweet Kathy,’ Lorenzo said and pulled her into his arms, his mouth taking hungry possession of hers. The kiss was long and sweet and demanding, and it left her breathless. She stared at him in wonder as she began to understand what loving a man might mean. ‘Shall I come to you tonight?’ She nodded wordlessly, and he smiled at her, touching her hair. ‘My red-haired witch. I never meant to let you beneath my skin, Kathryn. You have taken root inside me and I find I cannot live without you.’

      ‘Oh, Lorenzo,’ she breathed. ‘I am so glad you have come home.’

      Kathryn turned in the arms of her husband, lifting her face for his kiss. She had never expected to discover such pleasure in loving as he had given her and she curled into his strong, lean body, compliant as a sleepy kitten.

      ‘Are you happy, Madonna?’

      ‘You know that I am.’ Her cheeks were warm, for she knew that she had behaved with shameless abandon as he loved her, crying his name aloud. Her hands moved on his shoulders and encountered the thick welts of old scars. She had been aware of them during their loving, but now she traced them with her fingers.

      ‘Do they distress you, Kathryn—the scars?’

      ‘Only because I know you must have suffered.’ She leaned up on one elbow to look down into his face. ‘Who did this to you, Lorenzo? Was it Rachid? Is that why you hate him?’

      ‘I was a slave in his galley for three years.’

      ‘Oh, my love,’ Kathryn cried, not caring that she betrayed herself. ‘How you must have suffered—but you never told me. No one told me.’

      ‘Only Michael and my father ever knew,’ he said, his voice husky with emotion. ‘It is not something I care to have told, Kathryn.’

      ‘I shall never speak of it without your permission—but how did you escape?’

      ‘I was left for dead on the shores of southern Spain. A sick galley slave is worthless. They left me on the beach, threw me into the shallows, and I should undoubtedly have died if Antonio Santorini, a merchant of Venice, had not chanced to come ashore that day to provision his ship. He found me, took me aboard his ship and brought me to Venice.’

      ‘You are not his son?’

      ‘He was childless; his beloved wife dead some years before. He gave me his name, adopted me and made me his legal heir. As much as I was able I loved him, for he was a truly good man. He had suffered at the hands of the Inquisition himself; because of it, he devoted his life to helping others. I helped to restore his fortune, much of which he had given away to those who needed it. And when he died I mourned him.’

      ‘You were lucky that day, Lorenzo.’ She kissed his shoulder, which tasted salty with sweat after their loving. ‘I am so sorry for what happened to you.’

      ‘Do not be,’ he said. ‘For years I lived on hatred and that sustained me, giving me strength. It was only my hope of revenge that made me determined to live.’

      ‘Lorenzo…’ She bent over him, her hair brushing his face as she kissed him on the lips. ‘I love you.’

      ‘My sweet Kathy.’

      He rolled her beneath him in the bed, his mouth plundering hers as the desire flamed between them once more. His hands stroked and caressed her, making her moan and move beneath him, her body arching up to meet him as he thrust deep inside her. Deep, deeper, into the inviting moistness of her femininity, her legs curling over his hips as they reached the heights of pleasure together. She screamed his name as he buried his face in the intoxicating softness of her hair.

      ‘No other woman has pleased me as you do, Kathryn,’ he murmured huskily against her throat. ‘If you ever left me…’

      ‘Hush, my love,’ she said and there were tears on her cheeks. ‘I shall never leave you. I want only your love.’

      ‘My love, Kathryn?’ His voice was harsh, his body suddenly stiff with tension. ‘I am not sure that I know how to love—but all that I have I give to you.’

      Kathryn clung to him in the darkness, her heart aching. She had begun to understand the man she loved. He had suffered things that no man should and the scars had gone deep, much deeper than those he bore on his shoulders and back. All the natural feelings, the softness and pleasures that others knew had been denied to him, and it had taken its toll. Perhaps he would never love her as she loved him, but he desired her and she pleased him—and for the moment she must be content with that.

      It was only later, when Lorenzo lay sleeping beside her, that she realised he had not told her who he really was. If he was not the natural son of Antonio Santorini, then who was he?

      Was it possible that her senses had told her truly the first time they met, when she had looked into his eyes and believed she knew him? He had strongly denied it once, when she had told him that he might more likely be Richard Mountfitchet than the man he had named William.

      Surely he would have told her if there was any possibility that he could be the man they had been searching for? Of course he would. She was being foolish. Kathryn dismissed the idea as she drifted into sleep, curled into the body of her husband, warm and safe, protected by his strength.

      Lorenzo had told her much this night. When he was ready he would tell her anything else he wished her to know.

      When he was sure that Kathryn slept, Lorenzo left her bed and removed his clothes to the adjoining room, dressing before he went downstairs. He had feigned sleep so that she might rest; he could not sleep beside her for fear that the dream might disturb her. Although it had not happened of late, when he woke, screaming a name, his body covered in a fine sweat, he sometimes struck out with his fists or feet. Better that he should not risk injuring his wife. Besides, he would not have her see him that way.

      His fingers sought out the leather wristbands, rubbing at the old injuries. Sometimes the irritation was almost more than he could bear. He wondered if a part of it was caused by the wristbands themselves, but he could not bring himself to remove them, to reveal to the whole world the badge of his shame. Kathryn had not recoiled from the scars on his back, but he hated them, hated what they stood for. He hated the memory of his slavery, of the humiliation of knowing that he must obey his masters, of the sharp stinging pain of a whip lash.

      How long would it be before Kathryn asked him who he really was? He could give her no answer, for his past was still a mystery to him, though since the dreams had begun again he had wondered.