In the Tudor Court Collection. Amanda McCabe

did not want another husband, and talk of the fortune Lorenzo had left her was anathema to her. No money could ever heal the hurt inside her!

      ‘Please do not speak of it,’ she begged. ‘Money means nothing. I shall never marry again.’

      ‘I pray you will not speak so foolishly,’ her father said, a note of anger or distress in his voice. ‘Your grief is natural, daughter, but it will pass in time. Believe me, you will be happy again.’

      Kathryn turned away. Her father did not understand. She had given her whole self to Lorenzo. Without him she was only half a woman. She could never love again and she did not wish to marry without love.

      Sir John saw the grief in her face and wished that he had never allowed her to travel with Charles Mountfitchet. He cursed the ill luck that had caused her to marry a man he thought unsuitable. Charles was a fool to believe in Santorini’s tale. No doubt it was a ploy to inherit the estate and the title. Santorini had money, but to be an English lord was something many men might aspire to, he imagined. And the man had lost many ships during the war. He had probably thought that it was a way to restore his losses.

      Having never met Kathryn’s husband—something that rankled in his mind—he had no way of knowing whether Santorini was wealthy enough to bear those losses. He had taken a dislike to the man he considered had stolen his daughter. In his opinion, it was for the best that Kathryn should be left a widow. He did not like to see her grieving, but she would get over it in time. And he did not have much time left to him. Before he died, and he knew that it was coming slowly, he must see his daughter safe—even if it meant forcing her to obey him.

      Kathryn could not read her father’s thoughts, but she sensed that he did not sympathise with her love for Lorenzo. At the moment she felt too distressed to argue with her father. As time passed he would surely accept her decision, for she could never remarry.

      Her heart had died with Lorenzo, for she felt that he must be dead. Only death would have kept him from returning to Rome.

      Lorenzo could not believe that he was still alive. Two weeks had passed since he was captured and as yet he had not been ill treated, nor had he been summoned to Rachid’s presence. He had expected it would happen immediately and that he would first be humiliated and then tortured, but thus far his jailers had given him food, water and a grudging respect.

      He was confined to a room that had bars at the windows and the door was kept locked at all times, other than when his jailer brought him food. Yet it was not the filthy dungeon he had expected to be cast into and he wore no chains about his wrists or ankles. Indeed, he had been given all he needed for his comfort, including water to wash, clean clothes and a soft divan on which to sleep. He had everything he needed other than his freedom.

      What was in Rachid’s mind? Lorenzo wondered. Was his enemy being fiendishly clever, lulling him into a state of acceptance before inflicting some terrible torture?

      He paced the room restlessly. Thoughts of escape were constantly in his mind and yet he hesitated. Rachid was planning something. Perhaps he was like a cat toying with a mouse, daring Lorenzo to try and escape.

      He tensed as the door opened. His guards were always regular with his meals, but this was the middle of the afternoon. Something was about to happen.

      Lorenzo was fully alert. This might be his only chance to escape. He resolved to try if there was any slip on the part of his guards. Salome and her husband were no longer involved. It was merely his own life at stake now and he would prefer a quick death.

      A man entered the room, surprising Lorenzo as his body tensed. It was not the guard who had been bringing him food and water, but a much older man, richly dressed with a bright gold turban.

      ‘My master requests the pleasure of your company, lord.’

      Lorenzo smiled grimly. So the summons had come at last.

      ‘Requests?’ he asked, a wry twist to his mouth. ‘And supposing I choose to decline your master’s invitation—what then?’ A gleam of defiance was in his eyes, for if he must die he would prefer that it came swiftly.

      ‘That would be a cause of much regret to my master, sir.’ The old man smiled oddly. ‘I believe you will find this meeting to your advantage. You have nothing to fear.’

      ‘Do you expect me to believe that?’

      ‘You have my word. I am Mustafa Kasim and I am guaranteeing your life—and your safety.’

      Looking into his eyes, Lorenzo was puzzled. This was not what he had expected from Rachid. However, life had taught him to be a fair judge of character and somehow he believed this man, believed in his honesty.

      ‘Very well, I shall accept your word, sir.’

      ‘Thank you,’ Mustafa Kasim said. ‘Please follow me if you will. My master is waiting.’

      Lorenzo followed in his wake, walking through what seemed the endless rooms and passages of Rachid’s palace. The walls were built of thick grey stone, the floors tiled with a dull grey marble. Even on the warmest summer day this place would strike cold into the bones, but Lorenzo held himself erect, refusing to shiver.

      He could not know what would happen when he finally came face to face with his enemy, but clearly he was not to be tortured or executed just yet. Perhaps Rachid had decided to hold him for ransom.

      Until this moment Lorenzo had expected his enemy to be ruthless in exacting payment for all the ships sunk, the slaves rescued and given their freedom. He had believed that Rachid must hate him, for he had waged a merciless war on his enemy and could expect no less.

      Mustafa had stopped outside an impressive door, which was fashioned of heavy carved wood studded with iron. He rapped on it once with a metal wand he carried and the heavy panels swung back, manipulated by two huge black slaves dressed in rich clothes. The room they were about to enter was very different from the rest of the fortress. The walls were hung with an array of dazzling silks in vibrant colours and the floor was covered with thick silk rugs. Several divans stood about the room, but there were also tables made of alabaster and silver, statues of marble and of gold, a veritable fortune of small items that were of immense value everywhere, almost as if a magpie had gathered them together. Clearly Rachid was very rich.

      ‘My lord,’ Mustafa said and bowed respectfully. ‘He you have commanded is here.’

      Lorenzo glanced towards what appeared to be a kind of throne. Rachid lived, as a king might, in his own little empire. The throne was made of solid silver and decorated with precious jewels. He knew a desire to laugh at such ridiculous opulence, but controlled it as the man, dressed in the robes of a caliph, rose and came towards him. Looking into his face, he was surprised. This man was not the enemy he had fought for so many years but his son: the young man he had exchanged for the Spanish girl.

      ‘So we meet again.’ The younger man smiled oddly, pleased by Lorenzo’s confusion. ‘You look surprised, Signor Santorini. You did not expect to see me?’

      ‘I expected your father.’

      ‘My father?’ Hassan laughed. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, signor. My father cannot greet you. He died two weeks ago, on the day of your arrival here.’

      ‘Rachid is dead?’

      ‘Have I not said so? You must forgive me for keeping you waiting so long, signor. My father’s death was unexpected and caused me a few problems.’ He waved his hand to indicate the wealth in the room. ‘There were others who wished to share in these things, which are rightfully mine. They have been dealt with, but it took a little time.’

      Lorenzo repressed a shudder. For a moment he saw something in the younger man’s eyes that made him go cold. At that moment there was no doubting he was Rachid’s son.

      ‘However, you wish to know why you are here?’

      ‘I believed I was brought here at Rachid’s command?’

      ‘He intended to have you killed…very slowly