They were all watching her. Isabella tried not to pay attention at first, but as Sarina showed her around the palazzo, she became more aware of the covert looks, the whispers following her from room to room. The atmosphere in the DeMarco holding was different from that of any she had been in, and she decided it was the people who made the difference. They were servants for the most part, polishing each room until it gleamed, but they did so as if they owned the palazzo.
Their loyalty to the don ran deep and seemed ingrained in every man, woman, and child she saw. They watched her intently. Eagerly. Each of them made it a point to say something encouraging to her, something complimentary about the don. They made it clear they were eager that she remain in the valley and marry their don. Isabella noticed that they smiled at one another, and all seemed close. The castello should have been a happy place, but, with her extreme sensitivity, she felt an undercurrent of unease.
A shadow hovered over the entire holding. An anxiety lurked just beneath the surface of apparent happiness. Eyes slid away from her, held secrets and traces of fear. As she moved through the great halls, suspicion began to seep into her pores and soak into her heart and soul. It was insidious, a tiny alarm at first, but it grew and spread like a monster of distrust until even Sarina seemed not an ally, but an enemy.
Isabella took a deep breath and halted, tugging at Sarina. “Stop for a moment. I’m feeling ill. I need to sit.” Her mind was churning and spinning, making it impossible to think clearly. She seemed strangely out of sorts, wanting to snap in agitation at anyone near her. They were near a sweeping staircase, and Isabella sank gratefully onto the bottom step, pressing her hands to her throbbing temples, trying to stop the creeping sickness of mistrust and suspicion.
At once the housekeeper halted and leaned over her solicitously. “Is it your back? Do you need to rest? Scusi, piccola, I rushed taking you through the palazzo. It’s so large, and I wanted you to know where everything is so you’d feel more comfortable. I should have been more careful, but it’s so easy to get lost here.” She brushed back Isabella’s hair with a gentle hand. “I must let Don DeMarco know at once. He’s arranged for the wives of Rolando Bartolmei and Sergio Drannacia to meet with you today. He wishes you to have friends and feel comfortable here. This is your new home, and we all want you to feel welcome.”
“No, I’m fine. I’m looking forward to meeting them.” Focusing on Sarina’s face, Isabella realized how childish and silly she was being. Living in a large, unfamiliar palazzo far from home, without anyone she knew, must be affecting her nerves. She might very well turn into the fainting type if she wasn’t careful. She forced a smile. “Really, Sarina, don’t look so anxious. I promise, I’ll be fine.”
“Signorina Vernaducci.” Alberita curtseyed in front of her, quite a feat when she was briskly swiping at walls with a broomstick. “It’s good to see you again.” She was beaming at Isabella even as she leapt enthusiastically at the cobwebs.
Watching the young servant jump up and down, not even getting close to the vaulted ceilings, Isabella began to relax again. The normal rhythm of a palazzo was there, despite the enormous size, despite the undercurrents. Little Alberita, with all her antics, was a part of something Isabella recognized. At a very early age she had helped to run her father’s palazzo. More than once she had dealt with servants whose enthusiasm cheered the household far more than their work contributed. Isabella’s strange mood dissipated as happiness bubbled up inside her.
Sarina sighed aloud. “She will never learn, that one.” Although she tried to sound severe, her tone was brimming with mirth. She and Isabella looked at one another in total understanding. Laughter spilled between them, and their merriment put smiles on the faces of the servants within hearing.
A loud crack was the only warning. Then Alberita’s broken broom handle flew through the air, right at Isabella’s head. Alberita shrieked. Sarina shoved Isabella. Isabella found herself sprawled on the floor, and the broom handle smashed against the wall just above her and dropped, rolling until it hit her body.
Alberita flailed her hands wildly, shrieking so loudly that servants came running from all directions. Betto caught the remainder of the broom before it could harm anyone and set it carefully aside. Sarina hissed a sharp order, and Alberita clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her screams. Still, she burst into hysterical weeping.
Captain Bartolmei rushed in, one hand on his sword hilt. He pushed the servants aside and caught at Isabella, dragging her up from the floor and pushing her behind him, shielding her with his body. “What happened?” His voice was harsh.
“An accident, no more,” Sarina hastily explained.
Some of the servants began to murmur as if distressed or frightened. “The broom flew at her!” one woman yelled.
“That is silly, Brigita, and an utter falsehood,” Sarina reprimanded sharply.
“Alberita attacked her!” another accused.
When Alberita howled a denial and cried all the harder, Captain Bartolmei crowded protectively closer to Isabella. “We must report this immediately to the don.”
Isabella took a deep breath, desperate to regain her composure. She feared she might laugh at the complete absurdity of the situation. She dared not, for it would humiliate the weeping girl even more. “I think young Alberita should be taken to the kitchen and served a calming cup of tea. Is there anyone able to escort her to the kitchen, Sarina?” Isabella smiled serenely, moving confidently out from behind the captain. “Grazie, Captain, for your quick action, but, of course, we can’t disturb Don DeMarco with something so small as this accident. It was merely a broken broom. Alberita is very enthusiastic in her work.”
Determinedly she went to the young girl, ignoring the captain’s restraining hand. “Your hard work is much appreciated. Go with Brigita, now, Alberita, and get a nice cup of tea to steady you.”
“You must be more careful, girl,” Captain Bartolmei snapped. “If anything should happen to Signorina Vernaducci, we are all lost.”
Isabella laughed softly. “Come now, Captain, you’ll have the people believing I was terrified by a broom.”
Rolando Bartolmei found himself unable to resist her mischievous grin. “It wouldn’t do to have that happen,” he agreed.
“Rolando?” The voice was young, trying to be imperious but wavering alarmingly. “What is going on?”
The servants, Isabella, and Captain Bartolmei turned to face the newcomers. Two women, obviously aristocratiche, stood beside Sergio Drannacia, waiting for an explanation. But it was the tall, handsome man behind them who caught Isabella’s attention and stole the breath from her lungs.
Don DeMarco was utterly motionless. His long hair flowed around him, shaggy and thick. His eyes blazed with fire, the eyes of a predator, focused, intent on prey. For a moment his image shimmered, so that a lion seemed to stare relentlessly, mercilessly at the man standing so close to Isabella.
The very air in the room stilled, as if any movement, any sound, could trigger an attack. The servants hastily stared at the floor. Captain Bartolmei bowed slightly, averting his eyes.
The two women turned to look behind them. At the sight of the don one of them screamed, her face completely white. She would have slumped to the floor if Sergio Drannacia hadn’t caught her and steadied her.
It was Isabella who moved first, breaking the tension. “Is the woman ill?” She hurried through the small group of servants, around the women and Drannacia, and made straight for Don DeMarco. She looked up at him. “Shouldn’t we offer her a bedchamber?”
Captain Bartolmei took the woman from Sergio, giving her a small shake. He bent his head and whispered fiercely to her, his face stiff with embarrassment.
Betto clapped his hands and gestured to the servants, scattering them quickly, sending them back to their duties. “Tea is served in the drawing room,” he announced to his don, and he melted away as only a well-practiced manservant could.
“There is no need of a bedchamber,” Captain Bartolmei answered grimly. “My wife is perfectly fine. I apologize for her conduct.”
The young woman turned her head away, but not before Isabella saw tears glittering in her eyes at the harsh reprimand she had received from her spouse. Captain Bartolmei’s wife kept her head down as they walked through the halls to the drawing room.
In truth, Isabella felt sorry for the girl. More than once her father had publicly censured her. She knew the utter humiliation of such a deed. She knew what it cost in strength and pride to have to face those who had witnessed the reprimand.
The don matched his longer strides to Isabella’s, his hand resting lightly on her arm, his body quite close to hers. “Would you care to explain why the captain was holding your hand?” His voice was low but purred with a menace that sent a shiver down her spine. His palm slid along her arm to take possession of her hand, his fingers threading tightly through hers.
Her startled gaze jumped to his face. “Is that what it looked like? How awful. He was worried for my safety and kept pushing me behind him.” Isabella shook her head. “No wonder his wife became hysterical. What must the poor woman think?”
Something dangerous flickered in the depths of his eyes. “Why would you care what she thought? Isn’t what I think of paramount importance to you both?”
She tightened her fingers around his and leaned closer. “You, I know, have a brain in your head. I’m certain it would occur to you that the last thing your friend the captain would do is hold my hand in front of the servants.” She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, a trace of humor in her voice.
“If you came upon your husband holding the hand of another woman, what would you do?” Nicolai asked, curious, suddenly amused by her reaction. She hadn’t even considered that he would be jealous or angry or in any way upset by seeing another man so close to her. She had faith in his ability to reason, never once considering that a jealous man was by definition unreasonable.
She tugged on his hand, forcing him to stop. She went up on her toes and whispered in his ear. “If he truly were holding her hand, I would crack a broomstick over his thick skull very, very hard.” Her voice was so sweet, so low and sensual, for a moment the words nearly didn’t register.
Then Nicolai shocked himself and his guests by laughing aloud. Real, heartfelt laughter. It rumbled in his throat and spilled into the room, making every servant within hearing distance smile. It had been long since they’d heard their don laugh. The sound instantly dispelled the tension running high in the palazzo. Sergio and Rolando exchanged a quick, amused smile.
“Signorina Vernaducci, may I present my wife, Violante?” Sergio Drannacia said quietly, his arm wrapped around a woman who looked to be several years older than Isabella. “Violante, this is Isabella Vernaducci, betrothed to Don DeMarco.”
Violante curtseyed, a smile curving her mouth, but her eyes were wary, speculative, as they ran over Isabella’s figure. “So pleased to meet you, signorina.”
Isabella nodded an acceptance of the introduction. “I hope we become great friends. Please call me Isabella.”
“And may I present my wife, Theresa Bartolmei,” Rolando Bartolmei added.
The young woman dropped a slight curtsey, lowering her lashes. “It is an honor to meet you, Signorina Vernaducci,” she murmured softly, her voice wavering slightly.
Theresa Bartolmei was about the same age as Isabella. She carried herself as an aristicratica yet seemed very uneasy in the don’s presence. She was so jittery, she made Isabella nervous. The woman didn’t look at Don DeMarco, keeping her gaze steadfastly on her feet other than the brief glance she had directed toward Isabella.
Isabella forced a smile, moving closer to Nicolai. It irritated her that so many people treated him so strangely. “Grazie, Signora Bartolmei. It is wonderful to meet you. Your husband was very kind to me when we were traveling on the roads to the pass. And today, with the accident, he did his duty by protecting me. I appreciated it very much.”
Isabella was an innocent, yet she wrapped Nicolai up in an intimacy he had never shared with any other in his life. His body stilled, hardened. He held her in front of him, not daring to move when he would have preferred to retreat and leave his childhood friends to make conversation with the women. He was afraid he might shatter if he moved. There was a roaring in his head, a painful ache in his body. Fire raced through his bloodstream. Worse than his physical reaction to her was the way she was wrapping herself around his heart, until just looking at her hurt.
His hands tightened possessively on her arms. It was all that kept him anchored. Sane. It was all that prevented him from sweeping her into his embrace and carrying her off to his lair, where he could indulge his every fantasy with her. The others were talking; he heard their voices but as if from a great distance. For Nicolai, there was only Isabella and the temptation of her mouth, of her soft body with its lush curves. Her laughter and her quick mind. No one else existed or mattered. He was becoming obsessed. He was fast losing control, and that was inherently dangerous. For a DeMarco, control was everything. Completely, utterly essential.
He bent his head until his mouth brushed against her ear. “I should have been the one to rescue you, your true hero.” There was an edge to his voice when he had wanted humor.
Isabella dared not look at Nicolai, but she leaned against his broad chest so that he kept his dark head bent to hers. “He merely protected me from a runaway broom.” She whispered the words against the corner of his mouth, her breath teasing his heightened senses.
He had known she would find a way to lighten his heart. Her eyes danced with shared humor, locking them together. He found he could breathe again. His fingers curled around the nape of her neck, then drifted to her shoulder and down her back, a gesture meant to thank her where he had no words.
“It is a pleasure seeing you both,” he said softly to the two ladies, “but I must ask to be excused, as I have many duties to attend.”
The wives of his captains stared resolutely at the floor, once again setting Isabella’s teeth on edge. Nicolai’s hand swept down Isabella’s hair in a light caress. “Be happy, cara mia. I will see you later.”
She caught his wrist boldly. “You don’t have time for a cup of tea?”
There was a collective gasp of shock. Even the two captains stiffened. Isabella felt the color rise in her neck and face. The simple question was treated as if she had made a terrible breach of etiquette.
Nicolai ignored the others, his vision, his world, narrowing until there were only the two of them. His large hands framed her face, and his gaze drifted hungrily over her. “Grazie, piccola. I wish I had the time. For you, anything.” His sensual voice was filled with regret. “But I have kept several emissaries waiting far too long as it is.” He bent his head and brushed a kiss against her temple, his fingers lingering a moment on her soft skin. Abruptly he turned and in his silent, deadly fashion walked away.
Isabella turned to find the couples watching her. She lifted her chin and determinedly pasted a confident smile on her face. “It looks as if Cook has prepared a feast for us. I hope you’re hungry. Grazie, Captains, for bringing me company.”
“We’ll return shortly,” Rolando assured his wife. “We, too, have our duties to attend to.” He patted his wife’s hand in reassurance before walking away.
Theresa watched him go. She was visibly trembling, her eyes darting around the room anxiously as if she expected a ghost to come flying out of the walls.
Violante looked toward her husband, her gaze hopeful. When he merely walked away without glancing back, her shoulders sagged. Almost at once she recovered and seated herself gracefully. “Sergio tells me the wedding is to be within the moon’s cycle.” Her eyes slid speculatively over Isabella’s curvy figure. “You must be…” She paused long enough to be bordering on rudeness…“nervous.”
Theresa pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her gasp of shock.
Isabella smiled coolly. “On the contrary, Signora Drannacia, I’m very excited. Nicolai is most charming and attentive. I cannot wait to be his wife.”
Sarina poured the tea, a mixture of herbs and hot water, into the cups. She kept her gaze resolutely on her work, but Isabella noticed the tightening of her lips.
“Aren’t you frightened?” Theresa ventured.
“Why ever would I be afraid? Everyone has been wonderful to me,” Isabella said, easily portraying a wide-eyed innocent. “They’ve made me feel very much at home. I know I’ll be happy here.”
Sarina flashed at her a covert grin as she placed a platter of biscuits on the table. The housekeeper faded discreetly into the background, leaving Isabella to fend for herself.
Despite her youth, Isabella had been in similar situations before. Violante Drannacia was a woman feeling threatened. She was determined to maintain her position, real or imagined, wanting the upper hand with all the other females in the palazzo. She was also uncertain of her husband and felt compelled to warn off any competition. Isabella knew the signs well.
Violante patted her hair, looking superior and knowledgeable. It was obvious she easily intimidated Theresa. She leaned closer to Isabella and looked cautiously around the room. “You haven’t heard the legend?”
“A fascinating tale. I can’t wait to tell my children on a dark and stormy night,” Isabella improvised. Which legend? she wondered.
“How can you stand to look at him?” Violante asked, her gaze challenging.
The smile faded from Isabella’s dark eyes. She drew herself up, her young face haughty. “Don’t make the mistake of forgetting yourself, Signora Drannacia. I may not be mistress here yet, but I will be. I won’t have Nicolai maligned in any way. I find him handsome and charming. If you can’t bear to look at the scars on his face, scars from a horrifying attack, I would ask you not to visit our home.”
Violante paled. She pressed a hand to her chest as if her heart had fluttered at the attack. “Signorina, you misunderstand me completely. It is impossible to notice scars when we’ve been taught not to look upon him. You’re not from this valley.” She took a sip of tea, her eyes bright as they examined Isabella’s face. “It is ingrained in us not to stare directly at him, of course.”
It took a great deal of effort, but Isabella maintained her composure. The women knew things she didn’t, but she would not give the advantage to Violante Drannacia by asking her personal questions regarding the don or the palazzo. “How fortunate for me.” She kept a smile on her face as she turned to Theresa. “May I ask how long you’ve been married, Signora Bartolmei?” She was secretly pleased to see the younger woman look appalled at Violante’s behavior.
“Theresa,” Captain Bartolmei’s wife corrected. “Only a short time. I’ve always lived in the valley, but not in the holding. My famiglia has a large farm. I met Rolando when he was out hunting.” A blush stole up her neck at either the memory or the admission.
“The lions didn’t bother your farm?” Isabella asked.
Theresa shook her head. “I never saw one until I came here to the palazzo.” A shadow crossed her face, and she twisted her fingers together nervously. “We heard them, or course, on the farm, but never once in all the years I was growing up did I ever see one.”
“Theresa’s afraid one might gobble her up,” Violante supplied.
Isabella laughed lightly, shifting closer to Theresa. “I think that shows good sense, Theresa. I, too, would prefer to avoid being gobbled up. Have you seen a lion up close, Violante? I had no idea they were so enormous. Their heads are so massive, I think all three of us would fit into one’s mouth.”
“Well.” Violante shivered. “I saw one up close once. Sergio was making a patrol through the valley, and he stopped near our house to take me for a walk. We thought we were alone. We never heard a sound. We just walked right up on it.” She cast a sheepish look at Theresa. “I started to scream, but Sergio put his hand over my mouth so I couldn’t make a sound. I was terrified it would eat me right up.”
The three women looked at one another, then burst out laughing. Theresa relaxed visibly. Violante took a sip of her tea, managing to look regal. “What are you doing about this wedding of yours, Isabella? May I call you Isabella?”
“Please do. The wedding.” Isabella sighed. “I haven’t any idea. Don DeMarco announced it, and that was the last I heard. I don’t even know when it takes place. What was your wedding like?”
Violante sighed in happy remembrance. “It was the most beautiful day of my life. Everything was perfect. The weather, the dresses, Sergio so handsome. Everyone of importance was there.” She hesitated. “Well, with the exception of the Don DeMarco. He met with Sergio beforehand and gave us a magnificent wedding gift. Surely the dressmaker has started on your dress. She must hurry.” She patted Isabella’s hand. “We would love to help plan it, if tua madre isn’t available, right, Theresa?”
Theresa nodded eagerly. “It would be fun.”
“Don DeMarco knows I have no famiglia other than mio fratello, Lucca. He is quite ill, though, and could hardly plan a wedding. I’ve lost both of my parents.”
“I’ll speak to Sarina and see what is being done,” Violante said firmly. “We cannot leave the details to Don DeMarco, as he is very busy. It gives us an excuse to visit you often.”
“You’ll never need an excuse,” Isabella answered. “Our three houses are connected and always will be, bringing our people and the valley prosperity. I hope the three of us become very close friends. What was your wedding like, Theresa?” The young woman seemed perpetually nervous, and Isabella wanted to put her at ease.
Theresa beamed at her. “It was beautiful, and Rolando was most handsome. We were married in the Holy Church, of course, but afterward we danced all evening under the stars.”
“Scusi, Signorina Vernaducci,” Sarina interrupted with a slight curtsey. “I must take care of a problem in the kitchen.”
“We’ll manage, Sarina, grazie,” Isabella assured her and waved her one ally away. She turned back to the other two women, determined to try to make friends. “It sounds wonderful, Theresa. I suppose your parents planned it for you.”
“Yes, with Don DeMarco,” Theresa said, looking uneasy again.
Isabella’s stomach did a funny little roll, instantly putting her on guard. While the two women continued to chat, she glanced surreptitiously around the room. They were no longer alone; something had joined them. It was subtle, the outpouring of twisted malice flowing into the room.
Isabella sighed. It was a long afternoon. She kept the conversation going, but it was difficult, as Theresa looked faint if Nicolai was mentioned, and Violante seemed to want to sneer at each new subject with contempt. Isabella was secretly relieved when the captains returned to claim their wives.
Theresa eagerly gathered her things, drew on her gloves, and rose with haste, earning her a frown from her husband.
“Shall I escort you back to your room?” Captain Drannacia offered Isabella solicitously, his hand resting on the back of his wife’s chair.
Isabella glanced up in time to see the fear and suspicion on Violante’s face. The woman covered her reaction by rising gracefully and smiling at Isabella. “It’s been such a pleasure. I hope we can do this again soon.”
“I hope so, too,” Isabella assured her. “Grazie, Captain Drannacia, but I have no need for an escort.”
“We’ll have to come back soon if we’re to help with the wedding,” Theresa reminded her. “I’ve really enjoyed meeting you, Isabella. Please come to my home sometime, too,” she added shyly. “For tea.”
Isabella smiled at her. “I would enjoy that. Thank you both so much for coming to meet me.”
“I have duties here in the castello, Sergio,” Rolando Bartolmei announced regretfully. “Will you see Signora Bartolmei safely home for me?”
Theresa looked as though she might protest, but she choked back her objection, staring down at the tips of her shoes instead.
“Perhaps Captain Bartolmei will escort you to your room, Signorina Vernaducci,” Violante said with unexpected malice, “just to make certain you don’t get lost.”
Theresa winced visibly and glanced at Violante, clearly shocked.
“I would be happy to escort you,” Captain Bartolmei agreed, bowing gallantly, ignoring his wife’s pale features.
“That won’t be necessary, signore, but grazie. I know my way around the palazzo fairly well now. Sarina has been helping me. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your duties.” Isabella smiled, but her insides were trembling, a sign something was very wrong. The surge of power had been unexpectedly strong, preying on Theresa’s jealousy. Isabella wanted them all to leave, afraid the malevolence was growing. “I appreciate both of you for bringing your wives to meet me.”
Captain Bartolmei touched his wife’s hand briefly, bowed to the others, and walked out of the room. Sergio Drannacia took Violante’s arm and escorted the two women out, first bowing to Isabella.
Isabella sighed softly and shook her head. Holdings were the same everywhere, filled with petty rivalries, suspicions, jealousies, and intrigue. The palazzo of Don DeMarco, however, was somehow different. Something crouched in wait, watching, listening, preying on human weaknesses. She felt tired and worn out and alarmed. No one else seemed to notice anything was wrong; they didn’t feel the presence of evil as she did.
She waited a few minutes longer for Sarina, but when the housekeeper didn’t appear, and shadows began lengthening in the room, Isabella decided to go to her bedchamber. It seemed to be the most restful room in the palazzo. She started through the wide hallways, looking up at the artwork, the carvings of lions in various positions, some snarling, some watching intently. Isabella began to feel as if she were actually being watched, a fanciful feeling in the midst of the carvings, etchings, and sculptures.
“Isabella.” She heard her name drifting down the hallway. It was spoken so low she barely caught it. For a moment Isabella stood still, straining to listen. Had it been Francesca? It sounded like her voice, a bit disembodied, but it was something Francesca might do. Hide and call to her. At once her heart lifted a bit at the thought of her friend.
Curious, Isabella turned along the corridor and immediately came to a door she knew led to the servants’ corridors. It stood slightly ajar, as if Francesca had deliberately left it open to catch her attention. The voice whispered again, but this time so low Isabella couldn’t catch the actual words. Francesca seemed on the move, determined to play an impulsive game.
Finding the voice impossible to resist, Isabella slipped through the door and found herself in one of the narrow corridors used by the servants to get quickly from one end of the palazzo to the other. Even in her own holding Isabella had never explored the network of servant entrances and stairwells. Intrigued, she began to walk along the hallway, following the twists and turns. There were stairways that led up and across and over and led to more staircases. They were steep and uncomfortable, nothing resembling the ornate stairways that spiraled through the palazzo, connecting the various stories and wings together.
There were very few sconces to hold torches, and the shadows lengthened and grew, and a heaviness grew in her heart along with them. She paused for a moment to get her bearings, midway up another steep staircase.
Just as she was going to turn back, Isabella heard the mysterious whisper again. “Isabella.” It was somewhere just ahead. She moved quickly up the narrow, curving staircase, following the soft sound. She had been cautioned to stay away from the wing where Don DeMarco kept his residence. Uncertain whether the staircase had twisted back and upward toward his wing, Isabella hesitated, one hand grasping the railing in indecision. She was confused as to precisely where she was heading, which was strange, since she’d always had a remarkable sense of direction. Everything seemed different, and that strange shadow in her heart grew longer and heavier. Surely if she accidentally ended up in the wrong part of the palazzo, she would be forgiven. She was a stranger, and the place was enormous.
The soft whisper came again, a woman’s voice beckoning her. Isabella again began to climb the endless staircase. It branched off in many directions, led to wide halls and narrow corridors. She had seen none of this with Sarina and was hopelessly lost. She had no idea which floor she was on or even which direction she faced.
A door was partially opened, cool outside air rushing in. It felt good on her skin. Isabella was hot and sticky and out of breath. She stepped out the side door, staring in awe at the sparkling white landscape. She was definitely up high, on the third story, and the balcony was small, just a crescent-shaped overhang with a wide wall for a railing. As she took a step toward the edge, the door swung closed behind her.
Isabella stared at it in shocked surprise. She tried the handle, but the door didn’t budge. Exasperated, she pulled on the door, then pounded senselessly until she remembered no one was likely to be near the entrance. She was locked out in the cold wearing only a thin day gown. The balcony was icy, slippery beneath her shoes. The wind tugged at her clothes, pierced her with its icy breath. She suddenly realized she was on the balcony of one of the rounded towers, and below her was the infamous courtyard where a DeMarco had put his wife to death.
“How do you get yourself into these things?” she asked aloud, taking mincing steps toward the balcony railing and gripping the wall surrounding her tiny prison. Clutching the edge, she leaned out, looking down, hoping someone would be in sight and she’d be able to attract attention.
As she rested her weight against the railing, she felt the surge of power, of glee, flowing around her, the air thick with malice. Without warning the tiling crumbled out from under her. She was tumbling through space, her fingers clawing for something solid, a scream ripping from her throat. She caught at the neck of one of the stone lions guarding the sheer side of the castello. For a moment she nearly slipped, but she managed to circle the statue’s mane with her arms.
Isabella screamed again, loud and long, hoping to attract someone to her plight. She couldn’t drag her body up onto the sculpted lion, and her arms ached from hanging. Snow had collected on the marble likeness, making it ice cold and very slippery. Isabella locked her fingers together and prayed for help.
The sun had set, and darkness was settling over the mountains. The wind rose and fiercely attacked her dangling body in icy gusts. She was becoming so chilled, her hands and feet were nearly numb.
“Signorina Isabella!” The shocked voice of Rolando Bartolmei came from above her. She looked up to find him leaning out over the balcony, his face pale with concern.
“Be careful.” Her warning was a mere croak of sound.
“Can you reach my hand?”
Isabella closed her eyes briefly, afraid that if she looked down she would fall. Looking up was even more frightening. Her heart was pounding, and she tasted terror. Someone, something had arranged her accident. Someone wanted her dead. She had been led right into a trap. Captain Bartolmei was on the balcony. She had to let go of her lion and trust him to pull her up.
“Look at me,” he commanded. “Reach up and take my hand right now.”
She clutched at the stone lion but managed to look up at her rescuer.
“Are you injured?” Captain Bartolmei’s voice bordered on desperation. “Answer me!” This time he used his authority, commanding compliance. His hand was inches from hers as he leaned down to her. “You can do it. Take my hand.”
Isabella took a deep breath and let it out. Very slowly she worked at loosening her grip, one finger at a time. Taking a leap of faith, she reached for him. Rolando caught her wrist and dragged her up and over the railing. She collapsed against him, both of them sprawling on the snow-covered balcony.
For a moment he held her tightly, his hands patting her back in a clumsy attempt to comfort her. “Are you injured in any way?” He sat her up with gentle hands.
Isabella was shaking so hard her teeth chattered, but she shook her head firmly. Her skin felt like ice. Rolando removed his jacket and settled it around her shoulders. “Can you walk?”
She nodded. If it got her to her bedchamber, a warm fire, a cup of hot tea, and her bed, she would crawl if need be.
“What happened? How did you come to be in this place?” He helped her to her feet and guided her out of the wind, back into the servants’ corridors.
“Grazie, Signor Bartolmei. You saved my life. I don’t think I could have held on much longer. I thought I heard someone I know calling to me. The door closed behind me, and I was trapped.” Subdued, Isabella followed his lead through the network of stairs and hallways until they were once again in the main section of the palazzo. “Please send Sarina to me,” she said as they stopped in front of her door. Her feet were so numb she couldn’t feel them. “I would prefer that you not say anything. I shouldn’t have been exploring.” Before he could protest, Isabella ducked into her room, murmuring her thanks once again.
She closed the door quickly before she humiliated herself by bursting into tears. Isabella flung herself facedown on the bed. The fire was already roaring in the fireplace, but Isabella didn’t think she would ever be warm again. She wrapped her hands in the coverlet and shook helplessly, uncertain if it was from sheer terror or from the bitter, piercing cold.
Sarina found Isabella shaking uncontrollably, her hair wet and tangled, her gown soaked and streaked with dirt. Most alarming was the fact that Captain Bartolmei’s jacket covered her.
“My hands and feet are burning now,” Isabella said, struggling not to weep.
The housekeeper took charge immediately, drying her young charge, dressing her hair, and tucking her beneath the quilts after a cup of soothing tea. “Captain Bartolmei’s coat shouldn’t be in your room. Did the servants see you wearing it? Did you run into any of them as you came through the palazzo?”
“Don’t you want to know what happened?” Isabella turned her face away, sickened that she had been so close to death, yet all the housekeeper seemed worried about was propriety. “I’m certain someone saw us. We weren’t trying to hide.”
Sarina patted her gently. “It is necessary to be cautious, given your status, Isabella.”
Isabella flinched, having heard the words many times from her father. “I’ll try to arrange it so that the next time I’m nearly killed, it won’t be food for gossip.”
Sarina looked horrified. “I didn’t mean—”
Nicolai DeMarco stalked in without warning, interrupting whatever the housekeeper had to say. His amber eyes blazed with heat. “Is she injured?”
Sarina kept her gaze fixed on Isabella, who turned her head toward the sound of the don’s voice. “No, signore, just very cold.”
“I wish to speak with her alone.” Nicolai made it a decree, circumventing any protest Sarina might make.
He waited until his housekeeper had closed the door before taking the chair she had vacated. His palm cradled the back of Isabella’s head. “Captain Bartolmei tells me you nearly fell to your death. What were you doing up there, piccola?”
“Certainly not leaping to my death, if that’s what you think,” Isabella retorted without her usual spirit. “I was lost.” Her lashes drifted down. “I followed the voice. The door locked. It was cold.” Her words were low, her sentences disjointed, and made no real sense to him. “Aren’t you going to ask why Captain Bartolmei’s jacket is in my bedchamber? Sarina seemed overly concerned with it.” There was distress, hurt in her tone, despite the fact that she tried valiantly to hide it. “I’ve already had the lecture on being more discreet when I’m falling to my death, so if you don’t mind too much, I’ll pass on another one.”
“Go to sleep, cara mia. I have no intention of being angry with you or Rolando. On the contrary, I’m in his debt.” He stroked a caress down her hair, bent to brush a kiss against her temple. “Captain Bartolmei is investigating how such a thing could have happened and will report to me. You have nothing to worry about. Sleep, piccola. I’ll watch over you.” Nicolai abandoned the chair to stretch out beside her on the bed, curving his body protectively around hers.
“I think this would earn you another lecture,” he teased softly, his breath warming the nape of her neck. “But I don’t intend for you to have nightmares, bellezza, so I’m going to stay for a while and chase them away for you.”
“I’m too tired for conversation,” she said without opening her eyes, pleased that he’d called her beautiful. There was comfort in the strength of his arms, the hard frame of his body. But Isabella didn’t want to talk or think. She wanted to escape into sleep.
“Then stop talking, Isabella.” He nuzzled her hair with his chin. “I have four dignitaries waiting to be received, and I’m here with you. That should tell you how much you mean to me. I need to be with you right now. Go to sleep, and let me watch over you.”
Where she had been ice cold, inside and out, heat blossomed and spread. She snuggled deeper beneath the coverlets and fell asleep with a smile curving her mouth.