The knock on the door made Isabella’s heart pound. It was loud, insistent, heralding grim news. Nicolai retained possession of her wrist but turned toward the sound, his face once more an expressionless mask.
Captains Bartolmei and Drannacia hurried in, sketching quick salutes. “He’s on the move, Don DeMarco. One of the birds has returned and brings word.” Drannacia glanced at Isabella and bowed low, apologetically. “We feared the news couldn’t wait.”
“Grazie,” Nicolai said and bent unhurriedly to once more take possession of Isabella’s mouth. “There’s no need to worry,” he whispered against her lips “I’ll return shortly.”
She suddenly found that she loved the savage side of him, reveled in it. That part of him would enable him to defend their valley, defeat Rivellio. That part of Nicolai would keep him safe for her and return him to her. “I shall be very, very angry should you receive so much as a scratch from that hateful man,” she cautioned him, keeping a smile plastered to her face in spite of the tightening in her chest.
“And I shall be very, very angry with you if you are not waiting here when I return. No adventures, cara mia.” The pad of his thumb slid in a long caress over her sensitive inner wrist.
“I have plenty with which to occupy myself,” she replied. “I’m most grateful. Theresa and Violante are here already. When the people come in from the farms and villaggi, I will need their assistance.”
She took her leave, her heart pounding out a rhythm of fear. Nicolai had led his soldiers to victory many times; she had to believe that nothing would happen to him now. As she closed the door, she heard Rolando Bartolmei’s voice. A note of accusation caught her attention, and she lingered to hear him speak.
“Before we go into battle, Don DeMarco, let me ask if I’ve done something to offend you or make you question my loyalty.”
There was a brief silence. Isabella could well imagine the look on Nicolai’s face, his eyebrows raised, the censure he conveyed so silently. “Why would you ask me such a thing, Rolando?”
“I was out patrolling this morn, long before the sun was up, and I was followed. I never saw the lion, but the tracks in the snow followed my mount everywhere I went. There are no lions loose at this time, yet those same tracks were found near the body this morning, too.”
Isabella pressed a hand against her mouth, her breath catching in her throat. The memory of Rolando Bartolmei’s shredded coat rose up to haunt her. She waited for Nicolai’s answer. It was a long time in coming.
“I have no reason to doubt your loyalty, Rolando. If you know of such a matter, feel free to confess it to me now, that we might lay the matter to rest.”
“I have always served you loyally.” Bartolmei sounded stiff with outrage. “I’ve never given you cause to doubt me.”
“Nor I you,” Nicolai returned softly.
Isabella closed her eyes briefly, hoping Rolando could hear the sincerity in Nicolai’s voice. She was afraid he wouldn’t, afraid that small surge of power she felt was subtly influencing the emotions of the men. There was little she could do but trust in Nicolai and the loyalty of his people. Isabella moved slowly down the long, curving staircase. She had duties to perform. She called Sarina and Betto to her, preparing them for the invasion by Don DeMarco’s people who lived outside the safety of the walls of the castello.
Theresa and Violante were everywhere, Violante, well trained and in her element, directing the food preparations and locating supplies. Theresa worked closely and efficiently with both Isabella and Violante, following all instructions so things went smoothly.
Isabella took a short break the moment she had a chance, hastening to her brother’s bedchamber to check on his progress and apologize to Francesca for leaving her so long without anyone to relieve her.
Francesca glanced up and gestured for hushed voices, a small smile curving her mouth. “I just got him back to sleep. His cough is still very bad, but the healer was here and said he looked stronger. I think sleep will help. He’s been coughing so much he can’t rest.” She smoothed back the tangle of hair from Lucca’s face with gentle fingertips.
“I told him everything, Francesca,” Isabella confessed. “I should have warned you that he knows about the DeMarco legacy.”
To Isabella’s surprise, Francesca blushed. “We talked about it. He’s just so…” She broke off, at a loss for words. “We talked all night long. I could listen to his voice forever. Most of the time he’s funny and makes me laugh. He always says nice things about the way I look. He said he thought I would be an invaluable asset in destroying the curse. I think he meant it, too.” Her eyes were shining as she looked at Isabella.
“Lucca rarely makes mistakes in his assessments, Francesca. I’m counting on you helping us to destroy the curse.” She patted Francesca’s arm. “Just bear in mind, we no longer have lands, so Lucca has nothing to offer a wife. Certainly not enough to offer the sister of a don.”
Francesca’s elegant eyebrows arched. “I’ve never allowed others to dictate my actions. I doubt I would start now.” She suddenly seemed to become aware of the unusually bustle of activity outside the room. She went very still, knowledge seeping in. “It’s begun, hasn’t it?” Francesca said. “Rivellio is invading our valley.”
Isabella swallowed her fear and nodded. “Nicolai’s gone out to meet him.”
“I know you’re afraid for Nicolai, Isabella, but he is a master at warfare. He plans every battle carefully. His men will watch his back, and should he call forth the lions, it will be over swiftly,” Francesca reassured her.
A soft knock on the door heralded Theresa’s arrival. She beckoned to Isabella, summoning her into the hall.
“Go ahead, Isabella. I’ll watch over Lucca,” Francesca assured her.
Isabella slipped out of her brother’s room to face Theresa. “What is it?”
“Rolando has sent a request that we bring the men bandages and salves and also the mixtures for poultices. They want to treat the wounded quickly and then transport them back to the castello. The healer must stay here. I have some knowledge of wounds but very little. Sarina said you had some knowledge of treating injuries. Will you come with me?” She looked very anxious, visibly upset, wringing her hands.
Isabella nodded immediately. “I’ve treated wounds many times. I’m certain we can manage, Theresa.” She had set up temporary camps for the wounded when needed at her father’s holding. “Have you heard if many are injured?” She tried to keep the fear out of her voice.
Theresa shook her head. “A runner went out but has not returned. I had horses saddled for us, and the supplies are on a packhorse. I hope that was all right. I would have asked Sarina to accompany me—she’s good with wounds—but she’s too old to weather the trip easily. I thought it would be better to go ourselves.”
“We’ll be fine,” Isabella concurred. “We’ll leave word to be relieved as soon as possible. I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”
Isabella hurried to her bedchamber to retrieve her cloak and gloves. Theresa met her at the side entrance closest to the stables. A packhorse was tethered alongside two mounts.
The day was shrouded in gray, the mist nearly impenetrable. The world seemed closed in, a dark veil draped over the castello. The animals seemed nervous, eyes rolling, heads tossing, hooves shifting and dancing in agitation. Isabella paused, her hand resting on her horse. Her stomach was rolling gently, a subtle warning. “I’ve forgotten something, Theresa.” She kept her voice calm. The swelling triumph, the surge of power, thickened and grew around her. She knew it was too late. Far too late.
The blow had hard, passionate hatred behind it. Isabella crumpled to the ground, darkness claiming her.
She woke, upside down, her stomach heaving, her head throbbing. The horse raced through the mist at Theresa’s urging. With her hands tied together and Theresa holding her face down as she rode, Isabella was sick, horribly so, twice, before Theresa halted the sweating animal and dismounted. Isabella slid from the back of the horse and fell, her legs too rubbery to support her. With her bound hands tied in front of her, she wiped at her mouth as best she could while she looked carefully around her. She was somewhere near the pass.
Theresa paced back and forth, her anger growing with every step. She whipped around to glare at Isabella. “You won’t be so calm when he gets here.”
“By he, I presume you mean Don Rivellio.” Isabella kept her voice low. “You’re the traitor who’s been feeding him information.”
Theresa lifted her chin, eyes glittering dangerously. “Call me whatever you like. You’re the perfect bait to get him into the valley. He’s such a coward, sending his men to certain death, but even with all the information I gave him, I couldn’t lure him inside until I promised to deliver you. He knows that if he has you, Don DeMarco will trade his own life for yours.” There was a sneer in her voice.
“How would he know such a thing?” Isabella asked softly.
Theresa shrugged. “I would do anything to get Don Rivellio into this valley. He thinks he has all the plans, but he knows nothing of the lions. His men will be defeated, and I’ll kill him myself.” Her voice held a wealth of satisfaction. “He deserves death after what he did to my sister.” She turned her head to look at Isabella. “And you deserve it for stealing my husband.”
Isabella stared up at Theresa in shock. Her head was throbbing so hard, for a moment she thought she hadn’t heard correctly. She hastily bit back words of denial. Theresa was in no mood to listen to reason, nor would she believe protests of innocence. It would only serve to anger her further.
“Theresa, did you kill the servant who locked me in the storehouse?”
“I didn’t kill him,” she denied. “He overheard me giving information to one of Rivellio’s men. They killed him. There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t allow anyone to know, so I erased the footprints around the body.”
“I can understand your wanting to kill Don Rivellio, but it’s impossible. He’ll have guards, Theresa, even if he comes. How could you possibly think you would be able…” She trailed off as it all began to fit together like pieces of a puzzle in her mind. The shredded coat and gown in her closet. The female voice calling to her, luring her up the stairs to the balcony. A voice like Francesca DeMarco’s. The woman in the marketplace with long black hair, with DeMarco features. Like Francesca, only not Francesca. The lion following her through the narrow streets and staring at her with hate-filled eyes. The lion tracks in the snow surrounding the servant’s body. The lion pacing after Rolando Bartolmei. Francesca DeMarco could become the beast. And Theresa was a first cousin to Nicolai and Francesca.
Isabella shook her head. “Theresa, think what you’re doing.”
“I’m doing what should have been done when he took my little sister against her will and used her the way he did. Nicolai should have sent out assassins to kill him.” Theresa’s voice hissed with hatred. “She was a bambina! Rivellio destroyed her. She’s an empty shell now. It’s hideous that he could get away with such a thing.”
“He had mio padre murdered,” Isabella said softly. “He tortured mio fratello and would have executed him.” She lifted her tied hands and pushed at the hair tumbling around her face. When she looked up, her stomach did another somersault, her heart began to pound loudly, and she tasted fear in her mouth.
Through the gray mist she could see soldiers riding in tight formation around a single imposing figure. “Go, Theresa. You can still get away before he gets his hands on you,” Isabella whispered, the blood draining from her face. She struggled to her feet. She would never meet an enemy cowed and shrinking. Without conscious thought, she placed her body protectively in front of the other woman. “They haven’t seen you yet. Run. You can get away.”
Isabella kept her eyes fixed on the man riding in the middle of the group. He looked a devil to her. He was evil incarnate, every bit as twisted as the entity feeding the hatred and jealousies in the valley. Isabella felt the rush of cold, felt a strange disorientation as the malevolent being eagerly reached out to embrace Don Rivellio, deserting all others now that it had an evil mind to control.
Behind her, Theresa moaned softly. “What have I done? What’s happened to me? Rolando will never forgive what I’ve done.” She reached around Isabella, a sharp blade slicing cleanly through the ropes. The stiletto was pressed into Isabella’s palm. “When I allow the beast free reign, you run, escape into the woods. It’s all I can give you.” A sob welled up, but Theresa held it back, fighting for control.
The soldiers had spotted them. Several kicked their horses into action, rushing toward the two women. Isabella didn’t bother to run. She lifted her chin and assumed her haughtiest expression.
“I’m sorry,” Theresa whispered. “You had no right to lie with my husband, but this was wrong of me.”
“If we both die here today, Theresa, I want you to know, Rolando has never given me any indication that he wanted more than courtesy between us,” Isabella said sincerely.
The soldiers scouted the area surrounding the two women, leery of finding the two alone so far from the protection of the castello. Don Rivellio sat astride his horse, his eyes crafty and greedy as he looked at Isabella. The mist turned to a fine drizzle of sleet, the clouds darkening the skies overhead.
“I can’t do it,” Theresa murmured in fear. “I can’t bring forth the beast. I’ve tried, but it’s gone.”
Isabella’s heart was so loud, it was matching the throbbing in her head. She kept the stiletto hidden in the folds of her skirt.
“You look a bit the worse for wear, Signorina Vernaducci.” Don Rivellio smirked at her, his lecherous gaze running deliberately over her. “Has Don DeMarco already sampled the goods? I do hate seconds.” His eyes narrowed. “If I find it’s so, I shall punish you severely. That can be quite delicious…for me.”
The surrounding guards laughed aloud, leering at the two women. Isabella lifted her chin a little higher. She kept Theresa behind her by holding her in place with her free hand, not liking the look on Don Rivellio’s face.
Somewhere in the distance came the screams of men in the throes of death, of terror. The sounds cut through the dismal sleet to send a chill through all of them. The men looked at one another in sudden anxiety. Don Rivellio smiled pleasantly. “That is the sound of my men killing any poor dolts who would stand in my way. My men have taken the valley. I have you, Signorina Vernaducci, as I was always meant to. If DeMarco should escape, he will no doubt attempt a rescue and place himself in my hands. I have such wonderful plans for you.”
The don leaned forward on his horse, staring directly into her eyes, allowing her a glimpse of pure evil. “Pain is very close to pleasure, my dear. We shall see if you enjoy my little diversions as much as I do.” His gaze moved from her face to Theresa’s. “And you—how well you’ve served me. DeMarco has never learned a woman’s place in his holding. You will learn it well in mine. I have a room right off the stables where you will be stripped naked, tied spread-eagled, and left for my soldiers to do with as they please. Your sister learned her lesson in that room—so tedious with her constant tears, her begging to go home.” He laughed, sharing his amusement with his men. “They always enjoy my little gifts to them.”
Isabella felt fear mixing with fury rushing through her bloodstream, felt the answering tremor run through Theresa. She gripped Theresa’s arm. “Stay silent. Make no sound at all. Nicolai is here. Look at the horses,” she whispered.
Her words were so low Theresa almost didn’t catch them. She was reaching for the beast within, trying to recapture her hatred and rage now, when she needed it the most, when the disgusting creature who had dishonored and raped her sister was standing in front of her, threatening her with his vileness. The horses were indeed beginning to show signs of nervousness. Moving restlessly, tossing heads, some rearing until the soldiers were forced to dismount to calm them.
Isabella allowed herself a brief glimpse of the surrounding countryside. Through the gray sleet and gloom she caught the glow of feral eyes, the whisper of movement among the trees and boulders. More than one beast stalked the group of soldiers.
“I detest this place,” Don Rivellio snapped. “Get the women, and let’s get out of here.” The agitation of the horses increased even as he spoke. The animals plunged and bucked, whirling to dislodge their riders. The soldiers fought with their mounts to stay astride. None of them were able to obey Rivellio’s orders.
The lion came out of the gray veil, huge, nearly eleven feet of solid muscle, exploding through the sleet to hit the don solidly in the chest. Horses squealed in terror. Men screamed, faces blanching in horror as the world erupted into madness. The lead lion was not alone, a pack having surrounded the column of men. Sprays of crimson shot across the snow, trees, and bushes.
Theresa drove Isabella to the ground, wrapping her arms around Isabella’s head to prevent her from seeing the horror. “Don’t look! Don’t look at this!”
Isabella had no way to see, but she couldn’t drown out the sounds of terror. Of the crunch of bones and the sound of flesh being stripped from limbs. It went on and on, the terrible screams of men dying, the heavy breathing of the lions, the fierce growls that were spine-chilling, the horses shrieking in fear.
Theresa held her down, shaking as badly as Isabella. It seemed an eternity. Don Rivellio howled with pain, his pleading cries mingled with the sounds of flesh tearing and great teeth chomping through bone and muscle. Eventually his screams died away. And then it was eerily silent.
Isabella felt Theresa move off her, but she couldn’t stand, didn’t want to look. She buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. Nicolai had done this. Intelligence had been behind the attack. It had been well thought out, the lions moving into position, holding off their ambush until directed to strike hard and fast. They had virtually shredded the enemy. Even now she could hear the sounds of lions feasting. Warning growls rumbled in the night, reverberating through her own body.
Her fate. This would be her fate. Unbidden, unwanted, the thought took hold.
“Isabella.” He said her name as if reading her thoughts, denying the truth.
She was sobbing when he lifted her from the ground, her face ravaged with tears, streaked with spattered blood. Her hair was disheveled, falling from its intricate arrangement to cascade down her back and frame her face. Nicolai dragged her against him and held her tightly while he glared over the top of her head at Theresa.
“Fortunately, I had two of my most trusted guards watching over my betrothed.” His eyes burned with fury. “We heard every condemning word you spoke.” His hands were gentle in Isabella’s hair, completely at odds with the lash of his voice as he spoke to his cousin. “Take her to the castello. She is charged with treason and attempted murder. Gather my council at once. Captain Bartolmei, if you can’t do your part of the job, you are excused and can await the outcome.” Nicolai’s voice was as cold as ice.
Bartolmei didn’t so much as glance at Theresa. “I have never failed to do my duty, Don DeMarco, and my wife’s treachery changes nothing.”
Isabella clung to Nicolai, holding him tightly, smelling the wildness still rising from his skin and hair. “Take me home,” she pleaded. She pressed her hands over her ears, trying desperately to muffle the sounds of the lions feasting on human flesh. She kept her eyes tightly shut, her breath coming in shuddering sobs.
Hatred and malevolence, blood and violence swirled in the air around them. She would never be able to forget the sounds of death, the cries and pleas of the soldiers for mercy. The sheer savagery of the night, of the beasts, of Don DeMarco, would haunt her for all time.
“Isabella.” He said her name softly, whispered it over her skin, calling her back to him, needing to comfort her almost as much as she needed to be comforted.
Nicolai caught her chin in one palm, tilting her head to the side to give him a view of her face. Above her eye was a bump, a trickle of blood, the skin already turning black and blue. Flames leapt into his eyes. His thumb removed the blood from her temple, and he pulled her once again into his chest to prevent her from seeing the killing fury burning in his eyes. She could feel him trembling, could feel him solid and real, could feel the volcano threatening to erupt. He held on to his rage with tenacious control.
Isabella was in far too fragile a state for Nicolai to indulge his anger. He wanted to get her into the safety of the palazzo, where the horror of this night would fade. Nicolai lifted his betrothed onto the back of his waiting horse, his arms and body sheltering her close to him. Nuzzling her hair, he turned his mount away from the sea of bodies and the beasts devouring them. She wept quietly against his chest, her tears soaking his shirt, breaking his heart. Building his hatred and need for retaliation against anyone, anything that had caused this great a sorrow.
Sarina was waiting at the palazzo, and she enfolded Isabella in her arms as if she were a child, taking her to the sanctuary of her room, where a bath and a fire awaited. She let her young charge cry out her storm of emotions. Tea and the hot bath helped to revive her for the coming ordeal. It wasn’t over, and Isabella knew it wouldn’t ever be over unless she could defeat the entity, her most powerful enemy.
“Have they said whether any of Rivellio’s men escaped the valley?” she managed to ask as she sipped the steaming tea sweetened with honey.
“The patrols have been sweeping the valley,” Sarina answered. “The pass and the tunnels in the caves are well guarded. It would be nearly impossible for any to slip through. Rivellio and his men will become, as so many others, part of the legend: would-be invaders who never returned to their holdings. Who’s to say what happened to them? The evidence will be long gone should any seek information.”
Isabella shuddered. Her hand was shaking as she set her teacup aside. She would need all her strength, all her determination, to face her craftiest, most evil enemy.
She wanted yet feared to see Nicolai before she entered the room where the court was assembling, but he hadn’t come to her. Rivellio and his men had invaded the valley with the purpose of taking over the holding. Don DeMarco had a duty to protect his people from all invaders, and he had done so with the least amount of bloodshed to his own soldiers. She pressed a hand to her stomach. In all her experience, Isabella had not been prepared for such a killing field. It had been a nightmare, a horror. In truth, she didn’t know if she would ever be able to overcome the sounds and sights, knowing the identity of the beast leading the killing spree.
She took another sip of tea as the knowledge of Rivellio’s death finally began to sink in. The enemy of the Vernaducci family was truly dead. Her breath hitched in her throat. Nicolai DeMarco had the power to restore the Vernaducci’s honored name. She had no doubt he could do it, even restore their lands. That would clear the way for Lucca and Francesca to be together. Carefully Isabella set the teacup on the tray, smiling as the thought of the look on her brother’s face, the light in his eyes as his gaze followed Francesca. Between Isabella and Francesca, Isabella was certain that, with Nicolai’s help, Lucca would find the happiness he deserved.
Isabella dressed for court with great care, making certain that every hair was in place, that her gown was regal and becoming. There was nothing she could do to overcome her pale features or the bruise darkening one side of her face and eye. Her stomach was tied in knots, but she would not plead the vapors and hide in her room weeping. She swept through the halls to the tower room where they were holding court. Theresa’s trial. She looked neither right nor left, aware of the servants crossing themselves as she passed them, of young Alberita sprinkling holy water in her direction.
The room was filled with people, some officials she had never met, some she recognized. Captain Bartolmei stood stiffly to one side. Captain Drannacia was very close to his wife, Violante. Theresa stood in the center of the room, facing Don DeMarco. He was motionless, his features dark and implacable, only his eyes alive, burning with intensity, with rage.
“Now that my betrothed, Isabella Vernaducci, has arrived, we may continue. You have brought grave charges against her, claiming she had been unfaithful to me and had lain with my trusted captain.” As he spoke in a flat, expressionless voice, Nicolai’s gaze burned over Isabella.
She felt the impact like a blow, but she stood unwavering, silent, listening without protest.
“You have admitted to us that you betrayed your people and that you stalked and attempted to kill Signorina Vernaducci. You have admitted to us that you have the DeMarco ability to become the beast, and you used your ability in your pursuit of Signorina Vernaducci. How is it that you kept this talent from your don, and from your husband?”
Theresa took a deep breath. She was fighting for more than her marriage; she was fighting for her life. “The first time the beast overtook me was a few months after my sister returned. I was so filled with rage, I couldn’t contain it. I went out into the forest and screamed. It just happened. I didn’t know how. I thought it was a dream, a hazy dream. It didn’t happen very often, and when it did it was always when I was enraged.” Theresa glanced at Don DeMarco, looked quickly away, and allowed her gaze to stray toward her husband. She stiffened, her face crumbling when he refused to look at her. “The second time it happened was the first night Signorina Vernaducci arrived. I had gone to the castello to wait for my husband….”
“Continue.” It was a command.
Theresa shivered at the tone. “Guido was out walking and spotted me near the stables. He said things to me. He wouldn’t stop. He insisted I wanted him.” Tears glittered in her eyes. “He ripped my gown and threw me to the ground. I was so frightened, so angry, it—it just happened. I didn’t try. I didn’t know until later.”
“You knew everyone thought I had killed him,” Nicolai said softly, his voice a condemnation. “You said nothing. And the servant? Did you kill him, too?”
She shook her head. “No, Rivellio’s men did that. Signorina Vernaducci will tell you. They killed him, not I.”
“But you tried to kill Isabella.” Nicolai was relentless.
“No!” Theresa shook her head in denial. “I don’t know. I think I wanted to frighten her away, but the rage grew and grew until I just wanted her gone. Then I knew I could use her to destroy Rivellio. He forced me to spy for him. He wouldn’t return my sister unless I agreed to supply him with information on the valley. I would have agreed to anything to get her back.”
A single, strangled sound of horror escaped Rolando Bartolmei’s throat.
“I couldn’t really tell him anything,” Theresa explained hastily. “I wasn’t really spying. I didn’t know anything. But I wanted him dead. I had to have him dead. He should have been punished for what he did.” She twisted her hands together. “I knew I could lure him to the valley. He would come for Signorina Vernaducci. He thought to trade her life for Don DeMarco’s. He was certain he could use her brother to invade the valley and defeat our men. I planned to kill him.”
“Using Isabella.” Nicolai’s tone held accusation, threat, the promise of death.
“She betrayed you with my husband. With my Rolando!” The allegation burst from Theresa. For a moment her eyes flashed with anger; then, humiliated and ashamed, she resumed looking at the floor.
“You have proof of this.” Again it was a statement.
Theresa shivered. She nodded, her gaze once more sliding to her husband, then quickly away.
The room was silent, the hush of expectancy. Isabella stood in the center of the room, looking as serene as she could manage, grateful for her father’s training. All eyes were focused on her. She didn’t flinch, but rather faced her accuser calmly.
“Let me see the proof of my betrothed’s infidelity,” Nicolai said softly. “The proof of my captain’s betrayal.” His voice was a low purr of menace. His tone brought the tension in the room up another notch. He held out a hand.
Isabella blinked rapidly, mesmerized by the sight of Nicolai’s large hand. It was a giant paw, covered in fur, razor-sharp claws glinting like stilettos. She heard a collective gasp go around the room. She lifted her gaze to meet his, but he was focused fully on Theresa, watching her with the unblinking stare of a predator.
Theresa stepped toward the don, her outstretched hand holding the evidence of Isabella’s treachery. She stopped short, her face pale, her hand shaking. No matter how hard she tried to force herself forward, she couldn’t take the step to put the damning proof in that huge paw. Nicolai refused to move forward to take the scrap of parchment. He continued to stare at Rolando Bartolmei’s wife, orange-red flames burning in his eyes, daring her to place the damning proof in the huge paw.
It was Isabella who broke the impasse, taking the missive from Theresa and putting it in Nicolai’s open palm. She watched Nicolai’s face as he read the words aloud “‘I miss you so much. Please hurry and join me. I wish I had told you the last time I saw you how very much I love you.’ It is signed, ‘Isabella.’” He lifted his gaze from the parchment and looked directly at her. “Did you write this, Isabella?”
“Yes, of course I did,” she answered easily, quickly, into the expectant silence.
The silence stretched nerves to a screaming point. Theresa attempted to look triumphant. Rolando looked stunned. Isabella only had eyes for Nicolai. She watched his face for any fleeting expression, anything to give her a clue to his thoughts. He said nothing, simply waited in the vacuum of silence.
A sob escaped Theresa’s throat. She jammed a fist to her mouth and averted her face from her husband. Rolando shook his head again.
“Where did you find my letter, Signora Bartolmei?” Isabella asked without rancor. Her voice was gentle, soft, non-threatening.
Behind her hand, Theresa’s voice was muffled. “In the pocket of my husband’s coat.” Another sob escaped.
Isabella’s eyebrows went up. “Really.” She said the word thoughtfully and turned her head to search the room for a face. Her gaze settled on Violante. She remained silent, just watching the other woman.
Nicolai kept his attention centered on Isabella. There was no other in the room who could command his attention…and his control. He could feel his fury building, not white hot but ice cold, the beast raging to be released. Isabella was covered in bruises, in lacerations, subjected to this humiliation, this speculation, before the court. Anger and jealousy mixed with his icy rage until he shook with the need to explode.
Violante turned a bright crimson, glanced at her husband, then at the floor. Sergio Drannacia looked at his wife, inhaled sharply, and reached for her hand. As she looked up at him, an understanding seemed to pass from one to the other.
Violante squared her shoulders. “I don’t know what made me do it. I took the letter from the library when you picked up the book,” she said to Isabella. “I just wanted to have it, to look at my name. I thought I might trace over the marks you made until I learned them.”
She forced herself to look at Don DeMarco’s motionless figure. He was so still he could have been carved from stone. “She wrote my name on the top, a short missive to her brother, and her name at the bottom. She was showing me how to write. I tore my name from it to keep it. I still have it in a box at my home.”
Tears shimmered in her eyes as she looked at Theresa. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I don’t know why I said those things about your husband and Isabella. I kept trying to stop myself, but I couldn’t. I remember putting the missive in the coat when I picked it up from the ground and gave it to Sergio to give to him. I just don’t know why I did such a thing.”
Theresa stared at her, clearly stricken. “Oh, Violante,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I betrayed my people, my husband, my don, while you fed my jealousy and rage. How could you do such a thing?”
Sergio protectively drew Violante beneath the shelter of his wide shoulder.
“I don’t know. I couldn’t stop myself. Isabella, Theresa, I’m so sorry.” Violante didn’t dare look at the don. She had committed an unpardonable sin, treachery against his betrothed.
“You stalked Isabella Vernaducci and tried to kill her because you thought I had betrayed you?” The words burst out of Rolando Bartolmei. He was trembling with rage as he faced his wife. “You betrayed our people? My people? Mio don? You gave information to Rivellio that might have enabled him to invade our land? You did all of it? Even stalked me through my morning patrol to make me doubt mio don? I have known him since childhood, yet you sought to drive a knife between us?” He looked at his wife as if he’d never seen her before, as if she’d suddenly become a loathsome creature. “You believed I would dishonor mio don, my friend—dishonor you?”
Theresa sobbed loudly, the sound heart-rending. Humiliated and shamed by Theresa’s deceitful deeds, Rolando turned on his heel, prepared to walk out and leave his wife to the don’s doubtful mercy.
“Do you think yourself blameless in this, Captain Bartolmei?” Isabella said softly to his retreating back.
Bartolmei stiffened but didn’t turn around. A soft sound escaped Don DeMarco. A low, rumbling growl that stopped Bartolmei instantly. The growl swelled in volume, shook the room, reverberated throughout the castello.
Nicolai paced across the room until he stood before the trembling figure of Theresa Bartolmei. He towered over her, a dark, angry cauldron of rage. “You dared to make repeated attempts on my betrothed? You conspired to make it look as if she were betraying me, while all the time you were betraying your don and your people? And for what, Signora Bartolmei?” His form shimmered between beast and man. “Chanise is part of my family. Assassins were in place to take care of the matter. You would have known that if you had had the sense to come to me. Not that I should have to explain my actions to you or anyone else. Don Rivellio was a dead man. He was dead the moment he put his hands on my cousin.”
He stalked the length of the room and back again, his hair wild, his eyes blazing, power and fury in every step he took. He stopped once more in front of Theresa. “As you were dead from the moment you touched Isabella.” He held out a hand, only it was a huge paw stretching toward her, one curved, stiletto-sharp claw, touching her chin. “Had I not had men watching her, you would have delivered her into the hands of a devil such as Rivellio. You disgust me.”
He spun to glare at his guards. “Take her to the courtyard at once. At once!” He roared the order, orange-red flames burning in his eyes.