Isabella found herself staring into strange, liquid amber eyes. They were mesmerizing. A cat’s eyes. Wild. Mysterious. Hypnotizing. Blazing with some emotion she couldn’t fathom. His pupils were intensely pale and unusually elliptical in shape. Still, she felt she had seen those eyes somewhere before. They weren’t altogether unfamiliar to her, and she relaxed, a small smile curving her mouth.
His hand suddenly cupped her chin, forcing her to continue to meet his fierce gaze. “See me, bride. See your bridegroom. Take a good look at the bargain you have made.” His voice had a deep, rumbling note to it, that undertone of growling she had noticed before.
Isabella did as he said. She began to inspect him. His hair was thick and oddly colored. Tawny, almost golden, it framed his face and fell below his shoulders, where it darkened to appear as black and shiny as a raven’s wing. The need to touch the thick luxurious mass was so strong, she actually lifted her hand and did so in the lightest of caresses.
He caught her wrist in a hard, unbreakable grip. She could feel his great body trembling. His eyes became turbulent and dangerous, watching her with the unblinking, unnerving stare of a predator locked onto its prey. She saw his features then, the long, obscene scars etched into the left side of the face of an angel. Wicked and frightful, they ran from his scalp to his shadowed jaw, four of them, as if some wild animal had raked his cheek, tearing the flesh right down to the bone. And he did have the face of an angel, absurdly handsome, a face any artist would want to capture on canvas for all time.
His grip tightened until she thought he might crush her bones, his eyes becoming wilder, narrowing dangerously, fixing on her face as if he were about to leap upon her and devour her for some terrible misdeed. He bent toward her, his perfectly sculpted mouth snarling, a warning growl rumbling in his throat.
As she continued to gaze at him, his features changed, blurring oddly so that for a moment she thought she was staring into the face of a great beast, its muzzle open to show sharp white teeth. The eyes, however, remained somehow familiar to her. She stared directly into those eyes and smiled. “Are you going to have tea with me?”
His body was very muscular, far more so than that of any man she had ever encountered, his sinews defined and rippling with strength beneath his elegant shirt. His thighs were twin columns of power, like oak tree trunks. He was tall but well proportioned, frightening in his size and the power he exuded.
Those amber eyes stared at her for several heartbeats. He slowly released her wrist, the warmth of his palm lingering on her skin. Isabella twisted her fingers into the folds of her skirt to prevent herself from rubbing at the marks on her wrist. Her pulse throbbed in a rhythm of fear and excitement. It was silly the way her wild imagination persisted in seeing him as the strange, leonine carvings in his home. And it was equally silly that the outside world thought him a demonic beast because of a few scars.
Isabella was no frightened child to faint away because he bore evidence of surviving a vicious attack. Deliberately she took a sip of tea. “You do not disappoint me, signore, or frighten me, if that is your intention. Do you think me so weak or young? I am no child to have fear of a man.” Although he was much more intimidating than she wanted to admit. And he clearly had enormous strength. He could crush her easily should he make the effort. It was impossible to judge his age. He was no boy but a full-grown man, bearing the weight of his title and the burden of ensuring his people’s welfare on his broad shoulders. And now that of her brother. She had brought him yet another encumbrance, and the thought made her feel guilty. “Please do have some tea. I would hope to become better acquainted with you.”
“Tell me what you see when you look at me.” His voice was quiet, a mere thread of sound, a whisper of velvet and heat. Yet it was a command from a powerful being.
To steady her nerves, Isabella took another sip of the hot, sweet tea. It was laced with honey and fortified her. “I see a man with many burdens to bear. And I have brought him another. I’m sorry for that, but I cannot allow mio fratello to die. You were my only hope. I didn’t wish to complicate your life further.” Her words were sincere.
Don DeMarco hesitated as if uncertain what to do. He finally seated himself in the chair opposite her. Isabella smiled warily at him, offering a tentative olive branch. “I fear you have made a poor bargain, signore. Mio padre spent a good portion of his life frowning and shaking his head in disapproval of my behavior.”
“I can well imagine the truth of that.” Irony laced his voice, and she could feel the weight of his relentless stare.
Isabella felt the brush of butterfly wings in her stomach, and heat curled slowly through her bloodstream. She knew little of the relations between a man and woman. She didn’t even know if he would want her in that way. But she couldn’t seem to look at him without her entire body clenching with a heat and fire she’d never felt before. It was uncomfortable and frightening. And she didn’t want anyone dictating to her, curtailing her activities. She was accustomed to doing as she pleased with few restrictions.
She tilted her chin. “I do not obey the dictates of others very well.”
His low, amused, caressing laughter startled her. It slipped inside her and wrapped around her heart. “Is that a warning or a confession?” he asked.
Her gaze touched his, then slid away shyly. She had the feeling he rarely laughed. “I think it was more of a warning. I’ve never been able to understand the meaning of the word obey.” She took another sip of tea and regarded him over the rim of the cup “Mio padre said I should have been born a boy.” The hand hidden in the folds of her skirts twisted the material tightly. She was terribly nervous, far more so than she had even been. Don DeMarco was not at all what she had expected. She could have dealt with a stuffy old man, even one with greedy, lust-filled eyes. Don DeMarco was incredibly handsome, more than handsome, and she had no idea how to deal with him.
“It has been long since I sat and talked with another like this,” he admitted softly, some of the tension easing out of him. “My meetings are not social, and I never take dinner with members of the household.” He sat back in his chair, stretching his long legs toward the fire. He should have looked relaxed, but he still looked a wild animal, restless in its cage.
“Why not? Dinner was always my favorite time of the day. Mio fratello would tell me such wonderful stories. It was difficult for me when mio padre decided I needed to learn certain feminine accomplishments and locked me indoors. Lucca would tell me as many wild tales over dinner as he could think of to make me laugh.”
“Were you often locked in?” His voice was mild enough, but something in his tone made her shiver. Clearly he didn’t like the idea of her father locking her in, but it was perfectly fine that he had done so.
“Often enough. I liked to roam the hills. Padre was afraid I would run into wolves.” Truly, her father had been afraid he would never find his wild child a wealthy husband. Isabella pushed the thought away swiftly, lest the don see the fleeting sadness in her eyes. His intent stare seemed capable of reading every nuance of her posture and expression.
Don DeMarco leaned toward her and gently brushed some tendrils of her hair away from her face. The unexpected gesture made her pull away from him, and something sharp scratched her from her temple to the corner of her eye. The edge of his ring must have scraped her skin. She gasped with the sudden pain, reaching up to cover the damage with her palm.
He stood up so fast, his teacup went crashing to the floor, shattering and spilling its contents. The puddle took on the ominous shape of a lion.
At once Isabella’s heart pounded fearfully, and she tilted her head to look up at the don. His eyes blazed dangerously, his mouth looked cruel, edged with a snarl, and that curious growl rumbled in his throat. The scars along his cheek became red and vivid. Once again the strange look of the lion blurred with his face so that for a moment she was staring at a beast and not a man.
“What do you see now, Signorina Vernaducci?” he demanded, a kind of fury running through his body, filling the room with danger. Even the falcon on its perch flapped its wings in alarm. Don DeMarco’s fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck, holding her still, holding her prisoner.
She blinked up at him, bringing him back into focus, unsure what she had done to warrant such a reaction. “I’m sorry, signore, if I have offended you in some way. I meant no insult.” In truth she couldn’t even remember what she had said that could have set him off. His fingers were a tight fist in her hair, yet there was no pressure, just the sharpness of his ring digging into her skin. She stayed very still.
“You have not answered my question.” His voice was pure menace.
“I see you, signore.” She stared steadily into his catlike eyes.
Don DeMarco remained still, his gaze locked with hers. She could hear her own breathing, feel her heart pounding. He let out his breath slowly. “You have not offended me.” His fingers left her hair reluctantly.
“Why, then, are you so upset?” she asked, puzzled by his strange behavior. Her skin throbbed where his ring had pricked her.
His fingers settled around her slender wrist, prying her hand from her temple. A thin trail of blood trickled down her face. “Look at what I have done to you through my clumsiness. I injured you, perhaps scarred you.”
Relief flooded her as she understood that he was angry with himself, not with her, and she laughed softly. “It’s a small scratch, Don DeMarco. I cannot believe you would be upset over such a trivial thing. I’ve skinned my knees numerous times. I do not scar easily,” she added, aware he was probably sensitive because of his own terrible scars.
She tugged at her hand to remind him to release her. “Allow me to clean up the tea and pour you a fresh cup.”
His thumb was stroking her sensitive inner wrist as he towered over her. The sensation was shocking, little tongues of fire licking up her arm, spreading over her skin until she was burning with some unnamed need she had never experienced. His eyes were staring at her with far too much hunger.
Don DeMarco’s fingers tightened possessively around her wrist. “You are no domestica in my home, Isabella. There is no need for you to clean up the mess.” He bent toward her, a slow, unhurried assault on her senses.
Isabella’s body clenched in reaction to his nearness. He came even closer, until his wide shoulders blotted out the entire room around her. When she inhaled, he was there in the air, filling her lungs. He smelled wild. Untamed. Masculine. His eyes seemed to devour her face. She couldn’t look away from him, nearly hypnotized by his gaze. When he lowered his head to hers, his strangely colored hair brushed her skin with the sensation of silk. She felt his tongue at her temple, a moist caress as he removed the trace of her blood. The touch should have repulsed her, but it was the most sensual thing imaginable.
An abrupt knock at the door spun him around, and he leapt away from her with a catlike movement that took him halfway across the room, landing so lightly she didn’t hear his feet on the tiles. There was something menacing in the set of his shoulders. His hair was a wild mane flowing down his back, shaggy and untamed despite the cord securing it. Muscles rippled beneath his shirt. He stalked to the door and wrenched it open.
At once Isabella felt the dark stench of evil pouring into the room, shadow streaming in like filthy water, fouling the air. She carefully placed her empty teacup on the table, rising as she did so. She saw only Sarina’s anxious face as the servant hurried into the room. The older woman was looking past Don DeMarco to the puddle of tea and broken crockery on the floor.
“Mi scusi per il disturbo, signore, but those wishing an audience with you are waiting. I thought perhaps you had forgotten them.” Sarina curtseyed slightly, not looking at the don. Instead she was examining Isabella’s face, her expression distressed.
Self-consciously Isabella covered the scratch on her temple with her palm. Even as she did so, she turned in a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the exact location from which the cold, ugly sensation of evil was originating. It was so real, so strong, her body began to shiver in reaction, her mouth went dry, and she could feel the frenzied pounding of her heart. Something was in the room with them, something Sarina didn’t appear to notice. Isabella saw the don lift his head warily, as if he was scenting the air. Unexpectedly the falcon began to flap its wings. Isabella swung around to look at the bird.
Sarina was already at the table, bending to pick up the broken teacup. Isabella felt a sudden surge of hatred in the room, black and fierce. She threw herself forward just as the raptor let out a scream and launched itself straight at Sarina’s exposed face. Isabella landed on the older woman, driving her to the floor, covering her with her own body, hands over her own face as the falcon struck at the servant with outstretched talons.
A roar shook the room, a terrible, inhuman, beastly sound. The falcon uttered a high-pitched squawk as it slashed Isabella’s back, shredding the fine fabric of the gown and digging long furrows in her skin. Isabella couldn’t prevent a cry of pain from escaping. She could feel the bird’s wings beating above her, fanning her. Sarina was sobbing, praying loudly, wretchedly, not even trying to escape the weight of Isabella’s body.
Isabella turned her head to look for the don. He wasn’t in her line of vision, but, to her horror, an enormous creature had crept into the room through the open door. It stood only a few feet from her, its head down, its eyes staring at her intently. It was a lion, nearly eleven feet in length, at least six hundred pounds of roped muscle and sinew, with a huge golden ruff tapering to a thick mane of black running halfway down its tawny body. The luxurious crest added to the beast’s impression of power. The animal stood completely still. Its paws were huge, its gaze fixed on the two women. The lion was the biggest, most frightening thing Isabella had ever seen. She couldn’t have imagined the animal in her worst nightmare. Sarina and she were in mortal danger.
And the falcon had ripped open her skin, the smell of blood an invitation to the beast. The thought came unbidden to her that something evil had orchestrated the event.
Isabella knew that neither she nor Sarina could escape. The animal would strike with lightning speed. She forced breath into her body. She would have to rely on the don. Trust him to tame the beast. Or slay it. As she stared into the wild, feral eyes, she vowed to be unafraid. The don would not allow the beast to harm them.
The lion took a slow step forward, then froze again in a classic prelude to an attack. She couldn’t look away from the eyes so focused on her. She would believe in the don. He would come to their aid. Tears blurred her vision, and she blinked rapidly, desperate to keep her wits about her.
Hands caught at her, gentle hands that lifted her into strong arms. Then she was cradled against the don’s chest. She buried her face in his shirt, terror rendering her incapable of speech. For the first time in her life she was close to fainting—a silly, feminine reaction she abhorred. She wanted to see if the lion was gone, but she couldn’t find the courage to lift her head and look.
Don DeMarco reached to help Sarina to her feet. “Are you injured?” he asked the older woman in a gentle voice.
“No, just shaken. Signorina Vernaducci saved me from harm. What did I do to upset your bird? He has never flown at me before.” Sarina’s voice quavered, but she brushed off her skirts in a determined, businesslike manner, not once looking directly at the don.
“He is unused to so many strangers in his territory,” Don DeMarco answered gruffly. “Leave that mess, Sarina. Signorina Vernaducci is injured. We must see to her wounds.” He was already moving swiftly through the room and out into the corridor, Sarina traveling in his wake.
Shaking uncontrollably like a ninny, Isabella was mortified at her own behavior. It was beyond bearing. She was a Vernaducci, and Vernaduccis did not carry on when embattled. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, appalled at her lack of control. She was crying in front of a servant, in front of Don DeMarco.
“There, there, bambina, we will take the sting from those wounds,” Sarina crooned to her as if she were a mere babe. “You were so brave, you saved me from terrible injury.”
They were rushing down the stairs, the don’s body fluid and powerful, not jarring her in the least. The lacerations were painful, but Isabella was crying from relief, not pain. First the falcon and then the lion had been terrifying. She hoped the four-footed beasts didn’t have freedom of the castle. Surely the one she saw had escaped from a cage somewhere on the grounds. She took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down.
“I am sorry for my foolish weeping,” she apologized again. “Really, I’m all right now. I’m quite capable of walking.”
“Do not apologize to me again,” Don DeMarco said grimly. His golden eyes moved over her face in a dark, brooding perusal. There was an underlying harshness to his voice, a nameless emotion Isabella had no hope of identifying.
She gazed up at him, and her heart stilled. His face was a mask of bitterness, his expression without hope. He looked as if his entire world had crumbled, every dream he had ever had smashed beyond repair. Isabella felt a curious wrenching in the region of her heart. She lifted a hand and touched his shadowed jaw with gentle fingertips. “Don DeMarco, you persist in thinking me a glass bauble that will shatter when dropped. I’m made of sterner stuff. In truth, I wasn’t weeping from pain. The bird merely scratched me.” She could feel the burning and throbbing now that her terror had receded, but reassuring the don seemed of paramount importance.
The golden eyes blazed down at her, possessively, settling on her mouth as if he wished to crush her lips beneath his. He stole her breath with that look. Isabella stared up at him, mesmerized, unable to glance away.
With exquisite gentleness he finally placed her on her bed, rolling her over so that she was lying on her stomach, the long lacerations exposed to his probing gaze. She felt his hands on her, pushing aside the material of her gown, ripping it down to her waist. It was shocking and more than unseemly to have Don DeMarco see her like this, and in her own bedchamber. Isabella squirmed with embarrassment, reaching instinctively for the coverlet. She could feel the cool air on her bare skin, and her back was painful, but she was humiliated that she had wept and nearly fainted and now her gown was down around her waist.
The don caught her hand to prevent her from wrapping herself in the quilt, and he whispered something ugly under his breath. “These are no small scratches, Isabella.” His voice was harsh, yet the way her name rolled off his tongue was a velvet caress.
“I will take care of her.” Sarina’s tone bordered on shocked outrage as she bent over the younger woman to examine the wounds.
“She is to be my bride, Sarina.” There was a bite to the don’s voice, a self-mocking note that brought a fresh flood of tears to Isabella’s eyes. “You will see that she comes to no further harm.”
There seemed a hidden meaning in his words, and Isabella sensed an understanding passing between the two, but she couldn’t catch the drift. Her back was throbbing and burning, and she just wanted them both to leave her alone.
“Of course, Don DeMarco,” Sarina said softly, compassion in her voice. “I will watch over her. You must meet with those waiting. I will see to Signorina Vernaducci personally.”
Don DeMarco bent so that his mouth was next to Isabella’s ear, so that the warmth of his breath stirred tendrils of her hair and whispered over her skin. “I will set in motion the plans to fulfill our bargain at once. Do not worry, cara mia. It will be done.”
Isabella closed her eyes, her fingers curling into two tight fists as Sarina began to work on the ragged wounds on her back. The pain was excruciating, and she didn’t want Don DeMarco to feel it with her. He was already in enough pain. She sensed the torment buried deep within his soul, and she hated that she was adding to his burdens, burdens she had no hope of understanding but knew instinctively were on his broad shoulders.
Whatever Sarina was doing drove the breath from Isabella’s body, so she couldn’t form an answer to the don. Small beads of sweat broke out on her brow. She thought she felt his lips brush her skin, right over the scratch on her temple.
A sound of distress rumbled in his throat. “I did this,” he stated somberly.
Isabella felt that the small scratch was the least of her worries, yet it seemed enormously upsetting to the don. “You saved us from a lion, Don DeMarco. I’m scarcely worried about such a trivial mark.”
A small silence followed, and she felt the sudden tension in the room.
“You saw a lion?” Sarina asked softly, her hands still on Isabella’s shoulder.
“Don DeMarco, I was not mistaken, was I?” Isabella asked. “Although I admit I have never seen such a creature before. Do you truly keep them as pets? Aren’t you afraid of accidents?”
The silence stretched out endlessly until Isabella stirred, determined to look at the don. With an oath, Don DeMarco spun on his heel and in his usual silent way stalked from the room.
“I did see such a beast in the room with us, Signora Sincini. I am telling the truth. Didn’t you see it?” Isabella asked.
“I did not see anything. I was looking at the floor, terrified the bird would rip out my eyes. Falcons are trained to attack the eyes, you know.”
Isabella felt tears welling up again. “I made the don angry, and I don’t even know why.” She couldn’t bear to think about the implications of a bird deliberately being trained to attack humans. Or about lions wandering inside the palazzo. Or about the don stalking away, disgusted with her behavior. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, her tears leaking onto the quilt, her head turned away from the housekeeper.
“Don DeMarco has much on his mind. He was not angry with you. He was worried, piccola, truly. I have known him many years, since he was a babe.”
The lump in her throat prevented Isabella from answering. She had traded herself to the man in return for her brother’s life. She had no idea what was expected of her, no idea how to act or how he would treat her. She knew nothing of him but dreadful rumors, yet she had tied her life to his.
“I’m so sorry this happened, signorina.” Sarina’s voice held a wealth of compassion. “I feel it’s my fault that you were injured.”
“Call me Isabella,” she whispered. She kept her eyes closed, wanting to sleep, wishing Sarina would offer her the tea with herbs in it. She thought about suggesting it, but her back was on fire, and she couldn’t seem to find enough air to breathe and talk at the same time. “Of course it was not your fault. It was an accident, nothing more. The bird became upset. I saw it flying at you, and I leapt upon you. In truth, I was afraid I might have injured you when I drove you to the floor.” She didn’t mention the terrible sensation of evil entering the room, that black, choking entity that had been all too real to ignore.
Sarina touched the angry scratch on Isabella’s temple. “How did this happen?”
Isabella fought to keep her voice steady. Her back throbbed and burned. “The don was being very sweet, but his ring caught my skin. It was an accident, certainly not important.” She clenched her teeth to keep from blurting out how badly her back hurt.
Sarina turned to answer a knock at the door, then closed it quickly against prying eyes. She mixed the herbs she had sent for and carefully applied the poultice to the long lacerations. Isabella nearly screamed, sweat breaking out on her body, but then the cuts went blissfully numb, and she could breathe again. But she was still trembling in shock and reaction. There was another knock on the door, and this time a servant handed Sarina a cup of the blessed tea.
Isabella had to be helped into a sitting position, surprisingly weak from the experience. She smiled wanly at Sarina. “Next time, let’s ask Alberita to pour a bucket of holy water over my head before I leave my room.” She cupped her hands around the warmth of the teacup, trying to absorb the heat.
Sarina laughed shakily in relief. “You are a good girl, signorina. Your madre is no doubt smiling down upon you from heaven. I thank you for what you are giving the don. He is good and deserving.”
Isabella took a sip of the tea gratefully. It immediately eased her terrible tremors. “I hope you still say that when he finds me running wild in the hills and scowls fiercely because I do not arrive to dinner on time.”
“You will make him a good wife.” Sarina patted her leg gently. “As soon as you drink the tea, I will help you undress. You will sleep peacefully, bambina.”
Isabella hoped it was the truth. She wanted desperately to close her eyes and escape into the enfolding darkness. The relief she felt that Don DeMarco had agreed to rescue her brother was tremendous. She would put aside her concerns about his strange pets and hope that she could persuade him to rid the castello of the creatures at a later date.
Isabella drank the sweet, medicinal tea and did her best to help Sarina remove the tattered gown. Then she lay on her stomach on the soft mattress and allowed her eyelashes to drift down. Sarina bustled around the room, removing all evidence of the terrible incident and lighting several aromatic candles to dispel the gathering shadows and provide a soothing fragrance. She stroked Isabella’s hair until the don’s betrothed was drowsy, and then she left, locking the door carefully.
Isabella awoke to soft whispers. A gentle feminine voice was calling to her. The room was dark, and the flickering candles were nearly burned down completely, the wax in oily pools and the flames sputtering and smoking.
She turned her head and saw Francesca sitting on her bed, anxiously wringing her hands and peering at her. Isabella smiled sleepily. “What’s wrong, Francesca?” she asked, her voice as reassuring as she could make it under the circumstances.
“He hurt you. I never thought he would hurt you. I would have told you to run away, Isabella, really. I like you. I would have warned you away if I thought for even a moment that—” There was childlike quality to Francesca’s voice, as if she spoke the simple, guileless truth.
The medicine from the tea was still in Isabella’s body, making her feel dreamy and weightless. “Who do you think hurt me, Francesca? No one hurt me. It was an accident. Not important at all.”
There was a small silence. “But everyone is saying he struck you, slashed terrible gashes in your body, and would have devoured you if Sarina had not stopped him by entering the room.” Tears welled up in Francesca’s eyes, and she folded her arms across her chest and rocked back and forth as if to comfort herself.
“Surely you do not mean Don DeMarco,” Isabella said drowsily.
Francesca nodded. “I have heard many such stories of his cruelty.”
“Who would say such terrible things? I can assure you, Francesca, Don DeMarco was a perfect gentleman, and he saved my life. Sarina’s life, too. Surely his people do not hate him enough to tell such tales. That’s cruelty itself. They should live under the rule of a man such as Don Rivellio if they wish to learn the difference.” Isabella sought to reassure the young woman, but the conversation disturbed her. She had heard all the whispered warnings; even the don’s own servants had attempted to bless her as she sought an audience with him. Perhaps there were things she didn’t know. “Have you ever found him to be unjust or cruel? A man who would slash a woman to ribbons and devour her?”
“Oh, no!” Francesca hastily shook her head. “Never! But I pulled down the quilt while you were sleeping, and I saw your back. Surely it will scar. How could this have happened?”
“The falcon became frightened and attempted to attack Sarina. I was in the way. It looks much worse than it really is.” Isabella was beginning to wake up despite the medicine. She felt stiff and uncomfortable and needed to visit the alcove. It was a struggle to sit up. Francesca, watching her with great interest, moved aside to give her more room to maneuver.
Isabella raised an eyebrow at her and glanced down at the quilt wrapped around her bare skin. Francesca grinned impishly at the show of modesty and looked up at the ornate ceiling. That quickly her mood changed, and she was beaming.
Isabella moved slowly, catching up the robe Sarina had thoughtfully laid out for her. Like all the other garments provided for her, it was made of a soft fabric that clung to her curves. Thankfully, her back was still numb enough that the material didn’t aggravate her wounds.
She became aware of the same moaning and wailing she had heard the previous night, coming from the hallways of the castello. She also heard that strange, grunting cough. “What kind of animal makes that sound?” she asked Francesca, already fairly certain of the answer.
Francesca hopped to her feet restlessly and shrugged. “A lion, of course. They are everywhere in the valley, in the palazzo. They are the guardians of our famiglia. Our guardians and our keepers.” She sighed, obviously bored with the subject. “Tell me of life outside this valley. Down the great mountains. What is it like? I have never been anywhere other than this place.”
More and more Isabella believed that Francesca was younger than she appeared. Whose truant child was she that she wouldn’t reveal her full identity? Recalling her own wayward childhood, Isabella decided not to press the point and frighten off her new friend. “I have never been in mountains such as these,” Isabella told her. “The palazzi in other places I have been are much like this one but not as ornate.”
“Have you ever been to a ball?” Francesca asked wistfully.
Isabella returned from the alcove to stand by the chair in front of the hearth. The fire had burned down, leaving smoldering embers. The faint light cast an eerie glow on the wall behind her. She turned her head to look at her own shadow, her thick braid falling past the curve of her bottom in the flowing robe. She did a slow pirouette, watching her shadow on the wall, wincing as her back protested. “Yes, more than one. I do love to dance.”
Francesca tried a spin, holding her arms out as if she were dancing with a partner. Isabella laughed, turning to look at Francesca’s shadow, but the glowing embers weren’t strong enough to cast the young woman’s silhouette on the wall alongside Isabella’s.
“It will be fun having you here,” Francesca said. “You can teach me all the proper steps. I’ve had to make up my own.”
“It will have to be another night, when my back doesn’t hurt, but I’d love to teach you to dance. Does Don DeMarco dance, Francesca?”
Francesca swayed this way and that, turning one way and the other as she danced around the room. “There has been no music in the palazzo for a long time. I love music and plays and dance and all the young men in their finery. I have never seen such things, mind you, but I have heard tales. We do not entertain here.”
“Why is that?” Isabella asked, trying not to smile at Francesca’s exuberance.
“The lions, of course. They would not tolerate such activities. They rule here, and we obey. They would not accept so many visitors, although they are quiet tonight. They must be accepting you, or they would be roaring in protest as they did last night. When you stuck your hand into the lion’s mouth, he judged you, friend or foe. Those seeking Nicolai’s favor must first stick their fingers inside the lion’s mouth. If he bites, Nicolai knows they are the enemy, and they cannot enter.”
Isabella stared into the embers of the smoldering fire, frowning as she did so. Francesca must be mistaken. She was a young woman, unbridled in her thoughts and actions. She must be making up stories or repeating gossip as she had earlier, when she believed the don had slashed Isabella. “Ruled by lions? How can humans be ruled by a lion? The beasts are wild and dangerous, and they were used by barbarians to kill people of faith. But, those in power commanded the lions, not the opposite.” She shivered when Francesca did not reply. “How many lions are in this valley?” she asked.
There was no answer. Isabella turned her head, and Francesca was once more gone from the bedchamber. Isabella sighed. She would be certain to ask the girl the next time she saw her just where the secret passageway was. It would most likely to be a useful piece of information to have.