Nicoletta returned to her villaggio early on the morning of her wedding. Several guards, rugged men with hard faces, escorted her, determined to do as their don commanded. Sophie had cried great, rolling tears at being separated from Nicoletta, even temporarily, but she was refused permission to accompany Nicoletta to the village. The child had slept securely in Nicoletta’s room, undisturbed by any whispering voices that might have been murmuring in her old bedchamber.
Nicoletta inhaled the wind, the fresh air flowing off the mountains. The feeling of freedom was tremendous. “I feel as if I can breathe again,” she confided to Maria Pia.
“I know what you mean,” the older woman agreed. Her expression was grave. “Once you are wed to the don, I will not be able to stay in the palazzo. This night will be my last night to attend you as chaperone, but then I will be useless and forced to leave.”
Nicoletta put her arms around the other woman. “You are my famiglia. I do not want you in danger. I want to be with you, too, but I do not want you where evil stalks the halls and haunts the bedchambers. Something is not right at the palazzo, and until I am able to ascertain what is going on, I do not want your life at risk.” She was very firm.
Maria Pia shrugged her thin shoulders. “There is safety in numbers. I would prefer that I remain in the palazzo.” She ducked her head to hide the sudden sheen of tears in her eyes. “I will be very lonely without you.”
“I have been trying to think of a solution for Sophie’s fears,” Nicoletta answered thoughtfully. She waved at the girls in the villaggio who were awaiting their arrival. “I will have my own bedchamber, of course, and I expect Sophie will sneak in often, but I would prefer that someone sleep in her room with her on a nightly basis. She has heard ominous whispers in her room…”
“That is nonsense.” Maria Pia tried to shush her. “There is talk among the servants that the child is hearing voices as her madre did before her. It is in her blood.” She hesitated for a moment. “Some say it is the Scarletti curse that the women go insane and must be locked in the tower, or that the Scarletti men become furiously jealous and murder their wives.” She repeated the ominous rumors in a voice of doom.
“I am not insane, Maria Pia, and I heard the whispers in young Sophie’s chamber the night the chandelier fell. You were asleep, but I heard them with her. Those voices are real, not her imagination. I think the child is in danger, but I do not know why. No one will believe her.” Nicoletta turned the full power of her solemn eyes on the older woman. “She has great need of us, if you are willing to risk the danger.”
Maria Pia had only enough time to nod in agreement before they were engulfed by the young, laughing women who bore them off to the community bath. The men had the other side of the bathhouse, separated by the long meeting hall where local festivities were often held. Thick stone formed the large communal tub filled with collected rainwater. It was cold and invigorating, and the women laughed and gossiped, teasing Nicoletta unmercifully.
The sky was a brilliant blue, the breeze coming off the sea steady and cool. Dark clouds were drifting in from out over the bay, but the puffs were flowing slowly, as if they were lazy and not certain they wanted to move inland. The birds sang to one another cheerfully, and the trees swayed gently to the tune.
Nicoletta tried hard to join in the merriment, knowing it was all in her honor, but a terrible dread was seizing her, shadowing what should have been the most memorable occasion in her life. Her natural trepidation of what happened between a husband and wife was not eased by the teasing; the sexual innuendoes only heightened her fear of what was to come.
While they dressed her hair and body, Nicoletta stared at the beckoning hills, wanting desperately to run for safety. The hills were so close. It wouldn’t take her long to visit her beautiful garden, to tend her plants for just an hour or two to escape the stares and the laughter and whispers while the women gossiped behind her back. She could hear two of the girls spitefully discussing the Scarletti curse and even speculating if Nicoletta would live out the year. Angry that they were not picked as the don’s bride, they made certain Nicoletta overheard their remarks.
She knew they didn’t really believe she was in danger. Giovanni Scarletti was handsome and rich and powerful. The money and position were all the women thought or cared about. But Nicoletta knew there was danger at the palazzo, an evil that would swallow her as it had so many before her if she did not discover its identity.
She held out her arms obediently as they clad her in the exquisite white gown the don’s dressmakers had created. The girls gasped in admiration. None of them had ever seen such a magnificent garment. Nicoletta kept her mind on the hills. On freedom. On the wind and the sea.
My bride cannot run on our wedding day. The voice came out of nowhere. Soft, like a caress. The sound of Giovanni’s voice brushed seductively at the walls of her mind, turning her heart over. It was frightening how he could do that. It was not simply his voice that disturbed her in her mind, although that was intimate and comforting at times. It was also the way he could so easily melt her bones and heat her blood and make her feel things she was terrified of feeling.
He made her vulnerable and out of control. Nicoletta twisted her fingers together nervously. His voice came again, inviting laughter this time. Are they teasing you about our wedding night? Deliberately trying to frighten you with the details? You are safe with me, cara, completely safe.
Was she safe with him? Would she ever be safe again once she was tied to him? Nicoletta didn’t know. She could feel only the terrible dread in her heart, the foreboding, the sense of something malevolent crouching in wait like the gargoyles perched atop the palazzo. Waiting. Watching. Biding their time.
“Nicoletta, you have gone very pale,” Maria Pia said. “Are you ill, bambina?”
Before Nicoletta could voice her fears, Ketsia rushed over to her, arms filled with crowns of flowers for the young women to don. “You look so beautiful, Nicoletta, the most beautiful bride ever!”
Nicoletta managed a small smile as she looked at the child. Ketsia’s face was filled with joy and excitement, her eyes sparkling in anticipation. The women were all in their finest gowns, clean and fresh with flowers in their hair. Ketsia flung out her arms in her exuberance. “Everyone is so beautiful today.”
Nicoletta’s smile touched her eyes. Who could resist Ketsia’s genuine joy?
Ketsia touched the wedding gown timidly. She had never seen anything like it. “You look like a princess, Nicoletta,” she said in awe.
Nicoletta held up the long skirts of her dress to reveal her bare feet. “I have forgotten something important.” Her delicate eyebrow arched, and her long lashes fluttered. “Do you think you could help me find my sandals?”
Ketsia giggled, her young voice lifting Nicoletta’s spirits considerably. “You have beautiful shoes now, Nicoletta. You must wear them when you are wed to the Don.”
“I was thinking that my gown is long enough that no one will know I am barefoot, Ketsia.”
Ketsia shook her head decisively. “Don Scarletti will know. He told Sophie and me to make certain you remembered your shoes. I think he will inspect to make sure they are on your feet.”
Nicoletta did her best to look serious. “So you think it will be of great importance to him?”
“Oh, yes, Nicoletta. The don pays attention to every detail. He would surely notice.”
Nicoletta wanted the comfort of Giovanni’s voice. It made her uneasy that she needed to hear him, to feel his touch brushing at the walls of her mind.
Maria Pia was watching her closely. Nicoletta made an effort to smile at her, to hide the uneasy feeling that once again gripped her. She glanced up at the sky, at the dark clouds drifting in from the sea, at the trees swaying gently in the breeze. Suddenly she froze, her heart nearly stopping as she spotted the raven sitting high in the branches some distance away, its round, beady eyes watching her. Sunlight gleamed off the shiny feathers of its back, and when it saw it had her attention, it opened its beak and uttered a single squawk of warning.
Nicoletta’s heart began to beat hard and fast. She had known, without the presence of the bird, that trouble was looming over her, a dark, sinister premonition she couldn’t overcome. No matter how hard she tried to join in the merriment surrounding her, that shadow deep within her portended danger.
“He is coming, he is coming!” The announcement resounded from every corner of the villaggio. “Don Scarletti is coming!”
Laughter and voices were raised all around Nicoletta, a panic of excitement. The villagers rushed from all directions to join the wedding party as it began to make its way toward the cathedral.
Maria Pia gasped and tugged at Nicoletta’s arm. “Presto bambina! He cannot see you. It is bad luck.” She quickly crossed herself and blessed Nicoletta before dragging her toward the covered coach that would transport them to the cathedral.
Ketsia ran beside them. “Her shoes, Signorina Sigmora! She must have her shoes!”
“I have them, Ketsia,” Maria Pia reassured the girl. “I was taking no chances this time. You look quite wonderful today in your new gown.”
Nicoletta really looked at the child and was instantly ashamed of her own preoccupation. Ketsia wore a beautiful garment, one obviously made at the don’s command. It must have been thrilling for young Ketsia to have been singled out for such special treatment. “You look absolutely beautiful, Ketsia,” she said sincerely. Nicoletta reached out and adjusted the crown of flowers on the child’s head. “I am honored that you are to aid me this day. Grazie.”
Ketsia beamed at the compliment. “She must wear her veil so he cannot see her face before the ceremony,” she said very solemnly in her most grown-up voice. “You will see to it, Signora Sigmora?”
Maria Pia nodded her agreement as Ketsia hurried on ahead and Nicoletta carefully dusted off her feet before slipping the shoes onto her feet. She arranged the veil over Nicoletta’s face and dropped the heavy curtains to close off the interior of the coach to prying eyes.
Nicoletta entwined her fingers tightly in her lap as the driver shut the door, leaving her alone with Maria Pia. Her heart seemed to be beating loudly in her ears, like the warning rhythm of a drum. She sat quietly with her head bowed, trying desperately to pray, to reach for the good Madonna as Maria Pia so often instructed her to do in times of crisis. The air in the coach seemed to be swallowed up, leaving her nothing to breathe.
You are not riding to your doom, piccola, only to your husband. Am I so terrible that your fear must choke both of us? The masculine voice was husky, sensuous in her mind. She could feel a peculiar warmth seeping into the cold in the pit of her stomach. It moved through her like a drifting cloud, warming her bit by bit.
You are holding your breath again. Do you think your husband is as cursed as your friends are telling you? Cara mia—a note of amusement crept into the sensual timbre of his voice—if I was intending to strangle you, I would have done so when you forced me to chase you down in the hills in the cold of the night. He was blatantly inviting her to share his amusement at the rumors others whispered about him. About his family.
The motion of the coach jolted her thoughts, which stuck in her mind like a dagger. His family. Someone had strangled his grandmother. The woman was dead by a man’s hand, and no one had been held accountable. Nicoletta’s own mother and aunt had died brutally in the Palazzo della Morte. And what of Vincente’s young wife, Angelita? Almost no one spoke of her death. Portia’s husband had died of a wasting illness, yet the healer had not been called to the palazzo. The wind seemed to increase a bit in vehemence as if reflecting her thoughts, buffeting the coach and whistling insistently.
Why hadn’t Giovanni Scarletti felt the evil stalking his home? Even Maria Pia could feel it, and she did not have an ounce of “different” blood running in her veins.
Why would you think I have not felt it? There was no laughter this time in the voice, no sinful temptation. He sounded more serious than he ever had. I have felt it for more than half my life. It is something we have no choice but to endure.
Endure? Nicoletta was nearly thrown off her seat when the coach abruptly stopped. At once her heart began pounding again. She would have to endure whatever her husband commanded. Once she was bound to him, he owned her body and soul. Her hand flew to the door fastening of the coach, almost of its own volition.
Soft laughter echoed in her mind. I am right beside the coach atop my steed, piccola. Do you think to outrun us in your finery? I should have to carry you back in a most “unseemly” manner. Once again his voice was sensual, a teasing invitation to join him in the deliberate intimacy of his mind meld.
Nicoletta subsided against the seat. She would not be foolish enough to run like a rabbit and provide sport for his soldiers. She could just picture the members of his elite guard wagering on whether she would attempt to escape her fate. She closed her eyes and centered her thoughts on Giovanni, holding onto her memories of him like a boat to an anchor. He was gentle with her. He was kind to Sophie and Ketsia. She held onto those thoughts, held them close to her.
When the coach door was finally opened, she was helped down by a guard she recognized immediately as one of her usual escorts. She had heard him called Francesco. Nicoletta smiled wanly as he bowed courteously. He felt her trembling as he locked his fingers around hers. “It is a good day for it,” he whispered in encouragement.
She had been waiting for some time locked in the confines of the coach, and it felt good to stand and stretch her legs. As she lifted her veiled face, through the lace she could see the dark clouds directly overhead. Although they had drifted in slowly, they were now gathering over the church, coming to a standstill there as if the wind had suddenly ceased. Nicoletta’s fingers tightened around the guard’s, a small sound of distress escaping her throat. Perched upon the very peak of the archway of the cathedral was the raven.
The guard looked at the gathering clouds, then leaned close to Nicoletta. “I have wagered my pay on your courage.” His voice was barely audible over the soft stomping of the restless horses. “Some say you do not have the heart to walk beside our don, but I know that you do.” Very carefully he helped her over the uneven ground and through the throng of waiting villagers toward the marble steps of the church.
Nicoletta was grateful for his support. It was difficult to think, even to breathe with the eyes of so many people on her, though most were well-wishers and friends. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. The entire villaggio was lining the walkway to the cathedral, the girls in their finery pressing close, the men waving and wishing her well. Some she didn’t recognize, their faces blurring together, and she was afraid she might succumb to the vapors.
Once again Francesco saved her. “If you do not make it all the way through the ceremony, my famiglia will not eat for a long time. Courage.”
Nicoletta wanted to laugh at his nonsense, but too many people surrounded them, and fear was choking her. Still, his words bolstered her enough to reach her waiting attendants. “We cannot have your family starve over your lost wagers,” she murmured without looking at him. She was staring into the yawning cavern of the Holy Church, her heart pounding so hard she was afraid it would jump right out of her body. Ketsia was waiting, hand in hand with Sophie, to fall in behind her as she ascended the wide stairs.
Ahead of her, with the double doors of the cathedral wide open and the interior so deeply shadowed, the multitude seemed huge, indistinguishable as individuals. They were the aristocrazia, filling the pews while her people stood outside. Nicoletta walked as if in a dream, one foot in front of the other up the stairs toward a fate she had no hope of escaping.
She was in the cathedral now, yet she didn’t see the ornate sculptures, the archways, the tall stained-glass windows. She saw him. Don Scarletti. He stood waiting at the altar, overwhelming the enormous church with his presence. He was turned toward her, and through the veil of lace, their gazes locked. He was tall and handsome dressed in his elegant clothes. His shoulders were wider than she remembered, his arms and chest thicker. The aura of power that clung to him seemed to fill the enormous cathedral so that there was only the don.
His implacable gaze compelled her forward. She had no choice. He was mesmerizing her into obedience. She walked toward him to the drumbeat of her terrified heart. There was a strange hush in the cathedral, as if a shroud of silence had descended, not in reverence but in horrified anticipation. The sound of the wind penetrated, a sudden slashing at the windows. Outside a wail arose from the crowd as the wind bit at them, an unexpected assault, piercing and cold. The wind rose in a mournful howl and rushed through the church, an icy, swirling omen of disaster.
The guards hastily closed the doors to shut out the violence of the storm now racing in from the ocean, shutting out Nicoletta’s villagers as well. They couldn’t shut out the sound, however, as the windows rattled and the building seemed to quiver under the attack. Giovanni remained still, his gaze fixed on Nicoletta’s so that she could only stare back into his eyes, captured there, held prisoner. Even as nature protested their union, she was compelled to continue forward.
The earth rolled then, a wave beneath their feet, a ripple of protest felt throughout the church. A collective gasp went up, and several women began to cry. Nicoletta felt then as if the ground were striving to break the don’s unholy spell over her. She faltered, but she couldn’t look away from his gleaming black gaze. He did look a predator, intent on his prey, staring fixedly, with a demand as old as time.
Giovanni moved then, gliding in his deceptively casual way toward Nicoletta. That simple ripple of his power surged through the cathedral, controlled the crowd, and stopped the hysteria, a measure of his utter domination. His gaze never left Nicoletta’s face; rather it intensified. He strode the short remaining distance to her side and took her ice-cold hand. Still holding her gaze, he brought her fingers to the warmth of his lips, then tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and walked her to the altar and the waiting priest.
The ceremony was long, the scents of the precious incense and the chant of ancient Latin reassuring. Nicoletta knelt with the don, bowing her head as the ritual continued. All the while the wind raged at the cathedral in a frenzy to get in. All the while she felt the venomous stares of her enemies boring into her back. She was in a holy place, yet something or someone was plotting unspeakable evil to punish her audacity for daring to join in marriage to the don.
The heavens opened and poured a savage fury of windswept rain over the cathedral as the holy father performed the vows binding her to Giovanni Scarletti. Wind howled and gnashed at the windows, and the deluge pounded the roof and sides of the building. The earth had ceased trembling, but lightning zigzagged across the sky, arcing from black cloud to black cloud, and thunder reverberated so loudly that the church shook.
As the cathedral shuddered under the storm’s wild fury, the priest stammered, his voice trailing off, unable to proclaim the couple wed. His hands trembled visibly, and he glanced in fright at the rattling windows. The rain was pelting the stained glass in a pounding flood. The large crowd whispered of unholy practices, crossing themselves and kissing the crucifixes hanging around their necks. No one dared use the term Il Demonio, but that unspoken whisper was the loudest. Giovanni Scarletti stirred then—a ripple of movement, no more—but it was clearly a movement of aggression, of pure menace. The whispers ceased instantly, and the priest made the sign of the cross several times, sprinkling holy water over the couple for good measure.
Nicoletta kept her head bowed, forcing her breath in and out. No one could save her, not the good Madonna and not the holy father. Even the wind and rain protested their marriage, slashing at the church in rage. Nicoletta was acutely aware of the man beside her. His strength. His power. The heat of his body. The way his mind was so intimately bound to hers. Her fingers were tangled with his, his thumb feathering along her inner wrist, a silent encouragement with nature’s fury shunning their union. She tried to pray, tried to ask for help to defeat the don’s mesmerizing spell over her, but, in truth, she wasn’t certain she wanted to be free of him.
The priest blessed the small gold ring lying in the middle of his open book of Scripture. He held it out to the don. Those in attendance saw the holy father’s hand shake so badly that Don Scarletti had to steady it as he took the tiny golden circle. Nicoletta closed her eyes as the band of his ownership encircled her finger. Lightning struck, ricocheting down the tower so that for one terrible moment the sky seemed to rain fire. Again the priest froze, indecisive, his voice wavering. The don’s black gaze gleamed almost eerily in the flashes of lightning.
Looking warily at the rain pelting the windows and then at the elite guards standing shoulder to shoulder at the rear of the church, the holy father pronounced them wed and raised his hand to bless their marriage. Lightning ripped the sky apart, lighting the cathedral, throwing strange, colored shadows to dance grotesquely across the wall. Thunder shook, drowning out anything the priest might be saying. Giovanni never faltered, lifting Nicoletta’s veil and bending his head to hers.
“You are very brave, piccola,” he whispered against her lips. Then he gently kissed her upturned mouth, a mere feathering of his lips over hers. He caught her firmly to him, pulling her beneath the protection of his shoulder. “At last you are my wife, Nicoletta Scarletti,” he pronounced, a wealth of purring satisfaction in his voice.
Nicoletta remained silent, afraid of her own voice, afraid she would make a fool of herself if she attempted to speak. It seemed a dream, a nightmare she was trapped in. She went with Giovanni, moving down the aisle while the guards pushed open the doors and hastily erected a canopy to shelter the couple from the fury of the storm. The drenched, frightened villagers had long since fled, only a few stragglers glancing back over their shoulders as Giovanni swept her into his arms, striding with sure, long steps to the coach.
He placed her gently onto the seat and climbed up to sit beside her. The door closed, and they were alone. “Nicoletta”—his voice was low, a drawling caress—“are you ever going to look at me?”
She could feel his voice whispering over her skin. Nicoletta stole a quick glance at him, then turned away from his brooding good looks. The storm was now sweeping away from the cathedral, moving inland to scatter over the mountains.
“Nicoletta, look at me.” His voice was quiet, even gentle, but it was a command nonetheless.
She turned her head, long lashes sweeping upward, her dark eyes enormous in her face. “It has been much more difficult than I expected today.” Her voice was a mere thread of sound, so low he could barely catch the words. “I do not know if I have the courage to face the revelers at the palazzo.”
“It is a storm, cara mia, a violent storm like all the others that come from the sea. The earth chose that moment to tremble, as it has done in the past. These things occur often. They are natural, not the superstitious nonsense of monsters arising from the seas to walk the land as some teach the children to believe. Or worse, that the heavens were protesting our union because either you are a witch or I il diàvolo. I know you are not a witch, Nicoletta, although you have cast your spell over me as none other ever could. And surely you do not believe I am in league with il diàvolo. How could I enter the cathedral unharmed? How could I take the crucifix into my hand, drink the sacramental wine, or have holy water splashed over me?” His voice was extremely gentle but with a slight edge of mocking amusement to it.
Nicoletta glanced up again, a quick reprimand of his irreverence while she twisted at the unfamiliar band of gold circling her finger. “How is it you can talk to me in my mind?”
“Is it so terrible a sin?” he countered.
“I do not know if it is a sin. Everything else seems to be.” The words slipped out, and she hastily bit down on her lower lip to prevent any further blasphemous statements.
Giovanni burst out laughing. “You are right, according to Maria Pia Sigmora. But I do not think of my ability that way. I was simply born with it. Mia madre was a bit frightened by it and warned me never to reveal it to others. How is it you can heal the way you do? I felt the curative warmth in your touch; that’s no ordinary talent, either.”
“I was born with it also,” she said. A small smile found its way to her mouth.
“Have no fear of the revelers, Nicoletta,” he said softly, taking her hand in an effort stop her trembling. “I will not leave your side.”
“You frighten me much, good signore,” she admitted, her irrepressible laughter bubbling to the surface.
He caught her chin in his hand and forced her to look up at him. “You are such an innocent, piccola, and I may be damned for forcing my will upon you, but, in truth, I had no choice.” This time the edge to his voice made her shiver. His black eyes were filled with a hungry intensity he didn’t try to conceal from her.
She wrenched her chin out of his palm, her own dark eyes smoldering. “I do not believe you, Don Scarletti. One such as you always has a choice. You are the law, life or death to those of us who live in the village. You took away my choice.”
“Better me than some rude peasant boy,” he retaliated.
The flames of battle leapt into her eyes. “It might have occurred to you that I wanted no man. That I was perfectly happy without one.”
His laughter was low and taunting. “You cannot be so naive that you would think some man would not eventually come along and take you.”
“I had learned to hide myself. My people did not speak of me to outsiders.”
“I heard of your beauty long before I ever laid eyes upon you.” He stretched out his long legs, idly complaining, “These coaches are an uncomfortable means of transportation.”
“Did you hear that I was…different?” she asked.
He glanced at her stiff face, her trembling mouth. With a soft sigh, he took her hand in his. “If you are ‘different,’ cara mia, then so am I. I know we belong together. I have seen the welcome changes in my home already. Your stay has been short, yet your influence reaches wide. You say I had a choice. I say, if my people are to survive, I did not.”
“You made young Sophie and Ketsia very happy today,” Nicoletta said, deciding on a truce. “Thank you for thinking to have a special gown made for Ketsia.” She knew Portia had not seen to that particular detail.
“I saw only you in the church,” he admitted, “but I will make certain I give the girls my compliments at the festivities.”
“Do you know if any others have the ability to send their voices into people’s minds?” Nicoletta asked, curious.
“My brother Antonello is adept at it. My nonno, too, carries this talent, it is in our bloodline. Still, my padre could not do such a thing; indeed, he was angry that his sons could and thought it most blasphemous.”
“What of Vincente?”
Giovanni nodded. “Of course. But he is not as adept as Antonello, and he rarely uses the ability. Antonello is my most valued emissary to foreign lands, and it is of great use to us to speak silently when no other can hear. And even over a great distance, I can feel if he is in danger. Vincente, on the other hand, is rarely in danger, unless it is from the overly avid attentions of some young lady. Since the death of his wife, there are many who hope to be chosen his new bride. I thought he might look to Portia—they are oft together—but he is still grieving.”
“Your brother once said that the Scarletti men love only once,” Nicoletta said: trembling as she recalled the ominous sensation that had accompanied his pronouncement. Then she thought to add, “Little Sophie hears voices at night, and she is very afraid. She is not making it up, though Vincente and Portia and Margarita claim it is so, or that she is going mad. I have heard the voices, too. I believe she is in danger. She said her madre heard the voices, and some named her mad.”
Giovanni shook his head. “It is a sad tale, Nicoletta. Angelita was so in love with Vincente, they stared longingly at one another for hours when first they married. But she changed very quickly. She would stay in her room for days on end, not allowing anyone in but Vincente. He would care for her, bring her meals, and entertain her. She wanted only him. He worried for her, took her traveling, tried many things, but she became nearly a recluse. In desperation he decided they must have a child.” He fell silent, and the coach swayed and jolted over the narrow passage toward the palazzo.
“It did not help,” she guessed.
Giovanni sighed softly. “No, it did not help. Vincente devoted himself to Angelita, would almost never leave her side, but she refused to come out of her room and eventually would not see even Sophie, her child. I was afraid for my brother. The laughter had gone out of him. He rarely would look at his daughter, as if he might blame her for her madre’s condition. I sent him on an errand, a small one. He was gone overnight, no more, but in Angelita’s demented mind, she thought he had deserted her.”
Nicoletta stared up at him, horrified by the story.
“She was found dead that evening when the maid took her supper. She had hanged herself. You are entrusted with this information as a member of the famiglia. Vincente would be beside himself if it got out. Once again the Scarletti curse held true.” His black gaze moved broodingly over her face. “That is why you will have guards with you at all times. I will not find your dead body somewhere as nearly every male member of my famiglia has.” He spoke the words sternly, a command she dared not contest. “They will taste your food and drink, and they will watch over you when I cannot. You will not have a separate bedchamber but share my own with me.”
Nicoletta gasped. “I must have my own bedchamber to retreat to at times.”
“You will not.”
“What of Sophie? I was going to allow her to share my bed.”
His white teeth flashed, and for one moment amusement lit the dark obsidian of his eyes so that they gleamed mischievously like those of a boy. “You will be much too busy sharing your bed with your husband, not a child.” His voice was low and husky, and his gaze moved hotly over her body.
“You look like a hungry wolf,” she chastised. In truth, his bold gaze sent flames licking along her skin until she burned for him. Nicoletta looked away from him to hide her reaction. “What about the child? Perhaps Maria Pia could live at the palazzo and stay with Sophie at night.”
“That is what you wish, cara mia?”
The sensual note in his voice melted her, and she leaned into him, boneless and pliant. She nodded helplessly, staring up at him with enormous eyes.
His fingers spanned her throat, his palm brushing lower to lightly feather over her breasts through the material of her gown. She felt a jolt deep within her, and hot, molten liquid surged through her body in an unexpected ache. “You remember what I have said, piccola. I will not lose my wife to the Scarletti curse.”
The coach jolted to an abrupt stop, throwing Nicoletta hard against him. “I will not die by my own hand, if that is what you fear. Do you believe so much misfortune heaped upon one famiglia is fate, or do you think mortal hands are involved in such doings?”
The guard opened the door to the coach, letting in light and rain. The don didn’t move, his face carved from stone. He looked all at once menacing, invincible, implacable. “I do not know, Nicoletta, but I swear by all I hold holy, whatever it is, it shall not take you from me.” He stepped out of the carriage with his easy grace and reached for her, not allowing her dress to touch the rain-wet walkway. Uncaring of propriety, he cradled her against his chest as he moved quickly up the steps and entered the great hall to join the revelers.
Nicoletta passed the next few hours in a dreamlike manner. She was aware of the don keeping his word and sending for Maria Pia. He bowed low over Sophie’s hand and murmured magnificent compliments to Ketsia. He remained always close to Nicoletta, his hand on her possessively so that it seemed to burn his brand into her skin right through her gown.
At some point she became aware of the byplay between Antonello and her new husband, some political undertone in the room of dancers she did not understand. She knew few of those attending the celebration. Most were members of the other great houses and representatives from court. But something else was brewing, something that Giovanni often conversed mind-to-mind with his middle brother about. She knew they were talking often, the don giving orders to his brother.
Giovanni took her onto the dance floor and whirled her close to him, yet even as their bodies touched, she knew his mind was with Antonello’s. Something was amiss. Something they both were wary over. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t touch Giovanni’s mind and learn the truth.
Vincente danced with her briefly, evidently a poignant moment for him, reminding him of his own wedding to his late, beloved Angelita, as he moved stiffly with her under his brother’s watchful gaze. It was the first time since arriving at the palazzo that she seemed to command Giovanni’s full attention, and immediately she was uncomfortably aware of Vincente’s hands on her body, his hard frame occasionally brushing hers. It made her feel tense and awkward, but when she looked up at him, Vincente was staring over her shoulder, his mind far away, tears visible in his dark, haunted eyes.
Giovanni rescued his youngest brother, gliding to his side and gently removing Nicoletta from his grasp. He put an arm around both of them and walked them back into the shadows, where Vincente could get his emotions under control.
Giovanni bent close to Nicoletta, his mouth pressed close to her ear. “I think I have managed to do my duty by my guests. I now want only to be alone with my wife. Let us retire to the bedchamber, as they will continue here long into the night, and I have other, much more pleasurable pursuits in mind for us.”