All along the hallway fresh tapers flickered in their sconces, throwing the carved lions with their teeth and claws into stark relief. The flat, cold eyes of the carvings stared at her, seeming to follow her every movement as she made her way down the hall. Isabella was all too aware of the wings on the crouching creatures, the plethora of claws stretching toward her. She found herself straining to hear a whisper of movement as she walked carefully to meet her betrothed.
Don DeMarco was already in the dining hall, pacing restlessly. She paused in the doorway to drink in the sight of him. He was tall and strong, his shoulders wide, his bearing straight. His long hair was tamed into a semblance of order, pulled back and secured at the nape of his neck. He didn't look like a killer. He looked handsome and dashing, a man born to rule. She saw his head go up as if he scented her in the air. He turned slowly, his gaze drifting over her face, her body. Desire leapt into the depths of his eyes. Stark. Intense. Hungry. For her alone.
It shook her, the way he looked at her. As if she were the only woman in the world. As if, without her, his life was empty and meaningless.
He crossed the gleaming tiles and clasped her hand. "Isabella, you take my breath with your beauty."
A smile curved her full lips. "You certainly make me feel beautiful, Nicolai."
He led her to a small table, ignoring the long dining table set with exquisite china and flatware. "I want to be able to talk with you, not shout from one end of the table to the other. The servants will frown at this, but if they give us too much trouble, I'll growl at them," he offered.
Humor was the last thing she expected. A small laugh escaped her, yet his teasing hadn't dispelled the wariness in her eyes. "What a useful asset you have. I didn't think of that." She leaned close and lowered her voice, determined to treat him as her betrothed. "Have you ever done it just to see what would happen?"
He grinned at her, a quick, boyish smile that took the shadows from his eyes. "When I was a boy, I couldn't always resist. Poor Betto--when he would try to get me to come in at night and go to bed, I'd hide in the shadows and growl very low." He shook his head at the follies of his youth as he held the back of a chair for her to be seated.
Her laughter spilled out, soft and infectious, finding its way into his heart. Her eyes were once again shining at him, accepting of him, daring to tease him, daring to share his youthful escapades and even the abilities that set him apart from all others. He couldn't remember his father ever speaking of the gift with him. He certainly couldn't remember even entertaining the idea of bantering about it.
Brigita entered, her eyes downcast and her shoulders slumped, as if she were walking to her doom. She shuffled across the room and served the food on the platters, careful not to touch the don.
"Good morn, Brigita," Isabella said brightly, determined to see the meal through. "All is well with you?"
Brigita curtseyed, nearly dropping a plate. "Yes, grazie, Signorina Vernaducci." Her wayward gaze shifted toward the don before she could stop it, and her eyes widened in surprise. Staring at him, she backed out of the room.
Isabella burst out laughing again. "I think you're much too handsome, Nicolai. Your people can only stare open-mouthed at you in silence."
"Why can't I have that effect on you?"
She studied him from beneath her lashes. "You do have that effect on me, signore." Her lashes fluttered down as color swept into her face. The good Madonna help her, he did have that effect on her. Captain Bartolmei's coat shredded from collar to hem lying atop her ripped gown meant nothing when he smiled at her. Isabella rubbed at her suddenly pounding temples. Was she so weak-willed that a man's smile could rob her of intelligence, of sanity?
"What is it, piccola?" he asked softly, and he took her hand. His thumb stroked a caress across her sensitive inner wrist, right over her leaping pulse. "There are shadows in your eyes that were not there when you woke."
"My life has changed so quickly, Nicolai," she answered. "I feel unsettled and confused. I wish Lucca were here."
"You have me, Isabella. You aren't alone."
"I know." She flashed a small smile at him and withdrew her hand to bring the teacup to her mouth. "It's simply nerves."
"Don't get nervous yet, because I've spoken to the priest. I didn't want to give Sarina another opportunity to berate us. He is willing to perform the ceremony in a fortnight. I'm sorry we won't have emissaries attending--you deserve that--but it's best we wed quickly."
"That doesn't bother me. I don't want all those people staring at me anyway," Isabella said. "I think a small ceremony would be perfect. But Lucca will be disappointed if he's not here." Her heart was pounding so loudly, she feared he might hear it. "He should be here very soon, Nicolai." Isabella was uncertain whether she wanted to wait until her brother could attend the ceremony because Lucca would want to be there, or because she was looking for a way to delay the inevitable. When she was with Nicolai, she felt strangely mesmerized, nearly overwhelmed by her attraction to him, by his need of her.
Nicolai carefully brought the teacup to his lips, his amber eyes holding her gaze steadily. It had been years since he had shared a meal with another human being. He had to learn manners all over again.
He could read her every expression, her every thought. Fear had crept into their relationship, and he had no way to alleviate it.
Isabella could see the slight tremble of his hand, the sudden shadows in his eyes, and despite her fear, her heart went out to him. "Nicolai," she said softly, "I know you're afraid for me. Tell me why you are so afraid. If you can control beasts as strong as lions, why should you fear for me?"
His gaze shifted away from her. Isabella's heart sank. She studied her food carefully, not trusting herself to look calm and serene as he revealed his most secret fears to her. She could feel her insides beginning to shake, tremors that threatened to spread to her limbs, and she hastily folded her hands in her lap beneath the table.
"I would spare you the truth." He offered it gently.
She lifted her chin, calling on every ounce of pride and courage. "I don't think it did much good to spare your madre the truth. I prefer to know as much as I can."
He set the cup carefully on the table, afraid he might crush it. One of the servants peeked into the room in awe but hastily backed out when the don flicked a brief, fierce glare at the interruption. "My ancestors have lived with this gift--or curse, whichever you prefer--just as I have. But there is one small difference." He sighed softly, raking his fingers through his hair so that it came out of its tie and fell around his face and shoulders like a wild, shaggy mane. "I could 'hear and understand' the lions when I was a babe. I would crawl to them, even go to sleep snuggled up beside them. As far as I know, that was unheard of. My ancestors' ability to control the lions and understand them always came much later in life."
Isabella touched the tip of her tongue to her suddenly dry lips. "How much later?" She dug her fingernails into her palms.
"Well after they became full-grown men." He looked at her then, his amber eyes alive with pain. "I loved the lions and my ability to communicate with them. It was a part of me, natural to me. I didn't think it was a bad thing. Not until the people began to see mio padre as the beast. They refused to look at him directly." He reached across the table as if he needed her hand to hold on to while the memories crowded in.
Unable to resist his silent plea, Isabella slipped her hand into his, noting the difference in size, how much larger and stronger he was. His fingers closed over hers, his thumb absently stroking caresses over her knuckles. "I was a mere boy when it happened to me. Don't you see what that means? It is strong in me. It is much stronger than it was in my ancestors. If I concentrate, I can hold the illusion of a man for a short time, but the wildness rises, and when I work at controlling my appearance, I can't talk with the lions."
Isabella let her breath out slowly. "Nicolai, the illusion isn't the man, it is the beast. You are a man, not a lion. You can't talk to the lions be
cause you're so focused on your appearance, not because you become something you're not."
"You believe that, when mio padre hunted mia madre as if she were a deer in the forest?" He pulled his hand away, his expression darkening with emotion. Flames leapt into his glittering eyes. As he jerked his hand from hers, she felt a stinging scratch along her skin.
Isabella tried to tuck her hand beneath the table out of sight, but his mouth tightened ominously, and he shackled her wrist, dragging her hand up for his inspection. For one moment the flames leapt and burned, an orange-red conflagration. He brought the back of her hand to his mouth. She felt the warmth of his breath, the touch of his perfectly sculpted lips, then the soothing velvet rasp of his tongue.
Abruptly he let her go, rising out of the chair so quickly it nearly fell over. He stepped away from her, his features a stone mask, but his eyes were alive with pain. He looked utterly and completely alone.
"Nicolai," she protested, sorrow welling up from deep within her. She ached for him, ached for his private nightmare, the pain of knowing he might be responsible for the death of someone he loved. That he very well might be responsible for her death someday.
"If you didn't move me, Isabella," he hissed in accusation, "if you hadn't stolen your way into my heart and soul, if you hadn't wrapped yourself so tightly inside me, there would be no danger. There's safety in not caring. If I don't feel, I stay in control. You've taken that from me."
"Do you want to live your life without caring, without loving, Nicolai?" She lifted her chin at him, storm clouds gathering in her eyes. "If that is the life you want, choose another to be your bride. You forced the decision on me, and I agreed. I accepted the risk, all of it. How dare you stand there and tell me you want a lifetime of emptiness?" She stood up, too, facing him squarely, uncaring that her hands were shaking. Let him see her fear. At least it was an honest emotion. "I'm not willing to live in emptiness, weighed down by sorrow and fear."
She turned away from him, terrified her temper would get the better of her. Terrified her runaway tongue would destroy what had been building between them. She had to think of Lucca, somewhere out in the wilderness, sick and in need of a healer and a warm place to pass the winter.
"I did not dismiss you, Signorina Vernaducci," Don DeMarco informed her, his voice a low whiplash of menace, of command. "You have all but accused me of cowardice." A soft, threatening growl rumbled in his throat, setting her heart pounding and her pulse racing frantically.
She stiffened in outrage but refused to turn and face him. Nor would she deny his charge. How dare he use his position as the don to control her behavior? She was seething with anger, wanting to throw the dishes at him. "I don't think I can take the credit for your feelings signore. They're all yours and have nothing to do with me."
He had hurt her with his twisted anger. He could hear it in her voice. Her face was averted, but he knew it would be plain to see in her transparent expression. Nicolai raked a hand through his hair again. He wanted to gather her into his arms and hold her to him. Offer protection, offer safety. "Isabella, did you not hear me? Or perhaps you didn't understand me. Not one of my ancestors ever had the strength of the beast--the calling--so early as I. There was no danger as long as I kept to myself, as long as I stayed in control. But I feel for you. Everything a man feels--more, even. The emotions are strong, and they rip my control to shreds."
The image of his words conjured up the memory of the tattered remains of Captain Bartolmei's coat. "Jealousy, Nicolai? Have you become jealous?" She asked it very quietly, careful to keep her back to him.
"Dio! Yes, I'm jealous. I hear your laughter, see the way men's eyes follow your every movement. I'm even jealous of shadows when they touch your body. I have lived alone since my twelfth summer, Isabella. At least apart. I accepted my life and my duties to my people. I tried to keep you from coming." He closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. "I knew. The moment I heard your name. I knew what you would do to me, and you have. You found your way inside me, and there's no getting you out."
She did turn then, her eyes bright with tears. "Then you have to come to terms with what we are together. You have to believe in us. Not in yourself. In us."
He took a step toward her, then stopped abruptly, his hands closing into tight fists as he heard the soft footsteps of an approaching servant. "I don't want to hurt you." His voice was low, a caress so powerful her stomach clenched in reaction.
"Then believe in us, or let me go." She made it simple for him.
"Don DeMarco, the runners have arrived. They seek an audience with you immediately," Betto informed him.
Isabella knew by the older man's downcast eyes that he was unable to see Nicolai in his true form. She dropped a low curtsey toward the don. "Grazie for having tea with me, signore. It was..." Her lashes swept down demurely. "Interesting."
Nicolai shook his head and turned away from her, unable or unwilling to deal with her ire. "I will see you later, Isabella." It was a warning, nothing less. He stalked past her, hesitated, then reached out to shackle her wrist, drawing her close against his body. He bent his dark head toward hers, his mouth against her ear. "And I'll never let you go, Isabella. Never." Abruptly he released her and was gone.
Childishly she wanted to stomp her foot in sheer frustration. Instead she took a deep breath and let it out, rubbing at the fingerprints on her wrist as she did so. "How are you feeling, Betto?"
"Much better, signorina." He looked puzzled. "I still don't know what came over me. It was like being caught in a dream. I heard myself saying those terrible things to the poor boy, and I felt rage in my heart, but it wasn't real to me. I couldn't stop myself or control it until everyone began to say such nice things about me. In truth, it terrified me that I had no control."
"Has such a thing happened before or since?" Isabella laid a hand comfortingly upon Betto's arm.
"When I was a young man, I saw it happen to one of the woodsmen. He nearly killed mio padre. They were laughing one minute and at each other the next. I'd never heard either of them say such foul things." He scratched his head. "Funny, I haven't thought of that for a long time. It was right after Nicolai's madre came to the palazzo."
"But nothing more has happened to you?"
He shook his head and crossed himself, looking very reminiscent of his spouse.
Sarina hurried in, appearing a bit harried. "I'm sorry I left the serving to Brigita. Did she break anything or annoy Nicolai?" She gasped with dismay when she saw the food untouched on the table.
Betto patted her shoulder gently and went out, leaving the two women alone.
"I'm grateful you didn't send Alberita," Isabella said. "Sarina, I'd like to go to the kitchen and speak with Cook. Would you show me the way?"
Sarina looked puzzled. "Everything wasn't to your satisfaction?"
"On the contrary, it was perfect. I wish to thank the cook personally."
"But..." Sarina floundered, uncertain what to do. "You didn't really eat anything, either of you." When Isabella looked stubborn, Sarina sighed, not understanding. "I'll convey your appreciation to Cook."
"I don't want the cook's feelings hurt. It was a wonderful meal," Isabella insisted. "No matter what you tell her, if she sees we didn't eat, she will feel slighted. I want to thank her in person for going to such trouble."
"Isabella, it's her job to cook," Sarina said, following Isabella out of the room. Aristocratici were not supposed to go rushing down to the kitchens to soothe a cook's hurt feelings. It wasn't done.
"I thought Betto looked quite well," Isabella said cheerfully, changing the subject.
Sarina nodded, still frowning. "He said he didn't know what happened to him. It's odd, but a couple of others have acted strangely, too. Cook is one of them. She threw a knife at the kitchen boy because he didn't build the fire fast enough. She's never acted that way before, no matter how difficult her life has been."
"And that was recently?"
"
Just after you came. I didn't tell anyone, not even Betto, because I knew she was so upset over...things." She trailed off reluctantly.
"What things?" Isabella prodded.
Sarina looked around her as they stepped off the stairs and began to walk down the long hall toward the kitchen. "Her husband was caught with one of the maids. They were in the storehouse together. Janetta is wed to one of the grooms, and they've always been so happy together. I've never seen her look at other men. She's never been coquettish, not even as a young girl, and Eduardo, Cook's husband, is older and staid, not someone I would expect to dally about."
"How awful." Isabella sighed. "Did Eduardo deny what happened?" She kept her voice low to match Sarina's, not wanting anyone to hear.
The kitchen was a huge, open room with large pots and pans, long tables and cupboards everywhere, and a walk-in fireplace. The area was busy yet not chaotic, as if everyone had a job to do and was bustling about getting it done. Isabella lifted her skirts a little as they crossed in front of the wide hearth, not wanting to get ashes on the hem of her gown. She leaned toward Sarina to hear her whisper the rest of the story.
There was no real warning as a wall of flames flashed out of the fireplace to reach greedily toward them. The sound was like a clap of thunder, a roar of hatred and loathing. The heat was intense, engulfing Isabella, scorching her skin. The flash was so intense, fiery white light exploded in front of her eyes, obscuring her vision. Flames licked at the hem of her gown and raced up the material.
Buckets of water hit her from two sides, dousing the flames quickly enough that the fire had no chance to burn her skin. She stood drenched, shocked, her gown black and ruined, gaping holes in it. The smell of the burned frock was overpowering. She couldn't move, couldn't speak, so astonished that for a moment she scarcely heard the shouts all around her.
"Were you burned, Isabella?" Sarina caught her shoulders and shook her gently. "Sit down, bambina, before you fall." The housekeeper began examining her right there in the kitchen with the servants gawking.