by Anne Stuart
"I don't think you will." A dry, English voice broke through, and the three of us turned in amazement to see Evan Fitzpatrick standing very coolly in the doorway.
They hadn't had time to secure my bonds, and after a short struggle I slipped them off as my two abductors began circling round, edging toward Evan with murder on their swarthy, villainous faces. Yanking the rag out of my mouth, I spat a few times and then commenced screaming at the top of my rather powerful lungs.
Gianni turned back to me, rage and confusion on his bovine face. The knife flashed, and I felt the sleeve of my dress rip, followed by a trail of wet, warm blood down my arm. My first thought was of Maggie's rage at the destruction of her newest creation, and then I realized the danger in which both Evan and I stood.
"Goddamn it, Lucy, run!" Evan shouted, as the other villain jumped on him, and for a moment the two of them were a hideous, frightening tangle of thrashing limbs, the knife gleaming as they rolled around the floor. Gianni stared, unable to decide who to stab first, me or the Englishman, and I took advantage of his indecision to fling the heavy rope in his face.
It was like a red flag in front of an angry bull. I heard a hideous grunt behind me, but I had no chance to see who was the victor. I began backing away from the Italian, slowly, and he followed me just as slowly, an incredibly evil grin on his heretofore simple face. And then, horribly, I felt the solid marble wall behind me and knew I could escape no farther. I shut my eyes and prepared to meet my death.
Another hideous grunt followed, and I opened my eyes once more to watch Evan grappling with him, a cold, murderous expression on his face, which was even more frightening than the simple malice of my abductors. Loud noises and running feet came from the corridor. "Avanti, Gianni," the first man shouted as he struggled to his feet. With a sudden burst of strength the second man flung Evan aside, and I saw the knife flash. And then they were gone, leaving their two wounded victims.
I met Evan's eyes across the room. He was panting, disheveled, and blood oozed from a cut high up on his thigh. I could feel my hair slipping from its pins, and the wetness at my fingertips told me my own wound was bleeding in a cheerfully profuse manner.
Limping slightly, he moved across the floor and retrieved the shawl I had dropped during the melee. "Wrap this around you," he ordered tersely, holding it out to me.
Numbly I did as I was told, my eyes never leaving his pale, sweat-streaked face. We could hear voices from a great distance heading our way, and without another word he grabbed my good arm, his touch surprising me with its magnetic effect.
"Let's get the hell out of here," he muttered, dragging me forward out the door down the glorious wide, golden stairway, our mingled blood leaving small patches on the floor.
"But shouldn't we report this?" I demanded breathlessly, feeling stupidly weak.
"To Holger von Wolfram?" He questioned cynically. "I think not. Who do you think hired them? Those two men are known to be Austrian hirelings. How bad is your arm?" His voice held a rough concern that made me bless my shallow wound.
"Only a scratch, I think. And your leg?"
He smiled down at me wryly, and I was in love. "It'll do. Can you manage to walk a ways?"
"I think so." Holding on to him like this, I was fully capable of walking miles. "Where are we going?"
"To my flat. Since you're so anxious to compromise yourself, that should please you no end."
I was about to flare up at him when I saw a wince of pain flash momentarily in his beautiful eyes. And I knew he would never make it to his quarters alone. I summoned up my best smile, held on to him a little more tightly, and said nothing, smiling like the Giorgione Madonna Maggie had likened me to. And if there was a touch of Salome in me, how was anyone else to know?
CHAPTER TEN
I have never had so long or so nerve-racking a walk. Blindly I followed where Evan led, knowing by the inexorable strength of his muscles that he must be in great pain, but his face was smooth and expressionless. I draped my shawl around my arm, allowing it to trail down so that it hung and obscured his wound.
Down the wide, tourist-filled expanse of the Piazza San Marco, down narrow alleys, past churches and small canals and shops and palazzos, I walked until I thought I should faint with the tension and the heat. And suddenly the La Fenice Theatre loomed up in front of us, and Evan's feet finally slowed their relentless pace until we came to a small, neat, pink building with window boxes brimming with nasturtiums of a riotously clashing orange and red.
"You'll have to keep your voice down," he warned me, his face still blank. The only inkling I had of the strain he was under was the unnatural paleness of his face, paleness that touched everywhere but the thin, red line of his scar. "My landlady is a very strict widow who doesn't approve of ladies in gentlemen's rooms."
I nodded, following him silently up the narrow, twisting stairs. It was as well he had warned me; it was all I could do not to cry out as his customary grace deserted him for a moment and he stumbled against the wall. Hastily he pulled himself upright, leaving a dark red splotch of blood on the whitewashed surface.
Vainly I tried to scrub at the mark with my now blood-soaked shawl, but it only served to smear it. "Leave it," he ordered briefly, and continued upward. There was nothing I could do but follow.
It was dark in the apartment, but blessedly cool after the burning heat of the midday sun. I stayed just inside the closed door, leaning against the wall and willing my cursed dizziness to pass. Such feminine weakness was not at all like me, and I could have wished for a better time for this sudden upsurge of delicacy. I took a few deep breaths, determined not to swoon, when I felt myself caught up in a pair of strong arms. The sensation was so pleasant I gave up all idea of fainting. And then the darkness closed in.
When consciousness returned I was lying stretched out on an exceedingly comfortable sofa;
Evan was beside me, bending over my arm and cleaning the long, deep scratch with assiduous care.
"Damn!" I said loudly and clearly, and those silver-blue eyes met mine for a startled moment.
"Damn what?"
"I have never fainted in my entire life," I assured him ruefully. "I certainly picked a fine time to do so."
"Never fainted?" he mocked. "How can any properly brought up young girl of these times and fashions say such a thing?" His voice was rough but his hands, as they carefully washed my wound, were incredibly gentle.
"I've never worn a corset," I explained reasonably. "Most women swoon because of tight lacing."
The look from those eyes was definitely perplexed, and too late I realized the impropriety of my words.
"Oh, damn," I said again. "I shouldn't have mentioned corsets, should I?"
"Certainly not. You also shouldn't say 'damn' so frequently," he said calmly, wrapping my arm in clean, soft linen. "What would your parents say if they heard you?"
I chortled. "They'd probably say, 'Damn it, don't swear so much.'" I eyed his handiwork with professional approval. "You do seem to take an inordinate amount of interest in my parents," I observed casually.
He leaned back on his heels, wincing slightly. "It fascinates me that they would let such an unprincipled hoyden as yourself loose upon Europe. I think a few years in a convent would do you a world of good." He rose abruptly, swaying imperceptibly, and a moment later I was on my feet.
"Sit down and let me see your wound," I ordered sternly, staring up into his scarred face with a determined expression.
"Certainly not," he snapped, manlike. "I'm entirely capable of taking care of it myself."
"Don't be absurd," I snapped back. "I have a great deal of experience in medical matters. I used to assist the village doctor in all manner of things. I've helped babies being born, amputations, typhus . . ."
"Then a mere knife wound should be too trivial for one of your vast experience. Unless you were planning on amputating."
"Evan," I said in a low, dangerous, not-to-be- th
warted tone of voice, "I must insist that you take off your pants and let me take care of your wound."
My voice trailed off before his burst of laughter. "You certainly are direct and to the point, aren't you?" he said after a moment. "Well, my dear child, if you have no modesty, I'm afraid I do." He limped over to a chair, lowering himself gingerly, and with the aid of strong fingers and a letter opener proceeded to rip away the remainder of his pants leg.
It was a great deal worse than I had expected, and as I knelt there on the floor, holding a wet compress to his thigh, I wondered that he had been able to walk so far with what had appeared to be only mild discomfort. "This must hurt you," I muttered under my breath as I tried to clean up the wound.
"Thank you, it does," he replied politely, watching me out of hooded eyes as I knelt between his long legs and worked on his wound. "You'll have to disinfect it," he said after a moment.
"I know that, much as I dislike the thought. Do you have any whiskey here?"
"Would an English gentleman's home be complete without a bottle of whiskey?" he mocked. "Over by the table." As I came back and knelt once more in front of him, some devil prompted him to tease me. "I do hope you're enjoying this, Lucy. Lady Bute will be dying to hear all the details of your encounter with the evil divorce."
Calmly I poured whiskey all over the deep wound, wickedly pleased to see him stiffen in pain. "I have no intention of confiding this afternoon's adventures to Lady Bute. Perhaps I should , tell you that you are not of such all-consuming interest to me as you seem to believe."
"Should you tell me that?" he said in an odd tone of voice.
I looked up and met his silver-blue eyes with a clear gaze. "Of course, I should. But it would be a lie." And with a splendid show of unconcern I went back to my task, wrapping the strips of linen around his lean, muscled thigh with only the slightest shaking of my hands, and I controlled my desperate urge to throw my arms around his waist and rest my head against his broad chest with more than average effort. When it was done I looked up again, surprising an odd expression on his face, one that I couldn't read at all.
"I've done my best," I said briskly. "It's my professional opinion that you should stay off it for the next few days."
"Is it now? And who's going to wait upon me, bring me my dinner, pour me my whiskey?" he questioned softly. "Were you planning to volunteer?"
Shaking my head, I rose abruptly and walked halfway across the room. His proximity had been even more disturbing than I had let myself realize. "I could do with a cup of tea," I said in a strangled tone of voice after a long moment. "Would you care for some?"
He nodded, pulling himself to his feet. "You'll find everything you need in the kitchen. In the meantime I'll change my clothes. And no"—he held up a restraining hand as I impulsively moved forward—"you may not help me. I am still entirely capable of taking off my clothes without your assistance. When I've changed and the tea is ready, my dear Lucy, I will be ready for your explanation." His eyes were like blue smoke. "And I expect it to be believable."
I found myself singing as I bustled around his kitchen, happier than I remembered being in a long, long time, despite the throb in my arm and the worry in my mind. I couldn't betray my business here in Venice—Bones would kill me. The more people who knew of my mission, the less chance of success. But oh, I did so want to confide in him!
I made the tea strong and peaty, a noble restorative, and carried it into the drawing room just as Evan emerged from the far doorway, dressed in a pair of soft brown pants and shirt sleeves. As I stared at him in witless admiration, I thought once again how very attractive men were in their loose white shirts, the collars unbuttoned to show the beginnings of a tanned throat. He moved across the room with the barest trace of a limp and took the tray from my nerveless fingers. And unbidden, the thought flashed through my mind that he must be accustomed to wounds far worse than his recent one to be able to survive it without more than a show of discomfort.
I poured for the two of us, suddenly shy, and silently allowed him to tip a generous dollop of whiskey into my tea cup. He leaned back on the sofa, took a deep drink of his spiked tea, and stared at me for a long, uneasy moment out of those hypnotizing eyes.
I cleared my throat. "I suppose you're wondering why those two . . . two men tried to hurt me," I said in what I hoped was a casual tone of voice. "You said they were Austrian hirelings?"
"That's exactly what they were. Now what has a sweet, innocent young lady like yourself done to earn the enmity of the Imperial Army?"
His casual words brought the unpleasant truth home to me with full force. Someone, some fairly powerful member of the Austrian forces, knew why I was here in Venice. My chances for success had just dropped to a bare possibility. I fiddled with my teacup, playing for time. "I suppose it might be because of my parents," I offered. "My father was a Venetian patriot—he made a lot of enemies twenty-five years ago." I sighed. "But why don't they just deport me? Why try to hurt me?"
"They were trying to kidnap you, my dear Lucy," he contradicted flatly. "Obviously they are under the impression you know something you shouldn't. Is that true?"
I gave him my most innocent, amber gaze, willing him to believe me. "What could I know?"
But Evan wasn't convinced. "That's for you to say. And they probably haven't got enough proof to deport you. Just suspicions, no doubt because of your family connections." His voice was lightly mocking. "When they can do nothing through normal channels it is a simple enough matter to dispatch two brigands to take care of things, no questions asked. I would suggest, my dear Lucy, that you keep away from dark alleys."
"Why do you call me Lucy?" I questioned out of the blue.
He raised an eyebrow. "Your name is Luciana, is it not? Lucy suits you better. Besides, I have no intention of trying to twist my tongue around your absurd name. I'll call you Lucy if I please."
"I wasn't objecting," I said evenly, meeting his gaze. "I'll do my best to keep out of solitary places from now on, I promise. Tell me," I hesitated a moment—"would you have killed them if they hadn't run away?" The thought had been preying on my mind for the last few minutes.
"Without a doubt." No remorse crossed his face, and I wondered at his callous attitude.
"You don't seem to mind the idea," I said crossly. "Have you killed men before?"
"I was a soldier, dear Lucy. I have killed a great many men in my life," he said wearily.
"And why are you no longer a soldier?"
He smiled, but it wasn't a pleasant smile. "I resigned my commission when I divorced my wife. Surely Lady Bute informed you of that juicy tidbit?"
"Why did you do that?" I asked with my usual subtlety and tact.
But Evan seemed disposed to enlighten me. "Why did I divorce my wife or why did I resign my commission?" There was a bleak, haunted look somewhere in the back of his eyes. "I divorced my wife rather than murder her. I resigned my commission rather than be cashiered. I was in a very old, very historic regiment that had no room for a divorced man in its noble ranks." His voice was flat and cold. "Which brings me back to you. I am waiting for your explanation."
"Explanation?" I echoed, confused. "I thought we agreed that they were two Austrian hirelings."
"Not about that, my angel," and the endearment was mocking. "I want to know why you've been following me. Falling at my feet, tossing tea trays over young ladies, dropping books right and left. You don't do this with every man you meet, do you?" His voice was cool and clipped and so offensive I wanted to throw my teacup at his dark gold head. Instead I took another deep gulp, feeling the whiskey warm my bones and relax my tight nerves.
My, my, but he was an unhappy man! I would have gladly given ten years off my life to be able to go up to him and smooth away that angry, bitter expression from his handsome face, to press my lips against that angry red scar. And as quickly as it had come all my fury evaporated. "Not every man," I replied lightly. "Only the most attractive."
/> "Hasn't that gotten you into a great deal of trouble?" he barked. "How many men has your fancy lighted upon?"
I smiled sweetly. "Only one."
A long silence ensued. "Well, then, my dear Lucy, I suggest you take yourself back to England as soon as possible and see if you can find some other young man to take your fancy. If I'm the first man you've been attracted to, then you can't be long out of the schoolroom. Go back to England and your parents can introduce you to some likely young men."
I finished the tea, poured myself some more, and added a generous dose of whiskey. "I am twenty-three years old, Evan," I said calmly. "I have had a season, met scores of eligible young men, received three proposals of marriage, two of which were fairly suitable."
"Then why didn't you accept them?"
I took a deep breath and plunged right in there. "Because for the last twenty-three years I've been waiting for you."
The next pause was even longer. His teacup crashed down on the tray. "Jesus Christ!" he swore. "You must be completely out of your mind!"
To my relief I could recognize the strange blend of irritation, amusement, and fascination in his angry eyes, and I continued with more assurance. "Not at all. And you, my dearest Evan, have been waiting for me for the last . . . thirty-six years?"
"Thirty-seven," he corrected absently. "Which goes to prove that I'm too old for you anyway. I doubt my dear Amelia would have agreed that I'd been waiting for you."
"Well," I said with great practicality, "from what I hear of your late wife, you would have been a lot better off waiting for me, instead of getting involved with a monster like that."
He rose then and stalked across the room, looking more and more like the dangerous panther I had likened him to. He leaned over my chair, putting his hands on the arms and effectively imprisoning me. His face was very close, and his blue eyes blazed in a rage of noble proportions.