The Demon Count's Daughter

by Anne Stuart

  As my thin leather slippers sped across the cobblestones, I thought I could hear a voice call­ing my name, loud, in almost desperation. A voice that sounded like Evan, but I couldn't be sure. Heedlessly I dodged into an alleyway, then into another, till I came slap up against a totally un­familiar canal. I heard a soft footstep behind me, and as I whirled around I felt something hard come down behind my ear, and everything went black.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  As consciousness slowly returned I became aware of a great many unpleasant things. An aching head was the first of my worries, followed by a cramped, stiff body, the stifling folds of a fish-scented tarpaulin preventing any fresh air from reaching me, and the steady rhythm of oars behind me. It didn't take the even rocking of the gondola to tell me I was in a boat; my riotous stomach, usually so sanguine about sea travel, was making it perfectly clear. Grimly I swallowed the bile that threatened to rise in my throat and kept my cramped, stiff limbs perfectly still.

  Without moving more than a few pertinent muscles I could tell that I had been neither bound nor gagged. Apparently my captors considered the blow to my head enough to keep me immobile for hours. Indeed, it could have been hours since they clobbered me; I had no way of knowing.

  "Durano is up ahead," one villain muttered in non-Venetian Italian. "Is she still out?"

  A not-too-gentle foot prodded my posterior.

  "Still dreaming like a babe," another answered, chuckling evilly. "The two of us might have a bit of trouble carrying a bambina like that, eh?" And I knew with mingled horror and relief that it was the two Italian brigands from the Doges' Palace who'd finally caught up with me, and with a chill I remembered Holger's orders to them. "Kill her if you must, but get her." I should have stayed in Evan's apartment, no matter how de trop I was.

  By amazing luck Evan had been able to rescue me before, but given the circumstances there was no way I could count on his help again. No doubt at this moment he was lost in the arms of his Austrian whore, far too involved in whatever deep game he was playing to spare a thought for me, on a boat ride to death.

  I lay very, very still, tensing my muscles, and then in a sudden leap was over the side of the small boat, the fishy tarp following me like a cape. And then the water hit like a shock of ice, and I dove beneath the surface with more speed than care.

  I was well paid for it. The water was only about four feet deep, and I hit my nose on an outcrop­ping of rock. I surfaced briefly and found my shoulders caught in a punishing grip.

  "Not so sleepy, eh?" the great hulking creature demanded with the travesty of a smile. "The signorina is far too eager to walk upon the shore, Gianni. Shall we drag her behind the boat?"

  "Pull her in, Ricci," the other replied in a bored tone of voice. "After we get to the house you can amuse yourself with her."

  As I was unceremoniously pulled into the gon­dola I kept my limbs a dead weight, hoping against hope to tip the rocking craft. But Gianni, despite his non-Venetian accent, knew his way around a gondola, and I was dumped onto the seat with a casual cuff to the side of my head. I lay there in a mild stupor for another twenty minutes until the stars began to clear from in front of my eyes, listening with sick dread as they made their plans for my soon-to-be-departed virginity. I think I would have preferred that they murder me.

  By the time we reached the shore a heavy, blinding fog had settled in, obscuring the land, the faces of my captors, and even a hand in front of my eyes. With stumbling, awkward feet I followed the first man, aided by a rough push every now and then from his trailing companion that would send me sprawling on the rough dirt.

  I needed all my senses to keep me going. The island, or so I assumed it to be, appeared unin­habited; no lights or sound penetrated the thick, thick fog that sank through my heavy, wet, cling­ing clothes and into the marrow of my bones.

  "You want her first, Ricci?" the first man in­quired courteously, and I could sense him turning in front of me. "It's all right with me if you do; I can always watch. Von Wolfram has said he no longer cares what we do with her."

  "No, you go first," his companion replied with equal generosity. "Just leave something for me, eh?" His laugh chilled me more than the cold, dank fog. "Though there looks like more than enough for both of us in this one, my friend." He put one meaty paw in my back and once more I tripped.

  It was miraculous that I was able to keep my balance, but my sudden equilibrium displeased Ricci, who was longing for the chance to kick my fallen body.

  "Stupid slut," he muttered, crashing his heavy hand across my face. I stood there, still upright but swaying ever so slightly. I saw his hand up­raised and numbly felt it connect with the other side of my face. I fell then, and lay on the rough dirt, every part of my body aching, knowing a good, hard kick was coming at any moment. I lay there immobile, determined not to cringe.

  The kick never came. A sudden scuffle sounded behind me, a muffled oath, and the sound of a fist hitting flesh.

  "Ricci?" Gianni spoke from up ahead, a worried note to his guttural voice. "Are you all right?"

  Another thud, and then silence. Slowly, pain­fully, I struggled to a sitting position, my eyes trying to focus through the thick, gray fog. A seemingly huge, dark figure loomed ahead of me, with a horrendous humped back, hideously like something out of Victor Hugo. I stifled a small scream of terror as it came closer and then nearly fainted with astonishment and relief as I recog­nized it.

  Evan had the body of the first bandit across his shoulders, giving him a nightmare quality in sil­houette. "Stay there," he muttered tersely, moving around me with his burden. A few moments later he was back, picking up the second man and hauling him away with the same careless strength. And then finally there he was, his big, strong hands lifting me to my feet, his face through the mist no longer cold and angry but filled with a warm, loving concern.

  I didn't even stop to question his miraculous appearance. I was still so stunned I merely ac­cepted him as my deus ex machina. "Did you kill them?" I questioned, and was startled to hear my voice come out in a tiny croak.

  He shook his head, the damp strands loose around his scarred face. "I dumped them in their gondola and pushed them out to sea. The tide should carry them to the mainland in a day or two."

  "Won't they come back here?" The feel of his hands beneath my elbows was warm and comfort­ing, and I barely stifled a protest as he withdrew them.

  "I neglected to leave them with an oar. By the time they reach land and get back here, you'll be long gone. Out of Venice and halfway back to England."

  It would be useless to question his arrogant assumption, so I said nothing. "How in the world did you get here?" My curiosity was reviving.

  "By boat, of course. I've been only a short way behind you since you ran off into the night like a hysterical child. When the fog settled I was afraid I'd lost you for certain, but they'd just reached Durano. If they'd planned to go on I would have given up." His voice was flat and emotionless, but his eyes burned in the pale, fog-shrouded face, and deep within me I knew he would have fol­lowed us halfway across the Adriatic before he let them get away with me. Despite my chilled, wet garments I felt suddenly warm.

  "Can you take me back?"

  "Not tonight. I was barely able to navigate fol­lowing those two brigands. In this dense fog we wouldn't stand a chance . . . we'd reach the main­land just in time to welcome your energetic enemies." He turned around. "No, we'll have to find some sort of shelter and wait till the fog lifts. It should be clear by mid-morning, at the latest."

  I viewed this last piece of news with surpris­ing equanimity. "Does anyone live on this island? Someone who could take us in till morning?"

  He shook his head, peering through the fog with narrowed eyes. "Entirely uninhabited. Why do you think they brought you here?"

  "I have no idea, other than the obvious one," I Med. I could no longer dare to trust him, much as I longed to. Apparently he wasn't much inter­ested in my conjectures, for he moved off into th
e night, and I let out a small shriek that sent him rushing back to my side.

  "What's wrong?" he demanded irritably.

  "I would greatly appreciate it," I said in a stiff voice, "if you would control your distaste for me long enough to give me your arm while we wander around in the dark. I happen to be cold and wet and frightened. If it's too much for you, of course, please don't bother." My voice was frigid with rage and a barely controlled panic.

  To my surprise a grin fit his face, and I felt my heart do a casual little leap within me. "My plea­sure, madame." He bowed, offering his arm like a courtier. "I will try to smother the normal disgust and repulsion I feel toward you for the time being, though it is very, very difficult."

  Placing my hand on his forearm I could feel the steely strength of his muscles through the fine linen shirt. "Please do," I replied with distant courtesy. "And I will do my best not to compromise one of your tender sensibilities."

  "You are too kind," he murmured, starting off at a slower pace through the impenetrable fog.

  It was a rough journey. My slippers were in tatters, the satin dress completely destroyed by its sojourn in the sea. My head ached, my cheek throbbed, and it seemed to me I was colder than I had ever been in my life. Through it all the only comfort I had was the feel of Evan's arm beneath my hand, the certain knowledge that he would lead me to safety.

  Instead he led me to a small, doorless, prac­tically roofless cottage, sitting all alone in the midst of a damp and nasty-smelling swamp. His eyesight in the dark was far better than mine, and he steered my suddenly nerveless body to a narrow pallet on the floor. I collapsed in exhaustion and lay there, listening dazedly as he struggled with some slightly damp lucifers. A moment later the meager light from a candle stub illuminated the hovel, and hovel it certainly was. The floor was dirt, the giant fireplace filled with wet, smelly ashes, and not a trace of food in the house. For the first time I realized how incredibly hungry I was, and a small groan escaped me.

  "Don't you like it?" Evan demanded, and there was a curiously light note in his voice. One might almost have thought he was enjoying the whole miserable situation.

  I summoned up my last ounce of courage. "Well, it's not quite as cozy as Edentide, but I suppose, given the circumstances, it will do." I watched in distrust as Evan disappeared into the next room.

  "There's a bed in there," he said calmly, coming back into the room. "I suggest you get out of that absurd rag and try to get some sleep. I wouldn't dare attempt to get us out of here before daylight, even if the fog happens to lift sooner." He peered out the open door into the night. "I'll sleep here and keep watch."

  For some reason I felt as if I'd been slapped in the face. "Keep watch for what?" I questioned stiffly.

  He smiled an enigmatic smile. "There's always the chance your two admirers' paymaster might arrive. Durano is a perfect meeting place for peo­ple not wishing to be seen. Go on in and get some sleep. Tomorrow you can tell me what the hell you've been doing, wandering around Venice at all hours of the night dressed like that." His voice was like that of an indulgent parent, and I found myself with the curious urge to scream.

  "Could we possibly have a fire?" I requested in a very small voice, trying to control my shivers.

  "I'm afraid not." He sounded repulsively cheer­ful. "That would lead anyone who happened to be near the island straight to us. Once you get out of those wet clothes you'll feel warmer. Run along now."

  I bit back the retort that rose to my lips as I struggled to my feet, the wet, ruined satin dress dragging around my ankles. If Evan Fitzpatrick felt safer treating me like an infant, that was his problem and not my own.

  The inner room was pitch black, and I bumped into the bed, banging my knees painfully. I climbed into the sagging, creaking, no doubt flea-ridden mattress, and sat there, wet and miserable and cold and hungry. And alone. I sincerely doubted if I had ever been so unhappy in my entire life, and as my chilled, wet fingers fumbled with the myriad of tiny buttons, warm tears began sliding down my face. The buttons refused to yield to my clumsy fingers; the wet satin was too strong to rip, and I was about to throw myself down and cry my heart out when I felt, rather than heard, Evan behind me.

  "You are a helpless one, aren't you?" he said softly, his voice and hands curiously gentle as he undid the buttons. It took him a long time, ham­pered as he was with my long curtain of sea-damp hair, the slippery satin, and the heavy, comforting blackness of the room. When he finished he moved away abruptly, before I had a chance to turn around, and his voice came from the doorway.

  "Leave your dress at the foot of the bed and I'll hang it up later. There's a blanket beside your head . . . that should help. Good night." There was a great deal of finality in his voice, a finality I could scarcely argue with.

  "Good night," I said in muffled misery, dump­ing my sodden dress on the dirt floor and tossing my cotton petticoats beside it. Some last vestige of modesty made me keep my chemise and panta­lets on. He had seen me in them already, the time of my other abortive swim, and it hadn't seemed to arouse him then either. Sighing, I pulled the thin, thankfully clean-smelling blanket around my shivering body and tried to go to sleep.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was later, much later, when I awoke. My thin, cotton underclothing was sticking to my body like sheets of ice, my skin was covered with goose bumps, and my teeth chattered like castanets. I clamped hard on my jaw, biting my tongue in the process, and had to cope with the pain along with the dreadful, dreadful cold. I couldn't will my body to be still . . . the shivers that racked it made the bed squeak loudly in the silent cottage. I was trembling so hard I thought my bones would rattle loose in their sockets, and vainly I tried to find some warmth in the thin blanket I was huddled under. But there seemed to be no warmth there.

  Suddenly I could stand it no longer. As surrepti­tiously as I could I crept from the bed, the thin blanket wrapped around my frigid body. The outer room was still pitch black, and silently I tiptoed past the pallet where I knew Evan would be sleeping, terrified that I should wake him. As I stepped outside I noticed with relief that the fog had lifted and a strong, clear moonlight was streaming through the clouds. The air was only slightly warmer, and even more damp, and I did the only thing possible. I dropped the blanket on the ground, and, barefoot, clad only in thin, damp, lace underclothing, I took off at a dead run across the now visible hill in front of the tiny house.

  Ten minutes later I was back, panting, sweat­ing, and gloriously warm and alive. The moon­light was very bright, and as I reached for my blanket I straightened up and looked straight into Evan's eyes.

  "You must," he said slowly, "be entirely crazy."

  The moonlight silvered his dark blond hair, gilded the planes of his face, and practically ob­scured the long, fascinating scar. With his linen shirt open to the waist I could see other, more recent scars on his broad, strong chest, and I wondered what kind of life he lived that would leave its mark so starkly on his lovely body.

  "Not entirely," I replied huskily. "I was very cold." A random shiver passed over my body, and belatedly I realized how very immodest my attire was, illuminated there in the moonlight. Not that that cold-hearted, goddamned man cared.

  "You're going to be a lot colder in a few mo­ments. A good case of pneumonia should keep you out of trouble for the next few months." His eyes were narrowed and unreadable, entirely unmoved by my overripe body in the thin scraps of cloth. Mentally I shrugged.

  Another shiver ran over me, and then another. "I suppose you're right," I said through chattering teeth, suddenly weak hands fumbling with the thin blanket that would provide me with scarcely any protection.

  He moved quickly then, so quickly I scarcely saw him. In another moment the blanket was se­curely around me, and I was lifted in his arms as effortlessly as if I were one of those fragile blondes I was so envious of. For a moment I was blissfully, delightfully warm, and then he dumped me un­ceremoniously on the pallet.

  As he towered
over me I felt very small, very fragile, and very weak. It was a delicious feeling for a change.

  He squatted down beside me, every line in his lean face visible in the soft moonlight streaming through the open door, and one gentle hand reached out and touched my cheek. I winced, and his mouth tightened grimly.

  "Perhaps I should have killed them," he said in a low voice, his fingers gentle on my bruised flesh. "Not that you don't deserve to be beaten."

  Somewhere I found my voice. "I wish you wouldn't be so nasty. You really like me, you know you do. You wouldn't be following me around, pulling me out of scrapes, if you didn't."

  He hesitated, about to say something, and then obviously thought better of it. "Perhaps I do," he conceded, "but I can't see much future in a friendship between us."

  I swallowed. "I wasn't asking for friendship."

  The beginnings of a small smile appeared at the corners of his well-shaped mouth, and his hand kept stroking my face. "And what were you ask­ing for, Lucy?"

  There was no way I could answer that, no way at all. I looked up at him mutely, but he wasn't the sort to let me weasel out of a situation.

  "You don't really know, do you?" He was asking himself more than me. "I don't know if I've ever met such innocence before." Carelessly he pinched my other cheek and started to rise. "Go to sleep, my child, and dream of pirates."

  I caught at his hand before he could move away. "Would you stay with me?" I asked, and my voice came out in a whispered croak.

  His face was unreadable. "What did you say?"

  "I said, Would you stay with me?" I repeated in a slightly louder voice that quavered only slightly. "I'm cold and frightened and I don't want to be alone."

  He stared at me for a long moment. "You're not making this easy, Lucy. Do you know what you're asking?"