Falcon's Angel

by Danita Minnis

  The duke put down the record of Forlì and folded his hands across it. “Be careful what you say, Signor Baldoni. Words have a way of coming back to haunt you. I have decided.”

  Signor Baldoni bowed his head. “Very well. I defer to your wishes and I thank you for meeting with me on such short notice.” When he looked up, his smile widened despite the duke’s ruling against him. He stood and walked out of the study.

  The duke exchanged a look with Umberto Dell’Acqua. “That man is trouble.”

  “Signor Tarcisio will be sorely missed in a city with such strife,” Umberto murmured.

  “I grow tired of the long-standing feud among the villagers.” The duke turned to him. “Carlo, I have a mission for you.”

  “Anything, Father.”

  “The young Tarcisio has written to me of four girls who have disappeared within the last month. He claims the devil has come to Forli. I am sure it is nothing more than this feud among the villagers. I would like you to travel with Umberto to the city and see what you can find out.”

  Carlo stood. “It is done, Father.”

  “Carlo.” His father held up a hand. “Tell no one of this. And you are not Marchese Falco in Forli.”

  He raised an eyebrow and his father chuckled. “So, you have your wish for a few days at least, eh?”

  Carlo remained silent. He would not deny nor apologize for it. He stared at his father, watching brown eyes darken in anger.

  “I don’t want the villagers prepared for your visit. Do you understand?”

  “Sì, Father.”

  “Take this with you.” His father placed a ring in the palm of Carlo’s hand.

  Carlo turned the ring over. There was no inscription, nothing to identify its owner.

  “Is something wrong, Carlo?” His father asked.

  “No. What does this symbol represent?”

  Umberto gave him a grim nod. “That is what we must find out. Young Tarcisio found this in a field where one of the girls had been working before she disappeared.” Umberto rose from his chair slowly.

  Carlo stopped himself before helping him up. Umberto had been steward before his father had become the duke. The old man walked out, still straight as an arrow.

  But Carlo didn’t want to take care of an old man in a hostile city where they would have to watch their backs.

  “Father, Forlì is an arduous four-day journey. Perhaps Umberto should stay here.”

  “He will protect you. Godspeed,” his father said, and then turned away.

  Carlo stared at his father’s back.

  The steward was his father’s right-hand man and brother to another old friend, coachman Massimo. Both men had the duke’s complete trust in all things. Of course, there was Umberto’s pride to consider, but at the cost of his life?

  Carlo nodded, understanding for the first time the origin of his stubbornness. He understood his father better, too. The man summed up one word. Loyalty. To status, to the land, and to family. It was a loyalty that had built their dynasty. At times, it was too strong and threatened to end it.

  Carlo closed the study door behind him. Walking past his mother’s salon, he went through a curtained alcove into his small office.

  He placed the signet ring on his desk and sat back in his chair. It was a work of art. Not the kind of ring one would find in a little shop in an obscure town. There was a more detailed engraving of the stylized dragon on the face of the heavy gold ring, and the rubies in the eyes and fiery breath were larger than the jewels on Rosa’s anklet. However, the design was a perfect match.

  Where did she get the anklet?

  He had not paid much attention to Rosa when she’d told him of the trip and now wished he could remember where the Bareschis had gone on vacation. Rosa was a reminder of the hell he had created for himself, and he had only been relieved she was not in Lazio at the time. They must have been gone several weeks visiting relatives.

  Not knowing what Rosa’s connection was to this symbol in his hand shifted his anger from Baldoni to that beautiful, thorny rose he’d soon be shackled to for life.

  Was she aware of the connection between her anklet and the ring?

  He had not planned on it, but now he would have to pay her a visit before he left for Forlì.

  Carlo started gathering his things. During the meeting in his father’s study, he’d sat next to Baldoni and noticed the clenching of the man’s fingers that turned his knuckles white. Baldoni had been enraged at the duke’s decision even as he spoke peaceful words.

  Carlo wanted to go after Baldoni now, but was not prepared for the journey. In his present state of mind, he was tolerant of little more than a beggar pilfering bread from the markets of St. Peter’s Square. Part of him wanted to extinguish any iniquity, the smallest transgression he witnessed.

  That was Margaux’s legacy, a result of the injustice of her death. He had not been there to save her from the fire, but he would root out what evil he could in the world now.

  * * * *

  “I must go away for a few days,” Carlo said.

  Rosa got up from her chair. “But, Carlo, we have accepted the king’s invitation for this weekend. Can you not postpone your trip?”

  He walked to her and took her hand. “That is not possible.”

  “But where are you going?”

  “Out of town.”

  Rosa crossed the salon in a whirl of brown silk. Closing the double doors, she leaned back against them. “You will not even tell me where you are going?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot.”

  She came to stand in front of him. Her crestfallen look was genuine. “I hate you.” She put her arms around him. “This sounds serious.”

  Carlo wrapped his arms around her. “It is business, but nothing to worry over. King Vittorio will understand.” He led her to a sofa in front of the picture window.

  “I haven’t given you an engagement present. I will surprise you when I return.”

  Rosa remained silent and stared out at the golden mountains in the distance.

  “Maybe I will pass the shop in which you purchased your anklet.” Carlo lifted her skirts just enough to see the glinting rubies. “What is the name of it?”

  She swatted his hand away, her eyelids lowered demurely. “Marchese Falco, someone will come in.”

  “You were not so concerned about interruptions that night in the cloakroom,” he murmured close to her ear.

  Rosa shifted away from him on the sofa. “That was before I knew you were leaving me.”

  He sat back and sighed. “The name, Rosa.”

  “Name? Oh, I don’t remember. We stopped in so many places.”

  “Does the dragon have any particular meaning?”

  Rosa smoothed her skirts down. “Of course not. It’s just a pretty thing that I bought myself because my fiancé refused to come with me.”

  Carlo chuckled. “I was not your fiancé then.” He cupped her chin. “You knew I could not leave the vineyards when we are so busy.”

  “And yet you leave now.” Rosa shot him a glance, her dark brown eyes filled with a new light. “You are on a mission for your father,” she deduced with relish. “That is why King Vittorio will understand, isn’t it?”

  “I know you’ve told me this before, but which relatives did you visit?”

  She rolled her eyes. “My mother’s family in Bologna.”

  Carlo nodded, sorry he had not taken notice of her extended family before this. He was tempted, but he could not very well impose on her relatives in Bologna for a visit when he did not know them. And he could not take Rosa with him. However, Bologna was not very far from Forlì … he would think of something.

  “When I come back, why don’t we plan a visit?”

  “They are coming here to Lazio,” Rosa said slowly as if talking to the town fool. “You were not listening to Mama the other night,” she accused.

  “Forgive me.” He flipped a trailing fiery tendril hanging down from her topknot, and pulled her up for
a kiss. “I will return soon.”

  When he returned home, Carlo stopped in his tracks to see Massimo smiling in the stables.

  “Are you feeling well?” He gave the old man a slow scrutiny that started at the well-worn, but carefully polished boots and ended at the shiny bald spot on his graying head.

  The coachman chuckled and Carlo narrowed his eyes.

  Massimo handed him the horses’ reins. He had already outfitted Arturo and Rafi for the trip. “Godspeed, Marchese Carlo.”

  Chapter Three

  Night had fallen in the changeable landscape of the Emilia-Romagna region.

  He and Umberto Dell’Acqua had been traversing dry, dusty coach trails all day. To his surprise, the old man was holding up very well.

  Tonight, they were passing through a forest that closed in on them every few miles to create a cave of foliage overhead. Bounded by the Adriatic Sea and the Apennine mountain range, the Emilia-Romagna region offered an opportune stream here and there. They’d stopped once already to water the horses and had ridden in silence the entire way.

  It was only when they entered the woods that Carlo noticed the slump to Umberto’s shoulders.

  Without a word, Carlo turned Arturo off the road into a forest so dense that the Friesian slowed. Rafi followed behind slower still, as if the horse knew Umberto must be handled with care.

  They met the stream again and made camp by the water.

  Umberto never uttered a word, but began snoring almost immediately. His supper of rabbit and wild greens left untouched near the campfire.

  After a day of hard riding, Carlo expected to be snoring as well, but he could not sleep. He wrapped Umberto’s supper and put it in the satchel. He must have sat for hours next to the sleeping Umberto, his back against an old willow tree, staring into the black stream.

  Carlo.

  The trees stilled. The incessant rustlings of the night creatures in the forest ceased.

  He shouldn’t have known that voice calling to him in this strange wood, but he did.

  A year in the grave and miles away from the bedroom she surely shared with him, Margaux called to him. That fact didn’t stop him from getting up and walking towards the stream.

  The moon reflected on the quiet water and called to him with as much determination as he felt pulling off his Hessians and wading in. He was knee-deep in the stream before he considered how deep the dark water might be. That thought fled for more intriguing one.

  Turning full circle, he searched for the moon, which had disappeared. There was no moon tonight.

  Umberto turned on his side, and the snoring stopped. It would have been the perfect opportunity to sleep, but just then, Carlo saw the moon across the water.

  He dunked his head once and then swam above water, keeping an eye on the white light, which was too low in the trees to be the moon.

  Margaux had been silent these last few minutes but he could still hear the urgency of her call. He could not see Margaux but across the stream the trees, previously indiscernible this black night, shined a verdant emerald, glowing from a source of light.

  Carlo climbed the bank. The sphere of light in the distance grew as he approached. He kicked off his waterlogged boots and forged a path through the brush as if the stones beneath his feet were soft grass.

  He did not dare say her name aloud for fear the light would disappear and the forest would cloak him in darkness once again. After all this time, had she come to him?

  Carlo walked faster.

  Shaking now and blinded by the white light, he shielded his eyes with one arm and with the other outstretched, entered the sphere.

  * * * *

  Fingers gently tugged his hands away from his eyes.

  “My love,” Her laughter fell around him like spring rain in Lazio’s verdant valley, cooling him where he was feverish. She held onto his hand and the light was no longer too bright for him.

  “Margaux,” He gripped her hand and pulled her close. She wrapped her arms around his neck.

  Beautiful golden eyes, the color of the glittering panniers on her gown, were serious now as her hard nipples rubbed against him.

  “Margaux,” He lifted her midnight hair and smelled amber and musk before he buried his face in her neck. “Stay with me,” he said between kisses.

  She sighed, curling back in a feline stretch so that he wanted to bite her neck. He tasted ripe apples.

  “I love you. I need you.” He wrapped an arm around her and laid her down. The surface was soft and cushion-like, but it appeared to be a bed of white leaves.

  Carlo did not question that her gown just fell away under his hands or that his pants and shirt were gone. He buried his face in her full breasts and suckled.

  Margaux wrapped her long legs around him, and her warm, wet curls pushed rhythmically against him.

  “Ah, Margaux…” He slid into her. He should take care since this was her first time. But she was flesh and blood, hot, moist, and giving, and here with him…

  Carlo couldn’t help himself. He rode her greedily, mindlessly; afraid she would disintegrate before his eyes as in his dreams. Until the hypnotic slap of flesh upon flesh, the satisfying friction of him inside her at last convinced him otherwise.

  “Mon cher.” Her breath was a warm puff of air against his chest, and her palms pushed him in further as her body convulsed around him.

  He lifted her hips and ground into her, watching her come. She had the most beautiful skin, warm vanilla flushed with pleasure. He was staring into her eyes when the release took him. He threw his head back and roared out his pleasure as he poured himself into her.

  He was still shuddering against her when she cupped his face in both hands and pulled him close.

  “We should have done this long ago, mon cher.” Her whisper stroked the right spot as they lay joined at the hips. They nipped lips, stroked thighs, chest and breasts, whispering nonsense words of love…

  Carlo woke to see her tiger’s eyes smiling down at him. She leaned up on an elbow and her hair fell across her breast, curling over it as his hand wanted to.

  “Will you stay with me?” He asked.

  Margaux traced a finger over his lips and he kissed it.

  “Then I will stay with you,” he insisted.

  She looked past him and he remembered where they were.

  Following her gaze, he saw nothing but white around them. The sphere was some type of room. It did not have walls and yet he could not see beyond the brightness. However, Margaux was staring at something beyond it. He’d never seen that particular expression on her face in life. In death, her rage was inciting, and heartbreaking.

  “You cannot stay with me.”

  He sat up. “Why not?”

  She came to her knees and her breasts danced as she took both of his hands in hers. “You must remember. You can save her.”

  “Save who? Rosa?” He shook his head. “I don’t want her. I never wanted her. I want…”

  Margaux’s mouth covered his. The way she slid her tongue in his mouth, she was determined to sooth the frustration out of him. At first, her kisses were angry and desperate. When they were both calm, she leaned her forehead against his.

  “The gypsy’s path is set. It is you who must take care, my love. And remember all. For us.”

  Unable to stop the rage from welling up inside him all over again—a year of sorrow and loss—he turned away. Margaux touched his cheek.

  “Why now? I would give my life to lie beside you in the grave, why do you come now with your farewell?”

  She did not answer. Their despair hung in the air and the light around them dimmed so that he could see shadowy outlines of trees beyond the sphere.

  When she spoke, her tone faded with the light. “We cannot escape destiny.”

  “But did you not see…” The truth was in her eyes as they filled with tears. He gathered her close. “You did not know what was going to happen. Oh, my love, I thought you knew and did not want to tell me.”


  Her shoulders shook against him and he buried his face in her hair. The pain was raw, as darkness eclipsed what light remained.

  After a while, she quieted and he rubbed his eyes.

  He would not leave her in anger, not when she had spent so much energy to be with him tonight.

  Why had she come on the eve of his arrival in Forlì? What made this night of longing for her so different from countless others?

  It was a nagging thought, but not one he would dwell on while she was with him.

  He had once heard a superstitious tale that the dead came to usher their loved ones home. Well, if that was the case, he would die tonight, to be with her.

  And if he lived? He’d felt her many times before at the palazzo, she would come to him again.

  He kissed her wet cheeks. “I dream of you,” he said, his voice shaking with hope.

  Margaux nodded, her giggle was more of a sob. “Oui, mon cher. I am with you. Always.” She pulled him down and the light shined around them once more, the bed of leaves glistening like snow atop the Apennine mountain peaks.

  Now that he’d had a taste of her, he was in control. He took his time with her, savoring her gently rounded hips and the honeyed curls beneath. He memorized every sigh of his name on her lips and finally, the way the soft hollow of her belly undulated beneath him.

  When she gripped his shoulders, he took her cries into his mouth. She was still coming when he tensed.

  Afterward, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled her on top of him. They did not speak, but stared into each other’s eyes until she kissed his eyelids, and they closed.

  Carlo knew she was leaving, knew there was something he needed to ask … she’d said he could save her … if not Rosa, then who?

  But he’d been bewitched, and as he drifted off to sleep again he sighed, knowing he would see Margaux again, when she could manage it, in his dreams.

  * * * *

  “Marchese Carlo!”

  Carlo opened his eyes to the green canopy overhead and then closed them. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he flexed his outstretched arms.

  “Marchese Carlo!” The voice was closer now, and distressed.

  Carlo sighed.

  He’d better get up before Umberto’s heart failed here in these solitary woods. He leaned up on his elbows. “Here,” he called.