When Matteo reached her side, she rounded on him. “If you're not going to be completely honest, there is nothing I can do for you!”
He looked embarrassed. “All right! My last lover was in Italy, what you would call a courtesan. Our relationship, such as it was, ran its course and she moved on to another protector. She was a woman of the world and was not very upset, not overmuch anyway. Not after she received my generous parting gift.”
She slowed her steps. “What about other relationships? Jealous rivals or husbands?”
He scowled. “I don't sleep with married women. Well, not anymore.”
She gave him a pointed glance and he sighed.
“When I was very young, maybe twenty or so, I did have a brief association with a married woman. But I soon learned that I was not her only lover, and I seriously doubt her husband knew about us. And if he did, I doubt he would have cared. He was conducting his own affairs. But, I didn't like that feeling of...”
“Cuckolding another man?” she supplied.
Matteo wrinkled his nose. “If you must, then yes. I steer clear of married women now. In any case, that was years ago.” He fidgeted with this coat buttons and was quiet for a minute. “Could this curse have come from an object, something I touched that was meant for someone else?”
Thinking he meant his father, Isobel had to concede the likelihood. “It is possible, but I have to believe whoever did this knew what they were doing. If someone else was their target, then I think they would have tried again.”
“Not necessarily," he protested. "We left home a few weeks after. Maybe they didn't get the chance.”
She mulled that over. It was possible he was correct, but her instinct niggled at her. She wanted to disagree, but had no reason to keep arguing as they made their way back to the inn.
When they entered the taproom, Isobel nearly lost her hard-won composure. The Conte had arrived.
Chapter Twelve
She was back in the private parlor, sitting as far from the count as she possibly could. They were alone. Sir Clarence had been left behind in Ford, a detail for which she was grateful. Isobel didn't think she could look at her former employer without screaming the place down. Or trying to claw his eyes out.
Matteo had gone to make arrangements with the innkeeper. They were renting the entire upper story. If other guests arrived seeking lodging for the night, they would have to look elsewhere. Even the empty rooms were rented to the Conte. Whatever the man had planned, he didn't want any witnesses.
Isobel sat ramrod straight. She wouldn't look at Aldo, but she could feel his eyes on her, weighing and assessing. Soon her anger overcame her fear.
She despised this man and his power over her. The fact that women in her position were so vulnerable to him and his like filled her with an acid hate.
Finally, he spoke. “You're what I came to England to find, you know. A witch powerful enough to lift the curse from my son.”
She met his eyes. They were so similar to Matteo's, a rich dark brown. But his son—when he was himself—had such warmth in his. On the Conte they were cold, not completely lifeless, but close.
More like Matteo's other self.
She responded with a question of her own. One she knew he wouldn't like. “He's like this because of you, isn't he? Because of something you did?”
She didn’t bother to use his title. Anyone who tried to kill her could be spoken to familiarly and without civility.
Aldo’s face hardened. “Is he all right now?” he asked, making an effort to keep his voice polite.
He failed completely. Isobel knew he didn't care for her. He thought her beneath him. The Conte only respected his peers and probably very few of them at that. To have to speak to a governess, to depend on one for his son's life, must have been difficult for him. He probably considered it an insult to his person.
“I already told Matteo no. He's still afflicted. And I don't know how to help him. Not without knowing how and why he was cursed.”
She wasn't about to admit that she didn't have the knowledge or the skill to cure his son. It had been on the tip of her tongue to tell him to find someone else, but she didn't want to give him any ideas. The Conte didn't value her life; she already knew that. Staying alive might mean making promises she couldn't keep.
Aldo glared down his nose at her. It was bigger than Matteo's, broader. There were other differences too. His son probably had more of his mother in him than the man would have wished.
“I don't know how this was done. I never even believed such a thing was possible until I saw Matteo change before my very eyes.”
“How, exactly?”
The Conte sighed, his eyes growing distant. “He was sick for a few days. I was very concerned. We consulted a physician, but he deteriorated so quickly. The doctor told me to prepare for the worst, but I couldn’t accept that. Some visitors had come to call. We were supposed to be hosting a house party that weekend. Instead, we turned them away, those that lived nearby. A few stayed.”
Isobel nodded.
Aldo looked down, his face older than it had been a moment before. “Matteo had stopped answering questions or responding when touched. He was so cold. I thought I was losing my only child. I watched over him from a chair next to him. But I fell asleep. When I woke, he was gone.”
“And then what happened?” she prompted when he stayed silent.
“I went looking for him. Instead, I encountered a maid running out of the study. One of my friends who lived too far to travel home was spending the night. Apparently, our guest had been having some fun with the girl in one of the parlors. When I went inside, this man was dead and Matteo was just sitting there staring blankly at the wall.”
Isobel made an effort to smooth her features. “He was raping her, wasn't he?”
Surprised, the Conte looked up. “No, Matteo has never forced any of them.”
This time she did frown. “I wasn't talking about him. I meant your friend. The one who was with the maid.”
The Conte scowled at her. “She wasn't even pretty. I doubt he had to force her. And she was just a servant. What does it signify? What matters was Matteo. He’d killed someone—a peer.”
She had to look down at the table to hide the cold rage that no doubt filled her eyes. Even cursed, Matteo had more regard for the poor maid than his father. Isobel didn't have any particular hatred of the aristocracy, but she did hate men like the count—men so filled with arrogance and disdain for those beneath them that they thought nothing of hurting the weak or turning a blind eye when others did.
The fact that it hadn’t even occurred to him to be angry at his friend for having ‘fun’ under the same roof as his supposedly dying son—well, that was beyond the pale.
Closing her eyes and breathing deeply, she focused on burying her feelings. They would do her no good now.
“You said Matteo never...forced himself on his victims,” she said, her throat tight.
“On the women? No, of course not.”
Liar.
“Then why did you take only women? Maids and others from the lower classes. You could have just as easily taken men. Criminals—men the world would be better off without,” she said, glaring at him.
The Conte gave her a cold look, examining her from head to toe before leaning back in his chair. “Sometimes we did. It wasn’t always possible. Are you going to help my son, or do I need to find another witch?”
Anger bubbled up, getting the better of her tongue. “If you can, I would advise you to do so,” she said between gritted teeth. “I can't do anything for him.”
“Can't or won't?” The menace in the Conte’s voice was clear, but Isobel refused to be cowed.
“You haven't told me anything that would be useful in finding a cure. No information on how or why he was cursed.”
“Because I don't know!” he yelled.
Isobel flinched in spite of herself before she took a deep breath. “Then tell me what you do know.”
His hands opened and closed. “What else is there?”
Isobel gripped the table. “How does he kill? You said he doesn't rape. You don't give him a weapon. Does he simply strangle the women?”
The Conte shook his head. “No. He barely touches them. They just die.”
Taken aback, Isobel's mouth fell open. “How exactly?”
He rolled his eyes. “When the malady returned, I found what my son needed and did as I did with you,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “It was the only thing that brought him back. But only for a short time—anywhere from a few days to a week. It used to be longer at the beginning. My servants alerted me to the strangeness of the bodies. They appeared pristine, completely untouched. So we watched a few times from a window or other vantage point.”
Isobel shuddered slightly. The thought of the Conte and his men observing Matteo and his victims like an experiment, watching a predator with his prey, sickened her. But the Conte didn't care what she thought. He simply continued.
“After a certain point, you have to stay away from him. He goes very still and cold. Then the next person he touches dies. Man or woman, it doesn't matter. All he has to do is touch them. He puts his hands on them, and they convulse and fall down dead. That's all.”
That's all.
Isobel had never heard of anything like this. And if he didn't rape any of his victims, what had he been about to do to her? He'd gone still and been icy cold, just as the Conte described, and he'd touched her. A lot, she thought pushing away her troubled memories of that night.
But she hadn't died.
“It's gotten more difficult,” the Conte continued, snapping her back to attention. “The space between his bad spells is growing shorter.”
“And so Matteo needs more victims,” she said softly.
“It's not him doing the killing. It's the thing inside him,” he said in a hard voice.
That much might be true. But it didn't explain Matteo's reaction that night. Not her! his voice echoed in her mind. She stifled the urge to cover her ears in an effort to drown out the memory.
The count’s mouth firmed. “Your night with him is the only one when he's returned to himself without a death. So you will stay with him, day and night. If you want to go free, it will be after you have found a cure. In the meantime, do everything you can to make him happy. My son has been burdened by this long enough. He obviously wants you, so you're going to be his solace. I won't have him begging me to end his life—not again! I don't care what you have to do, but you will make him want to live.”
He stopped then and rose to bang on the door. The smaller older servant, the one he called Nino, came in.
“Take her to my son,” he ordered.
She didn't fight. This was not the time. Nino held her securely by the arm and guided her to the stairs.
“I’m very sorry, signorina,” he whispered in English as they climbed.
Isobel gave him a sideways glance. Though small in stature, the man had once been handsome. But now he looked wasted and a bit tired, his face grey with deep grooves etched around his mouth. And he did appear genuinely contrite.
“Can you help me?” she asked quietly.
How exactly, she didn’t know. It wasn’t likely the count would let her go if his servant asked. But perhaps the man could convince Matteo.
Nino shrugged uncomfortably before looking around. “You should know…Ottavio always falls asleep during his watch. The second watch.”
Suppressing a sigh, Isobel looked away. What good would that do her if Matteo was in the same room with her? Sighing, she hung her head. It was good to know Nino had some semblance of a conscience, but he wouldn’t take any decisive steps to aid her.
She would have to help herself.
Chapter Thirteen
Matteo woke up with a start when Isobel was shoved past the door of his chamber.
It was warm inside, the peat fire still burning cheerfully in the hearth. The strangely satisfying smoked earth smell had lulled him to sleep. He had dozed off in his shirtsleeves on the bed, but when she came inside he rose and they stared at each other.
She stood there, her back against the door, trying so hard to look brave and composed when it was obvious she was terrified. He didn't blame her. She had no way of knowing when he would succumb to another bad spell.
“I'm sorry. I should have waited for you,” he said gesturing to a tray of food on a small table, a cold repast of game pie and vegetables he’d ordered in the hopes it would stay appetizing long enough for Isobel to finish her conference with his father.
Matteo had eaten his share distractedly earlier, and he regretted that now. He should have waited for her. As she looked at the tray, her stomach rumbled loudly and he smiled. She frowned. He stepped to the table to pour her a glass of watered-down wine before moving away, guessing she wouldn't want to come near him.
He sat on the bed, but her tension only increased.
And you know why, he thought, glancing down at the bed.
“I'll sleep on the floor,” he said. “You don't have to worry about that. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.”
“Then why can't I have my own room?”
He looked away, his hands opening and closing reflexively. “I'm sorry. I know you would be more comfortable in your own chamber, but my father feels it's safest if I'm with you. For all concerned. I didn't exactly have a say...”
It was the truth, but not the whole truth. Being close to her, even for a little while, was the only thing he had to look forward to in the difficult days to come.
Isobel wrapped her arms around her waist before walking to the table. She started to eat mechanically, eyes forward and distant. He sat in the corner, pretending to read a book while she finished. When she was done, he presented her with a package.
“I sent out for this. I wasn't sure you would have one with you,” he said, opening the brown wrapping and pushing it toward her. “That dress can't be comfortable to sleep in,” he added, nodding at the thick skirts of her widow's garb.
The gift was a nightgown, short-sleeved but modest with a high neckline, made of thick warm flannel.
“I also requested an extra blanket, so you can keep all the bedding to yourself,” he said as Isobel fingered the fine cloth of the nightgown.
“I had a nightgown in my bag. It was on the carriage.”
He nodded. “I'm sorry we misplaced your belongings. I have already sent word that it should be returned, and promised a sizable reward. It's possible it is already waiting downstairs. Would you like me to check with the innkeeper?”
Looking away again, she sat on the bed. “It can wait until tomorrow. This one will be warmer in any case.”
“All right then. I'll wait outside while you change,” he said, slipping out of the door and into the cold hallway to wait.
A door on his right opened, and Ottavio peered out at him with a frown. Matteo glared back at him.
Apparently, his father had ordered his minder to stay vigilant, despite having found Isobel. He stood in the hallway for a few more minutes before turning to tap on the door to let her know he was coming back inside.
Isobel undressed as quickly as she could. Fortunately, she'd had the foresight to buy stays and a dress with fastenings in the front, but the dress had many buttons.
She had just thrown the flannel nightgown on and was hastily climbing into the bed when there was a tap at the door and Matteo came back inside.
Embarrassed, she pulled the covers up to her chin, but the expression of dawning horror on his face stopped her.
“Your arms!” he rasped.
Isobel looked down at them, confused.
“What's wrong?” she asked stupidly, belatedly realizing the bruises on her arms were visible in the short-sleeved gown.
They were a dark black and blue, and quite startling against the pale cream of her skin.
“Did I do that? I did—didn’t I?” Matteo's confusion was palpable. He was shaking h
is head. “I don't understand.”
She stared at him, uncertain what to say. Eventually she took pity on him. “What don't you understand?”
“I don't do that!” he said, horrified. “I've never done that. I don't hurt them. They just die.”
Isobel narrowed her eyes at him. “Your father said that too. That all you have to do is touch a victim, and they fall down dead.”
He nodded emphatically. “That's what happens.”
She cocked her head at him. “How can you be sure? You've already said you don't remember the events during...one of your spells.”
Matteo collapsed in the chair and scrubbed his hands over his face harshly. “I told you. I've seen them after, once my memory clears. There wasn't a mark on them,” he whispered.
“And were they dressed?”
His face turned fiery red. “Yes, they were. Although at first they were brought in their nightclothes or in a state of undress. My father assumed I would want them that way. But it wasn't about that. Once he realized the truth, he never bothered again.” His voice sounded like sandpaper.
She pursed her lips and nodded, stifling the rush of anger she felt for those helpless men and women to focus on what he'd said. The details were consistent with the count's story. And while she believed his father would have lied to her, she didn't think Matteo would. He already believed the worst of himself.
“What you describe. The way things happen—it wasn't the same for me.”
“I hurt you.”
She nodded again.
“Badly?”
Gripping the covers tightly, she considered her answer carefully. “You hurt me some, but that was not your goal. You, or rather the thing inside you, wanted something else.”
He didn't say anything for a long time. “You've always been different,” he finally whispered, wiping at his face with a quick movement. Raising his head, his burning eyes met hers. “I'll make this right. I'll marry you.”
Isobel's mouth dropped open. She cleared her tight throat. “There is no need. You didn't succeed in dishonoring me. I stopped you.”
Legends of the Damned: A Collection of Edgy Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels Page 95