“My lord, how could you say that? Now they'll be expecting a wedding!” she hissed, her eyes wide.
He knelt down in front of her. “Isabella, it's the only way. We have to get married.”
She withdrew her hands and shook her head violently. “You could have said we were already wed, like before.”
“No,” he said quietly. “That's not possible...and it's my fault. I should have realized.”
“Realized what?” she asked, slightly dizzy with confusion and anger.
“You're simply too recognizable here. And what you said about the locals—how they feel about your family—still holds true. The staff at the last inn didn't even let me explain that we were man and wife. Unfortunately, it's all too clear that the people who know and distrust your family still want to believe the worst of you. They won't accept that you're my wife unless they see us married with their own eyes. And...” He trailed off and looked down.
“And what?”
He reached for her again before stopping short. His head drew back. “I will not pretend that any of this is fair. I have already asked so much from you. But I've been thinking about how this is going to end. I know the chances of you finding a cure for me are very slim. And when this is over, when I'm gone, you are going to have a problem. Two problems really. Your reputation, and my father.”
She was starting to have some idea of what he was thinking, but the reality of what he was proposing was simply too much take in.
“Both of those problems would be solved by our union,” he continued. “It would not do for a man in my father's position to be seen mistreating his daughter-in-law. And you would have access to my fortune and the protection of my name.”
The way he was avoiding her eyes told her this wasn't just about what he was offering—it was also about what he wanted.
“But this marriage will be a real marriage, won't it?”
Matteo finally met her eyes, the emotion in them so intense she flinched. “Isabella,” he rasped, “in all likelihood, I have very little time left. If you fail, I will end this...this existence myself. I can't hurt another innocent. I refuse to be the devil's instrument.”
He fisted his hands and looked away “However...” she prompted.
With a heavy exhalation, he sat next to her. “However, if I can spend the rest of my days, be it weeks or months, as your husband then I will die in peace, having gleaned what little happiness I could from this damned life. I know it would be next to impossible for you to forgive me for what happened that night. I saw the marks I made and I know how you suffered. But if there's anyone who could understand that was not the real me, it's you.”
Isobel squeezed her eyes shut and gripped the cushion of the chaise lounge to steady herself. It felt like the world was spinning. A part of her wanted to absolve him, to ease the torment in his eyes, but she wasn't ready to do that yet.
“And...maybe there would be a child,” he said, taking her breath away. “A tiny bit of myself and of you that would get to start all over again and live this life better than I did. With you as its mother, there's no possibility he or she wouldn't be remarkable. You would raise our child with your purpose and strength—”
“Stop! Stop...” she said finally, holding up her hands. Dropping her head, she exhaled.
The air moved as he shifted closer to her. “I swear I’m going to spend all of my time loving and cherishing you for as long I can—anything to make sure you don’t regret marrying me, even for a short while. Whatever I can do for you, I will do.” He paused. “Isabella, mi amore, there isn't another choice.”
His voice sounded like it was coming from very far away.
Dizzily, she nodded. "I know," she whispered.
Chapter Sixteen
When Matteo revealed that his plans to marry Isobel were genuine, his father's thunderous expression could have stripped paint from the walls.
“Don't even think it,” Aldo glowered at him when he got him alone in his room to explain.
Matteo glared back. He'd given way to his father on a lot of things, but this wasn't going to be one of them.
“You will support me in this,” he said in a tone hard enough to make his father sit up in attention. “Isobel is my only chance for recovery, and I won't have her reputation destroyed because she was forced to help me.”
He sat back in the uncomfortable extra chair the inn had moved into his father's room so he would have a place to converse in private.
The count opened his mouth to argue with him again, but Matteo cut him off. “And there is a chance the closest I'll come to recovery is extending my time long enough to sire an heir.”
His father leaned back and considered his words before dismissing them with a wave of his hand. “You don't have to marry the witch. We'll take her and this library back to Santa Fiora. Bed her if you must, but you can marry one of the young ladies from home. Donneto's girl, perhaps.”
Neck rigid, Matteo shook his head resolutely.
The count leaned forward. “You were meant for better things and you will not disgrace your family now. She is beneath you,” he hissed.
The censure in his father’s voice would have been enough to make him retreat once, but that was before he’d been damned. He no longer had anything to lose.
“There could be no finer union for me than one with Isobel. She is gently bred with a fine education, or else Clarence would never have hired her. And while she does not possess a fortune, she does have something more important.”
“And what might that be?” his father asked sarcastically.
“Power,” he said honestly, playing his strongest card. “Even now, without her books and the knowledge in them, she has it. And if her family history holds true, then our child would have it.”
His father's face softened, his attention finally caught.
“I can imagine it now,” Matteo said enthusiastically. “Our son would know the things Isobel does—the ability to see evil in those around them. And he would be ready.”
The implication was clear. Isobel's child would grow up with the ability to defend him or herself against the forces of darkness, the same thing they'd found themselves completely unprepared for.
Matteo’s shoulders dropped, and he looked down at his hands. “Isobel is not just my salvation,” he whispered. “She's our salvation. For all the Garibaldis.”
It was the simple truth, one even his father could see.
Aldo sighed loudly. “Very well. I will support the marriage.”
Matteo waited until well after midnight before sneaking into Isobel's room. His father had consented to their marriage, and to the need to keep up appearances. He and Isobel could not share a chamber before the wedding, but the count feared Matteo's deterioration too much to allow him to sleep without her.
He crept in as quietly as he could. But it wasn't quietly enough. Isobel looked up from the window, startled, her eyes wide in the moonlight that filled the room. She was still dressed, with her bag at her side. One of her legs was slung over the windowsill.
He was too numb to feel the disappointment or the pain. He'd asked for too much.
She had every right to run away from him. Here in Carrbridge, she might even have a chance of permanently escaping his father. It was true the locals didn't favor her, but maybe they would take her side if she revealed the truth about him and what he had done.
At the very least, she knew this place. No doubt every path and hidden corner was as familiar as the back of her hand. She'd been prepared in Ford, had admitted to learning the paths in the woods and possible bolt-holes during her days off when he’d questioned her late one night. That would have been a lesson learned early.
“It's all right,” he whispered when she continued to stay there, frozen on the sill. “Go now.”
Across the room, Isobel hung her head and her shoulders shook as if with a silent sob. Before he knew it he was there, his arms around her. He pulled her back inside and she burrowed into his che
st, her arms squeezing him tight.
Her tears wet his shirt, but she made no noise. Matteo held onto her, slowly warmed by her breath filtering through the cloth of his shirt until she eventually pulled away.
Isobel turned back to the window and for a moment he thought she was going to go through it. He wouldn't stop her. Instead, she closed the pane, wiping her eyes on her sleeve as she faced him once more.
“The magistrate's name is Finchley,” she said hoarsely. "And he's not old. He was new to his post when I left and from what I remember is a rather vain man. He’ll probably be annoyed with me when he hears you said that. And he will hear of it. No doubt every word you said to the innkeeper has already spread over the entire village.”
“What?” he asked, confused.
It was hard to follow what she was saying because she’d begun to undress. She had opened the lacings of her gown and was pulling it down to reveal a snowy white chemise. Her eyes avoided his as she pulled off her boots and climbed into bed.
“Not to mention that it’s usually the minister that marries people in these parts,” she added, pulling the covers up to her chin.
He stared at her for a long moment, relief flooding his chest. “Unless he’s Catholic, my father won’t want him marrying us.”
Isobel shrugged. “Then the magistrate will have to do. Come to bed, Matteo,” she whispered gesturing to the empty space next to her with a tiny movement of her hand. “It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”
The joy he felt was making him stupid and slow. Mechanically, he took off his waistcoat and boots. He kept his breeches on and would sleep in his shirtsleeves. Shifting the bedclothes, he slipped underneath the coverlet next to Isobel, being careful not to touch her…until she reached out and took his hand, testing the top of it tentatively before pressing her palm to his.
Closing his eyes, he relaxed. His witch wasn’t going to leave him.
Chapter Seventeen
Isobel fingered the fine blue cloth of her new gown as the droning voice of the magistrate carried to her as if from a great distance.
Although the countrified style of the dress wouldn’t have satisfied the snobs in a London ballroom, she found it lovely—even though it did not fit quite right. It was an inch too long, and the bust was a little tight and fell too low. Although, judging from Matteo's expression when he saw her in it, that last detail didn’t bother him too much.
He had presented her with the gown early that morning with an apology. The dress was the best that could be gotten on short notice. Matteo had told the local seamstress that one of her trunks had been lost on the road, her wedding trousseau with it. Even if he didn't think the dress fashionable enough, Isobel had simply been grateful she wouldn't be married in black.
Speaking of which.
The droning had ceased. Raising her chin, she found the magistrate looking at her expectantly. On her left, Matteo shifted and gave her an encouraging nod. Parting her lips she murmured something, feeling wool-headed and slightly numb.
She didn't know what words actually came out of her mouth, but they must have been the right ones because Matteo relaxed and beamed at her. The rest of the service blurred. The long-winded sermon finally wound down, papers were signed, and congratulations flew.
The ceremony was followed by tea with the magistrate and various locals who had conveniently come to call that morning. The count was included in that number.
Isobel could have been knocked over with a feather. Aldo was doing a credible job of appearing pleased with the marriage. The obvious wealth betrayed by his wardrobe and his entertaining, though condescending, conversation was enough to awe the small villages’ inhabitants.
Being the cynosure of so many curious eyes was exhausting. She made polite, if stilted, conversation with the locals, wishing for nothing more than for all of them to disappear. Fortunately, both the Conte and Matteo were too focused on getting to her grandmother's books to suffer their company for long.
They excused themselves and, after making sure they were not followed, headed into the hills to the east. Isobel led them to the ruins of an old fortification where they were joined by the count’s servants.
The ruins were so old they didn’t have a name. The history of the place, who had lived here and what they did, were details lost to time. The site wasn’t as well known as the bridge for which the town was named. In truth, few people still visited the place, mainly because there was little left above ground.
Matteo had been impressed with the ruins, but she couldn't help but feel that his enthusiasm was a bit exaggerated. The few scattered stones and foundation remnants couldn’t possibly compare with the ancient sights of Rome or the artistic treasures of Florence and Venice.
Once they were sure there were no other visitors about, Isobel led them away from the ruins into the neighboring wood. There she located the hidden entrance to a long forgotten tunnel that led to the old dungeons and storage rooms underneath the keep. Her father had told her it was likely an escape route for the inhabitants, should the fortification have fallen under attack.
Picking her way carefully with the torches the servants Nino and Ottavio had brought, they walked deep into the ground. In a few steps the space opened up until the rough stone walls more closely resembled rooms and storage cubbies. Some parts had collapsed, the ground blocked by old masonry and stones.
“Is this place sound? Or will the ceiling fall down on our heads?” the Conte asked, giving the walls a dubious glance.
“It's been falling for hundreds of years,” she said honestly. “As long as we're careful, we should be fine.”
He shot her a frown before turning away.
Matteo walked forward. “Where do you think the trunks are?” he asked, glancing around him, his eyes bright and eager as he examined every fallen rock and pebble.
“Over here.”
She led them to the back wall, where a sizable amount of the ceiling had collapsed and partially blocked the entrance to one of the storage spaces. She pointed to the pile of rubble. “They're under here.”
Matteo examined the debris. Some of the pieces were quite large. “Very clever. How on earth did your grandmother move all of these heavy stones by herself?”
“She didn't,” Isobel whispered, as Matteo gestured for Nino and Ottavio to help him start shifting the stones. “It was my father.”
“Your father?” he asked, turning abruptly in her direction, a fistful of masonry falling out of his hand. “I thought you said he didn't approve of you studying magic.”
Sitting on one of the larger fallen stones, she nodded. “It's true, but only after what happened to my aunt. I told you he was open-minded. He was also a scholar, one who would rather cut his own arm off than destroy a book.” She nodded at the pile. “He brought the trunks in here, empty, and then filled them a few books at a time. Afterward, he showed me where they were, in case I was ever in a position to claim them. He did express a wish that I not do so unless I was living elsewhere. I was fourteen at the time.”
Matteo nodded, but was too busy to ask any more questions. Between the three men, they quickly uncovered the top of the first trunk.
“This is much larger than I thought it would be,” he said eventually. “We'll never be able to carry them out without being seen. I think we should go and fetch the carriage. There's a path leading to the ruins large enough for it, isn't there?”
Isobel nodded.
“Then we should be able to drive it close enough to carry them out of here one at a time.”
“You're going to put these filthy things in my carriage?” the Conte asked, his scowl fierce.
Matteo rolled his eyes. “Since we don't have the second carriage for the luggage, yes.”
The old man scowled. “Can't you go buy a farmer's cart?” he asked, exasperated.
“Not without announcing what were doing to the entire neighborhood.”
Aldo stopped complaining, but he glared at Isobel as if he blamed her fo
r the state of the trunks while Matteo gave a few quick instructions to the men in Italian. Then he turned to her and offered his arm.
“I will take you to the cottage and return with the coach.”
“What cottage?”
“We rented one for the week, until the weather improves. The innkeeper told me about it, suggesting that newlyweds need privacy,” he said with a sideways glance as he led her out of the tunnel. “My father will stay at the inn.”
He didn't have to tell her that the 'servants' would stay with them.
“We're staying a week? I suppose that might be enough,” she said absently. “But I've been thinking we shouldn't go far.”
His brow drew down as they stepped out of the tunnel into the fresh air. “What do you mean? I thought you'd be eager to depart, to leave the past behind.”
Though he wasn't wrong, Isobel had thought of an important reason to linger in the neighborhood. “A number of the healing spells and poultices in those books may require local herbs. There are some growing wild in these hills, though they'll be fewer of them now with the cold. Others might be going fallow in my grandmother's old garden. We need to gather as many of them as possible and their seeds. That might be important. There will be a few locals who keep their own stores. We should offer to buy as much as they're willing to spare. The plants in Italy would be different, unfamiliar. Some substitutions might work, but others may prove unpredictable.”
“I hadn't considered that,” he said softly. “If we managed to get seeds, we could grow them ourselves.”
“If we managed to get seeds. And they might not grow in a different climate.”
He laughed unexpectedly. “Isabella, everything grows in Italy.”
She frowned. “Do you want to wager your life on that?”
Matteo sobered. “I'll give it more thought.”
They walked in silence for several minutes. When they crested the hill, Isobel paused, looking at the familiar gabled farmhouse nestled in the rise of the hill opposite. Below it was a lovely little valley with its own stream. Sheep grazed in the green fields nearby.
Legends of the Damned: A Collection of Edgy Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels Page 97