Devil's Embrace

by Catherine Coulter

  Caesare looked deep into her doe-brown eyes, and raised a surprised eyebrow at her audacity. Perhaps jealousy compelled her, but that did not, he discovered, overly distress him. He thought a moment, and frowned at her. “Even if what you say is true, what is to be done?”

  “The earl must not wed the little strumpet.” She gazed at him beneath arched brows. “Do you not want her, Caesare, perhaps just once? To keep the earl on a string, she must employ quite tempting skills in his bed.”

  Caesare remembered the desire Cassie had stirred in his loins. But when he spoke, his voice was harsh. “You expect me to seduce the girl away from my half-brother? Hardly likely.”

  “No, you could not seduce her, Caesare.”

  “I believe the Borgia’s habits are long out of practice.”

  “But there are other ways, are there not? Other ways that would never lead the earl to suspect his loyal half-brother.”

  Caesare felt a thrill of excitement, despite himself, and a tempering shaft of fear. “Yes,” he said slowly, “there are other ways. But it is dangerous, Giovanna, very dangerous.”

  “But you are such a resourceful man, my love.”

  He looked deep into her eyes, then turned and pulled on his discarded clothing.

  “It must remain our secret, Giovanna,” he said, once he was fully dressed.

  “Of course, caro. Our secret.”

  He leaned down and kissed her lightly on her soft mouth.

  “Do not stay away from me too long, Caesare,” she called after him.

  * * *

  Cassie shaded her eyes with her hand as she walked up the stairs to an upper terrace of the garden and gazed toward Genoa and the sparkling blue Mediterranean. She felt strangely lethargic, as if she were somehow drugged, her thoughts strewn about her unpredictably. She supposed it was the severe bout of illness she had suffered that morning. In all her eighteen years, she had never really known illness—save, she remembered ruefully, for the time when she was seven years old and had stuffed herself with Christmas sweets.

  She turned away from the spectacular view, knelt down, and pressed her nose against a full-blossomed red rose. The sweet fragrances that hung about the gardens like a perfumed mist would soon began to fade, as summer drew to a close. Most of all, she supposed, she would miss the vases of flowers that Rosina brought daily to her room. She straightened slowly, her eyes caught by Joseph, who was talking to Paolo in the lower garden. She loved to watch Joseph talk, for though his face rarely changed its placid expression, she could make out much of his conversation from his expressive gestures.

  But this afternoon, she found no interest in him. Indeed, nothing seemed to touch her. She wondered if she was becoming vaporish, like that ridiculous Lady Cumberland who seemed to produce a child every year, all the while lounging indolently upon a daybed, her vinaigrette in hand.

  Cassie turned away and began to walk briskly toward the vineyards. She drew up short at the sound of Joseph’s deep breathing behind her. Her lips tightened in quick anger, and she whirled about to face him. “Damn you, Joseph, leave me alone.”

  Joseph, startled by her outburst, stopped some paces from her to catch his breath.

  “Now, madonna,” he said gently, “you must not excite yourself. You would not wish any harm to yourself or to the babe you carry.”

  His soothing words had just the opposite effect upon her, and she yelled at him, brokenly, feverishly. “Has the earl not done enough? Must he still set you upon me, to report to him my every action? Is he not yet satisfied with his victory? Do I not carry his accursed child? Damn you and damn him.”

  She picked up her skirts, turned on her heel, and made for the lake. Joseph stared after her, aghast at the near-hysterical pitch in her voice. He came to a quick decision and quickly retraced his steps to the villa.

  Cassie heard his retreating footsteps and drew to a trembling halt. She wished she could wipe her mind clean of its terrible, jumbled thoughts, but she could not. The earl’s victory had been complete, she could not deny it. She had succumbed to him in less than three months, she who had sworn over and over that she would never wed him, no matter what he did. It was an accursed child that she carried, a child conceived of passion and hatred. And she had been so weak that within days of learning of it, she had bowed to his wishes, given herself and her future over to him. She dashed her hand over her forehead, in a futile effort to control the vicious bitterness, to stem her burgeoning despair.

  “Cassandra.”

  She whipped about to see the earl striding quickly toward her.

  Something broke within her at the sight of him, and she lunged forward, away from him, toward the lake, her own high-pitched laughter sounding in her ears.

  The earl heard that laugh and felt a cold knot of fear. For an agonizing moment, she was lost to his sight in the thick oleander trees. He tore through the trees, scarce aware that a low-lying branch rent the full sleeve of his shirt, gashing his arm. He saw her running full tilt toward the lake, her hair streaming loose down her back. Dear God, what could have happened?

  “Cassandra!” he yelled at her again. For an instant, she froze, poised like a startled animal, before continuing her headlong flight.

  She was but yards away from the water’s edge when he grabbed her about the waist and hauled her back. Her arms were flailing wildly and she kicked at him, in a terror-stricken rage he did not understand. He quickly pinioned her arms to her side and jerked her tightly against him.

  “Stop it, Cassandra. Leave go.” He shook her. She stared up at him, mutely, her pupils black in her eyes.

  She lashed out at him, beyond reason. “Damn you, let me go. I will not belong to you, do you hear? You will not bend me to your will, you and your accursed child. Don’t you understand? There are no palm trees, no vineyards, no olive groves in England . . . there are no prison guards.”

  He grit his teeth, drew back his hand, and slapped her. Her head snapped back with the force of his blow, and he slapped her again. She staggered against his arm and would have sprawled to the ground had he not held her.

  “There are no olive groves in England,” she whispered, her voice broken.

  For a moment he could feel the starkness of her fear like a living creature within her. She seemed as a child, violently torn from all that she knew, and she was carrying a child herself, his child. She was leaning against him, her forehead pressed against his chest, her arms hanging limply at her sides.

  “No, Cassie,” he said, stroking her hair, “there are no olive groves in England.” He held her close, his cheek resting lightly against her hair, and softly rubbed her shoulders.

  She was silent for many minutes. Finally, she straightened her head and gazed up at him, her eyes clear. “You have never before called me Cassie.”

  His fingers lightly touched her cheek as if he wished simply by touching her to clear the red splotches created by his own hand. “No, you are right. Just as there are no olive groves in England, I had believed there was not a Cassie in Italy, only a Cassandra.”

  He paused a moment, gazing out over the calm lake. When he finally spoke, Cassie could feel him struggling with himself, though his voice was calm, almost detached.

  “Much has happened, and very quickly. If you would prefer to wait some months before we wed, it is your decision.”

  She pulled slowly away from him and he let her go. “Why do you still have Joseph guarding me?”

  “He is no longer guarding you, cara. He is merely your companion, someone who cares about you and wishes to keep you from any harm. If his presence upsets you, then he will go.”

  She sighed and rubbed the palm of her hands against her still-burning cheeks. “No, I do not wish him to go.”

  “I am glad. If naught else, perhaps he will keep you from falling into the lake when you handle your sailboat clumsily.”

  His jest brought a slight smile to her lips and he allowed his muscles to relax. “And our wedding, Cassandra?”

 
; She gazed up at him, a faint flush covering her cheeks. “I have behaved badly, I think.” She faltered a moment, and then said straightly, “I do not want to be fat, and you know yourself, my lord, that nothing would change, even if we did wait.”

  He smiled, picturing her belly swollen with child. “No, nothing would change. That accursed child would continue to grow in happy ignorance inside you.”

  “He is not accursed.” She hugged her arms protectively around her stomach. Bright color suddenly stained her cheeks, for he had used the word she had flung at him. “That, I did not mean.”

  “But the rest you did.”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled down at her quizically and offered her his arm. “If the babe is going to make his mother fly into rampages, and scare the wits out of his father, then I fancy I shall have to become stern with him, this very evening.”

  “I am certain, my lord, that the babe already believes his father to be a monstrous man, bent upon disrupting his peaceful existence.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment, my dear. Now, Cassandra, if you wish to go back to the villa, I shall let Marcello tell you the response of the Dutch shipping representative.”

  She forced interest into her eyes. “You know, my lord? Do not tease me. Come, what is the answer?”

  He shook his dark head, delighting in the fact that she had regained her balance. “You must learn patience, madam, though I daresay that we shall, within a couple of years, recoup our losses.”

  She smiled and nodded her head. She lengthened her step to match his stride.

  The earl toweled off his body and quickly donned the undergarments and breeches Scargill handed to him.

  “I begin to believe it’s back in Scotland I am,” Scargill said, eyeing the rain-bloated clouds overhead and shivering in the unseasonably cool weather. “And ye, my lord, ye must still insist on yer exercise, even though the weather would make a Scotsman cover his kilts.” He looked out over the lake, and fancied that the water was as cold as were his fingers. He shook his head. The earl, as was his custom, had dived from the narrow wooden dock and swum to the opposite shore and back again with long, powerful strokes, enjoying the invigorating water and, Scargill thought, the strength of his own well-muscled body.

  “What are you muttering about, old man?” The earl had heard very little of what Scargill had said, his thoughts on his own sense of well-being after his arduous exercise, and on Cassandra. He was to be married in a week now, and although his friends had loudly and raucously bemoaned his demise as a bachelor, he had only laughed, enormously pleased with himself. After expending so much energy in the pursuit of the only woman he had long known would suit him, he could not imagine feeling any of the trepidation his friends seemed to expect.

  Early that morning, he had ordered their breakfast brought to their bedchamber. Cassandra had dutifully consumed a slice of dried toast, blanched, and bounded out of bed, forgetting her dressing gown in her rush to reach the basin. When she returned to their bed, her body trembling with cold, she eyed the remains of the rare sirloin on his plate and said, “It is not fair that you stuff yourself and I am the one who becomes ill. And I would that you stop grinning at me like an officious bore.”

  But his grin only widened. Thank God he no longer had a girl who exploded in unreasoning hysterics on his hands. All was back to normal, and he was immensely pleased to have his sharp-tongued vixen back again.

  “It’s coming on to rain, my lord, and I don’t like it one bit.”

  The earl turned his attention to the muttering Scargill as he shrugged into his waistcoat.

  “What displeases you now?”

  “The madonna riding out with Joseph on a day like this to have a picnic in the hills. She’s but being stubborn, and you, my lord, do not rein her in.”

  “The fresh air will do her good. Joseph will see to it that they return if it begins to rain, do not fret yourself.” He would have liked to accompany her himself, but The Cassandra had docked the previous afternoon and Mr. Donnetti expected him to discuss the trading he had done in Venice. He looked forward to inspecting the bolt of Venetian silk that he had ordered for Cassandra. It was calculated to bring out her woman’s vanity, if, he thought wryly, she was possessed of any.

  He did not bother with luncheon, but ordered Paolo to bring around his black stallion, Cicero, and left immediately for Genoa.

  Sordello was not quite sure why he drew back into the thick bushes that lined the dusty road at the sight of the on-coming horsemen, but even from a distance he knew them to be strangers, and strangers he did not trust. He quickly jerked in his fishing pole and crouched down. He felt his heart plummet to his shoes as they drew up not far from his hiding place.

  Their voices were low and muffled by their heavy great-coats. He really had no wish to hear their conversation, merely to remain hidden from their sight, but he heard one of the men say quite clearly, “I know this is their direction. Giacomo saw the Corsican ride out with the English girl not more than an hour ago.”

  The man, who evidently was Giacomo, grunted in assent. “And Il Signore left the villa in the opposite direction.”

  The man who had first spoken, the leader, Sordello supposed, for he was a huge, burly man, with a loud voice, said even more loudly, “Then it’s off we are, lads, if we are to be at Vannone’s hut by nightfall.”

  Sordello heard one man curse at the light drizzle that had begun to fall. His voice was consumed by the galloping horses’ hooves as they rode away. Sordello crawled quietly from his hiding place and watched the men ride up the snaking road that wound through the hills. He felt a quiver of fear. They were taking the same route as the madonna and Joseph had ridden earlier. His mind worked feverishly as he dusted off his trousers and clutched his fishing pole firmly to his side. He wasn’t at all sure what the man’s words meant, but the thought that they might hurt Joseph sent him hurtling over the high stone walls of the Villa Parese to search out Scargill.

  He breathlessly repeated to the Scotsman what he could remember and watched fearfully as Scargill’s ruddy face paled.

  “Ye heard nothing more, lad?”

  “No, signore. But they looked vicious and mean.”

  Scargill didn’t hesitate. Even if the boy had totally misunderstood what the men were about, he could not afford to take the chance.

  “Quickly, boy, tell Paolo and yer father to make themselves ready. I will fetch his lordship from Genoa.”

  Scargill never slackened his horse’s pace, but he began to feel nagging doubts by the time he reached the harbor and The Cassandra. He was beginning to feel indeed the fool when he stepped into the captain’s cabin. The earl and Mr. Donnetti were seated across from each other at the table. In the earl’s hands was a bolt of singularly beautiful silk.

  “My lord.”

  “Scargill! What the devil are you doing here?” He dropped the bolt of silk and rose to his feet.

  “I think there may be trouble, my lord.” He saw Mr. Donnetti’s hand move to the slender stiletto at his belt.

  “Very well, tell me what has happened.” The earl’s voice was controlled yet impatient, and it had the effect of making Scargill pour out Sordello’s story with scarce a pause.

  “That is all?”

  “The boy said there were four of them and they were a vicious-looking lot.” Scargill had done his duty, and waited for the earl to shrug and admonish him not to be an impressionable ass.

  The earl turned to Mr. Donnetti. “Francesco, hire horses and bring two of your best men to the villa. I will assure that there is someone there to guide you further. Scargill, you said they mentioned Vannone’s hut?”

  “Aye, my lord, the boy was certain about the name. Ye know the place?”

  “Yes, I believe I do. It’s an abandoned shack, supposedly haunted by a blackguard, Vannone, long dead. Francesco, it lies about seven miles into the hills, west of the villa, just off the main road. Make haste, my friend.”

  The earl tur
ned quickly and strode to his desk. Scargill saw him stare for a brief instant at one of the dueling pistols before he thrust them into his belt. It was the pistol the madonna had shot him with.

  Cassie pulled herself forward from her comfortable position against a tree trunk and squinted heavenward. “Oh dear,” she said, “I do believe the earl was right. I think a raindrop just fell on my nose.”

  “Si, and because you are headstrong, we are both in for a good soaking.”

  Cassie wrinkled her nose at him. “I suppose you will tell me now that you have not much enjoyed gorging yourself on the cold chicken and cheese. And the prospect is so beautiful. A little rain will not make us melt, Joseph.”

  Joseph rose unhurriedly to his feet and sniffed the air. “We will return now, madonna. If you will not take care of yourself, then I must.”

  “Very well.” She stretched her stiff legs and shook out her velvet riding skirt. “It has grown somewhat chilly, I will grant you that.”

  Joseph’s toes were feeling prickly with cold, but he curbed a sharp retort. Her perversity, he realized, was part of her charm, and like his master, he was not at all immune to it. He quickly packed up the basket and tossed Cassandra into her saddle.

  “The feather in your hat will be a wilted mess by the time we return,” he said, not without some satisfaction.

  Cassie touched her fingers to the fast drooping feather and laughed. “If it will bring you pleasure, my friend, then I will pray for the clouds to flood us.”

  He tried to frown at her, but failed. She was indeed a minx, he thought. It surprised him greatly that after some twenty-five years of silence, he had found himself telling her about his young wife, Maria, and their short year together on Corsica. A lifetime ago, yet when he was with the madonna, the happy memories stirred themselves into life.

  It began to rain in earnest, and Joseph motioned to Cassandra to quicken her mare’s pace. He imagined the earl would have his head as it was, for returning her to the villa in sodden clothing. He corrected himself quickly, for the master was rarely unfair. It was Joseph’s self-willed mistress who would receive a good trimming.