Devil's Embrace

by Catherine Coulter

  “I know, Scargill,” the earl said firmly, seeing shock beginning to cloud Scargill’s ruddy features. “Pay no attention to that scum. See to Joseph, quickly.”

  Scargill raised his head a few moments later, his eyes filled with impotent anger. “He’s bad, my lord.”

  The earl closed his eyes to blot out his fury. His voice rang out in the silence of the small room, harshly cold. “Send Paolo back to fetch a surgeon to the villa. You and Sordello’s father”—he could not seem to remember his head gardener’s name—“take Joseph back. I will see to Cassandra. As to him”—he jerked his head toward the dead man—“we will fetch him later.”

  When the earl turned back to Cassie, her eyes were closed.

  “Cassie!” he shouted at her. Her thick eyelashes fluttered open, and she looked at him, vaguely questioning.

  “I must take you home now.”

  Gently, he slipped his hand beneath her back. She moaned at his touch. His hand froze when he saw a dark bruise over her ribs, beneath her breast. He carefully eased his hand away. Although there was a dank chill inside the cabin, he felt beads of perspiration form on his forehead.

  “Cara, I am sorry, but I must hurt you.” He thought of the relentless miles back down the dark, winding road to the villa, and his hands shook.

  “I cannot hurt any more than I do now,” she whispered. She was wrong. Suddenly, the muscles in her belly drew taut as a bowstring, then contracted ferociously. She screamed, all vestige of control stripped from her. Her legs, as if from instinct, drew up, and her hands clutched wildly at her belly. She focused her eyes, deep pools of pain, dumbly upon the earl’s set face.

  “The babe,” she whispered, and then she was lost to him. He felt the fierce power of the contractions as he gently probed her belly beneath her clawing fingers. Her screams burned into his mind, and he felt completely helpless. There was nothing he could do to help her, or the child.

  Cassie was scarce aware that her body was being covered and that she was being carried. Dimly, she heard him speaking to her, but his words were meaningless sounds. She tried to bring up her legs, hoping to lessen the wrenching pain, but she could not. She struck at the arms that held her, clawing for her release. She became aware of a moaning, jagged scream, and understood vaguely that it came from her mouth. It was odd, she thought, dazed by a sudden absence of pain, that she had screamed so. She never screamed. She tasted blood and salty tears. Then she tasted nothing.

  The earl felt a great shudder go through her body. Her head lolled against the crook of his arm, and he tightened his grip on her. He quickened his stallion’s pace, thankful for the sliver of moon that shined weakly, lighting the road. His lips moved, and it shook him to discover that he was praying.

  Chapter 18

  The front gates of the Villa Parese were flung wide. Myriad candles lit the windows of the villa and splashed their light onto the courtyard. The earl flung Marco his stallion’s reins and carefully dismounted, holding Cassie tightly against his chest.

  “Joseph?” he said sharply.

  “The surgeon has just arrived, my lord.”

  He saw Marrina standing at the foot of the staircase.

  “Send me Rosina.” He shifted Cassie in his arms, and realized the cloak in which he had wrapped her was soaked through, sticky and wet. He stared down at his hand and saw it was smeared with blood, Cassie’s blood.

  He shouted over his shoulder, “I must have hot water, and strips of linen,” and took the stairs two at a time.

  Bright scarlet blood covered her thighs. He pressed towels against her to stem the flow, and gently lifted her hips to place more towels beneath her. They were quickly speckled with vivid red. His hands trembled, and he forced himself to draw a deep, steadying breath.

  “La signorina lost the child?”

  “Si,” he said shortly, briefly turning to the white-faced Rosina. He waved his hand at the blood-sodden cloak on the floor. “Take it and burn it.”

  Rosina looked at the cloak and felt dizzying bile rise in her throat. She closed her eyes, blindly gathered up the soaked cloak, wrapped it in towels, and fled the bedchamber.

  Cassie moaned, and his hands grew still. Her head turned slightly on the pillow, and she was again silent. He was not certain what was holding her from consciousness, her pain or her terror of what had happened to her.

  The door opened and quietly closed. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rosina’s black skirt swishing as she ran to the foot of the bed.

  A deep, raging curse broke from his mouth. He had bathed off most of the blood and saw that her woman’s flesh lay jagged and open. The filthy swine had ripped her. He thanked God she was still unconscious. “Fetch me a needle, Rosina, she must be stitched. And brandy,” he added sharply. He needed it both to cleanse the needle, and for himself.

  “I need your help, Rosina,” he said once he had cleaned the needle and threaded it.

  “Dammit, now. You must hold her legs.”

  But Rosina did not move. She saw her mistress’s torn body, and the blood, and fainted quietly away, falling onto the floor in a noiseless heap.

  The earl cursed and strode to the door. When he reached the landing, he bellowed, “Scargill!”

  He returned to the bedchamber, stepped over Rosina’s inert body, and peered anxiously into Cassie’s face. “Please, Cassie,” he said, “don’t awaken now.”

  Scargill took in the situation at a glance. Weak-stomached wench, he thought, glancing cursorily at Rosina.

  “What do you need me to do, my lord?”

  “Those animals ripped her open. Quickly, Scargill, I would spare her this pain.”

  Scargill held her legs while the earl worked quickly and efficiently, until he had set four stitches. He laid the needle upon the night table and slowly straightened.

  Scargill had himself sewn up many wounds, gaping tears from saber slashes, but none of them had left him so shaken. The madonna was so slight, her pink woman’s flesh so soft and delicate. He closed his eyes but could not escape the image of faceless men ravishing her so brutally.

  “Thank you, Scargill,” the earl said quietly. He saw the murderous look in Scargill’s eyes and said to him in a voice so low that Scargill could scarce make out his words, “I will find them, you may be assured of that. One of them is already dead, and I am fairly certain that I wounded another.”

  Scargill nodded numbly.

  As the earl carefully placed strips of clean linen against her, he asked, “Will Joseph live?”

  “The surgeon is digging the ball out of his chest. He is not a young man, my lord, and he also has a terrible gash on his head.” Scargill paused a moment to regain control over his shaking voice. “If he regains consciousness, my lord, perhaps he can tell us who did this.”

  The earl straightened over Cassie. “I will be down to see him as soon as I can leave her safely. Send one of the men to fetch the dead man from Vannone’s hut, Scargill. It’s possible there may be something to identify him.” He pointed to Rosina’s motionless form. “Please remove her. Marrina can bring her back to her senses.”

  The earl washed the blood from his hands and sat down on the bed beside her. With infinite care, he traced the line of her jaw, and gently probed her head. Methodically, he pressed his hands over her body from her bruised breasts, still slightly swollen from her pregnancy, to the bruise over her ribs, larger and darker than it was at the hut.

  Cassie opened her eyes unwillingly, and saw the earl bent over her belly, his large hands pressing her lightly. She waited for the tearing pain in her belly to consume her again, but it did not come. For an instant, she felt whole, until her mind communicated to her that there was still pain to be endured, throbbing pain between her thighs and a sharp pressure, like a vise, closing about her chest. She closed her eyes tightly and pressed her head down against the pillow to keep from crying out.

  She felt his hand upon her cheek.

  “Cassandra.”

  She drew a jagged bre
ath against the pain and opened her eyes to him. For an instant, she was back in the hut, flung upon her back, and the men were digging their fingers into her, savaging her.

  “Cassandra,” his voice cut through the horror, and she fastened her eyes upon his face.

  “Where am I?”

  “You are at home, Cassie, safe with me. I know your pain is great, love. I will give you some laudanum.”

  Laudanum. Her mind held fast to the word. It would make her forget, hide her away from her body, from the pain. He lifted her gently, and she avidly gulped down the liquid.

  She lay very quietly, waiting for oblivion. Slowly, the pain began to separate itself from her, as if it were outside her, someone else’s pain. She stared at him above her before she slipped into sleep, curious at how his dark face could be set into almost impassive lines, but his eyes black with rage.

  The earl wrapped wide strips of linen about her chest and covered her. He quickly bathed and changed his bloodstained clothes. He gazed down at her one last time, thankful that the laudanum would keep her in sleep for many hours, and pulled himself away.

  When he entered the guest chamber where they had taken Joseph, the men around the bed did not for a moment notice his presence. The surgeon, Signore Bissone, a slight, balding little man, his shoulders bent by his sixty years, was wrapping thick white bandages about Joseph’s chest.

  “Well?”

  Scargill turned quickly at the sound of his master’s unnaturally harsh voice.

  “He will live, my lord, he has told us so himself.” A faint smile broke the tight lines about Scargill’s mouth.

  Signore Bissone slowly straightened and looked thoughtfully at the earl. “I have removed the ball from his chest, my lord, but I must be frank with you. The wound is deep, and I fear the fever. As for the blow on his head, that will not kill him.” He shrugged. “It’s a tough old man he is, my lord.”

  Joseph’s eyelids flickered open as the earl approached him.

  “I am glad you are such a resilient old bird, my friend,” the earl said, and tightly gripped Joseph’s hand. Joseph’s gnarled fingers moved slightly within his grasp.

  “The madonna?” Joseph’s normally deep voice was breathless.

  “That is all I hear from either of you. How is the other doing? She will recover, Joseph, I swear it.”

  “They hurt her so badly,” Joseph mumbled, trying desperately to keep his wits focused. “I am sorry, my lord. I have failed you.”

  “Don’t be a fool, you old pirate. You have very nearly sent your soul to heaven trying to save her.”

  Scargill said from beside the earl, “Joseph said there were four of them, my lord, masked to their eyes.”

  “Si. Though I could not see their animal faces, I know three of their names.” Joseph felt the earl’s fingers clutch at his hand. “Their leader, a huge man, was called Andrea. Giacomo and Giulio are slighter men, but as vicious as that bull, Andrea.”

  “I killed one of them,” the earl said, “and wounded another. We shall soon know who they were.”

  Joseph smiled painfully. “The madonna could tell you nothing?”

  “Not as yet, Joseph.”

  Signore Bissone interrupted them. “’Tis rest he needs, my lord. Does the signorina need my attention?”

  Before the earl could reply, Joseph said, “She fought them, my lord, fought them with all her strength and spirit.” He added, not realizing that his words would tear at his master’s heart, “They wanted me to watch, but even two of them weren’t enough to hold her down. That is when Andrea ordered the blow on the head. Did they hurt her badly, my lord?”

  “Si.” The earl’s teeth were gritted, and his temples pounded with blood. He felt Scargill’s hand shaking his sleeve. He forced his voice to calm. “You must rest now, Joseph, and regain your strength.”

  Signore Bissone finished his examination, wiped his hands, and turned to the earl. “You have much skill, my lord. I could not have set better stitches myself. As for the ribs, they are perhaps cracked, but not broken.”

  “Her miscarriage?”

  “She is very young, my lord, and possessed of a healthy body. You will have as many children as pleases you.” He peered closely at the bruises on her belly and her pelvis, and shook his head. They lived in a violent time, and he had seen many women raped, but still the cruelty shook him.

  “You will remain at the Villa Parese as my guest, signore?”

  “Si, my lord. Both the signorina and Joseph will need my attention for some time to come. Allow me to write a note to my wife.”

  The bedchamber door suddenly burst open, and a panting Scargill flung into the room, his eyes bright with excitement.

  Signore Bissone made haste to cover the young girl.

  “It’s Francesco, my lord. He and his men have caught one of them.”

  Signore Bissone felt a shiver of fear down his spine at the look on the earl’s face. His mouth, grim until this moment, curved into an awful smile, and his dark eyes glittered.

  “Do we know which of the swine he is?”

  “Not as yet, my lord. But it cannot be that bull, Andrea. This one is slight of build, and he is wounded, in the thigh.”

  “Take him into the library,” the earl said softly, “I shall join you presently.”

  The earl walked noiselessly through the open library doors. Scargill, Francesco, his two men, and their captive stood before him. He was dressed in dirty clothes, damp from the rain, his back to the earl.

  The earl paused a moment, then said, “Giacomo?”

  The man whirled about. His ill-shaven mouth gaped open, and his dark eyes held fear. He was perhaps thirty, but no more. Crusted blood flattened his breeches to his thigh.

  “Welcome to the Villa Parese, Giacomo,” the earl continued, his eyes resting placidly on the man’s face.

  “I don’t know why your ruffians have dragged me here,” Giacomo said, but his eyes were watchful.

  Mr. Donnetti said sharply, “He fell off his horse, my lord, not far from Vannone’s hut. And we found this.” He drew a black mask from the pocket of his cloak.

  “Ah. You were perhaps on your way to a masquerade ball, my friend?” He walked slowly to his desk, leaned against it, and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Si, my lord,” Giacomo said quickly. “’Twas a party my sister gave last night. I still carried the mask.”

  “Sister, Giacomo? Do allow me to doubt your word, my friend. A creature such as yourself would have no sister. Indeed, I seriously wonder if you know who your parents are.”

  Giacomo sucked in his breath and backed away. The earl nodded to Francesco. His two men grabbed Giacomo, and he cried out as his arms were twisted roughly behind his back.

  “Gently, do not hurt our guest. Can you not see that he has hurt his leg? Very careless of you, Giacomo. Do tell us what you were doing this afternoon and evening,” the earl continued conversationally, “we are very curious.”

  “Nothing. I was riding to Genoa when these fiends grabbed me. As to my wound, I shot myself accidentally while cleaning my pistol.”

  “I see. Innocence shines from your eyes, Giacomo.”

  “He’s a lying swine,” Mr. Donnetti said. The earl frowned at him, and he held his tongue.

  The earl picked up a gleaming stiletto from his desk top, and glided his fingers gracefully along its razor edge. Without warning, he stepped forward and slashed it twice cleanly through Giacomo’s shirt from his neck to his waist.

  Giacomo cried out, more in shock than in pain. He watched his shirt fall open and saw a long, bloody X carved on his chest.

  “I have done nothing!” Giacomo stopped struggling, for he felt the muzzle of a pistol pointed in his back.

  “Tell me, Giacomo,” the earl asked thoughtfully, “how many of you did it require to hold her down?”

  Giacomo licked his lips. He was afraid of this man, very afraid.

  “How many?” the earl said again.

  Giacomo stared
at the stiletto, its tip red with his blood.

  “Three,” he said. He could taste death. There was no hope for him.

  “You mean that three of you held her down while the fourth raped her.”

  He nodded, mute.

  “Who was the man I killed?”

  “Giulio,” he whispered.

  “And Andrea, your leader, he was the one who tore her apart?”

  Giacomo was suddenly confused. He shook his head, and words rushed from his mouth. “Tore her? Giulio must have done that. She was too slippery, so he took her from behind.”

  Oh my God, Scargill thought wildly, as his master’s face went white. He would plunge the stiletto in the man’s miserable heart. He held his breath, waiting for the blow to fall. But the earl’s long fingers merely caressed the blade.

  “Take off his clothes.”

  For a moment, Mr. Donnetti stared uncomprehendingly at his master.

  “Now,” the earl said more sharply. “I wish to see this marvelous specimen.”

  Giacomo struggled, but within moments he stood naked, his breeches in a dirty pile about his feet.

  The earl looked him up and down, and Giacomo felt himself tremble.

  “How very odd,” the earl finally remarked. “You have blood on your member. Do you not think that strange, Francesco?”

  “Si, my lord,” Mr. Donnetti croaked, his eyes falling to Giacomo’s limp penis.

  “And the tattoo on your arm, Giacomo. A serpent twined about a sword. Your rotting friend in my stable has the same mark. Your career as a bravi has been successful?”

  A hired assassin, Scargill thought, his wits jolted by the knowledge.

  Giacomo did not answer.

  “I will ask you only once to tell me who paid you and your three companions.”

  Giacomo was doomed, he knew it. He had been a bravi for five years and knew he would die horribly by another bravi’s hand if he broke their unwritten code. And only Andrea knew the name of the man who had hired them. He licked his dry lips, and prepared himself. To die because he had fallen off his horse, faint from the wound in his thigh. It was a twist of fate that brought him no amusement.