Devil's Embrace

by Catherine Coulter

  “The shock was too much for her, Antonio?”

  The earl looked at Caesare, who was peering with concern into Cassie’s pale face.

  “Perhaps. She heard one of the men who abducted her. If you will, Caesare, walk about and see if there is any man that looks suspicious to you. It would give me great pleasure to kill another one of the bastards on the day of Joseph’s funeral.”

  Cassie felt a swaying motion beneath her when she awoke, and tried to pull her body upright.

  “Hold still, cara.” The earl’s strong arms tightened about her. In the next moment, she was feeling inordinately foolish.

  “Oh, it is the carriage.”

  “Yes. We shall soon be back to the villa.” His soothing tone gave way to an amused one. “I had no idea that you were the kind of woman who succumbs to the vapors.”

  “I am hungry, and it is unkind of you to tease me.”

  The earl hugged her against his chest, and allowed himself to become serious. “What did the man say precisely, Cassandra?”

  She shuddered. “‘May he rot in hell.’ Almost the same words he said that night. I could not tell which of the men it was, and the words were so quietly spoken—with such pleasure.”

  “Then it was the fifth man you heard.”

  She nodded her head against his shoulder.

  “Francesco and his men are scouring the area, Cassandra. I will question whomever they bring to me.”

  “I think even if you find him, he is too smart to give himself away.”

  “We will see.”

  They were silent for some moments. “You know,” she said finally, “I do not think that Joseph would have particularly cared for that priest. He was terribly filled with his own importance, and so fat.”

  The earl’s chest shook briefly with laughter.

  “Yes,” he said soberly, “you are quite right.”

  Chapter 20

  Cassie peeled an orange and chewed thoughtfully on the succulent fruit. “It is odd, my lord,” she said, “to be eating fresh fruit in autumn.”

  “I know,” the earl said with a quick smile. “There are few fresh oranges in England in the fall. My name is Anthony, you know,” he added.

  “Yes, I know. It is just that you are more often a lord or lordship to me.”

  “Am I so remote then? It is not my intention to be.”

  She smiled and shook her head at him. “No, you are not in the least remote.”

  Indeed, she thought, in the past three weeks he had been unflaggingly kind and solicitous to her. He still teased her companionably, and berated her if he thought she was over-taxing herself, but he asked nothing of her save her company. He made it easy for her to be content simply to be with him, to allow him to care for her and keep the outside world at bay. He seemed to sense her desire not to confront anything for the present, what had happened to her or the future, but merely to exist and to mend in the comfort he provided for her.

  The earl sat back in his chair, chewing on a roasted chestnut, and looked at her. They had spent the afternoon aboard her sailboat, and the trout they had enjoyed for dinner were Cassie’s catch. It had brought a mischievous smile to her lips that he had caught but one small trout, a fish unworthy of the great earl’s dinner, and she had teased him. Although she was still too thin, the outing had added color to her cheeks. And her eyes were sparkling at him more frequently, the haunted look they had worn slowly fading. Her nightmare had come to her but once in the last week, and although she had trembled violently in his arms, her fear had not held her long in its sway. He watched her savor a final slice of orange and sit back in her chair with a contented sigh.

  “If you will wipe your hands, Cassandra,” he said, “I will let you try your skill against mine in another pastime besides fishing.”

  She looked up, quirking an arched brow at him. She cleaned the sticky orange from her fingers as she spoke. “Another joust, my lord? Surely you have no desire to be brought low twice in one day.”

  “The lady grows cocky. We shall soon see if your luck is still with you.”

  “Luck, ha! Come, my lord, what have you in mind?”

  He tossed his napkin on the table. “If you would join me upstairs, madam, you shall see.” He helped her rise, careful of her still bruised ribs, and escorted her to their bedchamber.

  A small fire he had had prepared burned in the grate, casting wispy shadows on the white stucco walls. The earl helped Cassie into a chair before the fire and handed her a soft wool shawl, already warmed by the flames.

  “You make me feel like an old invalid, decrepit and useless.”

  “At least you are a warm old invalid,” he said lightly. “Now, Cassandra, close your eyes, and promise me that you’ll not look.”

  “I promise,” she said, a sparkle of excitement in her voice.

  He placed a long wooden box in her hands. Before she opened her eyes, she ran her fingers lightly over the intricate carving and gently caressed the cool marble inlay. He remembered her suddenly as a child, trembling with excitement as her small fingers tried to rip open a gift he had brought her from Turkey—tiny bronze bells strung together on a gold chain. He had laughingly told her to enjoy her present before demolishing it.

  “Oh!”

  He grinned at the stunned look on her face.

  Cassie closed her fingers about an ivory knight and slowly drew it from its bed of purple velvet. “It is identical,” she breathed. The cool feel of the ivory chess pieces brought a catch to her throat. “It is just like the chess set you gave me for my fourteenth birthday.”

  “Yes, the same craftsman made it for you. I wished to see if you ever managed to gain any skill in the game.”

  She remembered his long ago having patiently shown her the opening position and the lawful moves of the pieces. “It is most kind of you, my lord,” she said finally.

  “Anthony.”

  “Yes—Anthony.”

  His fingers touched hers for an instant as he took the knight from her and set it upon the chess board. “It has been a long time since I’ve had an opponent worthy of my attention. Let us see if you play chess as well as you catch trout.”

  She gave him a slow, wide smile. “Prepare yourself, my lord, to be destroyed.”

  She moved her white king’s pawn forward two spaces, and he quickly moved the black pawn to face it. He glanced at her as the game progressed, pleased to see her lips pursed in concentration, and her eyes bright with burgeoning strategies. He was pleasantly surprised at her skill. He toyed briefly with the idea of letting her beat him, and dismissed it. She would guess, and he imagined that such a victory would bring her no pleasure.

  “Beware my black bishop, Cassandra.”

  She frowned and saw that her queen, if not moved to safety, would be pinned to her king. She quickly interposed her queen’s bishop and sat back with a satisfied smile. “And you, my lord, should beware my rook.”

  Several minutes later, the earl’s fingers poised over his queen. He moved her slowly into position and raised his head. “Checkmate, my dear.”

  “Drat,” Cassie said, frowning at her defeated king. “I do not suppose I can claim you had the greater luck?”

  “You can, but it would only serve to make me feel all the more superior.”

  “Wretched man. Very well, I grant you this game.” She looked at him from beneath her lashes. “I choose to believe that you have bested me only because you have had so many more years of practice.”

  “You do not consider it likely that I am simply the more intelligent?”

  The gleam of mischief in his dark eyes robbed his words of any insult, and she succumbed to a giggle. “Must you always have the last word, my lord? It is too bad of you.” She drew up, her eyes drawn to his. His gaze was dark with tenderness, and she gulped.

  “Another game, my lord?”

  He obliged her.

  Cassie eyed the swaying palm trees with disgust. “It is autumn,” she muttered darkly. “You are supposed
to lose all those ridiculous leaves.”

  The earl stood quietly on the balcony of their bedchamber and watched Cassie walking about the gardens. She had returned but minutes before from the Parese vineyards, her interest, he knew, not in the science of the grape, but rather in Liepolo, his master winemaker, and his gaggle of children. Particularly Alvise, a naughty three-year-old, whose pranks brought rosy color to her cheeks and a ready laugh to her lips. He silently blessed Liepolo for being the sire of such a large family.

  The earl walked back downstairs to his library. He kicked the dying embers in the fireplace with the toe of his boot and stared thoughtfully at the orange sparks that flew upward into the flu. A month had passed since Cassie’s rape and Joseph’s death. A month, and he was still no closer to finding Andrea and the fourth man. Without them, it was unlikely that he would ever discover who had paid them.

  At least Cassandra was physically healthy again. Since he had not approached her sexually, he could only guess that the bruises were gone from her body. He had had to buy her more nightgowns, for she cringed at the thought of his seeing her naked. She had allowed him but once to touch her, some ten day after her rape. Since she adamantly refused to allow Signore Bissone to examine her, it was the earl who had removed her stitches.

  The day they were to be married was weeks past, and he had said nothing to her about it. He was content to wait.

  He sat at his desk and opened an account ledger. He concentrated for some minutes on the columns of numbers, then flipped the ledger closed with a grunt of disgust at his wayward attention, rose and walked to the gardens. He wanted to be with Cassandra, to see her laugh, perhaps.

  The earl raised his body from the copper bathtub and shook himself, somewhat in the manner of a wet mongrel. He wrapped a towel about his waist and strolled into the bedchamber, only to draw up short at the sound of Rosina gasping at him. Rosina stood behind Cassie with a brush in her hand, her face a vivid shade of red. Cassie sat comfortably in front of her dressing table, consuming an orange. “You may go to bed now, Rosina,” Cassie said in an amused voice.

  When he heard the bedchamber door close upon the maid, he walked forward to stand behind Cassie. She was covered in a thick blue velvet dressing gown. Beneath it, he knew, was a nightgown. “You know, cara, I have been thinking.”

  “It is a marvelous process, my lord, and I am most pleased that you have finally been granted the privilege.”

  He grinned, wrapped a thick tress of hair about his fingers, and pulled. She yelped and turned on him. “If you cannot use your wits, my lord, may I suggest—” She stopped in mid-sentence. The earl looked at her quizzically and saw that she was staring at him pointedly in the mirror. His knot was working itself loose and the towel had pulled open.

  “You were speaking about wits, my lady?”

  Cassie lowered her eyes, aware of a surge of feeling that left her cheeks a rosy red. She wasn’t certain whether or not she wanted to ignore his nakedness. “You were saying, my lord, that you had been thinking,” she said finally, trying to disregard him as he eased his body into an immodest pose into a leather chair near her.

  “Well, actually, I have been waiting for you to tell me, cara, that fall in Italy is simply not as it is in England. No clouds bloated with rain and no frigid winds.”

  She hunched her shoulder at him, resolutely keeping her unruly eyes upon her fingernails. “I am convinced that you have the fires lit only out of English habit.”

  “You are probably right,” he said. In truth, he had wanted to ask her if she would enjoy a trip to Paris, perhaps in the spring, but all thought had fled upon her reaction to seeing him naked. He walked quickly to the great bed and climbed in between the covers, for his member was swelled with desire. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her.

  He watched her finish brushing her hair, wondering what she was thinking. At last she rose, shrugged off her dressing gown and slipped into bed.

  A single candle sent its spiraling flame toward the ceiling, bathing them in a soft glow of light. He gazed at her for many moments before moving toward her. Her eyes were closed and her golden hair spread out upon the pillow, framing her face.

  “There is no reason for the nightgown, Cassandra,” he said finally, gently stroking her halo of hair. “I believe we have both grown quite tired of it.”

  Cassie opened her eyes slowly and looked up at him, a mute question in her eyes. “I am not certain what you mean, my lord.”

  He balanced himself on one elbow and let his fingers lightly trace the contours of her face. “Perhaps we can reach a compromise about your nightgown.”

  “Compromise?” She felt the warmth of his breath on her face, and then the light touch of his mouth upon hers, undemanding. His fingers stroked her throat, and then closed over the ribbons on her nightgown. She grasped his fingers, staying his hand.

  “Trust me not to hurt you, cara.”

  She stared up at him, her eyes almost black in the dim-lit room. Slowly, she pulled away her hand from his, and he pulled apart the ribbons.

  Cassie sucked in her breath as he gently bared her breasts. She closed her eyes at the shiver of pleasure that coursed through her when his mouth closed over her. “Your compromise, my lord,” she whispered.

  “How can I discuss it with you, cara, if you will not look at me?”

  Her eyes flew open, wide with confusion, and he drew back his hand from her breast, afraid that he was moving too quickly with her. He forced lightness into his voice, and tweaked the tip of her nose.

  “My compromise, dear one, is that we give your nightgown a place of honor at the foot of the bed.”

  The thought of being held naked against him after so many weeks was delicious, and she nodded mutely. She wanted him to enfold her with his strength and tenderness, to make her part of him. He laughingly folded her nightgown, and hurled it across the room. She lay naked beside him and felt his hand again caressing her breast. “It has been such a long time, cara.”

  “I know.”

  He grinned, and moved his fingers slowly over her belly. His expressive dark eyes became clouded, and she knew what he must be thinking. Her belly would have been rounded by now, if she had not lost the child. But she was flat, her body empty. She remembered the terrible pain of that night and shuddered involuntarily.

  He felt her tremble and stayed his hand. “Are you afraid, Cassandra?”

  “A little. When I remember the hurt, I cannot seem to help myself.”

  “I know, I feel the same way. Even though it has been many weeks now, that night still comes to me and I am terribly afraid.”

  “You, afraid?” She looked at him, surprised. “I have never thought of you being afraid of anything.”

  “I would be a fool were I not. Is that what you think of me, madam?”

  “Oh no, ’tis just then when I think I know you, you say something that I do not expect.”

  He smiled at her and felt the tension pass from her body. He let his fingers lightly caress her belly again, and rained gentle kisses on her nose, her chin, and her mouth. He pulled her tightly against him, savoring the feel of her.

  “I have missed you much, cara.”

  “And I you, my lord.” She slipped her arms about his back and pressed her cheek into the hollow of his throat. She felt him pressing against her belly and closed her hand around him.

  When he could bear her touch no longer, he eased her on her back and grasped her buttocks urgently in his large hands.

  The dim candlelight blurred his features, and his heavy, fast breathing sounded in her ears. She stared up at his large body poised over her, and felt his sex pushing against her.

  He felt her tense and looked up at her face.

  But it was not the earl who looked at her, it was Andrea. She struggled furiously against him, pounding her fists at his face and chest, scarce aware that she was screaming mindlessly. When she was free of his touch, when she felt nothing holding her, she was frenzied with freedom, and hur
led herself from the bed.

  “Cassandra!”

  She drew up, panting at the sound of her name, her body tensed for flight, confused and uncertain. She saw a man coming toward her, but he stopped. Vacantly, she realized that he was holding out his hand to her.

  “It is all right, cara,” came a quiet, familiar voice. “There is nothing for you to fear.”

  “Stay away!”

  The earl could feel her terror. “Would you care for a glass of wine, Cassandra?”

  Wine? She looked at him wildly, but he turned and walked away from her.

  He gazed at her from the corner of his eye as he uncorked the decanter and poured rich burgundy into a glass. She was standing perfectly still where he had left her, her hair streaming over her shoulders, her body outlined against the dark shadows.

  He walked over to her, forcing nonchalance into his movements, and held out the glass.

  “Your wine, Cassandra.”

  “Thank you.”

  If he had not been so concerned for her, he would have smiled. Even in her fear, she was every inch the English lady.

  She sipped at the wine and silently handed the glass back to him. He took several slow steps, and set it upon a table.

  “Are you not cold, cara?”

  Cassie’s wits had returned to her, and she was appalled at what she had done. She held out her hand, then dropped it back to her side.

  “I am so sorry, Anthony. It was just that suddenly you were no longer you. You were—” She choked, unable to say his name.

  “Andrea?”

  She nodded dumbly.

  “It makes no matter,” he said. “Come back to bed, Cassandra.”

  He watched her retrieve her nightgown and slip it over her head. Her hands were shaking as they tied the ribbons about her throat.

  When they lay in bed, Cassie rigidly on her own side, he said calmly, “You must tell me what this Andrea was like.”

  He felt her shudder. “It might help if you could bring yourself to talk about him, cara.”