Devil's Embrace

by Catherine Coulter

  “I cannot.” She closed her eyes tightly against the onslaught of memories. “Please forgive me, Anthony.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, cara.” He held out his arms to her. He felt her uncertainty, the remnants of her fear. He said easily, hoping to occupy her mind, “I did not tell you, but some weeks ago, I hired what you might call an agent, a man named Daniele Barbaro, to help me find Andrea and the other man. We must catch them to discover the man who hired them. Daniele has now extended his search to Pisa.”

  He felt Cassie stiffen against him and wondered if he should not have simply kept his mouth shut. He was taken aback when she said in a flat, emotionless voice, “I would assist you, my lord, to find the other man and Andrea.”

  He was silent for some minutes. Her words troubled him, yet he knew that she was at last willing to face what had happened to her. He said finally, “Yes, you can help us.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said.

  He lay awake staring up into the darkness for some time after he was certain Cassie was asleep.

  Chapter 21

  But Cassie did not accompany the earl when he rode to Genoa to meet with Daniele Barbaro. He left her sniffling with a cold, propped up in bed, a wadded handkerchief in one hand and a book in the other.

  “Just do not bring back Signore Bissone,” she called after him, “else I swear I’ll sneeze all over him.”

  He met Daniele Barbaro in a small coffee house in the Piazza de Ferrari, a quarter that was a maze of narrow lanes and steps, and tall, crowded houses, whose every window-ledge overflowed with blossoming mimosa flowers and carnations.

  “What news, Daniele?” he asked, regarding the younger man’s heavily hooded eyes. As always, he was pleased with Daniele’s appearance. Dressed in sober black, his narrow shoulders slightly hunched, he could easily pass for a Genoese man of business.

  “I received word but yesterday from a friend, Ludovico Rialto. He believes that Andrea is playing off his vicious tricks in Corgorno.”

  Corgorno was no more than two days’ ride from Genoa. “It would appear that the brute is something of a fool. When you find him, Daniele, send me word. Remember, you are not to kill him. Have you need of more men?”

  “No, my lord.”

  The earl ordered them wine from a hovering waiter and waited until the man was out of earshot. “Before you take him, remember that he must have the same tattoo as his comrades—a serpent twined about a sword. I have discovered from Teodoro Cozzi, my man of business in Rome, that the tattoo was particular to a group of hired assassins who were active there some ten years ago. He tells me that he may be able to learn what became of them. If it turns out that the man in Corgorno is not Andrea, it is possible that we will be able to find him through Cozzi’s efforts.”

  Daniele stroked his thick mustache, wiping off droplets of wine. “It is something,” he said in his measured way. “I will keep you informed, my lord, in either case.”

  The earl had retraced his steps through the maze of narrow streets and was on the point of paying a boy for holding Cicero when a provocative woman’s voice stopped him.

  “Antonio, how delightful to see you.”

  He turned to see Giovanna, dressed in apricot velvet, gazing up at him, her dark eyes wonderfully wide, her soft lips parted in a beguiling smile. A maid stood near her, her arms weighed down with packages.

  “Contessa.” He bowed to her.

  She offered him her hand, and he raised it to his lips and lightly kissed her fingers.

  Giovanna laughed softly, and with a quick nod of her head, dismissed her maid. “I find myself quite fatigued, Antonio. Would you please escort me home?”

  The earl looked after the retreating maid, his mouth tightening. He could hardly leave Giovanna unattended. “Very well,” he said shortly, and proffered his arm.

  “Signore Montalto tells me that you come to Genoa often, Antonio.”

  “Yes. I trust my business associate is well.”

  “He’s an old man. Can an old man ever be well?” She shrugged and smiled up at him. “But what of you, Antonio? It has been months since I’ve seen you.”

  “As you’ve already been informed, Giovanna, I am often in Genoa. When I am not, I am at the Villa Parese.”

  She would have liked to question him further, but decided to bide her time until they reached her house. She stroked her fingers lightly on his sleeve and walked silently beside him.

  “Would you care for a glass of wine?” she asked him the moment they stepped into the entrance hall.

  “No, I thank you not, Giovanna.” He bowed to her abruptly, and turned to leave. She stepped in his path, clutched her arms about him and buried her face against his chest. “Dio, I have missed you.”

  He clasped her arms and pulled her away from him. “I am certain, contessa,” he said, “that there are many gentlemen vying presently for your considerable favors. But I have told you that I am no longer one of them.”

  “You cannot mean it. I know that you want me,” she said, her eyes steady upon his face.

  “It is, however, quite true.”

  “How dare you?” She was rigid with fury at his curt dismissal.

  “You must learn to mind your manners, contessa, as well as your passions. Now, if you will excuse me.” He turned on his heel and strode to the door.

  “How can you go back to that little slut? When you take her, Antonio, do you ask her how it was she shared her favors with common bravi?”

  “Leash your venom, Giovanna, else I might be tempted to forget that I do not strike women.” He heard her panting behind him as he opened the door and let himself out.

  “Damn you, my lord earl. You will pay for this.”

  The earl raised himself on his elbow and kissed Cassie lightly on her lips. Her eyes flew open and she stared up at him, her mind still blurred with sleep.

  “Merry Christmas, cara,” he said.

  She yawned and smiled up at him. “Merry Christmas to you, my lord.” Her eyes darkened for an instant at the thought of Christmas in England, and she turned her head away. She did not wish to discomfit him, not today. She thought of their chess game the night before, and smiled. She had finally achieved a draw and had teased him mercilessly the entire evening.

  “Oh dear,” she said suddenly, and threw back the bedcovers. She quickly averted her face, for he was naked.

  “Oh dear what?” he asked, rolling onto his back and pillowing his head on his arms.

  “I cannot tell you, my lord Anthony. It is Christmas, you know.” There was a distinct twinkle in her eyes as she whisked herself out of the bedchamber into the dressing room.

  The morning passed swiftly. Cassie stood beside the earl as he dispensed gifts of money to his servants and colorfully wrapped packages to their children. After a light lunch, they rode in a closed carriage to Genoa to attend Christmas mass at the Church of the Annunciation in the Piazza della Nunziata. Cassie had never before attended a Catholic mass, and she found herself awed by the rich solemnity of the service. It did not matter that she did not understand the deep chanting voices, intoning Scriptures in Latin. She copied the earl’s movements, kneeling when he did and mouthing the Latin responses he chanted. She thought it odd that everyone was dressed in severe black, particularly on such a joyous day as Christmas. During the priest’s sermon, she gazed about the ancient stone church, lit with hundreds of candles that cast eerie shadows on the life-size statues of saints that lined the walls. She was reminded of an English Christmas service only when she saw the cre`che, the manger surrounded with mounds of hay, with painted statues of Joseph and Mary leaning over the tiny Christ child. She felt as displaced as the figure seemed to her, and felt a wrenching tug of loneliness. I cannot continue in this way, she thought. I am locked away from myself, from what I know and must want. The earl’s hand closed over hers in that instant. When the priest chanted the final prayer, she turned her hand in his and clasped his fingers to her palm.

  She was th
oughtful on their carriage ride back to the villa.

  “What did you think of the Genoese Christmas mass, Cassandra?”

  “It was beautiful,” she said, breaking herself away from thoughts that did not seem to lead her anywhere. “I only wish that I could have understood what they said. But you know, it was so very different from—” She broke off, grinning self-consciously.

  He patted her gloved hand. “One could tell that we are much together. I am able to finish your sentences for you.”

  As Cassie removed her heavy black veiled hat, the earl called to her from the drawing room. “Come have a glass of mulled wine with me, Cassandra.”

  But it was not a glass of wine he handed to her, but a large box, wrapped in a bright red velvet ribbon. For a moment, she stood tongue-tied, staring at him and at the box.

  “Merry Christmas, Cassandra.”

  She took the box from him and laid it atop an ivory inlaid table. She felt a tug of excitement, for she dearly loved presents. She carefully parted the layers of silver tissue paper and lifted out the most exquisite gown she had ever seen. It was dark blue silk, of such a texture that it seemed to ripple like gossamer through her fingers. The stomacher was woven with gold thread, as were the full sleeves that flared out from the elbows. The skirt was yard upon yard of billowing rich silk. She hugged the gown against her breast a moment, unable to meet the earl’s eyes.

  “It is incredibly beautiful,” she said finally, shyly gazing up at him.

  “It is Venetian silk. Mr. Donnetti brought it back on his last trip.”

  “May I try it on, my lord, now?”

  “Certainly. I will await you here.”

  When she reappeared some thirty minutes later, he stared at her, his breath suspended. The dark blue matched the color of her eyes, the golden threads, her hair. She danced lightly toward him, paused, and performed a pirouette. As a final step, she curtsied deeply before him. The neckline plunged low, in the French style, and her white breasts blossomed above it in rounded splendor.

  “It suits you,” he said.

  “Do you really believe so?”

  “Most assuredly I do, cara.”

  He was taken aback when she suddenly stepped toward him, rose on her tiptoes, and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

  “I suppose it does feel more like Christmas now,” she said, and backed away from him quickly, in embarrassment. “Eliott was forever giving me the most unromantic and practical kind—new fishing poles, the most scientifically proven baiting hooks and the like.” The light momentarily left her face, and he knew her thoughts were upon her family, Edward Lyndhurst, and undoubtedly the giant fir tree set up in the drawing room of Hemphill Hall every Christmas. He felt a knot of frustration, but managed to force lightness into his voice. “Would you like to join me now for dinner? Caesare was unable to come, as he was already promised elsewhere.”

  “I would be delighted to, Anthony, but not just yet.”

  He looked at her, a black brow raised in inquiry. Tentatively, she pulled a small box from a pocket in her skirt and shyly thrust it forward. “Merry Christmas, my lord.”

  He felt the pleasure of surprise as he carefully unwrapped the square box. He opened it slowly, and stared a long moment at a gold ring. Carved in black jade in a circular setting was a small chess piece, a king.

  “I hope you like it,” she said uncertainly, as he was silent overlong.

  “I shall treasure it, Cassandra,” he said quietly, and slipped it upon his third finger.

  She laughed nervously. “Since you beat me so regularly in chess, I thought your skill should be recognized. I designed it, and Scargill commissioned a goldsmith in Genoa.”

  “You are very talented, cara,” he said. She looked up at him, and did not stiffen when he gently pulled her into his arms and touched his mouth to hers.

  As the earl walked alone in the gardens, he admitted to himself that he was starting to plan Cassandra’s return to his bed as carefully as he had planned her abduction from England. His body ached for her, and he could not help himself. He frowned, his thoughts momentarily at an impasse. He resisted the urge to simply inform Cassandra that enough time had passed, that she was now going to wed him and be done with it. She had come to trust him over the past months, and he knew that she needed the undemanding companionship he had offered her. But he knew too that their relationship could not continue in the gentle limbo he had created for her. During the past several weeks, he had found being in her company increasingly a trial to him, as his need for her grew harder to keep in bounds.

  He looked up to see Liepolo, his master winemaker, approaching him. He forced a smile to his lips.

  “All goes well with you, Liepolo?”

  “Si, my lord. Marrina said that I might find you here. Forgive me, my lord, but I wanted to tell you that the grapevines you had shipped from France have arrived safely.”

  “Excellent, Liepolo.” Although he did not care at the moment if the wretched grapes became wine or vinegar, he forced himself to comment appropriately on Liepolo’s plans.

  “Wine!”

  “What, my lord?” Liepolo asked, eyeing his master uncertainly.

  The earl grinned widely and thwacked Liepolo on his stooped shoulder. “Forgive me, Liepolo, but I must leave you now.”

  He turned and walked briskly away, leaving his winemaster staring after him.

  The earl found Cassie seated in front of her dressing table, already gowned formally for dinner, brushing out her hair.

  “Why do we not have our dinner here, Cassandra, on the balcony?”

  She cocked her head at him and smiled. “If you like, my lord. Caesare has decided not to join us this evening?”

  The earl omitted mention of the note he had hurriedly scrawled to his half-brother, postponing his visit. “He had to make other plans, unexpectedly, I understand.”

  Cassie lowered her hairbrush. “In that case, since we are not entertaining, I shall not bother myself with hair pins.”

  After Marrina served their dinner, the earl nodded his dismissal, and turned his attention to Cassie. He kept his conversation light and her glass filled with light fruity wine from the Parese vineyards. “Is not the full moon breathtaking, Cassandra?”

  “Indeed it is, my lord,” she said, tilting her head upward. The night was clear and myriad clusters of stars shined brightly in the black sky.

  “It reminds me of some of the evenings aboard The Cassandra.”

  She gave him a censuring look. “The dinners are better here, I think,” she said.

  “I thought Arturo had a fine way with octopus,” he said blandly as he filled her glass once again.

  “Octopus?” She gulped and looked suspiciously at the scallops on her plate. “You are a wretched tease, my lord,” she said, pursing her lips at him.

  “Drink your wine, Cassandra, it will take the taste from your mouth.”

  When Marrina returned to clear the dishes from the table, Cassie was seated beside the earl on the settee, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. She was saying, laughter lurking in her voice, “Really, my lord, your reading of Shakespeare’s sonnets leaves much to be desired. You must be more dramatic in your rendering.”

  “Be patient, madam, one must accustom oneself to the poet’s high-flown phrases. More wine?”

  She giggled and thrust out her empty glass. “I discover that I am liking your Parese wine more with each glass.”

  He allowed her one more glass before he laid down the red leather tooled volume and turned to her.

  She saw a look in his dark eyes, one they had not held in a long time. When he lightly touched his fingers to her cheek, she realized vaguely that it was desire she saw.

  “I think, my lord,” she said slowly, “that you are trying to make me drunk.”

  “But you are already in your cups, Cassandra.” He took the glass from her fingers and gazed at her ruefully. “ Actually, cara, it was my intent to make you only sufficiently drunk so that I could s
educe you.”

  She stared at him, her expression blank. “You want to make love to me?”

  “Of course. Was not my selection of Shakespeare’s most moving sonnets enough of a clue to you?”

  She looked away from him and whispered vaguely, the wine slurring her words. “It has been so long. And I am afraid.”

  “Afraid of me?”

  She shook her head slowly. “More afraid of myself, I think, and what I would feel toward you, if we—”

  “If we began to make love again?”

  “Yes.”

  “What you want and what you feel toward me is not something to fear, cara. You do not still fear that you will see me again as Andrea, do you?”

  “I do not believe so. But I am afraid that I will feel nothing, save disgust for myself.”

  “You did not tell me this before, Cassandra.”

  She shrugged helplessly, and gave him a crooked smile. “I was not drunk before.”

  He pulled her gently into his arms and held her. He felt her head loll against his shoulder, and cupped her chin in his hand, lifting her face to his. She closed her fingers over his, and to his delight, pressed her mouth against his.

  He unfastened the row of tiny buttons over her bodice, and lightly brushed his palm over her breasts. She stiffened at his touch.

  “Look at your breasts, cara.”

  Unwittingly, she lowered her head and stared dumbly at herself. Her breasts ached and felt swollen, as if he had been fondling them.

  His voice continued caressing and soft, yet he remained motionless, his eyes holding hers. Her fingers clutched convulsively at her bodice, gathering it beneath her breasts.

  “You want me, Cassandra. It is time you admitted that to yourself.”

  “I do not know what I want anymore,” she said, and pressed her cheek against his chest.

  He cupped her chin again and looked into her eyes, wide with uncertainty. “I will show you, cara.”

  He kissed her deeply, savoring the warmth of her mouth. He kept kissing her as he pulled her to her feet, leaving her only to ease her from her gown and undergarments. She was staring up at him, her eyes wide and questioning, but her body arched against him, as if with a will of its own. He molded her against him and breathed in the sweet fragrance of her hair.