Devil's Embrace

by Catherine Coulter

  But it was not Scargill.

  The door opened only wide enough to allow a slender man to slither through. It was Luigi. He looked at her, and their eyes met for a breathless moment.

  Cassie stumbled to her feet and yelled at him, “How dare you come in here! What do you want?” The man frowned, and she switched quickly to Italian. “Che cosa Le abbisogna?”

  She looked at him closely. He was not above medium height, his complexion a deep olive, and his eyes opaquely black in the dim light. His sailor’s clothes were sodden, and his long black hair hung in wet strands about his bristled face.

  “Che cosa Le abbisogna?” She closed her fisted hand over the front of her dressing gown.

  “Ah, signora, do you not know what I want? Do you not recognize me?” His coal-black eyes swept over her body.

  “No.” Her mind refused to work. “Get out, or it is more than a flogging you will get.”

  He closed the door gently behind him and leaned against it, his thin mouth relaxing into a wide smile. His piercing eyes still stripped her naked. “It is time for retribution, signora. Your esteemed husband, you see, brutally slaughtered two of my comrades, and is out for more blood. Ah, now you know me, do you not?”

  Cassie mouthed her words, her voice barely above a whisper. “The fourth man—the last of the bravi. The one whose name we did not know.”

  He swept her a contemptuous bow.

  She dully recited their names. “Giulio, Giacomo, Andrea—and Luigi.”

  He slapped his thigh and laughed, a wet strand of hair swinging across his cheek.

  “Such an impression we made upon your great ladyship. So you remembered having men between your legs, signora.” His voice turned from mocking insolence to grim fury. “Sí, two of my friends dead now. Dead because of you and your bastard of a husband.”

  The yacht lurched into a deep trough of a wave, and Cassie was thrown backward. She grabbed at the bedpost to keep her balance. She was panting, drawing hoarse breaths. The storm was raging mercilessly overhead. No one would hear her scream. No one would help her.

  “There were five of you, not four. But you, I fancy, are too cowardly to reveal his name.” She thought dispassionately that he would kill her now, and yet she was taunting him. She saw that his fingers lay against the silver handle of a stiletto in his belt.

  Luigi shrugged elaborately. “I have had many weeks to plan your deaths, signora, yours and your precious husband’s. The storm has served me well. First you, and then that arrogant bastard.”

  “If you will kill me, then why not tell me the name of the man who hired you?” How calm she sounded, as if she was asking for a morning cup of coffee. But her mind was racing, sharpened by a knife of fear that lay cold and hard against her heart.

  “You, my fine English lady, do not know what it means to be a bravi. Not even in death will you know who has paid to send your soul to the devil.”

  “But why, Luigi? Why am I to be killed?”

  “It is none of your affair, signora. Enough talk.” His voice was calm again, almost detached.

  “Then you really do not know, do you, Luigi? Your employer did not see fit to tell you—a miserable peasant, a paid murdering animal.”

  He growled, deep in his throat, and Cassie drew back from him, pressing her side against the bedpost.

  “Damn you, you bitch! Shut up! My comrades said nothing—nothing, do you hear? They protected me and him. I shan’t complain, for he will make me rich, while you and your husband, signora, float in the sea until the fish tear the flesh from your bones.”

  Luigi straightened from his slouched position against the cabin door. His black eyes swept again over her. “I will not enjoy sticking my stiletto between your ribs, for you are but a woman. It is the blood from your husband’s throat that will make this miserable voyage worth my while.”

  Anthony. He would be easy prey, all his attention fastened on the storm, on The Cassandra. He would not even know why he would die. A great fury welled up inside her, and she was not aware for a moment that he was walking slowly toward her, his eyes dark with lust.

  “I really did not enjoy your body that first time, my lady. Andrea had spoiled you. There was so much blood, so much sticky seed smeared on your thighs. But it will be different now. You will know a man before you die.”

  He was unfastening the buttons on his breeches, not even bothering to pull them down.

  He had nearly reached her while she screamed, and he laughed savagely, spurting flecks of saliva into her face.

  “You are already hot for me. Give me pleasure, signora, and I will make your death easy.”

  I am only a woman, she thought frantically, and he fears naught from me. The thought seared deep into her. Her only hope was her woman’s weakness, her woman’s helplessness. Her eyes fastened upon the fragments of glass on the floor, near the table.

  His hands were reaching for her, and she could smell his lust, could see his bulging sex, freed from his breeches. She fell toward him, and when his arms closed about her, she drew up her knee and kicked his naked groin with all her strength.

  He bellowed with rage and pain, and grasped his belly.

  “You damned bitch! You miserable little whore! God, how you will die!” He lunged at her, though his body was bent in his pain.

  Cassie slammed her fist in his face and tried to struggle past him, but he hurtled her to the floor, throwing her upon her back. Sharp white lights exploded in her head. She bucked her body wildly against him, until she saw his fist poised to strike her. With a desperate strength, she lurched sideways, throwing her arm above her head. His blow caught her cheek, but it made no impression in her fear. And now he was the one yelling, cursing her, pummeling her, ripping at her dressing gown.

  She felt a tremendous sense of elation. Her fingers closed over a jagged triangle of glass, and with cold dispassion, she watched her arm swing forward, the raw glass a spear held tightly against her palm. As he reared up, his hands jerking at her thighs, she saw nothing but his distorted face, felt nothing save that fierce triumph. The jagged glass sliced easily down his cheek, from his eye to his jaw.

  He rocked backward, screaming with pain, his hands covering his face. She jerked the stiletto from his belt, pushed away from him and scrambled to her feet. She was at the cabin door, twisting at the knob, before he could stagger to his feet. The yacht careened wildly and both of them teetered, grasping at anything to keep their balance.

  Cassie rushed down the dim companionway, her body reeling with the heeling yacht. She saw the stairs that led to the deck and felt a sob of defeat rise in her mouth. The hatch was securely battened down. It would take precious time to wield the iron fastenings. She heard him cursing behind her, heard his booted feet drawing nearer, and she stumbled up the wooden steps, moaning aloud when they caught in the hem of her dressing gown. She thrust the stiletto between her clenched teeth and jerked frantically at the heavy handles. She could hear his agonized breathing before the handles gave way.

  She shoved upward with all her remaining strength. The heavy wooden panels flew outward and she was blinded by a torrential blanket of rain. She saw bloated mountains of water crashing over the deck, with force enough to wash her overboard. She jerked herself to her feet and threw herself forward on her stomach on the swirling deck. And then she couldn’t move. His hand clutched her dressing gown, pulling her backward. She kicked wildly at his arm, but he held fast. He was facing death now. He could not let her escape.

  She tried to wrench her arms free of the sleeves, but the force of the wind and the water pounded at her. She felt his fingers digging into the back of her legs as he pulled himself through the hatch, using her body as an anchor.

  She felt herself strangling on her own fear. The sharp edge of the stiletto cut the corner of her mouth. She had forgotten the stiletto.

  She grasped it in her hand, savoring the feel of it, and rolled over onto her back. He was above her, his disfigured face inhuman, like a creature
from the blackest pit of hell. The wind whipped the rain across the gash, and blood welled out, splattering her face and breasts.

  There was only hatred in his eyes. He made a gurgling sound, and his hands, curved like claws, flew to her throat. As he fell forward, she locked her fists between her breasts, the point of the stiletto upward. She felt it tear through the flesh of his neck.

  For an endless instant, he stiffened above her, his dark eyes filled with surprise. Blood spurted from his mouth and throat, and her scream momentarily pierced the howling wind. She pushed at him, and his inert body rolled sideways over the slippery deck. A wave broke over the railing and dragged him further away from her. His foot caught on a coil of rope as he was pulled back, and he flipped like a stuffed doll onto his back.

  She screamed again and closed her eyes against the sight of him, bloodied and limp, the silver handle of the dagger gleaming brightly as it rose upward from his pinioned neck.

  Her cries were swallowed by the raging wind and rain until Dilson, agilely making his way aft, slewed his head about at the thin wailing sound. He scrambled down, clutching at the open hatch doors to keep his balance, and peered into Cassie’s rain-blurred face.

  He sucked in his breath in consternation. Her dressing gown was ripped open and her body shone white, save for rivulets of red that streaked over her face and breasts. He tore off his canvas cloak and covered her.

  “Dilson, fetch the captain.”

  Her voice was a low whisper, dulled with shock. He saw Luigi. “Oh my gawd.” He flew toward the quarterdeck, yelling even before the captain could possibly hear him.

  The earl whirled about at his shouts. He passed the helm to Mr. Donnetti and stared at the white-faced Dilson.

  “My God, man,” he shouted over the wind, “what the devil has happened?”

  “The madonna,” Dilson croaked. “Quickly, captain, quickly!”

  He froze for an instant, and then lunged after Dilson.

  Dilson yelled back at him. “She killed him, captain. Stuck a dagger in his throat.”

  “What the hell are you saying, man?”

  Dilson pointed to Cassie, who lay stretched naked upon her back, the canvas cloak blown off her body, her legs dangling into the open hatch. There were rivulets of blood streaking over her white skin. He fell to his knees and gathered her into his arms.

  “Cassandra!”

  Cassie pulled her mind from Luigi’s ghastly face and forced her eyes open.

  “He is dead—really dead?”

  He felt bewildered until Dilson shook his sleeve and pointed.

  The sight of Luigi, the stiletto embedded into his throat like a stake, froze that moment into his mind. His face was ripped open, the jagged flesh laid back.

  “He’s dead, Cassandra.”

  He gathered her awkwardly into his arms, pulling her sodden dressing gown about her, and hauled her down the wooden steps.

  “Dilson,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Don’t let him wash overboard. Bring him below-deck.”

  The cabin was in total darkness. He felt his way to the bed, laid her down, and turned to light the candles. He saw the broken fragments of glass, one of them covered with blood, and splotches of blood on the carpet.

  Her face was turned away from him and she was shivering violently. He swallowed his questions, stripped off the wet dressing gown, and toweled her body dry. The streaks of blood came off on the towel, and his eyes traveled every inch of her. There was a cut in the palm of her hand. He could see nothing else.

  “He was the fourth man—the other bravi.”

  He did not allow himself to answer until he had tucked her beneath a mound of covers. Gently, he gathered her thick wet hair and spread it away from her face onto the pillow.

  He realized that he himself was sodden and was drenching the bed, but he was loathe to pull away from her. He cupped her face in his hands. “Are you hurt, cara?”

  “No,” she said, her voice calm, too calm for his ears. “He thought that since I am a woman that I could do nothing. He was going to kill us, my lord, both of us.”

  “He told you that he was one of the assassins?”

  Cassie couldn’t seem to stop her violent shivering. She was cold, so cold. She nodded in his hands.

  “Cassandra, the babe. Is the babe all right?”

  The babe. She tried to fasten her mind on her body, on her belly. She felt nothing, only the sickening rippling of the stiletto as it sank into Luigi’s throat.

  “I couldn’t let him kill you.” She clutched his shoulders with frantic hands. “He would have killed you.”

  The earl whipped his head up as the yacht shuddered from the force of the storm, the timber creaking in pained protest. He drew her into the circle of his arms and rocked her gently. “It is all right, Cassie. It is over now.” He kept talking to her, trying to calm her, to soothe the terror from her mind.

  “I am all right, my lord,” she said finally, knowing that he must leave her. If he did not see to the yacht, they might all die. “Please, you must go now. I have nothing more to fear.”

  He eased her down and tucked the covers tightly about her. “Sleep now, Cassandra. I will be back when I can.”

  She nodded and forced her eyes shut until he closed the door.

  She felt curiously light and supple, all her energy focused on hoisting the mainsail of her sloop. But somehow she didn’t seem to have the strength, and the flapping canvas slapped at her face. There was a man’s voice, deep and censuring, complaining that she hadn’t the wit to figure out the simplest of problems. How could she be trusted with her own boat if she was such a stupid child. I am not stupid, she yelled, unable to see the man’s face. It is too heavy! I am not stupid!

  Cassie reared up. “I am not stupid, Father.”

  She blinked at the bright light and the dream slowly ebbed from her mind. She gazed about the cabin, bathed in brilliant sunlight. The yacht was rocking gently in the waves. The storm had blown itself out. She turned slowly and saw the earl stretched upon his back beside her. He was snoring. It was a marvelous sound.

  She slipped quietly out of bed, rose and stretched. She looked down at her slightly rounded belly, and lightly patted herself. “Both of us have survived this time,” she whispered.

  She was ravenously hungry, but she bided her time, for she did not wish to disturb the earl’s sleep. She bathed, dressed, and brushed out her tangled hair, pulling it back from her face with a velvet ribbon. She was on the point of going to fetch her breakfast when Scargill quietly opened the door and peered warily into the cabin.

  He said nothing, merely looked at her with worried eyes.

  “I am quite all right, Scargill,” she said, “and so, I fancy, is his lordship.” She turned at the absence of any sound from the bed and saw him stretching gracefully, the covers barely covering his belly.

  “Ye’re ready for your lunch, I trust,” Scargill said cheerfully.

  “Lunch?”

  “Aye, madonna. Ye slept the clock around. And ye, my lord, ye’ll join yer brave wife?”

  “That I will,” the earl said. He bounded out of bed and stretched prodigiously.

  “And how is my brave wife?” He pulled her into his arms and nuzzled his chin against the top of her head.

  Scargill was clucking good-naturedly behind him, the earl’s dressing gown already in his hands.

  As Cassie ate, trying not to wolf down her food, she was aware of the earl’s eyes upon her, narrowed in concern.

  “For heaven’s sake, my lord,” she said, “I have no intention of collapsing into hysterics.”

  His answering smile did not reach his dark eyes. “You were quite right, you know, cara, he was the fourth man. The serpent wrapped about the sword—it was on his left arm.” The earl shook his head and softly cursed. “If only I had had his shirt stripped off before I flogged him. We would have known then, and none of this would have happened. Can you talk about it, Cassandra? Tell me what happened?”

  How
strange, she thought, she could think about the previous night quite calmly. She faltered only when she told him of the stiletto, clutched in her fisted hands. She shuddered, memory vivid.

  “Remind me, cara,” he said at last, “never to get into a violent argument with you.”

  A cleansing smile lighted her face. “You have nothing to fear, my lord, for you, I am persuaded, hold me and all my abilities in healthy respect.” She paused a moment, frowning. “I goaded him, you know, taunted him, trying to make him tell me who had paid him to kill us. But he would tell me nothing. Not even a clue, my lord, save it was a man. He said the man would make him rich.”

  The earl stroked his unshaven jaw. “The mystery remains, then. I did not tell you, Cassandra, but before I left Genoa, I arranged to pay a sizable reward for the name and removal of Luigi’s employer. That is one reason I decided we should go to England. I wanted you in no danger until I discovered him. It never occurred to me that we would carry one of the assassins with us.”

  “Do you think we shall ever know?”

  “Given the number of enthusiastic villains who will try to fatten their purses, I am willing to wager that we shall.”

  Cassie took one of his large hands into hers. “At least we are safe now, my lord.”

  “Sometimes, my love, I am doubtful that I deserve you.” At the gleam in her eyes, he added in a lazy drawl, “But then I think of you floundering and utterly impotent at arranging your own affairs and my heart is warmed.”

  She laughed, deep and warm, and he held her against his heart.

  Epilogue

  The earl smoothed a single curl of Cassie’s hair back from her forehead. Looking at her in sleep, it was impossible to tell that she had just given birth. But their child, a beautiful boy, lay curled peacefully in a small cradle next to Becky Petersham’s bed.