Lair of the Lion

by Christine Feehan

  "Go to sleep, cara mia. I have no intention of being angry with you or Rolando. On the contrary, I'm in his debt." He stroked a caress down her hair, bent to brush a kiss against her temple. "Captain Bartolmei is investigating how such a thing could have happened and will report to me. You have nothing to worry about. Sleep, piccola. I'll watch over you." Nicolai abandoned the chair to stretch out beside her on the bed, curving his body protectively around hers.

  "I think this would earn you another lecture," he teased softly, his breath warming the nape of her neck. "But I don't intend for you to have nightmares, bellezza, so I'm going to stay for a while and chase them away for you."

  "I'm too tired for conversation," she said without opening her eyes, pleased that he'd called her beautiful. There was comfort in the strength of his arms, the hard frame of his body. But Isabella didn't want to talk or think. She wanted to escape into sleep.

  "Then stop talking, Isabella." He nuzzled her hair with his chin. "I have four dignitaries waiting to be received, and I'm here with you. That should tell you how much you mean to me. I need to be with you right now. Go to sleep, and let me watch over you."

  Where she had been ice cold, inside and out, heat blossomed and spread. She snuggled deeper beneath the coverlets and fell asleep with a smile curving her mouth.

  Chapter Eight

  In the next few days that went by, no one mentioned the incident with Captain Bartolmei. If anyone had witnessed Isabella's bedraggled appearance and the captain's coat around her shoulders, they were being discreet. She saw little of Don DeMarco, as he had many duties and often consulted with his two captains and counselors. People came continually to the don, asking for favors, expecting him to solve problems from domestic arguments to affairs of state. Isabella spent her time learning her way around the palazzo. She worked at getting to know the servants, learning their names and faces and strengths and weaknesses.

  Sarina was often at Isabella's side, explaining how things were done, what was considered unchangeable law, which things were the don's personal preferences, and what could be changed should Isabella decide she would prefer it.

  They finished conducting an inspection of storage when they heard a commotion in the lower hall. Voices were raised in anger, and a child cried shrilly. Together, Sarina and Isabella rushed down the stairs to see Betto shaking a young boy. Betto's face was twisted with rage, a terrible mask of malignity as he shouted accusations at the child. A crowd of servants surrounded him, but no one dared defy his authority.

  Sarina gripped Isabella's arm, her fingers digging into the young woman's skin. "What's wrong with him? He never raises his voice. Betto is always calm and reliable. He would not act in such a way, especially not for the servants to see." The housekeeper was horrified. She stood frozen, her mouth gaping open, her eyes wide with shock. "What's gotten into him? This isn't my Betto. This isn't like him at all."

  The words echoed in Isabella's ears. She had seen Betto, a kindly soul, bustling about the palazzo in the course of his duties. Dignified. Efficient. The epitome of the discreet manservant. This isn't Betto. Sarina had been married to him for most of her life. Knew him intimately. His behavior was so out of character, so bizarre, his own wife didn't recognize him.

  Isabella remained very still, studying Betto's stiff, jerky movements. The elderly servant's features were distorted with hatred and rage. He shook a bony fist at the young boy, cuffing the child's ear. A torrent of curses exploded out of his mouth, foul words, vicious and cutting. This isn't Betto.

  Tears streamed down the child's face, and he struggled wildly to pull away from the old man. His mother, a pretty young woman named Brigita, stood wringing her hands and weeping. "Let him go, Betto. Please let Dantel go. He was only playing. He would never steal from Don DeMarco."

  "If you had been watching him the way you should have been, you daughter of a whore, the no-good brat wouldn't have been stealing the Master blind."

  Sarina gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. She swayed and went so pale Isabella was afraid she might faint. Isabella circled the housekeeper's waist with one arm to help hold her up. "Betto." Sarina whispered his name softly, tears glittering in her eyes. Her voice was broken, reflecting the state of her heart.

  Isabella could feel the hostility in the room. The mother's anxiety and anger were rising rapidly in direct proportion to Betto's bizarre behavior. The loud cries and shouting had brought other servants running. They were all murmuring, some supporting the distressed mother and others supporting Betto. Isabella remained still, reaching for something beyond what she was seeing with her eyes. She blocked out the sounds of fury, the loud, incensed words, until they were a mere buzz of angry bees in the background.

  She found it then. Subtle. Insidious. The touch so delicate it was nearly impossible to detect. It wasn't strong as before, as if it had changed tactics, but the taint of evil was there just the same. It flowed through the room, touching everyone in its path. It fed the emotions, lived on the anger and hostility. It was breathing hatred into the palazzo, setting friend against friend. She felt its glee, felt the swell of power as it spread its poison throughout the room.

  Isabella held up a hand for silence. One by one the servants turned to look at her. She was an aristicratica, born to a higher station, and she was betrothed to their don. None dared disobey her. As the faces turned toward her, the rage in the room darkened to a black, ugly malevolence, more potent than anything she had every faced. It was tangible, filling the air to the vaulted ceilings. She could see the animosity on the faces staring at her. Her heart began to pound as the anger was twisted and directed straight toward her.

  "Sarina, you know Betto as he really is, through the eyes of your love," Isabella directed her statements to her one ally in the room but spoke loudly enough for all to hear. "Something must be terribly wrong. Perhaps he is ill and needs our help. Go to him, and use your love to guide him back. We will all help." She smiled at the servants and slipped away from Sarina to go to the young mother. She took both cold, nervous hands in her own to connect them together. "Think, Brigita. Betto would not normally say such foul things to you. Has he ever treated you or your son so cruelly? Been so harsh?" To keep the maid's attention focused on her rather than on the weeping child, Isabella spoke softly, persuasively, staring directly into the young woman's eyes.

  Brigita shook her head. "He has always been kind to Dan tel and me. This is so unlike him. When my husband died he provided food for us and gave me a job here." Her voice wavered, and she burst into fresh tears.

  "It is so unlike Betto, isn't it?" Isabella reinforced. "thought it was something such as that." She patted Brigita's back encouragingly. "Betto is such a good man. Sarina is very much afraid something is wrong with him. Perhaps he is ill. We must all come to his aid now, when he needs us most."

  The young woman nodded fearfully, not wholly convinced as she looked at the old man who was trembling with an unnatural rage.

  Isabella crossed the room to Betto's side with a great deal more confidence than she felt. Smiling serenely, she gently removed the older man's hand from the boy's arm and pulled the child to her. Without looking at Betto, she knelt to put herself on eye level with the child. "Dantel, your madre has told me how good Betto has always been to you. Is that the truth? We all know you were not stealing. Betto knows it, too; he hasn't lost his faith in you. This is a misunderstanding, and things have been said in anger." She gently wiped the tears from the boy's face. "We need your help right now, Dantel. I know you are very brave, like the lions here in the valley, brave like your don. Your madre believes you are brave, and Sarina says it is so. You must tell me of Betto's kindness to you. Tell everyone."

  Dantel sniffed several times, his large dark eyes staring into hers as if he dared not look at Betto or he would burst into tears again. His little body straightened, and he puffed out his chest. "I am very brave," he conceded. "If you need my help, signorina, I will do as you wish." His dark gaze flicked to his
mother, who was still wringing her hands in indecision.

  "We all need your help. Tell us how Betto has been kind to you."

  The little boy glanced uneasily at Betto. "He carved me a lion and set it on my bed on my birthday. He didn't know I saw him, but I follow him all the time."

  "Why do you follow him?" Isabella asked.

  "I like to be with him," the boy admitted. "I saw him carving the lion, so I knew he had given it to me." He smiled at the memory, his gaze shifting hesitantly toward his mother. "And once when we didn't have enough food, and madre was crying because she was so hungry and she had given me the last of our food, he brought us all kinds of things to eat." His voice became stronger. "He taught me how to ride a horse."

  "He taught my son, too," another servant chimed in.

  "And he cared for old Chanianto until he passed on," another said. "Remember how he washed him and kept him clean? He even fed him soup when the old man was too weak to feed himself."

  The atmosphere in the room had changed subtly. The servants were smiling at Betto. Sarina went to her husband, put her arms around him, and held him close to her, fiercely protective. Then it was Betto who was weeping. He crushed his wife to him and wept as if his heart were breaking. Dantel's mother made a soft sound of distress. Tears glittered in the eyes of several other servants looking on.

  Dantel ran to wrap his arms around the old man's legs. "It's all right, Betto!" the boy exclaimed. "I love you!"

  "Forgive me," the old man said, his voice ragged, his throat raw and clogged with tears. "I meant none of those foul things, Dantel. You're a good boy, much loved by all in the palazzo. Much loved by me. In truth, I don't know what happened to me, why such filth spewed from my mouth. I'm so ashamed." He sat down abruptly on the gleaming marble tiles, his knees giving out, carrying Sarina to the floor with him.

  The old woman clung to him, holding him close, laughing a little at the absurdity of two elderly servants sitting on the floor. Crying over the terrible fright to both of them, Betto put a hand to his head. "Brigita, forgive me. I don't know what happened. I knew your madre and your padre. They were wed in the Holy Church." He shook his head, holding it in his hands, groaning in abject humiliation.

  "I was bad," Dantel burst out. "I was playing with the statue, and I knew it wasn't mine. I dropped it, Betto." He began to weep again. "Don't cry, Betto. It isn't your fault. I did take it."

  "Betto is ill," Isabella said, ruffling the boy's hair to comfort him. "You didn't steal, Dantel, and we all know it. Betto just needs to rest, and we'll all look after him. Sarina will need your help to carry things to him and entertain him while he's resting. Run off with your madre and comfort her while we get Betto into bed. Later you can help Sarina bring his food to him. It is time we all served Betto and repaid his many kindnesses."

  "I will," Dantel said staunchly, looking very important. He reached for his mother's hand. "Call me when you need me, Sarina, and I'll come right away."

  Isabella and Brigita both reached for Sarina and Betto at the same time, helping the couple get to their feet. As Betto staggered, still holding his wife tightly, Isabella felt anew the presence of the dark, malevolent entity. She felt a swell of venom, of concentrated hatred directed solely toward her. Pressing a hand to her midsection, Isabella turned her head toward the entrance of the room, looking up toward the ceiling as if she might actually see her enemy.

  Brigita and Dantel took three steps toward the wide entryway to the room. Isabella leapt after them, her warning dying on her lips. She was too late. The beast was crouched in the large hall, its eyes fixed on mother and son, a snarl on its face, the tip of its tail twitching as it lay in ambush. It was a huge lion, with a magnificent mane that surrounded the massive head and draped down the length of its back, wrapping around its belly.

  Several of the servants screamed. Some ran back into the large room and attempted to hide behind furniture, while others stood frozen and began praying loudly. Immediately Isabella felt the surge of glee, of power. Two of the men caught at swords hanging on the wall, arming themselves and standing their ground reluctantly. They looked absurd, a pitiful defense against such a mighty enemy.

  "Stop!" Isabella hissed. "All of you, be silent! Hold perfectly still." She began to move very slowly, inching her way around Sarina and Betto, ignoring them as they both made a grab at her arm to stop her.

  Isabella was trembling violently, but she knew it wouldn't matter where in the room she was if the beast should decide to attack. The lion was capable of mauling or savaging everyone there. Its speed was undisputed. It was huge, invincible. The two swords were ridiculous weapons against the animal with its large teeth and razor-sharp claws. She had no real idea of what her plan was, only that something deep within her heart and soul drove her forward.

  Isabella inserted her body between the lion and its prey. The lion's gaze immediately fixed on her. She met the stare with one of her own. The moment their eyes locked, realization hit her like a fist. Two entities stared back at her from the gaze of the lion. One was untamed and confused, the other hostile and enraged. She narrowed her focus, determined to hold the lion motionless and ignore the nameless terror burning in its eyes.

  "Sarina, go for Don DeMarco." She kept her voice soft and soothing. It wobbled in spite of her determination to keep calm. "If you value the lives of those of us here, move very slowly until you make your way across the room. I'll hold the lion's attention, and you get to the other entrance. Once you are out, hurry."

  Sarina's hand reached out as though she could drag Isabella back to safety. Betto took the trembling fingers and squeezed them in reassurance. None of the other servants moved, no one uttered a sound, no one seemed to breathe.

  Isabella didn't turn her head to see whether Sarina had done as she asked; she had to believe the housekeeper would find the courage to do as she had bid. She didn't dare break eye contact with the lion. The great beast was shuddering with the need to leap upon her, to rend and tear, to sink its teeth deeply in her flesh and hear the satisfying crunch of bones. It was only Isabella's focused stare that prevented the animal from attacking.

  The lion's need to kill was so great, Isabella could feel it deep inside her own heart. The conflict in the animal was so considerable that she felt sorrow for it, an aching pang in contrast to the terror welling up inside her. She refused to blink, refused to turn away, as much for the sake of the beast as for her own life. It was confused and fighting itself as the surge of dark power thrust at its instincts continually, urging it to kill. Kill Isabella. Kill everyone.

  The lion shuddered again, a terrible trembling, and crawled forward toward Isabella, belly to the ground, eyes focused on her, fixed and staring. Roped muscles rippled along its massive body. Saliva dripped from the huge fangs as it snarled at her, a warning, almost a pleading, a dark challenge. The beast's breath was hot on her body, but she didn't move a muscle.

  Behind her, the servants stirred in panic, close to running, but Betto stopped them with an imperious hand raised and a quick shaking of his head. Any sudden movement or noise might trigger the lion to attack.

  Isabella could feel tiny beads of sweat running down the valley between her breasts. Her heart was pounding in her ears. She tasted fear in her mouth. Her knees threatened to buckle, but she stood her ground, staring into the round, gleaming eyes, determined not to run. Her mouth was so dry she wasn't certain she could speak if she had to. The animal was enormous, so close to her she could see the variations in his fur, silver, black, and brown woven so tightly it appeared to be a silky black. She could see eyelashes, whiskers, two scars slashed deep into the giant muzzle.

  "I'm with you, Isabella. Have no fear." The voice was soft, almost sensual. Nicolai stepped slowly, carefully to Isabella's side. His hand enveloped hers, tightened around her fingers, connecting them physically. Isabella didn't dare take her gaze from the lion, but even so, she knew Nicolai was watching the beast intently, his amber eyes blazing with fury, concentratin
g on holding the creature in place. She could almost feel it as he began slowly, forcibly, to impose his will on the animal.

  Isabella fought beside him, understanding the battle as no other in the room could. She understood then the immense concentration and focus it took for Nicolai to communicate with and control the untamable. The lions weren't docile or domesticated, they weren't pets, they were wild animals meant to be hunting prey and living far from human society. To keep them from following their natural instincts, Nicolai used a tremendous amount of energy at all times. He was in some way a part of them, bound to them, and the lions considered him the head of their pride.

  The lion wanted to obey. The creature seemed to be fighting some inner battle. Isabella continued to stare into its eyes, her compassionate nature reaching out to the huge cat. She felt her own strength pouring into Nicolai. He seemed enormously powerful. She could feel his body close to hers, vibrating with tension, with effort. Isabella began to feel a strange affection for the lion, almost as if she couldn't separate Nicolai from the beast. Her expression softened, and her mouth curved.

  She knew the exact moment when the taint of twisted power was defeated and retreated, leaving the unfortunate lion to face Nicolai alone. She felt the withdrawal of the black hatred, felt the darkness shimmering away from her mind, and then the room was empty of malice. Normal. It was still fraught with tension, the smell of fear, but nothing fed the intense emotions with rage and loathing. She began to breathe again, and her body shook with reaction.

  The lion hung its head, turned, and padded silently down the corridor toward the stairs leading to the lower regions of the castello. Isabella burst into tears. She turned away from the don, from the servants, with every intention of rushing to the privacy of her bedchamber, but her legs refused to carry her anywhere.