The Demon Count

by Anne Stuart

  Sensing my unease, Jean-Baptiste smiled at me with a charm that couldn't begin to come close to the hypnotizing enchantment of the demon-count's smile. "As for your fears, cher mademoiselle, you must banish them. Luc is my friend, but I have no intention of letting him hurt such an enchanting little flower such as you."

  I didn't know how to reply to this, so I contented myself with a small, tentative smile. It was the proper gesture, for Jean-Baptiste secured my willing hand in his strong, well- manicured one and held it tightly for the rest of the trip. And try as I would to derive some small bit of comfort from the touch of his warm flesh, my heart remained stub­bornly disturbed.

  I was on my way up to my bedroom when a door on the second floor opened and Rosetta stepped out. I stopped to stare at her in amazement, my stupidly innocent mind un­comprehending why she should be so disarrayed. Her long black hair was loose and tangled around her sensuous face, her eyes were dreamy, her cheeks flushed. Her white peas­ant blouse was still undone, showing an indecent amount of her full, milky breasts, and she was barefoot. Her eyes met mine, and her full red lips curved in an insolent smirk.

  "What . . . what were you doing in there?" I stam­mered, caught off guard. The smirk broadened.

  "Those are the count's rooms," she replied.

  A hot flush mounted my pale skin and I cursed myself for being such a naive fool. "Oh," was about all I managed before taking to my heels and practically running the rest of the way up to the third floor and the sanctity of my bedroom. I was consumed with an overwhelming, burning rage that I told myself was disgust for my guardian's liber­tine propensities. The fact that it was Rosetta's eyes I wanted to scratch out and not Luc's made no difference to my rationalizations. But I couldn't control my imagination, couldn't keep myself from seeing those slender, white hands reach out and fondle Rosetta's olive skin. I slammed the door behind me as loudly as I dared and sank into an over­stuffed slipper chair, staring disconsolately out the window.

  If I would only face the truth, I would have to admit that Luc del Zaglia fascinated me for the very things that would have revolted most properly bred young ladies. His flagrant sex life should have horrified me. Instead I was filled with a burning rage that I couldn't avoid recognizing. And for a brief, cowardly moment I wished I was back in England, not so terribly beyond my depth in the mysterious and an­cient city of Venice.

  Dinner was served in my room again. Rosetta, now prop­erly attired and shod, served it, her magnificent brown eyes chastely lowered and her nasty Italian tongue miracu­lously silent.

  For my part I ignored her as best I could, sampling the plain baked chicken and polenta without much appetite. I remembered Luc's words about the wine and sniffed it ten­tatively. It smelled bitter, and I put it away from me, feel­ing restless and irritable. "I presume the count has gone out?" I finally broke down and questioned my unwilling maidservant.

  She nodded, obviously not eager to give me any more information than she had to. All right, my girl, I thought, pushing away the tray and rising. If Luc was safely out of the palazzo till near daybreak I would be damned if I would stay cooped up in my elegant prison. Reaching into my already well-stocked wardrobe I pulled out a warm wool shawl. In another moment I was out of the room and down the stairs, leaving a suddenly terrified and incoherent Rosetta babbling after me.

  The formidable Thornton was lurking about the hallways as I reached the front door. I should have known he would be on duty only when I wished the cursed fellow elsewhere. He stared down his long, thin nose at me with rampant disapproval.

  "Where, may I ask, miss, are you going? It is not at all proper for a young lady to venture out unchaperoned after dark."

  I smiled sweetly at him, but there was no softening in his pale, granitelike face, and I wondered how he could, arouse such tender feelings in Mildred Fenwick's skinny breast. "I am going for a short walk, Mr. Thornton. I will be back directly." I started forward again, but his smooth voice brought me up short.

  "May I suggest, miss, that you take Miss Fenwick along with you? Or at the very least Rosetta?"

  If he thought Rosetta would be protection along the nar­row alleyways that passed for streets in Venice he was sadly optimistic. She would more likely stab me in the back and dump me into the canals. For some odd reason she considered me a rival. I could only wish I were.

  "No, thank you," I replied politely, waiting for him to open the door for me. "I will be fine by myself."

  The man was obviously torn. His dislike of me was war­ring with his sense of propriety, not unmixed with a proba­bly healthy fear of his employer. "The count won't like it," he warned, verifying my suspicions.

  Since he couldn't make up his mind I pulled open the massive front door myself, surprised at the silence and ease with which it opened. "Blast the count," I observed sweetly, and swept out into the murky Venetian twilight.

  The freedom was delightful, a physical aura that made me feel like skipping down the cobbled alleyways in my morocco slippers. The streets were practically deserted, and a light mist was falling, accompanied by a deep fog that made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead of me. But I was too determined to wrest my bit of freedom from a tyrannical fate, and I firmly made my way toward what I hoped was the small square, or campo, that I had seen from one of the drawing-room windows. A short stroll around it and then back to the palazzo. No harm would have been done, and I would feel like a different person. I needed to feel that I could . ? .

  "Bon soir, mademoiselle," a husky voice spoke in my ear, and a burly arm went around my throat before I could cry out. "It is such a pleasure to see you, mademoiselle, after these many days. I have been waiting, watching the Palazzo del Zaglia. I knew you would venture out alone sooner or later, and I was right. And now, if you'll be to good as to come with me."

  I had no choice. I was being dragged through the fog- shrouded streets, a hand clapped over my mouth so that I could not scream, that arm still around my throat, choking me. I drummed my heels against the cobblestones, kicking at my enemy, but he seemed possessed of a superhuman strength. It is hopeless, I thought. The ghoul of Venice has gotten me, and in the dense fog no one could see us, no one could help.

  "How unfortunate that Del Zaglia did not see fit to place a better guard upon you," the man chuckled in my ear. "If he weren't so high-and-mighty, he would know that I am not a man to be crossed lightly. I saw you first, and I in­tend to have you. It was promised. Once we're back in my room it'll be too late, eh? And then what good will it do for him to rant and rave?"

  I stiffened with recognition. I had heard that voice be­fore, had felt those cruel, punishing hands on me. It was the lecherous Frenchman from the embassy. Georges, Luc had called him. I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when a particularly vicious yank slammed me against a stucco wall, dazing me. When my head cleared we were in a dark, foul-smelling stairway, with Georges dragging me up the steps regardless of my straggles. As I banged against the risers I gathered my breath to scream loudly.

  "Go ahead and scream," he offered jovially, having di­vined my intention. "Anyone who can hear you will pay no attention. I have had other women here in my rooms. Other women have screamed." He laughed, a low, incredi­bly evil laugh, as he reached the landing and kicked open the door. Flinging my aching, frightened body into the pitch-black room, he turned from me and locked the door. I lay there in a trembling huddle, wondering what in the world I could do.

  "Del Zaglia will kill you," I said bravely, struggling to rise from my ignominious position on the floor with an at­tempt at dignity. "He is not a man to be trifled with."

  "He will not dare make a scene," Georges scoffed, light­ing one of the lamps and illuminating a filthy, cluttered room that stank of sour wine, garbage, and unwashed cloth­ing. He was very drunk, but that didn't mitigate the dan­ger. He was obviously the sort that too much wine makes a little mad, and there was no reasoning with a madman.

  He swayed back and forth, staring at me out o
f feverish, swollen eyes. "Del Zaglia would not lower his aristocratic self to brawling over a woman of ill repute."

  "I am not a woman of ill repute," I said hotly. "I am his ward."

  "Is that what he calls you?" Georges snorted. "It makes no difference to me. Take off your clothes."

  "Go to hell," I snarled, rising to my feet and edging back to the door. "Do you think Del Zaglia's pride would allow him to let you take his possession? He'll rip you into pieces."

  "I doubt it," Georges spat meditatively. "But you just might be worth it." And then he lunged.

  Chapter Eleven

  If Georges had been expecting a frail little English flower he was doomed to disappointment. A proper maiden would have stood there and screamed, calling on the Lord and other sundry intangibles to deliver her. Being more practical, I made a last minute dart out of the way, so that his heavy body hit my shoulder, knocking me against the wall instead of onto the tumbled bed. A moment later he was on me, mouth slobbering at my shoulder as he ripped away my dress. I lay there passively for a moment, just long enough to lull his suspicions, then brought my knee up sharply into his groin.

  His scream brought me a great deal of satisfaction, as did his rolling over in pain, clutching himself and groaning. "I'll kill you," he panted, struggling to rise.

  "I think not," I answered pleasantly, bashing him on the head with the first thing at hand, which happened to be a full bottle of wine. The bottle broke, splashing my tormen­tor with the red stuff that mixed with the frightening amount of blood as he collapsed in a stupor on the littered floor of his room. I stood over him, panting, ready to do battle with the broken shards if need be. But the fight had gone from Georges.

  I prodded him tentatively with a foot, wondering if I had killed him. The thought didn't move me particularly, but I must confess to some relief when he moaned. Dropping the rest of the bottle on him, I quickly found my shawl, wrapped it around the remains of my dress, and ran from the room out into the streets of Venice.

  The mist had risen, making the streets once more visible. Much good it did me. In that headlong flight I had had no chance to see where Georges was dragging me, and having never been out of the palazzo except by gondola, I knew this area of Venice not at all. I remembered that it hadn't taken long for Georges to reach his filthy little room. In­deed, I probably hadn't been gone from Edentide for more than an hour. Huddling deeper into my shawl, I struck out in what I hoped was the direction of the palazzo, keeping a weather eye out for a resurrection of Georges.

  It was well over an hour later that I finally found the narrow little campo that stood a few short steps away from the Del Zaglia mansion. From the street side Edentide bore no resemblance to the palazzo I knew, and I passed it twice in the twilight before I recognized it. In my desperate search I had had to fend off the helpful suggestions of half a dozen men; three Austrian soldiers, two Venetians and a French merchant. Even now I could feel masculine eyes appraising me from a distance, and, lifting my sodden skirts, I ran the rest of the way down the alley, nearly slip­ping on the damp, slime-covered steps as I collapsed against what I hoped to God was the right door, sobbing with fright and exhaustion as I pounded helplessly against the unwelcoming portal.

  A moment later I was inside, the warmth and light mo­mentarily blinding me. I looked up to thank the unyielding Thornton, and instead met the compelling golden stare of my demon-count, who towered above me.

  "Out for a stroll, my dear Charlotte?" he murmured icily, those extraordinary eyes narrowed in fury at my dis­obedience.

  I stared up at him, feeling the color drain from my face. All my superstitions came to the fore. "I . . . I . . ." I stammered helplessly, and then compounded matters by dropping to the marble floor in a dead faint.

  I couldn't have lost consciousness for long. The next thing I knew I was being carried through the dark, damp halls of the palazzo in a strong pair of arms. I could feel the slow thump, thump of his heartbeat beneath my head and I remembered feeling a small, silly surge of relief. Surely a real vampire couldn't have anything as mundane as a beating heart.

  He kicked open the door to the west parlor. A blazing fire welcomed me, and I thought it time to bestir myself. I squirmed, but the iron bands around me only tightened. Moving across the room with effortless grace, he deposited me on the comfortable settee.

  I considered continuing my providential faint, but my curiosity got the better of me. I opened my eyes and stared up at the imposing figure of my guardian.

  The expression in his golden eyes was unreadable, but the set of his mobile mouth was not. Lucifero Alessandro del Zaglia was in an absolute fury, and I shrank back among the cushions.

  "Thank goodness you've found her!" Mildred Fenwick fluttered from the doorway, wringing those thin, clawlike hands that were now free of jewelry. "I was afraid some­thing terrible had happened."

  Luc didn't bother to raise his eyes from me. "I rather think something terrible did happen. Bring some warm wa­ter and bandages." A slender, pale hand reached out and gently pulled the shawl away from me, exposing my ripped gown, the bruises and bite marks on my shoulder.

  "Oh, my goodness!" wailed Mildred, starting into the room.

  "At once!" he ordered, not bothering to look away from me. Without another sound she vanished, leaving him to touch my aching cheek gently, bringing his hand away stained with blood. He stared at it meditatively, and I won­dered whether it whetted his appetite.

  As if he could read my absurd thoughts, his eyes met mine and he smiled, that gentle little smile that so un­nerved me. "I was about to scold you quite severely for leaving the house unescorted, but I do think you have learned your lesson, poveretta." He reached out once more and smoothed the tangle of blond curls away from my face. "Haven't you?"

  I was caught like a rat in a trap. "Yes," I whispered, aching for him to continue touching me, continue soothing away the terror and upset of the last few hours. A moment later Mildred was back, followed closely by Maddelena.

  "What has happened?" the latter demanded in Italian, eyeing me with surprising concern.

  "I have yet to find out, Maddelena," he answered. In English he said, "I will take care of my ward alone, thank you, ladies. If you could see that a bath is brought to her room, and a fire laid, I'm sure she'd be very grateful. Wouldn't you, my dear?" Still caught by his inexorable will, I nodded, watching them leave me in his clutches with a wave of desperation. I didn't know if I could bear to have those slim, sensual hands ministering to me. Luc del Zaglia knew far too much about arousing women. I fancied he knew very well that his touch on my face was exciting rather than soothing me, and was doing it deliberately.

  He dipped a cloth in the warm water, touching it to my face with a gentle hand. "And now, mia Carlotta, you will tell me who did this to you, and what exactly happened."

  I hesitated, sensing beneath his tender care of me a deep, killing fury that I was terrified of arousing. But I knew he would have the truth from me sooner or later, and it would go easier with me if I told him what he wanted to know. "The man from the French embassy," I said after a long moment. "Georges. I don't even know his last name."

  "Martin." He gave it the French pronunciation. "Not that it matters. He won't have it for long." And I knew from that soft voice that I had signed his death warrant. "Continue."

  In as few words as possible I told him of Georges's ab­duction in the campo, the long haul to his rooms, the fight therein. A small laugh escaped him as I recounted the effi­cacy of my knee, all the while he was carefully washing away traces of blood from my face and neck, his hands seeming to caress my skin, the bloodstone ring shining in the candlelight, hypnotizing me.

  "And then I hit him over the head with the wine bottle and escaped." I finished, my breath suddenly constricted as he pulled the torn gown away from my shoulder, exposing even more of my breasts than the indecent gown had. Luc, however, seemed unmoved, and I supposed he had seen a great many women in far less clothing than I was wea
ring.

  "How very resourceful of you, little one," he murmured. "Did you kill him?"

  "I don't think so," I confessed. "There seemed to be a great deal of blood. I rolled him over to see if he was dead, but he groaned a bit. So I left him there."

  "How unfortunate. It would have saved me a bit of trou­ble. I shall have to kill him myself, then." This was said so casually that I barely took in the meaning.

  I sat up quickly, holding my tattered dress against me. "Must you?" I questioned. "A severe beating would do just as well, wouldn't it?"

  "Such a violent child. No, a severe beating would not be at all the thing. It would only enrage the man further, so that he would be obliged to try to kill either you and/or me at the first chance. Besides, I shall enjoy killing him. Your tender heart does you credit, mia Carlotta, but I'm afraid I can't allow myself to be swayed."

  "He doesn't need to die!" I insisted, chilled. "He . . . he didn't rape me, he only tried. Surely you could show a little mercy?"

  "Do you think he would have shown you any mercy?" he questioned coldly, throwing the cloth back into the wa­ter with a splash. "And are you certain you knocked him unconscious before and not after the fact? English girls are notoriously innocent; perhaps you didn't realize what he was doing, eh?"

  A deep flush flooded my face. "I am not quite a fool. I would know if I had been . . . had been . . ." the words failed me and Luc's lip curled in silent amusement. He was so damnably close to me that I couldn't think straight, couldn't talk straight.

  "Perhaps," he said, running his hand along my neck, the skin burning mine, "I should find out. Just to set our minds at rest." His head bent down toward mine, and I shut my eyes, waiting for the feel of his mouth on mine.

  It never came. A moment later I felt him move away in a sudden rush. I opened my eyes to see him standing by the balcony overlooking the Grand Canal, his back to me, while Mildred Fenwick, unaware of the devastating scene she had interrupted, fluttered around me with wringing hands and chirping noises.