The Demon Count

by Anne Stuart

  "Little one, do not look at me like that," he pleaded, a note of laughter in his voice. "I couldn't resist; you looked so gullible. I had no idea you would faint."

  His words made no sense. "Am I dead?" I decided to ask with great practicality.

  He pulled the compress away, and I could see faint traces of blood on the wet cloth. Dipping it into the basin and wringing it out before reapplying it to my neck, he kept his eyes averted. I squirmed as the icy material touched my skin, and reached out to capture his hand. That was one of many mistakes.

  "Am I dead?" I repeated, holding onto his hand like a lifeline.

  He smiled, that sad, bewitching smile. "No, little one, of course not. I let my wicked temper and my even worse sense of humor get the better of me. You were staring up at me, convinced I was all sorts of fiends, and I decided to prove you were right. I only meant to scare you." He looked truly repentant, an unusual expression of Luc del Zaglia. Repentance and something else played over his ex­pressive countenance.

  Without another word I let go of his hand, sitting up abruptly, determined to leave the bedroom. I was uncere­moniously pushed back against the pillows. Luc's contri­tion hadn't lasted long.

  "Where do you think you're going?" he asked, and a shiver rand down my backbone.

  I struggled against his hand, fury and embarrassment fighting for control. "To my room, of course. You've had your amusement at my expense. I want to leave."

  "My dear child," he said sweetly, tossing the compress in a corner and bending over me, "I have not yet had my amusement with you. You are going to stay in this room until I send you away, and you will not leave a moment sooner."

  As I looked up into his hooded, topaz eyes there was no mistaking his meaning. But I was still unable to grasp it. "You . . . you don't want me," I stammered stupidly. "I spent the entire night with you already and you didn't touch me."

  A mocking grin twisted his lips for a moment. "I was, for once, a gentleman. You were cold and frightened, mia Carlotta, and I didn't want to take advantage of you."

  "And now?" I demanded, a small knot of dread inside me warring with another, unspeakable reaction to his near­ness. "I'm still cold and frightened."

  He shrugged. "I can wait no longer for you, little one. You have precipitated things with your meddling and spying. I must leave at dawn, but not before I've taken from you what's rightfully mine."

  Panic burst forth in me. "You're wrong. I'm . . . I'm no longer a virgin. Mark deflowered me weeks ago!" I added triumphantly, hoping he'd believe me.

  He shook his head, amused. "I'm not interested in your virginity, my love. I had expected as much. What I am going to take from you," he said, leaning down and brush­ing his lips across my forehead, "and what you're going to give to me," his lips gently touched the wound on my neck, "is your love." And his mouth took possession of mine.

  I felt as if I were drowning, drowning, with his mouth on mine, his tongue invading me, drowning and never wishing to surface. A part of me had wanted this since I first saw him. I had longed for him, been terrified of him, hated him. And damn me for a fool, I loved him.

  As if by my own volition my arms were around his neck, pulling him down to me as I answered his mouth, inex­pertly, to be sure, but with all the passion my young and ardent body was capable of. His hands were deft and gentle on my flesh, slowly and sensuously depriving me of Roset­ta's baggy clothes before I even knew it, before I could summon some vestige of protest at his expert handling of me. I lay naked on his bed, the candlelight casting a golden glow over my slender body that was matched by the glow in his eyes as he lay beside me. My heart was pound­ing wildly as he leaned down and traced the smooth surface of my skin with his mouth, his hands running along the sleek lines of my hips, his breath coming more rapidly now, matching my own desperate excitement. I knew I must be mad, to let him take me like this, but I didn't care. I moved underneath his probing hands, sighing with surprised de­light only slightly clouded with the thought of all the women and all the years that had taught him how to plea­sure one so.

  "Little one," he whispered in my ear, his tongue sending little shivers of delight through me. Obediently I followed where he led, mindless, thoughtless, a slave to the wild pas­sion he was arousing in me. His skin was a pale, warm tan all over, like liquid gold, and I touched it with loving won­der, awed that he should have chosen me.

  His hands moved lower. Vainly I protested, but he was inexorable, and in truth I didn't want to deny him, to deny myself. The first peak of pleasure took me by surprise, fol­lowed by a second, and then a third, so that I was sobbing against his chest, clutching at him in my need.

  "Please," I whispered, not knowing what I was begging, not caring, only wanting him so that I thought I should die. He smiled down at me, no longer demoniacal, his topaz eyes warm with love and tenderness as he kissed me gently, his mouth fastening on mine and deepening as he moved over and covered me

  As he felt me relax beneath him he began to move, slowly at first, then more rapidly as he felt me responding.

  A long time later he moved away from me, still holding me close against his chest where I hid my face, content to hide from him, from myself, from the world. Now he knew that neither Mark nor any other man had ever had me, and I clung to him, uncertain of his response. But Luc was not one to let me take the easy way out. When my helpless little sobs had ceased, a gentle hand came under my chin, drawing me up to face him with tear-stained cheeks.

  "Such a liar," he said gently, wiping away a tear with one long-fingered hand. "You are such a terrible child, I can't imagine why I love you."

  My heart seemed to stop, then start all over again, beat­ing against my ribcage as if it would break through. "What?" I whispered, not believing my ears.

  He smiled, that same mocking, loving smile that so de­stroyed me, but he wouldn't repeat the words, so that I doubted I'd heard right. Instead he drew me back into the shelter of his arms, holding me like a child, until we both slept.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The night passed far too swiftly. A few hours later he awoke me with a tray of hot, steaming soup and crusty bread.

  "You probably haven't eaten in days," he smiled at me with that new, loving smile so devoid of mockery.

  I watched him out of silent eyes, unmoving, both shy and wary at this new side of the formidable Luc del Zaglia. "Come," he said, placing the tray beside me on the rum­pled bed. He was dressed in a pair of sleek, close-fitting black breeches, a snowy shirt hanging loose and unbut­toned around his tanned torso. His black hair was rumpled and his feet were bare. It was this last that suddenly loosed the hold on my tongue fright and timidity had placed there. I smiled up at him, a blush suffusing my pale skin as my eyes met his wicked golden ones.

  "I can think of a great many things I would rather do than eat," he murmured, one long, thin hand tracing my neck with a light touch that sent shivers of delight through my responsive body. "But Maddelena is already fiercely disapproving, and it was all I could do to beg this from her."

  I struggled to gather my wits about me, sitting up with the linen sheet clasped demurely around my nude body. "Maddelena?" I questioned, reaching for the soup with sur­prising hunger. "What about Mrs. Wattles? And the other servants?"

  He shrugged, watching me eat with quiet amusement. "They have all decamped, all but Maddelena. And Anto­nio, of course. Apparently the word has traveled very quickly around Venice. My arrest is imminent. The Austri- ans now have proof that I've been working diligently for their overthrow for the last ten years."

  I had the grace to blush in guilt and shame. "Arrest?" I echoed, the spoon halfway to my mouth. "Should you still be here?"

  He smiled, and I blushed again. "No, little one, I should not. Which is Maddelena's contention. But I know Von Wolfram and his cohorts better than they know themselves. First light will be soon enough." He reached out and took a piece of bread from the tray, nibbling at it with desultory attention. "It is just as well the
noble Thornton left with his female accomplices. I would rather not have to avoid their prying eyes when I leave this morning."

  "They were stealing from you," I ventured.

  "I know that quite well. It suited me to have it so. It kept them occupied and it cost me little enough. However, I did not go so far as to let them leave with the contents of my mother's jewelry box. Maddelena very cleverly substi­tuted a bag full of costume jewelry for the real thing. I Imagine Thornton will be quite chagrined when he tries to arrange passage out of Venice with the proceeds from those trumpery pieces.

  "I was able to discover, poveretta, that it was Mildred who threw you in the canal. Apparently you had stumbled upon their secret cache during one of your many searches, and she panicked."

  "Poor Mildred," I sighed, leaning back. "Life cannot have been very pleasant for her. I can't say I'm not glad they're gone, though."

  He took another piece of bread and sopped it in the dregs of the soup. He met my quizzical expression cu­riously. "What is wrong?"

  I found that I, too, could shrug. "It's just that I've never seen you eat before."

  He laughed. "Maddelena would bring me meals during the day. I used to watch you, staring at me out of those great blue eyes of yours as I drank my way through meals. You were so delightfully transparent." He reached out and moved the tray from the bed. I could feel my heart pound­ing beneath the sheets as I watched him, the shadows cast by the candlelight playing over his tall, lean form.

  "Shouldn't you escape now?" I asked again. "Holger hates you—he isn't going to let you go easily."

  He blew out one of the candles, turned to me and smiled. "Yes, Carlotta Theresa Sabina," he murmured tenderly. "I should leave. But I have no intention of doing so a moment before I am ready to. It is only just after midnight. I have a great deal I want to do before dawn." And he leaned down and pulled the sheet away from me with deliciously slow deliberation.

  It was the sunlight that awoke me next. It was streaming in the shuttered balcony door, casting slats of light across my lover's face. I savored the word. As I lay beside him, trying not to waken him, I was conscious of many things. The first was my body, which ached in every muscle, every nerve ending, and yet had never felt so alive. I shut my eyes and reveled in the sense of completeness, of physical well-being that was at direct odds with the sudden onrush of overwhelming terror. It was way past dawn, and Luc was still here.

  I opened my eyes and met his solemn golden ones, glowing in the early morning sunlight as he watched me. A slow smile curved his lips.

  "You should be gone," I whispered. "It's late."

  "True enough," he replied, stretching like a well-rested cat. I alone knew how little rest he had had. "You have worn me out, little one." With one lithe move he was out of bed, staring out the crack in the shutters with an unreada­ble expression on his face. "Let us hope it is not too late."

  He turned back to me, and gone was the tender yet fierce demon-lover of the night before. "You will do several things for me, Carlotta," he said abruptly, pulling on his clothes.

  I nodded obediently, trying to shut my mind to the overwhelming fact that he was leaving.

  "You will meet with your handsome young Englishman today, as you have arranged." He ignored my gesture of repudiation. "You will leave Venice with him on the ship he has arranged, and you will marry him as you have planned."

  All trace of languor had gone, and all trace of love, I told myself, staring at him in sullen rage. "I can take care of my own life, thank you," I said icily, casting about me for some remnant of last night's clothing. I came up with the shift Luc had worn, and I drew it around me with a chilly dignity.

  He watched me gravely. "I am still your guardian, little one. Ferland is safe, secure, and he obviously loves you. You would be well advised to do as I say."

  "And how will you enforce your will?" I snapped back, determined to let my anger keep the tears away. "I most certainly will marry Mark, if he'll have me after you . . . you dishonored me!" The phrase sounded ridiculous in my ears, so far removed was it from the night I had just spent. Luc apparently thought so too, for a small laugh escaped him, which inflamed me even more. I jumped out of the bed, pulling the silky folds of his shirt around me to pre­serve what shred of modesty I had left. "Damn you to hell," I spat at him. "I hope Holger catches you and hangs you."

  "He may very well do that," he replied calmly, and the awful truth of that remark struck me dumb. I stared at him in shocked silence, the tears slipping down my face.

  And suddenly I was in Luc's arms, sobbing with fright and anguish, my words incoherent. And through my tears I thought I heard the sound of soldiers outside Edentide. But it was still too early, it must be my tortured imagination.

  He scooped me up, holding my frail, shivering body against him as he carried me across the room. A moment later we were in that little closet I had been imprisoned in just a few short days ago. It seemed like centuries. He put me down on the bed with great gentleness. He stood up, looking at me with a tender, loving expression that made me weep even more. He put one hand out to brush the tangled hair away from my forehead, and I grabbed it like a lifeline.

  "Don't leave me," I begged brokenly, foolishly.

  He took a deep breath, and suddenly he was beside me, on me, in me, taking me with a force and a loving brutality that sent me deeper into ecstasy tempered with despair. It was almost over before it had begun, and as I lay panting in his arms, trying to regain my tremulous control, his voice whispered in my ear.

  "That is my seed within you, little one. Make sure Fer­land brings up my bastard well." He pulled away from my clinging arms abruptly. "I would wish that you would make your home in Somerset," he added softly. "I have always had a fondness for that country, and it would please me to think of you living among those rolling green hills."

  I heard him move to the door, and I shut my eyes, unable to bear watching him leave me. "Maddelena will let you out, mia Carlotta," he said, shutting the door behind him with a tiny click. I jumped up, running to the door and beating on it. It was no use, I was locked in.

  I thought I heard him whisper from behind that heavy barrier. "Do not forget me, little one." And then the door to his room slammed shut, and I knew he was gone.

  Suddenly other noises intruded in my ringing ears, noises more ominous than anything I had heard so far. I rushed to the narrow window, straining to see into the narrow street below. And all I could see was the white and gold uniforms of the Imperial Austrian Army. As I watched them mill around through dazed, dry eyes, I was suddenly aware of something clutched tightly in my fist. I opened my cramped fingers and saw Luc's bloodstone ring.

  Hours, long, long hours later the door to my prison opened slowly. My eyes met the tear-ravaged countenance of Maddelena. "They have taken him," she said slowly, painfully. "He never had a chance. They have taken him to the New Prisons and they will execute him as a spy."

  And something cold and hard formed within my breast, a pain so deep and terrible that not even tears could as­suage it. I met Maddelena's accusing expression dry-eyed.

  "Then we must get him out," I said defiantly. "Some­how, some way, we must get him out."

  That, of course, was impossible for two women. I pleaded with Holger that afternoon, but to no avail. He merely smirked at me with open contempt and lasciviousness, the cruel expression in his ice-blue eyes promising worse to come. Jean-Baptiste answered none of my desper­ate missives, and all attempts to visit Luc proved useless. I returned to the palazzo at dusk, exhausted and in despair. It was not with any great joy that I greeted the news that Mark was awaiting me in the small salon.

  I moved slowly down the hall, aching in every part of my body and soul. If I thought it would have done any good I would have fled upstairs and avoided him com­pletely. But there was always the chance that Mark could undo the terrible wrong he had done. I opened the door and stood there, cold and still.

  "Darling!" He rushed across the room and folde
d me into his sturdy embrace. "I came as soon as I heard. They have taken Del Zaglia?"

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Sensing my deep unhappiness, Mark drew away and looked down at me, his strong hands resting lightly on my arms. "And you blame me, my darling. You have every right to. If it weren't for my stupidity everything would have been all right. Some­one must have been watching me for weeks, and I had no notion. I had just finished decoding the papers when some­one hit me on the back of the head. When I awoke the papers were gone." Gingerly he rubbed the back of his head, wincing slightly to illustrate his point. "And it was all for nought. He was on our side—one of us. Word reached me from Lord Bateman this morning. Luc del Zaglia is a well-concealed patriot, not a traitor to Venice and his own people. He'd been working with our people for years, but of course they never bothered to tell me that." He sounded plainly disgruntled. "If only I'd known!"

  "And now we are both responsible for a brave man going to his death," I said numbly, moving away from him to stand by the window. The dark green waters moved sluggishly beneath me, and numbly I wondered what it would be like to slip back into those chill, dark depths. "Mark, we must do something!"

  "Charlotte, my dearest, I know. But what can we do? I have tried to talk with Von Wolfram, even had the English ambassador intervene. But it is useless. They mean to make an example of Del Zaglia, and nothing anybody does or says will make any difference. I doubt even the king could interfere!"

  "Then he will die," I said dully. I could feel my aching body folded into Mark's comforting embrace, and I resisted only for a moment. I was so very tired.

  "There is nothing we can do, my dear. Do not grieve so. It seems very likely that he was the ghoul of Venice. If he doesn't deserve to die for his political activities, he certainly does for his fiendish murders."