Peasants and Kings

by Emma Slate

  I sat up most of the night, the balcony doors open, listening to the sounds of the countryside. It was a complete departure from the noises of Hadrian’s island, I mused.

  No ocean waves, no impending storm.

  The tempest had come and destroyed everything already. There was nothing left.

  As I closed my eyes and let the moonlight bathe my face, I imagined Hadrian’s hard, naked body curling around mine.

  As soon as Beatrice had arrived, I’d been told to go to my room so that I could be measured for my wedding dress and trousseau. It had taken all of my willpower not to vomit or spew nasty words at the woman who cinched a measuring tape to my waist and bust.

  My aunt was a short, no-nonsense woman who’d become the matriarch of the family after Angelo’s wife had passed away. She planned the weddings, orchestrated the baptisms, holidays, and other family gatherings.

  My wedding to Raphael would happen.

  I’d pled a headache and escaped dinner. They didn’t need me to enjoy meals, so long as I didn’t fight the wedding planning.

  I thought of my mother. How strange it all was—I had wound up in the home she’d grown up in, and I was engaged to the man she was supposed to marry.

  Every ounce of anger I’d held onto where she was concerned evaporated. As my hand settled on my belly, I understood her. I understood all of it. She’d done everything in her power to protect me.

  My soul split open and I wept for the woman who’d given me everything. I forgave her for the impossible choices she’d had to make in order to survive, in order to ensure I had survived.

  “I’m so sorry, Mama,” I whispered.

  A breeze brushed past my cheek and I closed my eyes, pretending it was a caress from her.

  Pretending we’d been able to make amends while she’d been alive.

  The breakfast tray arrived almost the moment I opened my eyes. They were gritty from lack of sleep, but I gladly took the discomfort. I’d laid my past to rest the night before, and in the light of day, I felt restored.

  After placing the tray on the balcony, the servant left. I got up, waiting for the bout of morning sickness to pass.

  I hoped Raphael had failed.

  I went to eat my breakfast on the balcony. If only I wasn’t a prisoner, I might’ve enjoyed the view. If only I could pretend I was a pampered guest, not a bartering chip.

  There was a knock on the bedroom door, and despite my predicament, I smiled. It was Gisella, no doubt.

  “Come in,” I called.

  My smile died when I saw that it was Luca.

  “Oh good, you’re here,” I said snidely, turning away from him. “I would like to enjoy my breakfast alone, please.”

  He didn’t address my snark when he came to my side and sat down in the chair next to me. In a bold gesture, he reached over to my plate and picked up the half-eaten pastry and took a huge bite.

  “So, this is where all the sfogliatella have gone. Does the cook have a soft spot for you?” he asked, smiling.

  My eyes narrowed. I didn’t appreciate his charm, now that I knew what lie beneath it.

  “Why are you here?” I demanded.

  “I wanted to tell you that Raphael and his immediate family will arrive the day before the wedding. The servants have already started airing out the guest rooms.”

  “Lovely,” I said, my tone as scathing as I could make it. “I can’t wait to see my fiancé again.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask Luca what he knew about Raphael’s first wife, but I didn’t expect him to tell me the truth. Nor did I think it was a wise idea to alert him that I had an ally in their midst, one of their own.

  Gisella was mine to protect, and at the moment, her friendship was the only thing keeping me from going stark raving mad.

  “Tor told me he took you to the sanctuary last night.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Yeah. It was so interesting seeing the Moretti men through the generations.”

  “I can tell by your cynicism that you could give a fuck about your own legacy.”

  “Well, you’re no dummy, Luca. I’ll give you that.”

  I looked away from him to stare out across the balcony. I loathed the beauty and serenity here. It was nothing but a mockery.

  “You’ll be expected to join us for meals when Raphael is here.” His edict shattered whatever tranquility I’d managed to hold onto.

  “I serve at the pleasure of the Moretti,” I drawled. “I’d bow, but that would mean standing. If that’s all, you can leave.” I lifted the cup of tea to my lips in supreme dismissal.

  “That’s not all,” he said. “I know you’re holding out hope that Hadrian will come for you, but he won’t.”

  “Goodbye, Luca.”

  His gaze remained trained on me, scanning both of my eyes.

  “I knocked him unconscious with a simple tranquilizer, Sterling. I guarantee you it wore off in just a few hours, even for a man his size. I didn’t kill him. If he was going to come for you, he would have already. He doesn’t love you.”

  I couldn’t stop my heart from staggering in my chest. But I refused to give this man, this Moretti, the pleasure of thinking he could control the outcome of the situation.

  A beastly grin spread across my face. “If you believed that, Luca, you wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of coming here and saying a word about it.” I leaned forward in his direction. “You’re not a man who’s used to fear, but you fear Hadrian’s wrath. I can see it in your eyes… Like I said, you’re no dummy.”

  He rose gracefully to his feet and headed for the door. Just when I thought he was going to leave without replying, he stopped and said, “You keep reiterating you’re not a Moretti, but even now, with your back to the wall, you won’t admit defeat. You’re a Moretti through and through.”

  The click of the door told me I was finally alone.

  I gripped the priceless, delicate teacup between my fingers, the handle snapping off in my hand.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  That night, Nico arrived with his four sons to stay at The White Company home. I watched Nico interact with his wife. There was genuine affection between them, and even though they physically didn’t look like they belonged together—Nico was tall and slender while Beatrice was short and round—they had the kind of relationship that came from years together raising children. Their sons were strapping young men with olive colored skin and dark eyes. They looked like they’d have been more at home plowing a field than wearing suits in a formal dining room, but from their bold features there was no doubt that they were the next generation of Moretti.

  “No wonder the Moretti marry off their daughters,” I said to Gisella that night as we walked into my bedroom. “They’re so few and far between. The Moretti spawn boys like it’s their job.”

  Gisella grinned and helped me pull back the covers of the bed, removing the accent pillows and moving them to the chair in the corner. “You would think they’d revere us more, instead of using us as puppets.”

  “You’d think,” I agreed dryly.

  I thought of the baby I carried. Hadrian and I hadn’t discussed having a family—our relationship had just begun. But I couldn’t ever imagine him marrying off his daughter to solidify an alliance.

  I looked at the young woman who’d been unfailingly kind to me. Most of the time, I forgot that we were cousins or that almost a decade separated us. I gazed at her for a moment, biting my lip and turning pensive.

  She stared back at me. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  I walked to the bedroom door and turned the lock, hoping for a bit of privacy. I waved her to the bed and then followed. She slipped off her heels and then curled her legs underneath her when she took a seat.

  “I feel like I can trust you,” I said to her, pitching my voice low to ensure that in case anyone was walking by, they would only hear the muted murmurs of conversation.

  She nodded. “You can. I’m really—I’m sorry for the rea
son you’ve come here, but I’m glad I’ve gotten a chance to meet you.”

  I grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Do you want to stay here and live this life, Gisella?”

  Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, do you want your family to decide who you marry and for what reason?”

  “I don’t have a choice, Sterling.”

  “Yes, you do.” I took a deep breath. “When Hadrian comes for me, I’ll have him pay restitution to your family or whatever to—”

  Her expression hardened, making her look older. “You’re delusional if you think that. What happened when my father found out you existed? You—half Moretti, with tainted blood. If Hadrian thought that he had enough money and power to save you from this, then he was wrong. My father will not let me marry a commoner, or even a powerful Italian of my own choosing. Don’t you get it? We don’t have a choice. We’re women.”

  Gisella stood up, visibly upset. She scrambled to pick up her shoes. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Sterling, but I think you’re not fully aware of the situation you’re in. Hadrian isn’t coming for you. Based on everything you’ve told me about him, he would’ve been here already. So, what happened to him? Think about that and be honest with yourself.”

  There were only two options: He’d decided not to come for me, or he was dead.

  When she saw my face, she nodded. “Exactly. You get it now. I admire your unwavering belief in him. I do. But really, Sterling. At this point you’re just being foolish.”

  She took her heels and went to the door. “Raphael is coming here in a few days. Hadrian isn’t coming to save you, and your child…accept the truth.”

  Gisella went to leave and then turned the lock and opened the door. Before she headed out, she threw me a look over her shoulder.

  Pity.

  A sixteen-year-old girl pitied me.

  After the door shut, I took a moment to myself. Whispering to hear the sound of my own voice I said, “I’m not delusional. He’s coming.” I slid a hand across my stomach and looked down. “He’ll come for us both. You’ll see.”

  Days passed in a whirlwind of morning sickness and wedding plans. I kept to my room, refusing Gisella’s overtures of friendship.

  I felt stupid for confiding in a teenager—not because I thought she’d blab to her father about what I’d said, but because I couldn’t stand the naked sorrow on her face every time she saw me.

  It only strengthened my resolve.

  Maybe I was delusional. But if I didn’t have faith that Hadrian would show up and save me, then I had to contemplate the horrors of marrying Raphael Foscari.

  The day before the wedding finally arrived, and there was still no sign of Hadrian.

  I graced the stone steps of The White Company mansion, flanked by Luca and Tor. Angelo and Nico stood above me at the crest of the short staircase. We appeared a united front as the Foscari band arrived.

  A line of black town cars drove up the long driveway and Raphael was the first one to climb out. I made no move to step down and greet him. Fear curled through me.

  With a not-so-subtle prod from Angelo, I slowly descended the stone steps to approach Raphael.

  I wasn’t physically strong enough to handle a man like him, and he’d already tried and convicted me of my mother’s crimes. On top of that, I would marry him with another man’s child in my belly.

  With that realization, I knew what my future held. He’d ensure I lost this baby, impregnate me as soon as he could, and when I gave him his desired heir, he would find a way to get rid of me.

  When I stopped in front of him, he reached out and grasped my hand, pulling me to his side. His touch wasn’t gentle, and I had to stop myself from flinching. “I’ve missed you, mia dolce.”

  I swallowed my revulsion and forced a docile smile.

  We walked up to the steps of the mansion. Raphael held out his palm to greet Angelo. Angelo took Raphael’s arm in his grasp, but his jaw was clenched taut from my obvious reluctance to greet my fiancé.

  Raphael’s three younger brothers had come with him. After the introductions were made, we all went to the salon to partake of refreshments.

  Conversation was stilted and formal. Gisella shot me another commiserating smile that I ignored.

  “You’re looking pale,” Raphael said, reluctantly pulling my attention from surveying the room. His hand was tight on my elbow as he steered me to a corner where we had a bit more privacy. “Are you still carrying that reprobate’s baby?”

  I brought a glass of chilled water to my lips and nodded, unable to speak the words.

  His gaze remained passive. “Pity. Would you like to hear about your new home?” Without waiting for my answer, he went on, “I have a place a few hours from Venice. Have you ever been?”

  I shook my head.

  He took my hand and stared at it, his thumb skimming over the delicate bones of my wrist. “I have a townhouse in the city. I’ll take you there. We’ll eat fresh seafood and watch the boats pass all day long. We’ll drink wine and sunbathe on my terrace. I’ll show you where Marco Polo lived, and we’ll walk through the square of the Basilica di San Marco. You’ll breathe in the beauty of Venice in all its glory. And when the leaning bell towers chime in unison on Sunday, you’ll know you’re in one of the greatest cities in the world. I’ll take you there the morning after our wedding night—after the doctor I’ll have waiting at my home removes any trace of that Scottish bastard from your womb.”

  He took a step closer, his hand crushing my fingers. “And when you’re healed, I will take you morning, noon, and night, and you will cry out that you love it.”

  I couldn’t stop the bile from surging up my throat, but if I embarrassed myself by vomiting on Raphael, there would surely be hell to pay when we were alone, away from the watchful eyes of my family.

  “Excuse me,” I whispered. “I need to use the restroom.”

  Raphael’s grip tightened a fraction and then he released me.

  I set my glass of water down on a coaster that would protect the antique table’s varnish and headed for the door.

  Luca was standing by the exit, talking with one of Raphael’s brothers when he noticed my movements. “Where are you going, cousin?”

  “I need to use the restroom,” I said, far more calmly than I felt.

  Luca’s gaze searched my face and then darted to Raphael. He slowly stepped out of my path, clearing the way for me.

  I didn’t look behind me as I all but ran from the room. No doubt I would’ve seen the sickening twist of Raphael’s lips.

  When I made it to the privacy of my bathroom, I closed the door and slid down against it. I brought my legs up to my chest and rested my forehead on my knees.

  And then I wept.

  Because on the morrow, I would marry a monster.

  And Hadrian hadn’t come.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Blazing torches guarded the patio while we dined alfresco. The table was laden with a cream-colored tablecloth and white bone china. I sat next to Raphael while servants poured us wine from the Moretti vineyards.

  Conversation was lively and everyone was boisterously animated—everyone except me.

  Raphael’s menacing presence dampened any chance I might’ve had of enjoying the meal. The toasts began after the main course was cleared. Every male stood and raised a glass to the joining of the Moretti and Foscari families by marriage, a calculated ending to years of strife between them.

  Dessert was served. I kept my gaze trained on my plate so I didn’t have to see the smiles resulting from my sacrifice.

  Lost in inner turmoil, I flinched when I felt Raphael’s hand settle on my thigh in a possessive hold underneath the table.

  When Lorenzo, Raphael’s brother, stood to make the final toast of the evening, Raphael’s fingers wandered toward the apex of my thighs.

  I instinctively clamped my legs together, but my unwillingness only made Raphael intensify his effort. It
was clear that he wouldn’t stop until he had what he wanted.

  As his brother droned on in Italian, Raphael’s gaze shifted and momentarily rested on me. He arched a brow and we silently battled.

  With a shaky exhale, I unclenched.

  Raphael’s smile was triumphant, and he was so consumed with thoughts of touching me, he didn’t notice when I grabbed my dessert fork. Lifting the edge of the tablecloth so that I could see his hand, I jabbed the utensil into the fleshy skin between his thumb and forefinger.

  Raphael snatched his hand back and recoiled away from me in an instinctive full body retreat, causing his knee to hit the underside of the table with a dense thud. Glasses trembled and liquid sloshed; silverware clattered against china.

  His reaction caused Lorenzo to stop mid-speech, and everyone at the table turned to look in our direction. I picked off the corner of the lemon ricotta cake and stuck it in my mouth.

  “Delicious,” I murmured and then smiled.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Raphael’s jaw clench. I looked at him. “Is it not to your liking, my love?” I purred. “Try the chocolate raspberry torte. It might be more your style.”

  Raphael struggled to maintain control of his emotions. Eventually the color in his face returned to normal. He smirked at me. Only his eyes betrayed the truth, and they promised retribution when we were alone again.

  My bladder was full, but I refused to leave the table. I would not give Raphael the chance to corner me.

  Angelo must have sensed something was out of place and finally interrupted Lorenzo by rising and saying, “Gentlemen, I think it’s time we retreat to the sanctuary for amaro and cigars.”

  One by one the men stood and left the table. Raphael rose and then leaned down to whisper in my ear before he left. “Sleep well, mia dolce. Tonight will be the last night you sleep alone.”

  He brushed his lips against my cheek and then followed Nico inside.

  I shuddered in loathing.

  Only Beatrice, Gisella, and I remained. The Foscari hadn’t brought any wives or female relatives to the celebration. It only emphasized how little they valued their women.