by Nancy Holder
“Who is this?” he whispered to her.
“I don’t know,” she answered nervously. “A hired man.”
“Why is he masked?”
“No one would come if either of us would be able to identify him,” she explained.
“We’ve no reason to trust him.”
“I promised more money when we reached the mainland. His greed is our only guarantee. Come inside, where no one will see us.”
She urged him down the companionway. Most of the cabin was taken up by an immense bed covered in satin, and there Maria Angelina lay down and stretched out her arms invitingly.
“It isn’t safe belowdecks,” he said unsteadily, half his attention on the boatman. “You stay here. I’ll be topside.”
The vessel rocked as the man cast off. She pulled on his hand. “Please, stay but a moment.”
He put one knee on the bed. More than that he did not dare. She was beautiful, and the bed conjured images he should not entertain: she, naked and writhing beneath him, they together doing all the things men and women do to pleasure one another. He averted his gaze and cleared his throat. “Not here. Not now.”
“Oh.” The surprise in her voice made him look at her. “You don’t want me, either. Not Xavier and not you. No one wants Maria Angelina. Old, used… mortal.”
He touched her face. His fingertips unwillingly traced her lips. He knew that love could strike a heart as quickly and unsuspectingly as a sword could take a head, but the strength and suddenness of his feeling for her, at the same time allied with his unsureness of her, was almost too much for him to take in.
“After tonight, we will be free,” she said huskily, her tongue stroking his thumb. “Love me, Duncan. If we must part tonight, I want the memory of you to carry me through my life.”
She cupped his knee. Every nerve in his body crackled.
“No,” he said.
“Yes, oh, please. Per favore.”
He turned from her. “We’re in great danger. We must be on alert.”
“You don’t want me.” Her voice was small and hurt.
“Of course I do. You’re beautiful. You’re…” He paused. “I have no poetry in me. I’m a warrior.”
“Please, don’t make me shame myself by begging.” She reached for him again. This time he caught her hand.
“Woman,” he whispered, “don’t tempt me. I’ll not have more blood on my hands. I’m a man, am I not? If you knew how hard I’m fighting not to throw you down and lift your skirt, you’d not say such things to me. I want you as I’ve wanted little else in this long life I’ve had, but more than that I want you to live. I’m going topside.”
He cupped the back of her neck and raised her face to meet his. His kiss was soul-deep, his desire blood-deep. His body sizzled, on fire as she responded to him, reaching for him again, parting her lips with a moan. It was as if her secret voice whispered to his body: Take me, do this to me, now this and this and this. Fill me. Claim me.
Aye, a hundred times, a thousand, if he could.
“Maria,” he said against her neck.
“I love you,” she urged. “I want you, amore mio.”
“I have no pretty words, in your language or any other.” He wanted to plunge into every centimeter of her, every sigh of her soul.
She put her hands around his neck. “My sigisbeo, you must never leave me. Promise me. Promise.”
He ringed her throat with kisses, her jawline, the smooth place behind her ear. “Maria.”
“Promise, on your honor.”
The hollow of her cheek, the tumult of her hair. “I shall try.”
“On your honor.” She began to recline. He caught her, held her, wanted her as he wanted nothing else.
He rasped, “On my honor.”
In a rush, he kissed her again, grabbing at her blindly, thinking of nothing but the deep, throbbing pleasure that shuddered through him, seeking release, and the sound of a name as it penetrated his heart and the pain that was there: Debra, my Debra, lost forever. My Debra.
“Alone,” he whispered against Maria Angelina’s temple.
“Ssh, hush,” she whispered. “You are no longer alone.”
For the briefest of moments, for a single heartbeat, he allowed himself to believe that. He allowed himself to melt against her softness. But then his hand sought, and found, his sword. He straightened. His heart was racing. “Later, we’ll have all the time in the world.”
“All the time God gives us,” she replied.
“No man knows his fate. I may die tonight.” Before you die, he wanted to add, marveling at the strange comfort, almost hope, it gave mortals to know that they might one day stand over his grave and weep for him. Surely, if they had ever known the Hell of that pain, they could not wish it on anyone.
Yet they did.
On themselves.
“I pray God that you do not die tonight,” she said.
“I, as well.” Now he did smile, brightening, for this moment was theirs, and the adventure of Ali’s rescue stood in the offing. “Topside,” he said.
“Ah.” She sighed. “I’ll count the minutes until we’re together again.”
He looked at her with curiosity. Did she love him truly? ‘Twas true he had loved other women, but not wisely. Could this be the woman who would bring him the joy that other men and women knew? Connor had known such a love.
And Connor still mourned its loss.
Would this lady kneel by a sword plunged deep into the ground to mark his grave, a sword only, and no cross, no angels praying for his soul? Would she give him peace, if God did not so favor His strange, outcast sons?
Or would she forget that they had ever loved?
As men like him could not?
“Signor!” the pilot shouted. “Please, it’s an attack!”
Maria Angelina gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. “No. No, it cannot be!”
“Stay here,” MacLeod said.
“What if it’s Xavier?”
“I’ll fight him. I’ll take his head.”
The hatch burst open as he flew up the companionway in two leaps and landed on the deck. His scimitar was out as he scanned the black water.
“Signor!” The pilot pointed in the distance.
The velvet sky was gray with smoke. Sparks on the horizon illuminated ships at battle; the soft thunder of cannon was muffled by the slap of water against the hull of their vessel. At hand, tranquility; at sea, chaos.
“You see! An attack!” the man said.
“Aye,” MacLeod replied, turning to him. “We must—”
His words were cut off by the sharp report of the pistol the man drew from his pocket. MacLeod fell to the deck; the other man drew another pistol, aimed squarely, and shot MacLeod in the chest.
“Vengeance, you filthy bastard,” the man said.
All thought, all feeling, all life, shattered.
Chapter Six
“All men will see what you seem to be; only a few will know what you are….”
—Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince
Here we are.
Across land and sea, we come to crush you.
We come in galleys pulled by madmen, and brigs and xebecs blown by the gale force of our lust for revenge.
We come.
There can be only one power in this ocean.
And we are here.
Venice shrieked in terror. Harlots and holy sisters and toothless grandmothers flew screaming through the streets while sailors and grandfathers rushed down to the docks for assignments to warships. Machinelike, the vessels of the Republic filled, cast off, filled, cast off. Swaggering twelve-year-olds commandeered the gondolas and swore to the Doge and St. Mark that they would consign every single Greek rebel to a watery grave.
“For the love of Our Savior, wake up, monsieur. Wake up,” Jean-Pierre shouted in his ear.
MacLeod jerked, and lived again. He touched his chest. There was no wound, although dried blood crusted his shirt.
“What th
e hell happened?” he asked as he got to his feet. The day was bright, the sun full and golden. He was aboard a heavily armed galley. Around him the air crackled with the presence of Immortals. Machiavelli’s Beauties huddled together on deck, not a handsome chess set but a raggle-taggle of frightened children.
“He has her,” Jean-Pierre said. “St. Cloud has Signora Maria Angelina.” He pointed to a brigantine on the horizon. “He put her on a galley, but he’s on that brig.”
“She approaches! God help us!” shouted a mortal crewman. The brig was coming straight for them, sails bulging.
MacLeod squinted at it, then looked around. Men were racing over the deck like mice, to no apparent purpose. “What’s wrong with the crew?”
Jean-Pierre looked away. “Sergei. Do you remember him? His head came off and… and lightning emerged. It’s a cursed ship, they are thinking.”
MacLeod pursed his lips in displeasure. “Who killed him in the presence of mortals? Don’t any of you know anything?”
“It was an accident, signor.” He hesitated. “I did it. He wanted to throw you overboard, and I challenged him.” He looked stricken, no longer a foolish, ignorant youth. “I never dreamed I would win. I just got so angry.” He crossed himself. “A mortal sin,” he whispered. “God forgive me.”
“You got the Quickening.”
His eyes were huge. “I thought I was dying. Everyone saw it.”
“Where’s the captain?”
“He abandoned ship.”
MacLeod huffed. “None’s taken his place?”
Jean-Pierre’s face was red with misery. “They pushed off from shore too quickly. They were unready.”
“And how did I come to be here?”
“I don’t know. I never made it off the island. Machiavelli returned and said everyone was putting to sea to fight off an attack. We took the gondolas and boarded this vessel. Giuletta found you in the hold only moments ago. Dead.”
“And Maria Angelina?” She had set him up. He should have known, should have realized. His desire for her had made him stupid. “The queen?” he added angrily. He stood and ripped off the blood-drenched lace of his sleeve.
“No, she was captured.”
“Don’t lie to me!” MacLeod thundered, then saw the blank look on Jean-Pierre’s face. Perhaps he truly did not know the truth.
A sailor rushed past them. MacLeod grabbed him by the back of his shirt.
“Where’s the officer in charge?”
The lad was young and chalky with terror. “Oh, sir, it’s a haunted ship. Better to drown, sir. Please let me go!”
“The brig!” someone shrieked. “She’s firing!”
There was a huge explosion, a whistling, another explosion as something hit the deck and a section of wood shot into the air.
“Get the cannon out,” MacLeod yelled. He staggered to the left. He would never have sea legs, not even in a crisis.
“Oh, mon Dieu!” Jean-Pierre cried. He clasped his hands and began to pray.
The younger lad flailed at MacLeod. “Let me go, let me go!”
“Calm yourself,” MacLeod ordered, and when it was clear the lad couldn’t, MacLeod backhanded him. “Listen to me. Get the others and roll out the cannon. We’ll live only if we take that vessel!”
The boy responded as best he could to the voice of command. “Si, signor.”
Another cannonball hit the deck. There was a sharp scream, followed by another. In the clearing smoke, two men lay maimed and bleeding.
“No, we must abandon this evil vessel! The Devil holds the tiller!” cried an old man. He pointed at Jean-Pierre. “He’s a witch!” He wore a sailor’s knit cap and ragged pants. There was no Immortality about him.
MacLeod drew his scimitar and pointed it toward heaven. He would have to sort out later how he had gotten here. Foremost was the need for immediate self-preservation.
“It’s nothing to do with curses. He’s not a witch. Prepare yourselves to fight now or you will surely die today.” To the Beauties, he said, “Have a mind for your head, and fire in your belly.”
“Si, signor,” said Giuletta, coming forward.
“Tack,” MacLeod ordered, standing with the wind as they came about and charged the other vessel. “Prepare the cannon!”
Some men wheeled out a large cannon, fed it, tamped it, and set it off. The deck reverberated. The saiis swayed.
The enemy ship came within range. “Kill the bitch!” MacLeod bellowed. “Shoot her out of the water.”
Then he saw her banner: She flew the colors of Mustafa Ali.
Onto the deck stepped Hassan, Ali’s only son. He wore a white robe and kaffiyeh, and in his hand he held an enormous scimitar twice the size of MacLeod’s.
“MacLeod, friend of my house! What are you doing?” he shouted in Arabic. “Tell them to stop!”
“Halt the attack!” MacLeod shouted, but no one heeded. “Halt!” he bellowed again. The men swarmed over him like locusts, knocking him to the deck. “It’s a trick!”
He got to his knees, and then struggled to his feet. The crew was electrified, terrified of the Turks. He grabbed the nearest man, a mortal, and shouted in his face. “Do not attack!”
“You’re mad, you’re in league with them!” The man was sobbing. “They’ll flay us alive.”
“No, they’re friends!”
The man stared at him. He pulled away and drew a pistol from his belt, aiming it straight at MacLeod. “Traitor.”
“Forgive me,” MacLeod murmured, and ran him through.
Then someone—an Immortal—severed his left Achilles tendon and stabbed him in the calf. With a shout, MacLeod lurched sideways as he wheeled to face his opponent. But the other grabbed him around the chest. Steel nicked his earlobe.
“My blade is at your neck,” Ruffio yelled into his ear.
“You bleeding whoreson.” MacLeod grunted with the pain. “Why?”
“We knew they were Turks. Seems their captain wants his papa back.”
A father’s son MacLeod was honor-bound to protect. He tensed, readying to spring.
Ruffio pricked the area beneath his jaw with the sharp point of his dagger. “Don’t move.” He put his hand over MacLeod’s mouth.
The Venetian ship approached and rammed the Turkish vessel. Struggling, MacLeod watched helplessly as the Venetian crew boarded her. One after another, Algerian sailors were run through.
With all his strength, MacLeod slammed his elbow into Ruffio’s midsection and hobbled forward. “No!”
Ruffio grabbed him around the waist and held him. “Raise your sword,” Ruffio told him. “Or as my soul rests in the bosom of the Holy Virgin, I shall kill Maria Angelina.”
“Whose bed is she in, his or yours?” MacLeod demanded. “Or both of yours?”
“Then for the sake of the boy. Raise your sword and I’ll spare Ali’s son. We know his father is your comrade. We’ve known everything about you since before you got here. My master has contacts and spies everywhere, including Algeria.” He chuckled. “I told him to use the story about St. Cloud and Maria Angelina. He didn’t like it at all. He said it would be too obvious. That it would tip you off. But he indulged me. And he gave you too much credit.”
Ruffio ran the blade along MacLeod’s flesh. “I also told Machiavelli you would never become one of us. And I was right. But if you had joined us, I would have killed you eventually. Either way, you would have died.”
Ruffio nodded and two of the Venetians grabbed Hassan. They threw him to the deck and aimed one of their swords above his neck. Hassan spoke in quick Arabic; MacLeod caught his own name. The Arabic crew took it up, chanting, “Mac-Leod! MacLeod!”
MacLeod fought to free himself. Ruffio stabbed him deeply between the shoulder blades and said, “Your head is next.”
“You’ll risk another Quickening in public?” MacLeod panted through the pain.
“I care not. We’ll be gone from Venice soon, and we’ll never come back.” He shouted, “Kill the boy!”
“Stop!” MacLeod shouted. He realized he must surrender. “On your honor, you’ll not harm him.”
“On my honor as an Italian and an Immortal.”
MacLeod hung his head and raised his sword. The Turks saw him. “Mac-Leod!” they screamed in anger. “Mac-Leod! MacLeod!”
Above the chant, a high-pitched shriek rent the sky. Something catapulted high over the heads of the fighters and thudded to the deck of the Venetian vessel with a ripe thud.
It was the head of Hassan Ali.
MacLeod threw back his head and a Highland war cry erupted from his chest. He grabbed Ruffio’s sword with his open hand. Blood gushed from his palm and all-but-severed fingers, but he was unaware of the wound as he threw himself onto Ruffio.
Instantly he was dragged off him by two other Immortals.
The Turkish vessel was heeling hard. It burst into flame. Blood and sweat mingled with the tears of frustration that streamed down MacLeod’s cheeks as he watched the vessel collapse, her crew flailing helplessly in the water.
“Who was this set up for, me or the Doge? For it’ll mean war,” he said to Ruffio.
Ruffio doubled over in laughter. “Take him below. The Doge will want to thank him for smiting our enemies today.”
All Venice rejoiced in the vanquishing of her ancient foe, the Turk, who had claimed to be on a peaceful mission to negotiate the return of the doomed spy, Ali. But they had not been peaceful at all! And no, it was not true that they had been few in number and but lightly armed. Sailors and landlubbers alike counted coup: there had been fifty ships, no a hundred, no three hundred, no, the full force of the Ottoman Empire!
At any rate, no matter; nearly all the heathens had been drowned, and the few survivors were flung into the prisons to await their sentences. Few Venetians doubted it would be an agonizing, slow death.
All the intact Venetian vessels returned to the lagoon to be strewn with roses, their crews rewarded with gold coins. Hundreds of thousands of roses filled the canals, as a thousand women lined the bridges dressed in the brilliant red of Venice and the Contarini. They dropped scented handkerchiefs and rosaries into the water as the ships sailed past. Marriages were arranged on the spot between gallant heroes and aristocrats’ daughters.
