by Nora Roberts
Claire just stood there, shaking her head, unable to speak a single word.
Whatever would have happened next, she would never know. While she struggled with her emotions, Count Ludovici returned to the salon. He stopped halfway across the room when he saw their faces. Not even his Old World manners were enough to overcome the awkwardness.
“Forgive me. I have intruded on a private moment.” He started to withdraw.
Val stopped him. “Not at all.” He looked away from Claire. “We’ve said all there is to say between us.”
Which seemed to be correct. She couldn’t think of a word to utter.
Val held out his hand to the older man. “Thank you for your hospitality and cooperation, Count Ludovici. I’ll send the proofs to you as soon as possible. Meanwhile, I’d best be on my way. I have a plane to catch.”
“I wish you a safe journey, then.”
With a cordial smile for his host and a nod to Claire, he walked out of her life.
7
CLAIRE LOOKED IN the beveled Venetian mirror above the console table. The silvered glass reflected the ghost of the immature girl she had been, but it was fading fast.
Val had never lied to her. She’d lied to herself.
She’d been shunted from pillar to post during her early years, unwanted and unloved, except by her taciturn grandfather. And later by Val.
She’d been so hungry for love that she had starved it with her neediness. Now it was too late. He was gone for good.
The image in the mirror blurred as she viewed it through tears. She had put all the blame on Val. Yes, he’d been selfish at times. She hadn’t had a lot of inner resources to fall back on then. Hadn’t known how to be alone without being lonely. And so, instead of trying to find a common ground, she’d set about trying to change things.
No, her inner voice told her with the cool reasoning of adulthood. You only tried to change him. To clip his wings and keep him by your side.
Sighing, Claire rolled onto her back and watched the rippling lights dance across the ceiling in endless, fascinating patterns. It was true. She’d been immature and selfish, sure that if he loved her enough he would let her remold him into her perfect romantic vision of what a husband should be. Maybe that was the cause of their final rift, what had driven him away in the end.
She sat up and looked at the clock. It was after midnight. Val was in the air, winging away from Venice.
Away from her.
She fell back against the pillows and wept.
Shadows filled the great room with its ornamental plastered ceiling and painted medallions of nymphs and goddesses. It was Carnivale, and her father was away, attending a ball. She had been locked up in her room since yesterday, when they’d fought.
“I will not marry him!” she’d cried defiantly. “He is cruel, and I do not love him. I would rather be walled up in a nunnery!”
“That,” he had told her, “can easily be arranged. If you do not do as I tell you, you foolish, headstrong girl!”
But Bianca knew she wasn’t headstrong. She’d been timid and weak, afraid to leave the security of the only life she’d known. As the shy and pampered daughter of a wealthy family, she’d had a life of luxury and ease. Every step had been planned out for her, and there had been no need to accept responsibility for her future. To plan.
Until now.
Her father had chosen her a husband, without telling her until the contract was signed. The marriage would merge the two great banking families and consolidate their fortunes. The very thought of it made her blood run cold.
Especially now, when she was so deeply in love with another man.
Thank God that Guilietta, her old nurse, had taken pity on her. Guilietta had delivered the note to her lover and then returned to dress Bianca and help her escape. The old woman had trembled at her daring. “May the Holy Virgin have pity upon me when the count learns what I have done! And upon you, Donna Bianca!”
But Bianca had formed a plan to protect Guilietta. “No harm will come to you, I swear it.”
She handed her servant a tiny flask of clear blown glass. “Place this vial on the table beside my bed. Then lie down upon your pallet in the corner, with your cup beside you, as if it had fallen from your hand. When my father returns, you will pretend to be difficult to rouse. He will think that I drugged you in order to make my escape.”
And now Bianca was on her way. The hem of her gold velvet gown, the soft leather of her green embroidered slippers, whispered over the rose-and-white-marble tiles of the floor. Water dripped nearby.
The tall shutters at the far end of the salon were closed, but bars of fading light told her that twilight was approaching rapidly. A sense of urgency compelled her. She was late.
Dear God, please not too late!
She hesitated by the stairs leading down to the first floor, which opened to the canal. It was tempting. She could slip a coin from the heavy purse at her waist to the boatman and be on her way. By the time he returned, even if her absence was discovered by her father, she would be gone beyond his reach—and safe in her lover’s arms.
Unless he didn’t come to meet her at the bridge. Unless her fears and timidity had given him a disgust of her, destroyed his love.
Unthinkable! He must come. He must still love her! He must!
Why didn’t I flee with him three months ago, when he begged me to sail away with him? I was a silly fool!
The sounds of bells startled her. The great brazen voices of the many churches and towers in the city were marking the hour. The girl turned reluctantly away from the entrance to the water steps. Her escape would be quicker by gondola, but she didn’t dare risk being seen.
Passing through a small vestibule, she pulled aside the heavy curtain covering the door that led out into a little-used courtyard. Once this had served as the main land entrance to the house, but when the smaller, original casa was enlarged to a palazzo, it had become inconvenient.
The paving stones beneath her feet were ancient, some composed of two-toned mosaics that went back to Roman times. Small bits of crumbled leaves were strewn over them. Lifting her velvet skirts to keep them from being soiled, she moved silently through the starlit courtyard. A bit of lace caught on the old bricks that formed the coping of the stone well, and she yanked it free.
She took the wine-colored cape from its hiding place in the alcove behind a statue, then tied the strings of her mask securely. She had promised to meet him. Domenico would already be there, waiting.
The door in the wall that led to the calle was locked, but she had the key in her pocket. She peeked through the intricate wrought-iron design set in the thick wood. There was no one in the narrow alleyway. Inserting the heavy key in the lock, she twisted it. The bolt slid back with a low shriek.
Something pinged away softly into the darkness. Bianca froze, sure that it had been as loud as Judgment Day, but no voice cried out to stop her.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t being watched. Or followed. Her father might have set another of the servants to the task.
Bianca propped the gate open, then stood with the key in her trembling hand. If she was intercepted and brought back, she would have to try her luck again. To prepare for that she must hide the key. Somewhere that no one else would suspect. She glanced quickly around the courtyard, and an idea struck her. Once she had hit upon the place, it was the work of only a moment to hide the key.
Bianca slipped through the open gate. She sighed as the door clicked shut behind her with solemn finality. There was no going back now: the door leading to the calle had no handle, and could be opened only from inside the garden.
She hurried through the maze of alleyways, panic fluttering in her heart. A wrong turning, followed by another, lost even more time. Would he wait for her, or would he fear her courage had failed her yet again?
New waves of doubt assailed Bianca. Her father had conspired with the Gambello family to ruin her lover. They would have no way to support themselves in
a foreign land until he was hired on as a mercenary or ship’s pilot. At least she had the ruby ring and necklace he’d given her when his career rode high with the Venetian Navy. If need be, they could go to a moneylender with them once they fled Venice.
If, that is, he still wished to flee with her. Oh, she was such a coward! So afraid to do anything unless she had a strong hand to guide her. But now she had finally acted on her own. The moment she’d heard that Domenico was back, she’d sent Guilietta with her note to him.
Reaching up, she touched the necklace at her throat for courage. Her fingertips slid over the smooth glass and gold to the pendant, as if she were telling the beads of her rosary. The ruby was gone!
Bianca came out in a quiet square, sick with trepidation. Somewhere a lute played softly, floating on the still night air. There was the bridge, a pale curve over the small side canal. It was not used as a water road. The bridge merely linked two parts of an ancient building, built centuries earlier, on separate islands.
She’d expected Domenico to be waiting in the shadows by the statue of Venus. No one was there, and her spirits sank.
Then she saw him, coming swiftly along the narrow pavement on the far side of the canal. His cloak was black, melting into the jetty shadows. He wore the golden mask of the sun, as he had promised. With a cry of relief, she called out his name.
He turned his head as she ran lightly toward the bridge. The gilt rays of his mask glittered coldly in the dim light. She wished that she could see his eyes, to know if they were still filled with love for her. Or if he had come merely out of pity.
Then he held out his hand to her. She gathered her skirts to keep from tripping. Her thin slippers whispered over the stones of the bridge. She was breathless with exertion. With excitement. His hand clasped hers, warm and strong. He pulled her away from the bridge, into the protective shadows of the arcade.
“Oh, my love! I was so afraid,” she murmured.
He drew her fiercely into his arms. His voice was so low she could scarcely make out the words. “Why did you doubt me?”
“I feared that my cowardice had caused you to hate me. I thought that you had changed your mind. That you would not come to meet me when my old nurse brought my message to you.” Her fingers clutched at his cloak. “It is all so terrible! They tried to force me to marry Giovanni Gambello. I would rather die than have him touch me, after you!”
His body grew rigid beneath his thick, muffling cloak. Bianca didn’t notice. “I prayed each day that you would return for me. When I saw you on the molo during the ceremony yesterday, my heart nearly burst for love of you. And the child…the child changes everything.”
His voice was muffled by the slit in the gilt sunburst mask. “What child?”
“Our child,” she said raggedly. Bianca looked up as his arm tightened about her shoulders. “I dared not write it on paper! I am three months gone. It will be born in September. A lusty son or beautiful daughter! Oh, I should have gone away with you when first you asked me. Then these horrible weeks of worrying, of wondering if you still loved me, would have never been!”
The moon rose over the high buildings, touching them with silver. In the change of light all her comfort vanished. His eyes were not black as night. The irises were dark gold, like tarnished brass.
Bianca stiffened. “You are not Domenico!”
Her hand shot out and ripped off the mask. The face beneath it was suffused with rage, so distorted with jealousy and thwarted desire that she scarcely recognized her fiancé. “Giovanni!”
He took her shoulders and shook her cruelly. “Little fool. Your nursemaid is in my employ. Your note never reached your lover.”
His laughter echoed hollowly. Bianca shivered and tried to pull away, but he held her fast. “So, you have played me false! I knew you fancied yourself in love with another, but I thought you pure and unsullied, a shy and gentle virgin. Instead you have been Domenico Coleone’s whore!”
“No! Do not say so! My love for him is good and true.”
He pushed her up against the stonework at the end of the bridge. “To think that I intended to wed you. What a fool I have been. Did you laugh at my ignorance, you and Domenico, as you lay together?”
Bianca tried to pull away. “I never promised to wed you. I told you that I would never be your wife.”
“So you did,” he said, his fingers biting deep into her arms. “But you shall wear my ring upon your finger as you say your vows. Ah, Bianca! I would have treated you like a queen. Instead you shall be my whore!”
“Never. I would rather die than marry you!”
“Before I am done with you, you will wish you had,” he said violently. “And when my friends have finished with you as well, I will send you to a nunnery. Not the kind where pious women pray, but where they are kept for men’s pleasure.”
“You disgust me.” Her arm swung out. Her nails raked his cheek, and he yowled in pain. A sharp prong of the ring she wore had caught the corner of his eye. Blood dripped from the torn lid, like black tears in the moonlight.
It happened then. He cuffed her hard, just as she tried to twist away. The momentum threw her to the side. One minute she was standing beside the canal. The next she was in it.
The water was cold. So very cold.
The shock of it made her gulp in a mouthful of salty, fetid liquid. Her garments billowed out around her like the petals of a fallen flower. Then the current tugged at her, and the weight of her velvet gown and heavy cloak dragged her down. She struggled and splashed.
Her hair came loose from her coiffure, and the wet strands floated about her shoulders like seaweed. She reached out an imploring hand.
“Giovanni! Help me!”
The cold numbed her limbs, and her garments were like lead. She was helpless against their pull. The waters of the canal closed over her like a ceiling of rippled glass.
His body jerked forward, as if he would throw off his cloak and save her. Instead he looked down at her in the icy starlight, his face as cold as stone.
Then he straightened slowly, turned, and walked away.
Claire jolted up in her dark bedroom, her blood pounding with despair, with terror. A scream echoed in her ears.
She realized it was her own.
8
CLAIRE RAKED HER wild curls out of her eyes. The window to the balcony in her room was open, cool night air billowing out the curtains, like the wet folds of Bianca’s velvet gown.
She was shaking violently. She had lost Val. And Bianca had lost everything, including her brief, star-crossed life. The helpless horror of her final moments clung to Claire like a shroud. If she didn’t break free of it…
The pounding wasn’t just the pummeling of her heart against her ribs. It was Val, beating on the connecting door between their rooms.
“Claire? Claire, let me in goddamn it, before I break the door down.”
The wood shattered as he hurled himself against it. Throwing back the rumpled sheets, she stumbled across the floor to unbolt it. A moment later he was in her room, and she was in his arms, gasping for breath.
“The dream…” she said through chattering teeth.
“Jesus, you’re cold as death!”
He pulled the covers up over her, then shut the windows. When he returned, her face was so pale, her eyes so wide with shock, it frightened him. He’d known what it was to be afraid for his own life. He’d never realized, till now, how much more terrible it was to fear for the life of someone he loved.
Val dried her tears and climbed in beside her, wrapping his arms around her for warmth. Through her thin silk gown, he could feel the pounding of her heart against his bare chest.
“Hush, darling. It’s all right. I’m here.”
He was. She leaned her face against his shoulder, inhaling his scent. The dream was gone, but he was strong and warm. And real.
And he was here.
She nestled into his embrace. She was weeping wildly, pouring out all the tears she’d sealed
up inside her heart. “I thought you’d gone. I thought I’d lost you forever.”
His arms tightened. “I couldn’t leave you.”
“Everyone I’ve ever loved has left me…”
He heard it in her voice then, the thing she couldn’t get past: the fears of a lost child, abandoned with no explanation. It broke his heart with love.
“Even if you didn’t want me, I still couldn’t leave you. Not when you were in such pain. Not ever, if you need me.” He took her face and held it between his hands. “Don’t you understand that?”
She clung to him, weeping and shaking, and the whole story tumbled out. Not Bianca’s but hers. A young girl, raised in the middle of loud and angry voices. Whether they were fueled by love or anger or disgust, she couldn’t tell.
“After my mother died, I was sent to Idaho to live with my grandfather. That’s almost my earliest memory. Standing in the middle of a wide green landscape, with my suitcase beside me, and not so much as another house in sight. Seeing this stranger I was to live with for the very first time.”
Val’s hand smoothed her hair as she went deep into the past, to the root of her pain:
Warm sunlight, cool wind. Land stretching out in the distance to the humped green hills, the purple peaks beyond. A spotted cow with yellowed horns that looked far bigger than the sports car she’d just exited. A low, weathered house with a single rocker on the front porch and not a pot of flowers in sight. She longed for the tall, colorful houses dripping with flowers, and their cool reflections in the green canal.
A man came out onto the porch. He wore faded coveralls and a blue plaid shirt. His hair was threaded with gray, his blue eyes tired, his body worn down by work and poor health.
“So that’s the girl.”
“Yes. Here she is.”
“She’s the spitting image of Helen.”
“Yes.”
“And that was it.” Her eyes were bleak with memories. “I remember my grandfather beckoning to me, hearing a dog bark, and then the sound of the car as my father drove away. I remember turning and running, screaming for him to come back. Screaming for my mother…”
