by Tarah Scott
“Ach, Ewan!” Alec MacGreggor protested mildly around a mouthful of oatcake. “I’d wager my finest dirk that he’s older than I am!” Tipping his chair back on two legs, he raised his voice, “Moridac, lad, how many summers do ye have under your belt?”
Across the room, Moridac craned his neck in their direction. “And why do ye care?” he challenged, his lively dark eyes brightening with interest.
“Why canna ye answer a simple question?” Alec snorted, slamming his chair down. “’Tis always a challenge with ye!”
“Ye’ve the patience of a nit, MacGreggor!” Moridac retorted in reply.
As their banter continued, Ewan crossed his arms and observed the raven-haired Moridac from beneath furrowed brows.
There were times of late that he had thought the lad would make a better lass. He was far too slender, too graceful, and his skin too soft. But Sweet Mary! This evening in the dim light of the burning embers, he didn’t look like a lad at all. The curve of his throat was downright womanly!
And then Moridac’s dark eyes met his, gleaming with amusement, and Ewan glanced away.
There it was again. The odd effect the lad had on him.
Abruptly, the lad threw in his hand at the dice and left to care for the horses, and it was with some measure of relief that Ewan watched him go.
“He’s old enough—” Alec began.
But Ewan cut him short. “The lad leaves on the morrow.”
Several of the men gasped.
“Ach, but ye’ve grown downright disagreeable of late, Ewan!” Alec’s tawny brows knit into a line. “If ‘tweren’t for Moridac, we’d be feeding the crows now, and well ye know it!”
“I’ll brook no argument. Give the lad coin and send him on his way!” Ewan ordered, a little surprised himself at the harshness in his tone.
At that, Alec rose abruptly to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor. “Nay! Not after what he’s done for us,” he said hotly. “Tell him yourself!”
All eyes followed him as he stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
There was a stilted silence, one in which Ewan moved to prop his booted foot on the table. And keenly aware of the disapproving glares of his men, he turned to his own thoughts and settled in for another long, sleepless night.
There was no doubt he owed his life to the young Moridac.
They all did.
But ‘twas precisely for that reason that he’d see the lad go. The battlefield was too grim a place for such a gentle soul.
A mirthless smile played on Ewan’s lips.
Over the years, his reputation as a renowned warrior and a swordsman unmatched had only grown with each battle he fought. But few saw the scars upon his heart and fewer still knew that his sleep was haunted with the screams of dying men.
He would spare the tender Moridac that pain at least.
After a time, both Moridac and Alec returned, and as the men rolled into their cloaks upon the floor, snores gradually replaced all other sounds.
The night passed with interminable slowness. For Ewan, sleep came only in fits and starts. And it was with his customary relief that he saw the dawn break.
And when Moridac rose to tiptoe over the sleeping men to slip outside, Ewan made up his mind.
He’d tell the lad now.
Fastening his woolen cloak over his leather hauberk with a large round brooch, he stepped out into the cold morning air.
Frozen peat crackled beneath his feet as he shaded his eyes and scanned the dun-colored hills spread out before him.
There was no sign of the lad.
A bitter gust of wind lifted the hem of his cloak. The thin sunshine would do little to warm the day. In the distance, clouds gathered on the horizon, heralding more snow. It would be a cold ride.
It was then that a movement near the trees in the distance caught his attention.
Ewan hesitated, suddenly recalling the awkward encounter the last time he had spied upon the lad’s peculiar habits. His own reactions had been disconcerting to say the least.
But he had little time for such concerns, not with a storm approaching.
Steeling his resolve, he swiftly set off down the narrow path towards the forest.
He didn’t go far. By the time he heard the sound of the murmuring brook tumbling over the rocks, he spied Moridac through a gap in the ancient, gnarled trees.
The lad was kneeling by the water, his cloak and his tunic had fallen off his shoulders, and he appeared to be concentrating upon unwinding a bandage wrapped around his chest.
Ewan’s mouth tightened in concern.
The lad was injured!
Alarmed, he stepped through the underbrush just as the bandage fell away.
It took Ewan a moment to recognize what he was seeing.
The soft swell of a breast. The gentle curve of a hip.
And then his jaw dropped open.
This was no lad!
Moridac was a woman!
Relief coursed through him, a relief so profound that he chuckled outright.
At the sound, Moridac whirled, tripping back over the exposed roots of an ancient oak to sprawl headlong into the damp earth.
“Aye, now, lass!” Ewan laughed, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. “’Tis no cause for alarm!”
Rolling over, she sprang to her feet and gathered her cloak close about her. “Stand back, Ewan!” She glared.
The cloak slipped a little, exposing her bare shoulder, and all at once his blood ran hot. Aye, it had been too long since he’d allowed himself lusty thoughts over a lass. He could only grin. How had he not seen from the start?
She was downright bonny! From her willowy height, short-cropped curls, to the perpetual mischievous gleam in her brown eyes.
And then she scowled.
And that simple knotting of the brows effectively doused any impulse he might have had. For in that instant, he knew exactly who she was.
Sweet Mary, but she had changed since he’d helped to rescue her as a lassie from her aged and cruel husband!
His heart sank.
How could he even dare to think one lusty thought over Ruan MacLeod’s wee sister? Aye, he’d almost preferred that Moridac was a lad!
Half-choking, the name was torn from his lips:
“Merry MacLeod!”
The Introduction of a New Romance Series
“The Vindictam”:
Revenge
Venice 1491
Pascal drummed his fingers on the side of the gondola as it traversed the maze of canals.
He hadn’t been back to Venice since the Black Death arrived six years ago.
Many had died during that scourge, even the Doge himself. The Vindictam—arguably the most powerful family of assassins in Europe—had fled at once, knowing even they were no match for the plague.
He leaned back in the cushions for a time and simply enjoyed the soft splash of the oars dipping into the water. The smoothness of a gondola on the quiet canals of Venice was a far superior way to travel than the perpetual jolting rattle of a carriage on London’s bustling streets.
It was good to be home, and he had always meant to come back, but upon receiving his mother’s summons, his vague intentions had turned into speedy actions.
Pascal’s lip curled in dark amusement.
As the Grand Master, the Dominus Granditer of the Vindictam, men followed his orders without question. He answered to no one.
Save his mother.
His smile widened.
He was nothing more than a slave to her happiness. She was prickly, overbearing, and demanding. And she ruled her children with an iron fist. But she truly loved them, and they knew it well.
So when his mother demanded his appearance no later than noon of St. John’s Day, he had dropped matters of the gravest importance to go home at once.
But the journey had been a rough one, and judging by the sun’s arc in the sky, noon had passed some time ago.
He tapped the side of
the gondola a little impatiently. “A silver coin for you should you get me there sooner!” he said, tossing the coin at the man’s feet.
The gondolier grinned and put more muscle into the oar, and as the magnificent buildings on the Grand Canal flew past him, his thoughts wandered once again.
His mother hadn’t stated the reason for his summons, but he could guess well enough.
Several months ago, he had succumbed to her pressure and to that of the Quattuor Gladiis, his four right-hand men.
They had demanded that he marry.
He had signed his name to the parchment as a show of good faith, knowing full well that with his mother involved, he had no say in the matter. They would choose the appropriate bride, one with the needed political ties.
No doubt, they had made their choice, or several, and had called him to meet his prospective brides. And most likely, the woman would be dull and tedious to deal with, but if it kept his mother appeased and the Quattuor satisfied, then what did he care if he had a wife?
It was just a marriage. How could that affect him?
He would be traveling again soon enough. There were matters in France that required his attention.
And then the gondolier called out, shaking him from his thoughts.
Leaving the Grand Canal, they glided into a new waterway, and as they passed under the arched stairs spanning the canal, Pascal beheld his ancestral home.
He eyed the place in dry amusement.
Returning home never failed to fill him with a wondrous yet disquieting sense of barbaric gloom.
The familial home of the da Vilardino was a striking marble creation perched on the water’s edge. In his mind’s eye, he could already see the rich paintings adorning the walls, the heavy velvet curtains hanging above the Moorish windows and the ornate frescos gracing the ceilings.
Yet there was another side to this luxurious domain.
The place was a virtual stew of plotting, scheming men engaged in the never-ending quest to gain more power and gold.
And then the gondolier maneuvered the boat to the landing, and Pascal stepped out onto the marble stairs leading from the water to the door.
He had arrived.
Dusting the slashed sleeves of his white travel-stained shirt and his close-fitting leather-studded breeches, he eyed his clothing with a wry twist of his lip. He far more resembled a highwayman than a Venetian noble, but he was already late.
He’d pay homage to his mother first before changing into proper attire.
But he had taken only a step toward the door before it was yanked open to reveal his elder sister, Anna.
A lithe dark-haired woman of proud bearing, she viewed him with her customary frown and a chilling gaze rife with disapproval. “You are late.”
“And how have you fared these years, Anna?” Pascal asked in a dry undertone.
Anna’s dark brows knitted into a frown. “This is a matter of the utmost importance, Pascal,” she warned.
Pascal lifted a single brow in query. “Cristofo? Rigi?” he asked in a soft, dangerous voice.
Angry that he, the youngest of the sons, had been chosen as the Grand Master of the Vindictam, his elder brothers had never ceased plotting against him. They were sly and wily, and though it had never been proven, all knew it was they who were behind the attempts to unseat him in the past few years.
Anna’s harsh tone cut into his thoughts. “You have been wed, Pascal. Rigi stood in as proxy for you.”
Pascal nearly missed a step.
But then reaching the door, he slouched gracefully against the frame, folded his arms, and peered down at his sister from under hooded eyes. “And who did I wed?” he asked in an even tone.
At that, her lips thinned. “Mama’s choice! The Quattuor Gladiis brought her this very day.” Her critical gaze took in the state of his clothing and she added, “Come as you are, you are too late already.”
“And why such haste?” he began.
But she had already turned away in a rustle of silks.
With a growing sense of apprehension, Pascal followed his sister through the hall and down a narrow twisting passage that led to the garden.
But as he approached the walled enclosure, he heard the sound of his mother’s angry voice engaged in a heated argument.
“I am truly home,” he murmured under his breath with a snort of private laughter.
Stepping through the door, a sea of faces turned to greet him. The voices around him were hushed, and a cloud of anxiety hung in the air. With a heightened sense of vigilance, he scanned the gathering, recognizing only a few of the guests.
And then his mother’s displeased tones sounded again, and he saw her standing near the statues clustered around the massive bronze cistern on the far side of the garden.
She was a sharp, shrewish, bony woman with a steady hand and dark hair despite her advancing age. The expression on her face was a fierce one, and her brown eyes flashed as she wagged a finger at a tall gray-haired man standing before her.
“And by what authority do you even dare imply that my son is disobedient?” Her voice rang throughout the garden as loud as a church bell.
Pascal’s lip lifted in amusement.
And then spidery, wizened fingers clutched his sleeve, and he glanced down into the wrinkled face of his aged grandmother.
“Be brave, my sweet boy,” the old woman encouraged in her weak, gravelly voice. “Be brave! I do not know why she has done this to you!”
Pascal patted her hand in warm affection. “Do not fret, nòna. I will not suffer!”
“Pascal! Attend!” his mother’s voice ordered sharply.
Leaving his grandmother to the care of one of the guests, Pascal approached his mother and bowed. She had aged since he’d seen her last. Frowning with concern, he gently took her hands between his.
“Are you well—” he began.
“You are late,” she observed with a crusty smile. Squeezing his fingers in a brief gesture of affection, she snapped her fan open, and waving it near her face, she turned to the tall gray-haired man still standing before her. “He is here, so I’ll hear no more libelous words from you!”
Curious, Pascal glanced over his shoulder.
And then froze.
He recognized the man at once.
It was Antonio Saluzzo, the leader of the Saluzzi.
For years, the Vindictam and the Saluzzi—the rival assassins of Ferrara—had been the bitterest of enemies. That is, until Pascal’s father had forged a treaty, an exceedingly fragile and uneasy one.
Clasping his hands calmly behind his back, Pascal smiled, but it was a dangerous smile and one that few would fail to recognize as a threat.
“Antonio Saluzzo,” he said the name slowly. “And why, pray tell, is a Saluzzo present during the marriage festivities of a da Vilardino?”
Antonio did not answer him. Instead, he folded his arms and peered down at him silently from the lengths of his large aquiline nose.
And then a soft musical voice spoke from behind him. “How much longer will you insult me, husband?”
Startled, Pascal turned to behold a young woman clad from head-to-toe in black. She was standing beneath a gnarled olive tree in the center of the garden.
“Your bride,” his mother murmured from his side. “Gemma.”
But Pascal scarcely heard her.
His attention was captivated by the stunning creature dressed in black.
Moving forward slowly, his eyes raked her in ironic amusement. The fact that she was dressed in funeral attire was not lost upon him. Clearly, she was less eager to wed than even he had been.
But she was certainly not what he had expected.
She was a woman of breathtaking beauty. Her hair fell in soft golden waves and her eyes reminded him of the sea. And the black lace of her attire only accentuated her ivory slenderness, giving her the appearance of an exquisite carving.
She stood there, haughty and aloof, meeting his bold appraisal with one of he
r own.
“Black suits you,” he said softly, intrigued in spite of himself.
Her eyes flickered with a deep emotion that he could not name as she informed him with the utmost scorn, “I care little for your compliments.”
Pascal’s lip curved upwards in response, and his dark eyes lit with challenge.
And then she extended her hand in a royal gesture as if she expected him to kiss it. “My name is Gemma,” she said, lifting her chin defiantly. There was a distinct pause before she added, “Gemma Maria Elizabeta Saluzzo.”
Pascal recoiled, and his mouth went dry at once.
And then staring down at his bride, he suddenly recognized the expression in her stormy eyes.
He knew it was mirrored in his own.
Pure hatred.
Venetian/Latin Glossary
ah sì?! – oh really?!
ale! – go!
aimèi! – oh, woe is me!
al diavolo! – to the devil!
àngiolìna – Little Angel
bàbio/a – male/female fool
basta! – enough!
bón pare – good father
bravàso – brave
cà de dìa! – good heavens!
caro fradèl – dear brother
cestìl! – be quiet!
che scalògna! – what bad luck!
ciò – hey / huh!
dedìa! – my goodness!
diàmbarne! – devil’s house!
Dominus Granditer – Grand Master
Electus – Elected One
eternità – eternity
esumìmi! – Jesus help me!
gexondìo! – hexes!
gòfi – clumsy
gramersè! – many thanks!
indilataménte – immediately
Inghilterra – England
macarón – blockhead, literally macaroni
Magno Duce - Great Captain
marcìa via! – go away!
mercànte – merchant
mi digo! – I believe it! For sure!
nòna – grandmother
O ciél! – oh heavens!
orponón! – damn!
òsti – good lord!
Quattuor Gladiis – The Four Swords.
ridicolóxo - ridiculous
Santo ciélo – heaven help me!
