Feehan, Christine - The Scarletti Curse

by The Scarletti Curse (v1. 5)

  An owl hooted, the sound distorted in the heavy fog. She heard a rush of wings quite near her. Branches swayed and danced, clicking together in a macabre stick-figure dance, the sound loud in the darkness. She saw the glowing eyes of a night predator watching her through the trees. There was a strange feel to the air, it was thick, like quicksand, and her legs soon tired, her muscles cramping. Nothing on her beloved mountain seemed the same. Even the sheep seemed hostile, strange white apparitions appearing in the mist.

  The wind suddenly stilled. The leaves ceased to rustle. The night seemed unusually quiet. Nicoletta froze, simply waiting, not daring to move in the unexpected pocket of silence. A gentle breeze started up again, a soft tugging at her skirts, a ruffling at her hair. But the wind brought with it that murmuring voice, brushing in her mind like the gossamer wings of butterflies. The voice seemed clearer now, she could almost distinguish the words. It was the don's voice, no question she would recognize it anywhere. Soft yet commanding, its steady, persistent tone making it difficult to concentrate.

  Nicoletta pressed her hands to her ears, attempting to shut him out and keep walking. But the voice in her mind was whispering, enticing, nibbling away at her confidence, slowing her down, so that she felt as if she were moving in a dream, unable to distinguish reality from fantasy. She was partially up the mountain when she realized that the don was well aware she was fleeing, and he was using his hypnotic voice to slow her progress. No coincidence, this voice whispering on the wind; but a deliberate attempt to hold her to him.

  She clung to a tree to steady herself. "Stop it," she whispered to the night. He had to stop, or she might go mad. Was this what had happened to his great-great-grandmother, the woman who had thrown herself off the wide-winged gargoyle crouching atop the tower overlooking the violent sea? A guardian of the palazzo, they claimed, yet a horrible creature to her. Had the poor girl been forced to marry a Scarletti? Had she been a victim of the Bridal Covenant, too? Ripped from her home and family and given in a loveless marriage to a ruthless heathen of a man? Had her husband driven her to insanity with his commanding murmuring in her mind? "Stop it," she whispered again, her voice inaudible in the blanket of fog.

  Nicoletta turned along a thin ribbon of a trail that led to the more jagged cliffs. The rocky ledge was slippery from the mist, and the slime on the smooth walls caused her hands to slip when she reached for purchase. She clung there, her bare feet scraped and bleeding from the sharp rocks. The voice never let up, not for a moment. She could make out some of the words now. I will not let you leave me. I am coming for you. You cannot escape me.

  Nicoletta shook her head in an attempt to dislodge the voice from inside her head. There was no pleading or begging. He was as arrogant as ever, demanding her return, demanding she comply with his wishes, his orders. There was no gentleness in him, only a hard, ruthless authority. He would find her. She couldn't escape him. How would it be possible, when he shared her mind? And if he caught her now? She didn't want to think about the consequences she might suffer at his hands.

  Would he wrap his strong fingers around her neck and strangle her? Would he squeeze the breath out of her slowly, lifting her off her feet with his superior strength and height? Is that what his grandfather had done to his grandmother? Had a legacy of hatred and madness been passed down through the generations? Was that the terrible curse that hung over the Scarletti family? Was that the fate awaiting her? It was easy to imagine it was so, there in the strange, heavy fog with his voice whispering to her continually. She touched her throat with trembling fingers. She could still feel the imprint of his hand hot against her bare skin.

  I am no longer amused, cara. The night has a bite to it. Come back before I lose patience with your foolishness.

  Now his words were very clear. How could it be that he could talk to her in her mind? Surely, as Maria Pia had once suggested, he was in league with the devil. He possessed great magic, and most likely his was not a gift from the good Madonna, as hers was. She bit at her fingernails nervously, unable to move on the slippery ledge with her legs shaking so badly. "Go away," she whispered to him. "Go away!"

  He was stalking her, very close, a silent predator hunting beneath the cover of darkness, as lethal as any wolf. Nicoletta felt along the cliff edge for a firm hold. Without warning, strong fingers circled her slender wrist like a shackle. Don Giovanni Scarletti simply pulled her straight up, so that for one terrifying moment her legs dangled over the cliff, her entire weight supported by his one hand. She cried out, clutched at his arm, her feet digging for solid purchase of any kind.

  He set her on the ground beside him. Nicoletta lashed out blindly, furious at him for frightening her. Furious at him for catching up with her. Furious at him for choosing her. He caught her fist in midair and simply stood there looking down at her. They stared at one another, his black eyes unblinking, like those of a large mountain lion.

  He had every right to throw her off the cliff if he so desired. No one would question the don. Nicoletta couldn't believe this was happening. She flung up her head in challenge. "Why are you insisting on a bride? And why me?" With the sudden insight that often flooded her in moments of high emotion, she added, "You did not even want a wife." She studied his face. "You never intended on taking a bride, not even to provide you with an heir."

  He slipped his arms out of his coat. "You are shivering again, piccola. Is it from your fear of me, or is it from the cold?"

  He enfolded her small frame in the large coat, pulling the edges together so that she felt as if she were in the warmth of his arms, surrounded by the heat of his body. She looked around them. "Where are the others? Your soldiers?"

  He raised one elegant eyebrow. "Warming their hands by their camp fires, no doubt. I did not want them to realize that my bride feared me so much, she ran away in the night at the first opportunity." He sounded more sardonic than perturbed. He shrugged his wide shoulders casually. "Better to collect you myself. It would not do for my men to know that my bride preferred the company of wolves to mine." His hand brushed a stray strand of inky black hair from her face, his touch lingering on her skin. "I should not have left temptation open to you. I knew what was in your mind."

  "Reading my mind?" She dared him to admit it and condemn himself as a servant of the devil.

  "Your face is transparent, piccola. I do not find you in the least difficult to read. You did slip past me," he conceded, bowing slightly in salute. "But I think our adventures are over for this night."

  Nicoletta reluctantly walked beside him. "Why would you suddenly want a bride?"

  Giovanni was silent so long, she was certain he would not answer her. "I have recently discovered my great need of a… mate." His voice was a deliberate seduction, suggestive and so intimate that she blushed wildly.

  Nicoletta found she was shivering again despite the warmth of his coat. "I just want to go home." In spite of her every resolve, she sounded like a forlorn child.

  "That is where I am taking you—and where we will be wed immediately. It may be diverting to some men to chase young women around in the hills at night, but it is, after all, a rather chilly business."

  "Don Scarletti, there are so many women who would be honored to be your bride. Any one of them would make you a wonderful wife, much more fitting to your station than I." Nicoletta attempted to make him see reason.

  "But then, I am not looking for a wife who is 'fitting to my station.' The needs I have only you can meet." He reached out absently and pushed back another stray tendril of hair curling on her forehead. His fingertips lingered, as if he couldn't help himself, as if he couldn't stop touching the softness of her skin. It was almost a caress, sending a shiver of awareness rushing through her with the heat of a flame. She saw the gleam of the heavy ring bearing his family crest.

  "You chose me because of what I saw on the cliff," she accused, frightened by her own body's reaction to him. "I did not tell anyone. I knew you killed only in self-defense."

  "Do
not speak of it again." His voice was a whip of command.

  She walked for a distance in silence, turning over his words in her mind, not understanding him at all. Afraid to understand him. "We are going the wrong way," she suddenly noticed. "We will miss the villaggio if we continue in this direction."

  "I am escorting you to my home, where you will remain under guard until we are wed. I have neither the time nor the inclination to go on nightly hunts for my errant bride." A note of mocking amusement crept into his voice.

  Nicoletta stopped walking, staring up at him, shocked. "That is unseemly. I cannot go to your palazzo without Maria Pia as chaperone. Don Scarletti, you cannot take me there."

  He reached down and firmly grasped her elbow. "Yet that is exactly what I intend to do, Nicoletta."

  Chapter Six

  Nicoletta stared from atop the hill at the palazzo on the next peak, now immersed in fog. The Palazzo della Morte seemed to rise up out of the mist like a great castle in the clouds. She knew that winged creatures guarded the turrets; great gargoyles and strange demons with fangs and claws perched atop the ramparts and tower. Its many portals and great windows of stained glass depicted various scenes of serpents carrying hapless victims into a watery hell. The castle was eerie and sinister, rising out of the fog as if disembodied from the earth. She stopped walking abruptly, staring in a kind of fascinated horror at the palazzo.

  "Palazzo della Morte." Giovanni Scarletti whispered the soft taunt. "That is what you have named my home."

  At any other time, Nicoletta would have blushed with shame. Now, in the middle of the night, with the winged creatures facing her with blank, staring eyes, claws reaching for her, she couldn't find it in her heart to worry whether or not the terrible name had hurt the don's feelings. In any case, she wasn't altogether certain he had feelings. He seemed made of stone, a chiseled marble sculpture of a beautiful Greek god, handsome but ice-cold. His fingers shackled her arm like a vise, leading her to her doom. The Palazzo della Morte.

  "I cannot go to that place," Nicoletta said in a low voice. "I wish to return to my home. Besides, it is unseemly for me to be alone with you."

  "It was unseemly of you to run like a little rabbit, but you did so," the don pointed out mildly. "I suggest you continue walking, piccola. It would be far more unseemly if I had to carry you into the palazzo." It was a clear threat, though delivered in his usual calm voice.

  Nicoletta tore her gaze from the grotesque floating castle to stare at him in horror. "You would not dare!"

  Don Scarletti looked down at her upturned face. She was extremely pale, her beautiful dark eyes large with shock. She looked young, ethereal, there in the mist, an untouchable, mysterious beauty. Her skin was soft and tempting, so inviting that his hand, of its own volition, framed her delicate cheek. At his touch she stilled, a measure of fear creeping into the innocence of her eyes. His thumb feathered over her lush lower lip, sending a strange heat rushing through her body, starting a fine trembling deep within her. She stared up at him helplessly, mesmerized by his black, hypnotic gaze. She was drowning again, unable to look away.

  He leaned toward her, and her eyes widened as she watched his perfectly sculpted mouth slowly, relentlessly descending toward hers. Her breath stilled in her body, and a small sound of terror escaped her vulnerable throat. He continued to lower his head until his lips skimmed the corner of her mouth, then trailed along her satin skin to her ear. "I dare anything," he whispered wickedly, his warm breath stirring tendrils of hair against her neck. His teeth caught her earlobe, a small, painful nip quickly eased with a sinful swirling of his tongue.

  Nicoletta gasped, her entire body leaping to life, blood surging through her hotly, unexpectedly—and completely unacceptably. She was trembling too hard to move away from him, and, in any case, his fingers still shackled her arm. "I insist you return me to my home. This is very wrong."

  His white teeth gleamed at her. "What is wrong? It would be wrong if a prospective bridegroom did not find his bride in the least attractive." His voice purred at her like that of a satisfied lion, a wild, growling purr that set her heart pounding in alarm.

  She caught the note of dark mirth in his voice, and she glared at him. "I am not amused by your wickedness, Don Scarletti." She tilted her chin at him. "You are reputedly a gentleman. I demand you return me to Maria Pia Sigmora."

  One black eyebrow arched arrogantly. "I do not recall being labeled a gentleman even once in all the gossip reported back to me. A blackguard, a spy, an assassin, but never a gentleman. Walk with me, Nicoletta, or I shall carry you and awaken the entire household when we enter." His glittering gaze danced over her mischievously. "That would set the gossips' tongues wagging. Then they would demand I display our wedding-night sheets out the window of the palazzo for all to see."

  Nicoletta made a sound much like the squeak of a terrified mouse, so outraged by his suggestion that she tugged away from him and marched toward the palazzo. Better to face certain death than his smoldering sexual seduction. Her back was ramrod stiff, and she knew he was secretly laughing at her innocence. She stuck her nose into the air and assumed her haughtiest expression. Don Scarletti might be used to debauchery, but Nicoletta certainly was not. Adopting Maria Pia's pious attitude, she crossed herself and continued down toward the palazzo.

  The don easily kept pace with her much shorter strides. "I understand you recently helped to deliver a particularly difficult babe," he said.

  Nicoletta bit down on her lip. Men did not discuss such things as childbirth. It was unseemly. Everything he said and did was scandalous. He truly was a heathen. And clearly he did have spies reporting to him. How much more did he know of her? Doubtless there was little sense in attempting more subterfuge, attempting to mislead him further into thinking Maria Pia the true healer. Maria Pia had been the village midwife and wisewoman for years before Nicoletta's birth, but Don Scarletti certainly knew that Nicoletta herself was the unique healer, one capable of things she shouldn't have been.

  She peeked sideways at him from under her long lashes, trying to judge his mood. Should he decide to condemn her as a witch, she would not be able to defend herself. Accusing the don in turn of reading minds and being in league with the devil would be ludicrous. "It was difficult. I thought the mother would be lost. She is my friend." Nicoletta's voice was a thin thread of sound in the fog, and her tone did not invite further discussion on the subject.

  The don reached around her with both arms to pull his coat closer about her body, a strangely comforting gesture. "You are very brave, piccola," he said softly, his lips pressed to the top of her silky hair. "You know it is dangerous to roam these hills as you do. Aside from the danger of wild animals, there are many robbers hiding close by. At the moment the King of Spain has decided it is not worth the risk to attempt to conquer these lands, but it is still a dangerous time. That temporary reprieve from attack can change with any hint of weakness on my part. I want you to remain at the palazzo for your own safety. Once you are my bride, you may become a target for my enemies."

  "I am a healer." She made the statement very quietly, not defiantly, but with great dignity. "It is who I am. What I am. I must go where I am needed."

  "You are my betrothed. You will be my wife. That is who you are," he countered. "My wife will do as I tell her."

  She looked back at him, a faint smile curving her soft mouth. "It is possible you have mistakenly chosen the wrong bride. You did not even look at Rosia, and she was wearing her best dress. She always obeys the rules, and she remembers to wear her shoes. I do not obey very well at all. Ask the elders. Ask Maria Pia."

  "What would that angry young man say? Cristano? Would he say you do not obey?" There was now a dark edge to his voice that made her shiver, as if all his male amusement had suddenly worn thin. It reminded her that she was completely alone in the night with him, and she was at his mercy.

  "No one would ever say I obey. Your spies should have given you a full report when they were scouting
out your bride." As sensitive as she was to emotional vibrations, her heart was beginning to pound in fear.

  "You are favoring your leg more and more. Your injury cannot yet be healed completely. Perhaps I should carry you," he mused. "I should have been more aware. Come, piccola, allow me to carry you."

  Her dark gaze was eloquent as she sent him a swift, smoldering glare. His sculpted mouth curved sensually, and his black eyes glittered at her, but he didn't laugh. She tried not to notice how handsome he was, how his hair fell in glossy waves down his nape and curled slightly over his ears. How one lock fell persistently onto his forehead, making her want to push it aside with shaky fingers. The very idea was as shocking as was her body's wayward reaction to him.

  They were nearing the palazzo now, the huge castle sprawling out like a massive prison. Scattered throughout the grounds were the giant marble fountains, the great sculptures of winged deities and demons. Gargoyles stared maliciously down at her from the eaves and turrets. She could feel them watching her in gloating silence, eager for her to come within their reach. Horrid claws seemed to extend toward her, rapier sharp through the thick fog. The windows stared blankly, a strange inky color in the gloom of the mists. Like sightless eyes. Cold, sightless eyes watching her.

  Nicoletta's mouth went dry. When she had come to the palazzo before, the feeling of evil and doom had been impersonal. Now the malevolence seemed directed at her. She hunched deeper into the thick folds of the don's coat as if for protection. There was a growing terror in her. Each step took her closer to that waiting evil.

  "I would not leave the choosing of my bride to my men," Don Scarletti informed her softly, picking up the thread of their earlier conversation as if it had not been interrupted. "No other would have recognized you." His hand slipped down her arm to entwine his fingers firmly with hers. "And, Nicoletta, you will obey my orders."