Love's Shadow (Brothers Maledetti Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  If I was hot, Branwell must be dying. Long sleeves, gloves and boots? In this heat?

  “So . . . now what?” I asked, swiping at the sweat dripping off my chin.

  “I still have a trick up my sleeve.”

  “Does this trick involve an air conditioner and bucket of ice?” I fanned my face.

  Chuckling, Branwell bent and unlaced one booted foot, tugging it off. His sock followed, leaving Branwell with one bare foot which he rested on his sock, careful not to touch anything else.

  Well, that would help somewhat with heat dispersion. Would his shirt follow next? Granted, Branwell shedding clothing would only cause me to overheat more quickly.

  I swallowed, trying (unsuccessfully) to not stare at his foot. Long toes with neatly trimmed nails. Tendons flashing in and out as he flexed his arch.

  Huh. Never would have guessed I had a foot fetish but apparently I did.

  “May I?” He motioned me closer and then placed a gloved hand on my shoulder, steadying his balance.

  Even through his glove and the hot summer sun, the touch of his hand branded. It was surely more mental than actual—the electrical hum of attraction and connection. But still . . .

  I looked down at his bare foot again.

  Not helping.

  Pull yourself together, Lucy.

  “So . . . ?”

  “I’m going to walk,” Branwell answered my unspoken question. “Dirt retains a lot of sound, as it’s constantly shifting and changing. I’ll hold on to you for balance in case I have to lift my foot suddenly to stop an unwanted sound—”

  “Or Chucky attack?”

  “Possibly, though Chucky usually gravitates toward shiny things.”

  “True. Let’s avoid those.”

  “Exactly. Just don’t die.”

  I laughed.

  Carefully, Branwell began walking the perimeter of the walls, one hand resting casually on my shoulder. He would pause occasionally, listening to conversations beyond the hum of cicadas, the distant rumble of farm equipment and the occasional chirping bird.

  It was soothing, being here with him. Like all my life had been out of alignment, but with Branwell at my side, everything suddenly snapped into place.

  When it all broke apart again . . . crap, it was gonna hurt.

  We had walked through about a third of the site when Branwell went from casually listening to full alert. He froze in place with his head tilted, face a mask of concentration. He lifted his foot and set it down again. Starting the sound over?

  “Roberto,” he said. “I got Roberto.”

  His hand moved up my shoulder to rest on the back of my neck, his leather glove smooth against my skin. I stood still, waiting.

  Branwell finished listening and lifted his foot.

  “Sorry, I went digging a bit farther there.”

  “So Roberto?” I prompted.

  “Yeah. Not too much. He and that mystery woman from his office were debating if this site could have been a shrine. The woman wasn’t sure. She said it was more likely a ritual site for the oracle, Tages. But Roberto insisted it had to be a shrine to Hinthial because Lord Knight’s research was thorough on the topic—”

  “Hinthial again.”

  “No coincidence that Hinthial guarded the treasure your Gruncle Jack was looking for.”

  I studied the scattered remnants of walls, trying to imagine this place nearly three thousand years ago.

  “So this would have been a shrine? A place of worship and pilgrimage for this Hinthial?”

  “Possibly.” Branwell shook his head. “Most interesting, at the end of the conversation, the woman asked if this was the place where ‘it’ was excavated.”

  “It?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wow.” I chewed my lip. “Could ‘it’ be related to the treasure Gruncle Jack sought?”

  “Or, more likely, the treasure itself?”

  Twenty Nine

  Branwell

  Roberto and the unknown woman’s voice lingered in my mind.

  “Is this the place where it was excavated, do you think?” she asked.

  “Hard to say. Lord Knight was cagey about exactly which site it came from.”

  “The tomb here is large enough, but I find the inscriptions about Tages to be intriguing. They imply that this site was dedicated to him, not Hinthial. But why would it come from a site associated with Tages?”

  “Agreed—”

  What thing were they referring to? Was it the treasure? Or something entirely else?

  “Nothing we’ve read or researched has definitively said Gruncle Jack actually found Hinthial’s treasure.” Lucy wiped sweat off her forehead, her hair wildly curly in the Tuscan humidity.

  “True, but Roberto obviously thinks he did.” I shook my head. “Didn’t one of the myths say Jack had found the treasure but released a malevolent force that eventually killed him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Man, I hear the phrase ‘malevolent force’ and immediately think of Chucky.”

  She shuddered. “I don’t like Chucky.”

  I shifted my weight, still balancing on one foot. “I wish I could say all this had something to do with Grace, but until we talk to Roberto, it’s all guesswork.”

  “True. That said, it’s almost too much of a coincidence to not have something to do with her.” Lucy studied me, concern in her eyes. “Aren’t you dying from the heat? You’re kinda flushed.”

  The Tuscan sun punished my back. I was a lobster being steamed alive. “We could both use some water.”

  We headed back toward my shoe, me keeping a hand on Lucy.

  The trees surrounding the excavation site drooped in the sweltering warmth. It was hot. Though it wasn’t all due to the summer sun.

  Lucy’s emotions threaded around me, through me, each and every time she spoke.

  Happiness. Love.

  Desire.

  My stomach was in knots. Heart pounding, my own blood a fierce tattoo in my ears.

  How many times in the past several hours had I almost caved? Hauled her against me and confessed my heart through long, drugging kisses?

  She would welcome it.

  That was the worst part. Or was it the best?

  I hadn’t quite decided yet.

  Lucy wanted me close.

  Over and over, I felt it bubble out of her.

  That sharp stab of heat and longing when she looked at my bare foot. A stronger stab when I placed my hand on her shoulder.

  Again and again, I brutally pushed the thoughts aside. Not gonna happen.

  I knew my decision. Lucy knew my decision.

  But . . . some insidious voice kept whispering . . . what if?

  What if I followed her example and gave in? Just for a day? A few hours even?

  Kissed her. Cherished her. Treated her like my own. Let my love for her shine as strongly as hers did for me?

  Just the thought . . .

  I sucked in a breath. Painful and searing over the raw lump in my throat.

  We reached my sock and shoe, but before I could kneel to put them on, she pressed a hand against my chest. “Your heart is beating way too fast. You’re going to hurt it if you keep this up.”

  Hah. That was funny.

  “You sure you’re okay, Branwell?” Concern and worry.

  “I’ll be fine. Let me put on my shoes. Would you mind getting us some water and something sugary from the car?”

  I crouched and pulled my shoe and sock back on, keeping an eye on Lucy as she crossed the field and disappeared around the trees shading the car.

  Sour punny bears were my new favorite thing in the world, I had decided. Hearing Lucy’s breathy voice with each bear, giggling sometimes when she found a pun extra funny—for example, It’s hard to explain puns to kleptomaniacs because they always take things literally.

  My shoe on, I stood up, waiting for Lucy to come back. Seeking some relief from the sun, I moved into the shade of the surrounding trees.

 
Still no Lucy.

  Concerned, I stepped into the field to go find her, when the low hum of a motor announced an approaching vehicle.

  Instantly, I pulled back into the forest. It was probably only a tourist out for a country drive, but why tempt fate?

  Five seconds later, a blue and white striped sedan slowly drove past, Polizia emblazoned on its side.

  A police car.

  The sedan dipped below the horizon, passing out of my view.

  Crap.

  Where was Lucy?

  Crap. Crap.

  I hesitated for a few minutes, unsure what to do. Had the police seen her? Were they now tracking us? Or was this just coincidence?

  I waited another second and then took a couple steps into the open, intent on finding Lucy. But the police sedan came up the road again, forcing me to retreat back into the forest.

  This time, the police car stopped. Two officers and a plain clothes investigator got out. They pointed at the field, commenting on something. I strained, trying to hear what they were saying, but it was all garbled. From their expansive gestures, they were obviously discussing something about the site.

  My heart pounded, worried for Lucy, wondering where she had gone.

  After what felt like an eternity, the police officers got back into their car and drove off. I sat in the shade of the trees, waiting to see if they would return. Where was my girl?

  Silence.

  Judging it safe, I took a few steps out of the trees, only to practically run into Lucy, who had been skirting down the edge of the forest toward me, water and gummy bears in one hand, a stick in the other.

  Without thinking, I snatched her into a tight hug. So relieved she was all right.

  “You okay?” I asked, pulling away, surveying her up and down.

  “Yeah,” she nodded, “though that was close. I ducked into the forest right as they pulled up.”

  “I wish I could have heard them.”

  Lucy’s eyes lit up with mischief. “Well, this is your lucky day, Mr. D’Angelo. I was close enough to hear them, but of course they were speaking in rapid-fire Italian, so I couldn’t understand but . . .”

  Her voice drifted off as she lifted the stick, allowing me to see that all secondary branches had been broken off it.

  I smiled broadly. “Have I told you today what an absolute genius you are?”

  Lucy laughed, breathy and carefree.

  I pulled off a glove and reached for the stick. Voices in Italian instantly assaulted me.

  “ . . . think this is the place then? The site that Moretti was supposedly researching?”

  “Barbara Bruno seemed to think so.”

  “No one has been here in ages.”

  A grunt of agreement.

  “What about that BMW down the road? Why is it parked here?”

  “Who knows? Tourists, probably. There’s a winery through the field. The car certainly doesn’t belong to Roberto Moretti. He doesn’t have that kind of money.”

  Another grunt.

  “What are the possibilities of getting a canine unit out here to sniff around?”

  “Slim to none, I would guess. The paperwork would take weeks.”

  “Even given all the attention this case has been getting? The press is going crazy over this little girl missing.”

  “I can talk to Paola about putting in a requisition, but—”

  The conversation abruptly ended. Frustrated, I pushed with my gift, trying to see if I could hear more of it. Nothing.

  Drat.

  Lucy looked at me, a question in her eyes.

  “Nothing too helpful.” I recapped the conversation for her.

  Lucy pursed her lips, thinking, handing me a full water bottle. I drank eagerly. The humidity and heat were punishing.

  Lucy suddenly canted her head to the side, looking past me.

  “Is that an excavated . . . something . . . back there?” She pointed to a small low-fenced area a bit farther into the trees.

  Sure enough. On closer inspection, we found a trench about five feet deep and ten feet long. The far end of the channel disappeared under a stone overhang. Sun peeked through the trees overhead, dappling the ground.

  I looked at Lucy. We both shrugged.

  I stepped over the small fence—meant to keep tourists from accidentally falling in—and dropped into the trench. The sides were lined with ancient stone and the occasional flagstone peeked out from underneath my feet.

  “What is this place?” Lucy asked from above me.

  “My educated guess? An Etruscan tomb.”

  “You be careful down there.”

  I looked back at her. She stood at the edge of the fence, rimmed in yellow sunlight. That was always how I remembered Lucy.

  Golden. The color of laughter and cheer and hope.

  My hungry eyes drank her in. She had pulled her hair into a loose bun, but rebellious curls escaped to frame her jaw and graze her neck. That curvy body with a waist that instinct told me would fit my hand perfectly, all atop denim shorts and long bare legs, summer tanned. Well, as much as Lucy’s freckled skin could tan.

  And she loved me.

  This intelligent, gorgeous, fiery, spunky, sweet, amazing creature loved me.

  “Just don’t die,” she repeated, shooting me a wink.

  I nodded and turned away before she saw adoration shining from my eyes.

  Even if I managed to survive the next couple days without doing something impossibly stupid, how was I going to move past her? I had already spent six years trying to move on and that was without knowing she loved me.

  But now, knowing that she did. That she wanted us as much as I did . . .

  How could I hurt her?

  But being with her would hurt Tennyson even more.

  How could I hurt him?

  Crap. This was such a mess and no matter what decision I made, I would end up being a Grade-A jerk to one of them.

  I shook my head, pushing aside thoughts of Lucy. If I loved her at all, I would find Grace.

  I pulled off my right hand glove and started gently touching things.

  The clink of trowels and shovels.

  Two students gossiping about two other undergraduates who were now an item.

  Archaeologists asking questions about artifact dating and stone work.

  I worked my way down the trench. Occasionally, I would hear Roberto’s voice replying to a student question. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  I touched grooves along one stone. A familiar man’s voice jolted through me, speaking in accented Italian.

  “What have you found, lads? More stone?”

  Jack. Gotcha.

  He had been here.

  I moved down the trench, searching more diligently, moving back into time.

  Over and over, I heard Jack’s voice. Usually in his competent Italian but occasionally in English too. All just day-to-day stuff about the excavation.

  Until I hit the series of stones leading into a small underground space at the far end of the trench.

  “. . . sure it is quite safe down here?” Sofia’s voice. Teasing. Interested.

  “Of course. The sides are not too deep, as you can see.” Jack.

  “It’s fascinating. Will you chisel something away for me?”

  Male laughter. “Considering you hinted yesterday for a piece of the moon, a mere bit of rock should pose no problem.”

  The sound of chisel against stone. The smell of dust and earth. Musty things long forgotten.

  “Grazie. I shall treasure it,” Sofia said. “The entire countryside is aflutter with your findings here, my lord.”

  “Jack, Lady Sofia. Please. I believe it is high time you called me Jack.”

  A fleeting sense of a woman dressed in sprigged muslin dress with a red velvet spencer, carefully lifting her skirts out of the dust.

  “Jack then.” A pause. “So you were telling me about the bronze box you uncovered—”

  “The praenestine cista?”

 
“Is that what it is called?”

  “Yes, that was the Roman name for them.”

  “Your manservant stated that you believe the contents of the praenestine cista to be cursed?”

  A brief glimpse of shoulders shrugging. “It is difficult to say with any certainty. When dealing with these ancient artifacts, they are all cursed or blessed in some way. Oftentimes, such inscriptions were simply meant to deter thieves.”

  “But the inscription on it?”

  “There is hardly a primer for ancient Etruscan, so I am finding it difficult to decipher the inscription with any accuracy—something about a shadow and protection or stealing. But it is anyone’s guess if it was meant as a warning or a blessing.”

  “Perhaps. But the villagers whisper of darker things. Some say the bronze box isn’t a house for a relic but, instead, a cage for a phantom. Are you concerned that you will set something free that should never have been?”

  A scoffing noise. “Superstitious rumors, my lady, nothing more.”

  “No. I will not have you dismiss such superstition, my lord—”

  “Jack.”

  A sigh. “Jack. As a D’Angelo, I know all too well the truth of rumor.”

  A pause.

  “How fares your brother, then?” Jack asked. Hesitant. As if stirring a hornet’s nest to life.

  “Lorenzo is . . . not well. The visions are . . . difficult. My mother prays for him throughout most of the day, rocking with her rosary.”

  Another pause.

  “What does your brother see?”

  “He does not say. We do not ask. In the past, he has talked of metal machines stalking the land like smoking dragons. Wars fought between iron birds that spit fire and soldiers wearing masks like grasshoppers.”

  “Heavens. Visions of biblical proportions.”

  “Indeed. My mother does not like to hear her son talk of the end of days.” A beat. “We have no hope of his recovery, only of his comfort. Laudanum allows him to sleep, at least.”

  The sound of birdsong. The distant bong of church bells.

  “In light of your brother’s poor health, will you reconsider my offer? Can your uncle not act as your guardian?” Jack asked.

  “I have done nothing but consider your offer since our last encounter. My uncle has indicated that he would support our union.”