Lair of the Lion

by Christine Feehan

  She kept her gaze glued to the lacerations on his ribs, which matched those on the left side of his face. "How did you get these marks?"

  Nicolai hesitated again, then sighed softly as he relaxed. "I was tussling with one of the lions, and I was a little slow." She was turning him inside out, and he wasn't prepared for the intensity of his emotions. Where before he had wanted her to know everything, now he merely wanted her to want him more than life.

  He was lying. Isabella knew it. She glanced up at his set face. It was the first time he had told her an outright lie. His lashes were long and dark and feathery, completely at odds with his gleaming eyes, burning with such fierce intensity. She was gentle as she smeared the salve along the lacerations. "Signor DeMarco, I do not mind silence, but I object to untruths. I would ask that you would consider my request that if we're to be wed--"

  "We are to be wed, Isabella." It was a command, uttered with complete authority.

  "If that is so, signore, then I would ask that you refrain from speaking if you are inclined to tell me a falsehood. I want you to promise me that you will at least give consideration to my request."

  "I will tell you this much truth, Isabella," he said softly. The air around them stilled, gathering powerful charge. Danger vibrated between them. "The one you should fear the most is standing before you. That is truth, the absolute truth. Heed my warning, cara. Never trust me, not for a single moment, if you value your life."

  Isabella was afraid to move. Afraid to speak. He believed every word he had uttered to her. There was menace in his voice. And sorrow. And regret. But more than those things, there was the ring of truth.

  Chapter Seven

  They were all watching her. Isabella tried not to pay attention at first, but as Sarina showed her around the palazzo, she became more aware of the covert looks, the whispers following her from room to room. The atmosphere in the DeMarco holding was different from that of any she had been in, and she decided it was the people who made the difference. They were servants for the most part, polishing each room until it gleamed, but they did so as if they owned the palazzo.

  Their loyalty to the don ran deep and seemed ingrained in every man, woman, and child she saw. They watched her intently. Eagerly. Each of them made it a point to say something encouraging to her, something complimentary about the don. They made it clear they were eager that she remain in the valley and marry their don. Isabella noticed that they smiled at one another, and all seemed close. The castello should have been a happy place, but, with her extreme sensitivity, she felt an undercurrent of unease.

  A shadow hovered over the entire holding. An anxiety lurked just beneath the surface of apparent happiness. Eyes slid away from her, held secrets and traces of fear. As she moved through the great halls, suspicion began to seep into her pores and soak into her heart and soul. It was insidious, a tiny alarm at first, but it grew and spread like a monster of distrust until even Sarina seemed not an ally, but an enemy.

  Isabella took a deep breath and halted, tugging at Sarina. "Stop for a moment. I'm feeling ill. I need to sit." Her mind was churning and spinning, making it impossible to think clearly. She seemed strangely out of sorts, wanting to snap in agitation at anyone near her. They were near a sweeping staircase, and Isabella sank gratefully onto the bottom step, pressing her hands to her throbbing temples, trying to stop the creeping sickness of mistrust and suspicion.

  At once the housekeeper halted and leaned over her solicitously. "Is it your back? Do you need to rest? Scusi, piccola, I rushed taking you through the palazzo. It's so large, and I wanted you to know where everything is so you'd feel more comfortable. I should have been more careful, but it's so easy to get lost here." She brushed back Isabella's hair with a gentle hand. "I must let Don DeMarco know at once. He's arranged for the wives of Rolando Bartolmei and Sergio Drannacia to meet with you today. He wishes you to have friends and feel comfortable here. This is your new home, and we all want you to feel welcome."

  "No, I'm fine. I'm looking forward to meeting them." Focusing on Sarina's face, Isabella realized how childish and silly she was being. Living in a large, unfamiliar palazzo far from home, without anyone she knew, must be affecting her nerves. She might very well turn into the fainting type if she wasn't careful. She forced a smile. "Really, Sarina, don't look so anxious. I promise, I'll be fine."

  "Signorina Vernaducci." Alberita curtseyed in front of her, quite a feat when she was briskly swiping at walls with a broomstick. "It's good to see you again." She was beaming at Isabella even as she leapt enthusiastically at the cobwebs.

  Watching the young servant jump up and down, not even getting close to the vaulted ceilings, Isabella began to relax again. The normal rhythm of a palazzo was there, despite the enormous size, despite the undercurrents. Little Alberita, with all her antics, was a part of something Isabella recognized. At a very early age she had helped to run her father's palazzo. More than once she had dealt with servants whose enthusiasm cheered the household far more than their work contributed. Isabella's strange mood dissipated as happiness bubbled up inside her.

  Sarina sighed aloud. "She will never learn, that one." Although she tried to sound severe, her tone was brimming with mirth. She and Isabella looked at one another in total understanding. Laughter spilled between them, and their merriment put smiles on the faces of the servants within hearing.

  A loud crack was the only warning. Then Alberita's broken broom handle flew through the air, right at Isabella's head. Alberita shrieked. Sarina shoved Isabella. Isabella found herself sprawled on the floor, and the broom handle smashed against the wall just above her and dropped, rolling until it hit her body.

  Alberita flailed her hands wildly, shrieking so loudly that servants came running from all directions. Betto caught the remainder of the broom before it could harm anyone and set it carefully aside. Sarina hissed a sharp order, and Alberita clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her screams. Still, she burst into hysterical weeping.

  Captain Bartolmei rushed in, one hand on his sword hilt. He pushed the servants aside and caught at Isabella, dragging her up from the floor and pushing her behind him, shielding her with his body. "What happened?" His voice was harsh.

  "An accident, no more," Sarina hastily explained.

  Some of the servants began to murmur as if distressed or frightened. "The broom flew at her!" one woman yelled.

  "That is silly, Brigita, and an utter falsehood," Sarina reprimanded sharply.

  "Alberita attacked her!" another accused.

  When Alberita howled a denial and cried all the harder, Captain Bartolmei crowded protectively closer to Isabella. "We must report this immediately to the don."

  Isabella took a deep breath, desperate to regain her composure. She feared she might laugh at the complete absurdity of the situation. She dared not, for it would humiliate the weeping girl even more. "I think young Alberita should be taken to the kitchen and served a calming cup of tea. Is there anyone able to escort her to the kitchen, Sarina?" Isabella smiled serenely, moving confidently out from behind the captain. "Grazie, Captain, for your quick action, but, of course, we can't disturb Don DeMarco with something so small as this accident. It was merely a broken broom. Alberita is very enthusiastic in her work."

  Determinedly she went to the young girl, ignoring the captain's restraining hand. "Your hard work is much appreciated. Go with Brigita, now, Alberita, and get a nice cup of tea to steady you."

  "You must be more careful, girl," Captain Bartolmei snapped. "If anything should happen to Signorina Vernaducci, we are all lost."

  Isabella laughed softly. "Come now, Captain, you'll have the people believing I was terrified by a broom."

  Rolando Bartolmei found himself unable to resist her mischievous grin. "It wouldn't do to have that happen," he agreed.

  "Rolando?" The voice was young, trying to be imperious but wavering alarmingly. "What is going on?"

  The servants, Isabella, and Captain Bartolmei turned to face the new
comers. Two women, obviously aristocratiche, stood beside Sergio Drannacia, waiting for an explanation. But it was the tall, handsome man behind them who caught Isabella's attention and stole the breath from her lungs.

  Don DeMarco was utterly motionless. His long hair flowed around him, shaggy and thick. His eyes blazed with fire, the eyes of a predator, focused, intent on prey. For a moment his image shimmered, so that a lion seemed to stare relentlessly, mercilessly at the man standing so close to Isabella.

  The very air in the room stilled, as if any movement, any sound, could trigger an attack. The servants hastily stared at the floor. Captain Bartolmei bowed slightly, averting his eyes.

  The two women turned to look behind them. At the sight of the don one of them screamed, her face completely white. She would have slumped to the floor if Sergio Drannacia hadn't caught her and steadied her.

  It was Isabella who moved first, breaking the tension. "Is the woman ill?" She hurried through the small group of servants, around the women and Drannacia, and made straight for Don DeMarco. She looked up at him. "Shouldn't we offer her a bedchamber?"

  Captain Bartolmei took the woman from Sergio, giving her a small shake. He bent his head and whispered fiercely to her, his face stiff with embarrassment.

  Betto clapped his hands and gestured to the servants, scattering them quickly, sending them back to their duties. "Tea is served in the drawing room," he announced to his don, and he melted away as only a well-practiced manservant could.

  "There is no need of a bedchamber," Captain Bartolmei answered grimly. "My wife is perfectly fine. I apologize for her conduct."

  The young woman turned her head away, but not before Isabella saw tears glittering in her eyes at the harsh reprimand she had received from her spouse. Captain Bartolmei's wife kept her head down as they walked through the halls to the drawing room.

  In truth, Isabella felt sorry for the girl. More than once her father had publicly censured her. She knew the utter humiliation of such a deed. She knew what it cost in strength and pride to have to face those who had witnessed the reprimand.

  The don matched his longer strides to Isabella's, his hand resting lightly on her arm, his body quite close to hers. "Would you care to explain why the captain was holding your hand?" His voice was low but purred with a menace that sent a shiver down her spine. His palm slid along her arm to take possession of her hand, his fingers threading tightly through hers.

  Her startled gaze jumped to his face. "Is that what it looked like? How awful. He was worried for my safety and kept pushing me behind him." Isabella shook her head. "No wonder his wife became hysterical. What must the poor woman think?"

  Something dangerous flickered in the depths of his eyes. "Why would you care what she thought? Isn't what I think of paramount importance to you both?"

  She tightened her fingers around his and leaned closer. "You, I know, have a brain in your head. I'm certain it would occur to you that the last thing your friend the captain would do is hold my hand in front of the servants." She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, a trace of humor in her voice.

  "If you came upon your husband holding the hand of another woman, what would you do?" Nicolai asked, curious, suddenly amused by her reaction. She hadn't even considered that he would be jealous or angry or in any way upset by seeing another man so close to her. She had faith in his ability to reason, never once considering that a jealous man was by definition unreasonable.

  She tugged on his hand, forcing him to stop. She went up on her toes and whispered in his ear. "If he truly were holding her hand, I would crack a broomstick over his thick skull very, very hard." Her voice was so sweet, so low and sensual, for a moment the words nearly didn't register.

  Then Nicolai shocked himself and his guests by laughing aloud. Real, heartfelt laughter. It rumbled in his throat and spilled into the room, making every servant within hearing distance smile. It had been long since they'd heard their don laugh. The sound instantly dispelled the tension running high in the palazzo. Sergio and Rolando exchanged a quick, amused smile.

  "Signorina Vernaducci, may I present my wife, Violante?" Sergio Drannacia said quietly, his arm wrapped around a woman who looked to be several years older than Isabella. "Violante, this is Isabella Vernaducci, betrothed to Don DeMarco."

  Violante curtseyed, a smile curving her mouth, but her eyes were wary, speculative, as they ran over Isabella's figure. "So pleased to meet you, signorina."

  Isabella nodded an acceptance of the introduction. "I hope we become great friends. Please call me Isabella."

  "And may I present my wife, Theresa Bartolmei," Rolando Bartolmei added.

  The young woman dropped a slight curtsey, lowering her lashes. "It is an honor to meet you, Signorina Vernaducci," she murmured softly, her voice wavering slightly.

  Theresa Bartolmei was about the same age as Isabella. She carried herself as an aristicratica yet seemed very uneasy in the don's presence. She was so jittery, she made Isabella nervous. The woman didn't look at Don DeMarco, keeping her gaze steadfastly on her feet other than the brief glance she had directed toward Isabella.

  Isabella forced a smile, moving closer to Nicolai. It irritated her that so many people treated him so strangely. "Grazie, Signora Bartolmei. It is wonderful to meet you. Your husband was very kind to me when we were traveling on the roads to the pass. And today, with the accident, he did his duty by protecting me. I appreciated it very much."

  Isabella was an innocent, yet she wrapped Nicolai up in an intimacy he had never shared with any other in his life. His body stilled, hardened. He held her in front of him, not daring to move when he would have preferred to retreat and leave his childhood friends to make conversation with the women. He was afraid he might shatter if he moved. There was a roaring in his head, a painful ache in his body. Fire raced through his bloodstream. Worse than his physical reaction to her was the way she was wrapping herself around his heart, until just looking at her hurt.

  His hands tightened possessively on her arms. It was all that kept him anchored. Sane. It was all that prevented him from sweeping her into his embrace and carrying her off to his lair, where he could indulge his every fantasy with her. The others were talking; he heard their voices but as if from a great distance. For Nicolai, there was only Isabella and the temptation of her mouth, of her soft body with its lush curves. Her laughter and her quick mind. No one else existed or mattered. He was becoming obsessed. He was fast losing control, and that was inherently dangerous. For a DeMarco, control was everything. Completely, utterly essential.

  He bent his head until his mouth brushed against her ear. "I should have been the one to rescue you, your true hero." There was an edge to his voice when he had wanted humor.

  Isabella dared not look at Nicolai, but she leaned against his broad chest so that he kept his dark head bent to hers. "He merely protected me from a runaway broom." She whispered the words against the corner of his mouth, her breath teasing his heightened senses.

  He had known she would find a way to lighten his heart. Her eyes danced with shared humor, locking them together. He found he could breathe again. His fingers curled around the nape of her neck, then drifted to her shoulder and down her back, a gesture meant to thank her where he had no words.

  "It is a pleasure seeing you both," he said softly to the two ladies, "but I must ask to be excused, as I have many duties to attend."

  The wives of his captains stared resolutely at the floor, once again setting Isabella's teeth on edge. Nicolai's hand swept down Isabella's hair in a light caress. "Be happy, cara mia. I will see you later."

  She caught his wrist boldly. "You don't have time for a cup of tea?"

  There was a collective gasp of shock. Even the two captains stiffened. Isabella felt the color rise in her neck and face. The simple question was treated as if she had made a terrible breach of etiquette.

  Nicolai ignored the others, his vision, his world, narrowing until there were only the two of them. His large hands framed
her face, and his gaze drifted hungrily over her. "Grazie, piccola. I wish I had the time. For you, anything." His sensual voice was filled with regret. "But I have kept several emissaries waiting far too long as it is." He bent his head and brushed a kiss against her temple, his fingers lingering a moment on her soft skin. Abruptly he turned and in his silent, deadly fashion walked away.

  Isabella turned to find the couples watching her. She lifted her chin and determinedly pasted a confident smile on her face. "It looks as if Cook has prepared a feast for us. I hope you're hungry. Grazie, Captains, for bringing me company."

  "We'll return shortly," Rolando assured his wife. "We, too, have our duties to attend to." He patted his wife's hand in reassurance before walking away.

  Theresa watched him go. She was visibly trembling, her eyes darting around the room anxiously as if she expected a ghost to come flying out of the walls.

  Violante looked toward her husband, her gaze hopeful. When he merely walked away without glancing back, her shoulders sagged. Almost at once she recovered and seated herself gracefully. "Sergio tells me the wedding is to be within the moon's cycle." Her eyes slid speculatively over Isabella's curvy figure. "You must be..." She paused long enough to be bordering on rudeness..."nervous."

  Theresa pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her gasp of shock.

  Isabella smiled coolly. "On the contrary, Signora Drannacia, I'm very excited. Nicolai is most charming and attentive. I cannot wait to be his wife."

  Sarina poured the tea, a mixture of herbs and hot water, into the cups. She kept her gaze resolutely on her work, but Isabella noticed the tightening of her lips.

  "Aren't you frightened?" Theresa ventured.

  "Why ever would I be afraid? Everyone has been wonderful to me," Isabella said, easily portraying a wide-eyed innocent. "They've made me feel very much at home. I know I'll be happy here."

  Sarina flashed at her a covert grin as she placed a platter of biscuits on the table. The housekeeper faded discreetly into the background, leaving Isabella to fend for herself.

  Despite her youth, Isabella had been in similar situations before. Violante Drannacia was a woman feeling threatened. She was determined to maintain her position, real or imagined, wanting the upper hand with all the other females in the palazzo. She was also uncertain of her husband and felt compelled to warn off any competition. Isabella knew the signs well.