Isabella nodded to the familiar night guard stationed outside her palace apartments, then opened the main door and flipped on the light. As she expected, the staff had completed their usual whirlwind preparations for the next day. A typewritten copy of her schedule sat perfectly centered on the small cherry writing desk beside her door, courtesy of Nerina. A chocolate-colored silk suit appropriate for her morning appointments hung on a small rack beside her armoire, with matching shoes and a prepacked purse neatly laid out on a chair nearby. A black pantsuit of lightweight wool hung behind the silk, with a small note attached indicating it would be appropriate for her meeting with the museum staff and the dinner she’d planned with her father, should she choose to change.
The brocade comforter topping her bed was neatly folded back, leaving her Egyptian cotton sheets exposed. A deeply cut crystal pitcher containing cool water rested on her nightstand beside a matching tumbler, and she knew a freshly fluffed bathrobe awaited her inside the luxurious marble bathroom.
Here, nothing had changed. Inside her, everything changed.
Part of her wanted to return to Nick’s room, to knock on his door and to kiss him again the second he opened it. Before he could think, before he could make an excuse or put her off. Every molecule in her body screamed for his touch, and the same overwhelming need tortured him, she knew it did. She might be a virgin and fairly inexperienced with men, but she hadn’t just fallen off the turnip truck, either. No one could mistake the hunger in Nick’s kisses, the need in his gaze or the admiring way his hands caressed her body.
So what held him back?
She kicked off her flats beside the front door, still amazed she’d ventured out in public dressed in such casual clothes, then picked up her schedule from the desk.
Beneath the schedule, a sheet of ivory stationery bearing Federico’s neat handwriting caught her attention. Instantly, her hand went to her stomach. The boys! She’d promised to tuck them in, and in her excitement at going out on the town, she’d completely forgotten. Federico had to be furious, and the boys so disappointed. How could she have been so thoughtless?
She picked up the page and began reading Federico’s always-formal Italian.
Dearest Sister,
Arturo and Paolo were naturally saddened that you were unable to read to them this evening. Whether your absence was accidental or intentional, please accept my deepest gratitude. I enjoyed having the opportunity to spend some quiet hours with my sons, and for the first time in a long while, we read and sang songs and truly enjoyed ourselves. I needed to see for myself that I can be comfortable laughing again, and wouldn’t have done so without being pushed into spending some time alone with the children.
After the boys went to sleep, I phoned Nerina and enquired as to your whereabouts. She said little save that you had a prior engagement. I then realized, dear sister, that today is your birthday. Please forgive me for failing to give you my heartfelt good wishes. I do hope you found your own enjoyment tonight—you deserve some happiness after all you have done for Arturo, Paolo and me since Lucrezia’s death. Indeed, for all you have done for our family. Until tonight, when you were not here, I failed to realize the many sacrifices you make for us.
Again, please accept my apologies, and my gratitude for all you do. If you wish, Arturo and Paolo would be happy to share a birthday cake with you tomorrow evening. But if you have other plans, I encourage you to pursue them.
Ever in your debt,
Federico
Isabella blinked in disbelief, then read the note again. Gratitude for missing the boys’ bedtime story. Not what she’d expected, yet she didn’t doubt Federico’s sincerity.
She scribbled a note on her schedule reminding her to stop by Federico’s apartments the next night. Then, smiling to herself, she folded Federico’s letter for safekeeping in her nightstand. Someday Federico might learn not to be so formal, at least with his own siblings, but for now, she’d treasure his heartfelt words.
She slid the nightstand drawer closed, thinking that perhaps Nick was right after all. Perhaps her family would understand if she dipped her toe in the relationship waters. Not that she’d allow herself to get caught kissing a man on a public bench—that had been a dreadful lapse in judgment—but what harm could there possibly be in sharing a candlelight dinner under the stars, enjoying good conversation and a glass of wine, provided her date didn’t mind a flash-bulb going off now and then?
Unless, of course, the man with whom she shared that dinner harbored a secret the tabloids could expose, then use to destroy her family’s reputation.
She sat on the edge of her bed and propped her chin in her hands. Nick had taken pains to evade the paparazzi’s cameras at the airport the day he’d arrived in San Rimini. And tonight she’d been well-disguised, so his chances of being photographed were minimal. Still, she’d sensed he remained on edge, constantly alert for anyone who might snap a photo of them. But was his edginess because he feared for her, or for himself as well?
And why did he seem to be encouraging her to see other men? Did he genuinely believe a relationship between the two of them was impossible, despite the undeniable chemistry they shared? What secret could be so devastating?
She threaded her fingers through her hair. “Why, Nick? Why won’t you tell me?”
Pushing off the bed, she slid into feet into her flats and strode out the front door. The guard jumped when she stopped beside him.
“Your Serene Highness!”
“Sorry to disturb you. I was wondering, do you know what time Jack Donnington arrives in the morning?”
“Your father’s chief of security? I believe he is here now. He was briefing the night watch at your brother Antony’s apartments when I came on duty, Your Highness. If you need to speak with him, you might try ringing his office.” In the dim light of the hallway, she could see the guard’s brow pucker in concern. “I—I hope you have not been dissatisfied with my service?”
“No.” She smiled at him in reassurance. “You’ve always done a fabulous job. There’s simply an issue I was hoping Mr. Donnington might investigate for me.”
Relieved, the guard gushed his thanks, then wished her good-night.
Within minutes, Isabella had the security chief on her private line. She quickly explained her needs, then asked for his discretion. “This is only for my own information, Jack. I don’t wish for you to take any action, regardless of what you find. And I also ask that you do not speak to my father about this request.”
“As you wish, Your Highness,” the former British MI6 agent replied. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Thank you. But please, only pursue it if you’re not otherwise occupied with my father’s needs. This is a low priority.”
“Understood.”
She replaced the receiver, satisfied that she’d soon have her answer—or at least a hint. Part of her knew Nick would be disappointed in her going behind his back, but at the same time, as his employer, she had a right to double-check his background. “It can’t be that bad,” she tried to convince herself. She knew from her prior background check that he didn’t have a criminal record. No arrests, no contact with the police at all. No one as kind and caring as Nick Black could have any sizeable skeletons in his closet, could he?
No matter what, she had to know. It was the only way she’d know which approach to take to try to convince him she wouldn’t think worse of him. And that he could love her without fear. Because tonight, under the moonlight and stars of San Rimini, she’d fallen in love with Nick Black. And she wanted nothing more than for him to fall in love with her.
The glowing red numbers on her bedside clock flipped to 1:00 a.m., and she realized her birthday had ended. Twenty-eight was a memory. And next year she’d be…
She let out a groan. Thirty.
Where had her twenties gone? Tomorrow, she’d be back to her usual routine, hopping from one event to another with little time for herself. Two weeks ago it wouldn’t have bothered her. Tonight, however, it weighed on her heavily.
She walked out of her apartments past the guard again, who by this time probably wondered about her state of mind, and turned toward the keep. Nick would be long asleep—at least, she hoped he would be—but she deserved one more birthday gift.
Anne Jones flipped through the notebook on Nick’s desk, carefully comparing his handwritten notes to those she’d typed. Over her shoulder, she remarked, “I’m quite impressed, sir. You’ve accomplished a great deal in only a few weeks. The museum board must have been quite satisfied with your progress.”
Nick grunted a response as he dragged a large crate out of the stall he’d started cataloguing a few days before. Since discovering the scroll with his name on it, precious little else had come to light. Not even the fairy-tale book. He could have sworn he’d left it behind in the stall when he took Isabella out to dinner, but now, three days later, he still hadn’t located it.
Once he maneuvered the crate into an open area for unpacking, he went in search of the crowbar so he could pry off the top. He’d been so distracted by the princess, and by their passionate encounter in the bakery, that he’d completely forgotten what she’d said about The Cursed Knight. As soon as she’d told him the story that night on the bus stop bench, he’d intended to check the book and see if it contained the tale.
Of course, getting his shirt whipped off by a woman for the first time in, how long?—he did a quick computation in his head and decided it had been at least thirty years, since he’d lived in Dallas, under another alias—well, that tended to distract a guy from tearing into a fairy-tale book, even if it might hold the key to his curse.
But once morning rolled around, and he’d started preparing his report for the museum board, his mind focused once again on the reason he’d come to San Rimini in the first place. He’d raced to the stall, expecting the book to be in plain sight, but no luck. Now, after three full days of searching, he had to conclude that sometime during the night, Isabella had changed her mind and decided to keep it.
“Rotten timing,” he muttered aloud. He couldn’t exactly ask her to give it back now. Or just show up at her apartments and ask to take a look-see. But he had to know about the tale. In centuries of searching, he’d never found a more solid lead. His entire existence—or at least the length of his existence—could depend on it.
“Sir?” Anne looked up from the desk in alarm. “Something I can help you with?”
“No. Just talking to myself.” He sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, slowly. Being around so many medieval San Riminian artifacts, far more than he’d acquired in years of collecting in Boston, and seeing his own name tucked in the midst of those artifacts gave him an edge of desperation. He hadn’t been himself lately, and he needed to get a grip so he wouldn’t miss something critical during his search.
Come to think of it—he glanced across the room at his secretary—Anne hadn’t seemed herself since she’d arrived in San Rimini, either. In Boston, she’d always been calm, reserved, efficient. But here, the castle walls seemed to disturb her. She jumped at the slightest sound, and more than once, he’d caught her staring at the contents of the storeroom as if the place held ghosts instead of stacks of crates.
He couldn’t blame her for being jittery, though. His office boasted floor-to-ceiling windows, a high-tech ventilation system, easy access to several delis and a view of Post Office Square, where Anne could enjoy her lunch in the sunshine.
And intentionally modern décor to keep him from focusing on all he’d lost in the past.
Here, they were surrounded with paintings of long-dead monarchs, the smell of rotting fabrics and the occasional sculpted marble head. Instead of a desk with a panoramic view of Boston’s Financial District, Anne stared at a gray stone wall. And running out to a deli was out of the question, unless she wanted to go through security checks at the palace door and again at the front gate.
He located the crowbar and set it on top of the crate. “Tell you what, Anne. You’ve been down here for hours. I’d like your help on a different project, if you don’t mind spending time in the palace library.”
She spun in the chair, obviously anxious to leave the storeroom. “Yes?”
“Look through the royal family’s collection of books and on the Internet for me, and see if you can find anything on an old San Riminian fairy tale. It’s called The Cursed Knight, or something similar.”
Her eyes widened and he thought a look of trepidation passed over her face, but it disappeared before he could be sure. “Did you say The Cursed Knight?”
“Yes. Are you familiar with it?”
She shook her head. “No. I, ah, I haven’t heard of that one. But I’m not the expert you are.” She set her pen down on the desk, rolling it around with her finger as she spoke. “I—I thought you were interested in artifacts, sir. I wasn’t expecting to do literary research. I don’t believe you’ve had me do anything like it before.”
“I’m taking a new tack with my research.”
She frowned and opened her mouth as if about to say something, but apparently thought better of it. Gathering up her purse and notebook, she merely said, “Well, I’ll endeavor to find it.”
“Thanks.”
She dusted off the front of her black skirt and smoothed her graying red hair into place, then, straightening her back as if she might meet the king himself in the hallway, she took the stairs toward the main palace.
As soon as she left, Nick returned to the crate and pried off the lid. Weird. Anne never questioned him before. He’d underestimated the strength of her preference for modern Boston over the back rooms of San Rimini’s historic buildings. He’d have to give her a raise when they returned home.
Even as the thought occurred to him, he cursed himself for it. He couldn’t go home again. Not permanently, anyway. If he failed in his search this time, he’d need to assume a new identity and start over. Too many people would have heard of him as a result of the museum project, Anne might start to ask questions, and besides, the Bloody Mary episode taught him the importance of maintaining his fifteen-to-twenty year rule.
Tossing the crate lid aside with more fervor than necessary, he swore aloud. He couldn’t fail. Just couldn’t. Too many more years of this half-alive, half-dead existence and he’d end up in a loony bin for sure. Besides, where would he go next? It had to be somewhere he could disappear in a crowd, somewhere without modern computers keeping track of the population and without constant requests for identification. Unfortunately, modern technology had revolutionized the world during the past twenty years; at this pace, he’d have nowhere left to hide in another twenty.
Besides the risk of getting caught, if he let himself think about it for more than a minute, he knew he’d realize how much he suddenly had to live for. The thought of losing Isabella, even though he didn’t exactly have her, tore at his gut.
He swept aside mounds of shredded packing material until his hands hit something solid. Wrapping his fingers around the item, he pulled gently, realizing at once he’d located another book.
Come on, fairy tales, he wished as he cracked open the cover.
Iudicium, the faded word on the first page read. Judgment. Then below that, Maleficarum. Witches. Witch trials.
A bolt of pain slashed him from temple to temple, along the same pathway his headaches traveled. He flipped a few more pages, trying to ignore the hammering in his head even as his mind filled with the horrible images described in the text. Burning at the stake. Torture. Forced confessions. Long-term imprisonment. And every single instance documented in the book took place in southern Europe during the centuries surrounding his birth.
It could mean nothing. Or it could mean everything. Forcing himself to settle, he carried the book to the desk and cautiously began to turn the pages, scouring each account for anything that might give him a clue to Rufina.
Seventy-six pages of horrors later, his chest threatened to collapse inward. After reading accounts of trials in Germany, Genoa and Spain, he came across a section that couldn’t be ignored—seventeen women tried for witchcraft in San Rimini over a frenzied six-month period in 1199.
Only nine years after he’d been cursed.
Vision blurring with the pain of his headache, he scanned the descriptions of the accused—their hair, their ages, their occupations—alert for any detail that might clue him in to Rufina’s whereabouts, if she’d been tried and released.
“Sir?” Nick flinched as footsteps approached from behind. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I found what you needed.”
“Already?” He slammed the book closed before looking up at Anne.
She glanced down at the book in his hands, then returned her focus to him and shrugged. “It was quite easy, sir. I did an Internet search using the terms ‘cursed knight’ and ‘San Rimini’ and found a few sites that mentioned it. Looks to be an older tale, not commonly told. And apparently unique to the area of San Rimini and Venice. Here.” She held out a sheaf of papers. “I printed out the relevant information.”
He swallowed and accepted the papers, though he wasn’t sure he had the stamina to absorb all the information suddenly flying at him. “Thank you, Anne. Um, I know it’s early, but why don’t you take a break? Go for a walk, see the city.”
She eyed him curiously. “Are you certain, sir? I don’t mind—”
He waved her off. “Go. You deserve some fresh air.” And he needed the privacy.
“All right.” She glanced again at the book, and at the papers she’d printed off for him. “But if you think you’re on to something important, I’m more than happy to pursue—”
“Go!” The command came out more forcefully than he’d have liked, but his head pounded with the force of a cannon. He closed his eyes, opened them to give her an apologetic look. “Sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m a bit worn out, I suppose.”
“Why don’t I come back in a couple hours? Just to check in?” She shot a pointed look at the nearly empty bottle of aspirin on the desktop. “If I pass by a pharmacy, I’ll grab you some more.”
“You know which brand I prefer. Thank you, Anne. You’re a lifesaver.”
As soon as the sound of her footsteps disappeared, he shuffled through the printouts she’d given him. The so-called fairy tale told his story, no doubt. And he had to credit Princess Isabella with a good memory. The tale played out, in all its versions, exactly as she’d told him. Cursed with immortality, the knight became an outcast, never welcomed in any home from that day forward.
And never breaking his curse. In any variation of the story.
“So much for your nanny’s version,” Nick grumbled, shoving the papers to the side of the desk. Perhaps later he’d have Anne check further, but he doubted he’d find his answers. Instead, he popped the white top of the clear plastic aspirin bottle, fished out the last three white pills, then swallowed them dry.
Ignoring the bitter taste in his mouth, he reopened the book on witch trials, trying not to envision the agony of the poor women who’d been dragged from their homes and accused of witchcraft for one reason or another. Thank goodness the human race had evolved during his lifetime.
He flipped a few more pages, scanning description after agonizing description, until his gaze fell on a passage that took his breath away.
The book described a proceeding involving a red-haired woman of approximately five and forty years, arrested in the San Riminian borderlands, accused of using the Devil to aid her in healing local farmers. A young man claimed the red-haired woman, whose name was not given, had been called to heal his father’s headaches, but instead put his father under a spell causing the older man to become paralyzed on one side of his body. After being visited by the accused, witnesses claimed the old man drooled endlessly, which could only be caused by the Devil inhabiting his body.
Rufina had been a healer, he remembered. And he assumed the old man had suffered a stroke, since in medieval times many believed strokes to be a partial paralysis that resulted after one had been touched by the Devil. The so-called witch denied the charges, and brought several witnesses to testify on her behalf, including her grown son, who was described as a farmer from a nearby village who walked with a limp.
Nick rubbed a thumb over the ache in his head. This had to be his Rufina. If she’d been forty-five years old in 1199, that would have made her thirty-six when she’d met him. And she’d told him her son was fourteen. Sounded right to him.
He scanned the rest of the discussion, skipping over the sections on the woman’s torture until he came to the end of the passage. His heart clenched as he read the woman’s verdict. The panel of church officials hearing Rufina’s case deemed her to be a witch and a heretic.
He knew she was a witch, or whatever one might term a person who possessed powers he couldn’t understand. But they couldn’t have found her guilty. They couldn’t! She didn’t deserve it. And he didn’t deserve it.
No, no, no! The room swam before Nick’s eyes. His head thrummed and a choked cry escaped him as he zeroed in on the final line of text.
The witch had been put to death immediately, in the main square of the local village, by burning.