La Contessa Giovanna Giusti was in a rage. She hurled a priceless, exquisitely designed Ming vase, a prized possession of her late husband’s, against the mantlepiece and watched it shatter into myriad broken slivers.
“Don’t just stand there, you fool,” she screamed at a cowering servant, “clean up the pieces!”
She found the violent act calmed her enough to prepare to meet Caesare.
She lay beneath him that afternoon, grimacing at her body’s discomfort. He had taken her violently, with no thought to her pleasure. A smile curved her lips upward. She had heard it rumored that Caesare was not always the polished and gallant gentleman, that he had forced more than one woman. She gently eased herself away from him.
“My dearest Caesare,” she said gently, “you have sorely used me. Have I said or done anything to make you angry?”
“Damn him,” Caesare said in a low voice. He seemed to recall himself and turned slowly to face Giovanna. “Forgive me,” he said, almost as an afterthought.
“You have heard the news, I see,” she said, her voice soft, commiserating.
“Yes,” he said, not questioning how she knew of Cassandra’s pregnancy. “The earl joyfully informed me last evening at dinner. Later, he told me of the need for haste.” He paused a moment and pulled himself up on his elbows. “Damn, the English wench has done me in. I will become as nothing to his great lordship, now that this girl holds all his attention, not even his heir.”
Giovanna’s mind raced ahead. “Perhaps,” she said thoughtfully, “the wench can be bought off.”
“You talk like a fool, Giovanna. Do you forget how very wealthy my half-brother is? Buy her off with what?”
Giovanna lowered her head. “I am sorry, Caesare. It is just that I so dislike seeing you upset by all of this. Surely you always knew that the earl would wed and sire legitimate children—sons to carry on his name and title.”
“I am still his heir now, Giovanna.”
“Not for many more months, it would seem.”
He wanted to hit her, until reason asserted itself, and he shrugged. “There is nothing to be done.”
God, but he was weak, Giovanna thought. “Dear Caesare,” she began, “I have no desire to see you cheated out of your birthright by some silly foreign slut. It is not right that the Parese lands and wealth pass to her English children. It is my feeling, despite the impression the earl is giving everyone, that the English girl has tricked him into marriage. She wants his wealth for herself and her children. I think, Caesare, that she is a scheming little bitch, intent on destroying all ties you now hold with the earl.”
Caesare said slowly, “It is odd that he said nothing to me before he returned to England about bringing this girl back with him.”
“That is because he did not know of her existence before he left. Do you not see, Caesare, she has tricked him. She knew she could not convince him to wed her unless she became pregnant with his child.” She spread her hands in front of her. “I wonder if indeed the earl is the father of her child.”
“My half-brother is not a fool.”
“Mayhap not in this instance, but surely he has not treated you as he ought. That old fool, Montalto, still shares his confidence, while you—” She shrugged her white shoulders.
“Whilst I what?”
“I do not mean to imply that the earl does not hold you in affection. But has he ever allowed you to direct his business dealings?”
“You know very well that he has not. He treats me like naught but an amusing, useless fribble.”
“If he were alone again, I cannot but feel that you, his half-brother, would gain in stature and trust in his eyes.”
Caesare rolled away from her and rose to look down at her. “What is it you are saying, Giovanna?”
“I am saying, my love, that you must not be cheated out of what is rightfully yours.”
Caesare looked deep into her doe-brown eyes, and raised a surprised eyebrow at her audacity. Perhaps jealousy compelled her, but that did not, he discovered, overly distress him. He thought a moment, and frowned at her. “Even if what you say is true, what is to be done?”
“The earl must not wed the little strumpet.” She gazed at him beneath arched brows. “Do you not want her, Caesare, perhaps just once? To keep the earl on a string, she must employ quite tempting skills in his bed.”
Caesare remembered the desire Cassie had stirred in his loins. But when he spoke, his voice was harsh. “You expect me to seduce the girl away from my half-brother? Hardly likely.”
“No, you could not seduce her, Caesare.”
“I believe the Borgia’s habits are long out of practice.”
“But there are other ways, are there not? Other ways that would never lead the earl to suspect his loyal half-brother.”
Caesare felt a thrill of excitement, despite himself, and a tempering shaft of fear. “Yes,” he said slowly, “there are other ways. But it is dangerous, Giovanna, very dangerous.”
“But you are such a resourceful man, my love.”
He looked deep into her eyes, then turned and pulled on his discarded clothing.
“It must remain our secret, Giovanna,” he said, once he was fully dressed.
“Of course, caro. Our secret.”
He leaned down and kissed her lightly on her soft mouth.
“Do not stay away from me too long, Caesare,” she called after him.
* * *
Cassie shaded her eyes with her hand as she walked up the stairs to an upper terrace of the garden and gazed toward Genoa and the sparkling blue Mediterranean. She felt strangely lethargic, as if she were somehow drugged, her thoughts strewn about her unpredictably. She supposed it was the severe bout of illness she had suffered that morning. In all her eighteen years, she had never really known illness—save, she remembered ruefully, for the time when she was seven years old and had stuffed herself with Christmas sweets.
She turned away from the spectacular view, knelt down, and pressed her nose against a full-blossomed red rose. The sweet fragrances that hung about the gardens like a perfumed mist would soon began to fade, as summer drew to a close. Most of all, she supposed, she would miss the vases of flowers that Rosina brought daily to her room. She straightened slowly, her eyes caught by Joseph, who was talking to Paolo in the lower garden. She loved to watch Joseph talk, for though his face rarely changed its placid expression, she could make out much of his conversation from his expressive gestures.
But this afternoon, she found no interest in him. Indeed, nothing seemed to touch her. She wondered if she was becoming vaporish, like that ridiculous Lady Cumberland who seemed to produce a child every year, all the while lounging indolently upon a daybed, her vinaigrette in hand.
Cassie turned away and began to walk briskly toward the vineyards. She drew up short at the sound of Joseph’s deep breathing behind her. Her lips tightened in quick anger, and she whirled about to face him. “Damn you, Joseph, leave me alone.”
Joseph, startled by her outburst, stopped some paces from her to catch his breath.
“Now, madonna,” he said gently, “you must not excite yourself. You would not wish any harm to yourself or to the babe you carry.”
His soothing words had just the opposite effect upon her, and she yelled at him, brokenly, feverishly. “Has the earl not done enough? Must he still set you upon me, to report to him my every action? Is he not yet satisfied with his victory? Do I not carry his accursed child? Damn you and damn him.”
She picked up her skirts, turned on her heel, and made for the lake. Joseph stared after her, aghast at the near-hysterical pitch in her voice. He came to a quick decision and quickly retraced his steps to the villa.
Cassie heard his retreating footsteps and drew to a trembling halt. She wished she could wipe her mind clean of its terrible, jumbled thoughts, but she could not. The earl’s victory had been complete, she could not deny it. She had succumbed to him in less than three months, she who had sworn over and over that she would never wed him, no matter what he did. It was an accursed child that she carried, a child conceived of passion and hatred. And she had been so weak that within days of learning of it, she had bowed to his wishes, given herself and her future over to him. She dashed her hand over her forehead, in a futile effort to control the vicious bitterness, to stem her burgeoning despair.
“Cassandra.”
She whipped about to see the earl striding quickly toward her.
Something broke within her at the sight of him, and she lunged forward, away from him, toward the lake, her own high-pitched laughter sounding in her ears.
The earl heard that laugh and felt a cold knot of fear. For an agonizing moment, she was lost to his sight in the thick oleander trees. He tore through the trees, scarce aware that a low-lying branch rent the full sleeve of his shirt, gashing his arm. He saw her running full tilt toward the lake, her hair streaming loose down her back. Dear God, what could have happened?
“Cassandra!” he yelled at her again. For an instant, she froze, poised like a startled animal, before continuing her headlong flight.
She was but yards away from the water’s edge when he grabbed her about the waist and hauled her back. Her arms were flailing wildly and she kicked at him, in a terror-stricken rage he did not understand. He quickly pinioned her arms to her side and jerked her tightly against him.
“Stop it, Cassandra. Leave go.” He shook her. She stared up at him, mutely, her pupils black in her eyes.
She lashed out at him, beyond reason. “Damn you, let me go. I will not belong to you, do you hear? You will not bend me to your will, you and your accursed child. Don’t you understand? There are no palm trees, no vineyards, no olive groves in England . . . there are no prison guards.”
He grit his teeth, drew back his hand, and slapped her. Her head snapped back with the force of his blow, and he slapped her again. She staggered against his arm and would have sprawled to the ground had he not held her.
“There are no olive groves in England,” she whispered, her voice broken.
For a moment he could feel the starkness of her fear like a living creature within her. She seemed as a child, violently torn from all that she knew, and she was carrying a child herself, his child. She was leaning against him, her forehead pressed against his chest, her arms hanging limply at her sides.
“No, Cassie,” he said, stroking her hair, “there are no olive groves in England.” He held her close, his cheek resting lightly against her hair, and softly rubbed her shoulders.
She was silent for many minutes. Finally, she straightened her head and gazed up at him, her eyes clear. “You have never before called me Cassie.”
His fingers lightly touched her cheek as if he wished simply by touching her to clear the red splotches created by his own hand. “No, you are right. Just as there are no olive groves in England, I had believed there was not a Cassie in Italy, only a Cassandra.”
He paused a moment, gazing out over the calm lake. When he finally spoke, Cassie could feel him struggling with himself, though his voice was calm, almost detached.
“Much has happened, and very quickly. If you would prefer to wait some months before we wed, it is your decision.”
She pulled slowly away from him and he let her go. “Why do you still have Joseph guarding me?”
“He is no longer guarding you, cara. He is merely your companion, someone who cares about you and wishes to keep you from any harm. If his presence upsets you, then he will go.”
She sighed and rubbed the palm of her hands against her still-burning cheeks. “No, I do not wish him to go.”
“I am glad. If naught else, perhaps he will keep you from falling into the lake when you handle your sailboat clumsily.”
His jest brought a slight smile to her lips and he allowed his muscles to relax. “And our wedding, Cassandra?”
She gazed up at him, a faint flush covering her cheeks. “I have behaved badly, I think.” She faltered a moment, and then said straightly, “I do not want to be fat, and you know yourself, my lord, that nothing would change, even if we did wait.”
He smiled, picturing her belly swollen with child. “No, nothing would change. That accursed child would continue to grow in happy ignorance inside you.”
“He is not accursed.” She hugged her arms protectively around her stomach. Bright color suddenly stained her cheeks, for he had used the word she had flung at him. “That, I did not mean.”
“But the rest you did.”
“Yes.”
He smiled down at her quizically and offered her his arm. “If the babe is going to make his mother fly into rampages, and scare the wits out of his father, then I fancy I shall have to become stern with him, this very evening.”
“I am certain, my lord, that the babe already believes his father to be a monstrous man, bent upon disrupting his peaceful existence.”
“I shall take that as a compliment, my dear. Now, Cassandra, if you wish to go back to the villa, I shall let Marcello tell you the response of the Dutch shipping representative.”
She forced interest into her eyes. “You know, my lord? Do not tease me. Come, what is the answer?”
He shook his dark head, delighting in the fact that she had regained her balance. “You must learn patience, madam, though I daresay that we shall, within a couple of years, recoup our losses.”
She smiled and nodded her head. She lengthened her step to match his stride.
The earl toweled off his body and quickly donned the undergarments and breeches Scargill handed to him.
“I begin to believe it’s back in Scotland I am,” Scargill said, eyeing the rain-bloated clouds overhead and shivering in the unseasonably cool weather. “And ye, my lord, ye must still insist on yer exercise, even though the weather would make a Scotsman cover his kilts.” He looked out over the lake, and fancied that the water was as cold as were his fingers. He shook his head. The earl, as was his custom, had dived from the narrow wooden dock and swum to the opposite shore and back again with long, powerful strokes, enjoying the invigorating water and, Scargill thought, the strength of his own well-muscled body.
“What are you muttering about, old man?” The earl had heard very little of what Scargill had said, his thoughts on his own sense of well-being after his arduous exercise, and on Cassandra. He was to be married in a week now, and although his friends had loudly and raucously bemoaned his demise as a bachelor, he had only laughed, enormously pleased with himself. After expending so much energy in the pursuit of the only woman he had long known would suit him, he could not imagine feeling any of the trepidation his friends seemed to expect.
Early that morning, he had ordered their breakfast brought to their bedchamber. Cassandra had dutifully consumed a slice of dried toast, blanched, and bounded out of bed, forgetting her dressing gown in her rush to reach the basin. When she returned to their bed, her body trembling with cold, she eyed the remains of the rare sirloin on his plate and said, “It is not fair that you stuff yourself and I am the one who becomes ill. And I would that you stop grinning at me like an officious bore.”
But his grin only widened. Thank God he no longer had a girl who exploded in unreasoning hysterics on his hands. All was back to normal, and he was immensely pleased to have his sharp-tongued vixen back again.
“It’s coming on to rain, my lord, and I don’t like it one bit.”
The earl turned his attention to the muttering Scargill as he shrugged into his waistcoat.
“What displeases you now?”
“The madonna riding out with Joseph on a day like this to have a picnic in the hills. She’s but being stubborn, and you, my lord, do not rein her in.”
“The fresh air will do her good. Joseph will see to it that they return if it begins to rain, do not fret yourself.” He would have liked to accompany her himself, but The Cassandra had docked the previous afternoon and Mr. Donnetti expected him to discuss the trading he had done in Venice. He looked forward to inspecting the bolt of Venetian silk that he had ordered for Cassandra. It was calculated to bring out her woman’s vanity, if, he thought wryly, she was possessed of any.
He did not bother with luncheon, but ordered Paolo to bring around his black stallion, Cicero, and left immediately for Genoa.
Sordello was not quite sure why he drew back into the thick bushes that lined the dusty road at the sight of the on-coming horsemen, but even from a distance he knew them to be strangers, and strangers he did not trust. He quickly jerked in his fishing pole and crouched down. He felt his heart plummet to his shoes as they drew up not far from his hiding place.
Their voices were low and muffled by their heavy great-coats. He really had no wish to hear their conversation, merely to remain hidden from their sight, but he heard one of the men say quite clearly, “I know this is their direction. Giacomo saw the Corsican ride out with the English girl not more than an hour ago.”
The man, who evidently was Giacomo, grunted in assent. “And Il Signore left the villa in the opposite direction.”
The man who had first spoken, the leader, Sordello supposed, for he was a huge, burly man, with a loud voice, said even more loudly, “Then it’s off we are, lads, if we are to be at Vannone’s hut by nightfall.”
Sordello heard one man curse at the light drizzle that had begun to fall. His voice was consumed by the galloping horses’ hooves as they rode away. Sordello crawled quietly from his hiding place and watched the men ride up the snaking road that wound through the hills. He felt a quiver of fear. They were taking the same route as the madonna and Joseph had ridden earlier. His mind worked feverishly as he dusted off his trousers and clutched his fishing pole firmly to his side. He wasn’t at all sure what the man’s words meant, but the thought that they might hurt Joseph sent him hurtling over the high stone walls of the Villa Parese to search out Scargill.
He breathlessly repeated to the Scotsman what he could remember and watched fearfully as Scargill’s ruddy face paled.
“Ye heard nothing more, lad?”
“No, signore. But they looked vicious and mean.”
Scargill didn’t hesitate. Even if the boy had totally misunderstood what the men were about, he could not afford to take the chance.
“Quickly, boy, tell Paolo and yer father to make themselves ready. I will fetch his lordship from Genoa.”
Scargill never slackened his horse’s pace, but he began to feel nagging doubts by the time he reached the harbor and The Cassandra. He was beginning to feel indeed the fool when he stepped into the captain’s cabin. The earl and Mr. Donnetti were seated across from each other at the table. In the earl’s hands was a bolt of singularly beautiful silk.
“My lord.”
“Scargill! What the devil are you doing here?” He dropped the bolt of silk and rose to his feet.
“I think there may be trouble, my lord.” He saw Mr. Donnetti’s hand move to the slender stiletto at his belt.
“Very well, tell me what has happened.” The earl’s voice was controlled yet impatient, and it had the effect of making Scargill pour out Sordello’s story with scarce a pause.
“That is all?”
“The boy said there were four of them and they were a vicious-looking lot.” Scargill had done his duty, and waited for the earl to shrug and admonish him not to be an impressionable ass.
The earl turned to Mr. Donnetti. “Francesco, hire horses and bring two of your best men to the villa. I will assure that there is someone there to guide you further. Scargill, you said they mentioned Vannone’s hut?”
“Aye, my lord, the boy was certain about the name. Ye know the place?”
“Yes, I believe I do. It’s an abandoned shack, supposedly haunted by a blackguard, Vannone, long dead. Francesco, it lies about seven miles into the hills, west of the villa, just off the main road. Make haste, my friend.”
The earl turned quickly and strode to his desk. Scargill saw him stare for a brief instant at one of the dueling pistols before he thrust them into his belt. It was the pistol the madonna had shot him with.
Cassie pulled herself forward from her comfortable position against a tree trunk and squinted heavenward. “Oh dear,” she said, “I do believe the earl was right. I think a raindrop just fell on my nose.”
“Si, and because you are headstrong, we are both in for a good soaking.”
Cassie wrinkled her nose at him. “I suppose you will tell me now that you have not much enjoyed gorging yourself on the cold chicken and cheese. And the prospect is so beautiful. A little rain will not make us melt, Joseph.”
Joseph rose unhurriedly to his feet and sniffed the air. “We will return now, madonna. If you will not take care of yourself, then I must.”
“Very well.” She stretched her stiff legs and shook out her velvet riding skirt. “It has grown somewhat chilly, I will grant you that.”
Joseph’s toes were feeling prickly with cold, but he curbed a sharp retort. Her perversity, he realized, was part of her charm, and like his master, he was not at all immune to it. He quickly packed up the basket and tossed Cassandra into her saddle.
“The feather in your hat will be a wilted mess by the time we return,” he said, not without some satisfaction.
Cassie touched her fingers to the fast drooping feather and laughed. “If it will bring you pleasure, my friend, then I will pray for the clouds to flood us.”
He tried to frown at her, but failed. She was indeed a minx, he thought. It surprised him greatly that after some twenty-five years of silence, he had found himself telling her about his young wife, Maria, and their short year together on Corsica. A lifetime ago, yet when he was with the madonna, the happy memories stirred themselves into life.
It began to rain in earnest, and Joseph motioned to Cassandra to quicken her mare’s pace. He imagined the earl would have his head as it was, for returning her to the villa in sodden clothing. He corrected himself quickly, for the master was rarely unfair. It was Joseph’s self-willed mistress who would receive a good trimming.
Joseph reined in his horse at a sharp bend in the rutted, now slippery road, and looked skyward. Already the afternoon was shadowed and gray, and the air had turned a muddy color.
His horse snorted and reared back in surprise, and Joseph’s hands tightened on the reins. He looked down the winding road that crisscrossed in and out of the hills below them. Four horsemen, heavily cloaked, were riding purposefully up the road, several hundred yards below them. He felt growing alarm, for he recognized neither the horses nor the men. Suddenly, one of the men drew up, raised himself in the saddle, and scanned the hills above him. To Joseph’s horror, the man pointed at him and yelled something to the others. He could hear the pounding hooves as the galloping horses strained forward toward them.
Cassie pulled her mare to a halt beside him. “What is it, Joseph?”
He turned in his saddle to face her and said in a low, hard voice, “Listen carefully, madonna, and do exactly as I tell you. There are four men coming and I know that they mean us no good.” As he spoke, he pulled a pistol from his belt and carefully laid back the hammer.
“Dear God, whatever are you talking about?”
He waved away her question. “Do you know the direction of the villa if you leave the road?”
“I believe so, but—”
“I will halt the men here. You, madonna, will leave the road. You must go carefully, for the incline, though slight, is fast becoming a sea of mud. Ride through the trees yon for at least a mile before you return to the road. Then I want you to ride like the devil himself back to the villa. I will try to catch up with you.”
“Surely you are mistaken. Joseph, I cannot leave you.”
Joseph uttered a loud oath and for the first time since she had met him, she saw the fierce, set lines of the Barbary pirate on his face.
His fear communicated itself to her, and she shivered.
“Go, quickly.” He drew back his hand and slapped her mare’s rump hard with the butt of his pistol.
Cassie looked back at him. He was covering his pistol with his cloak to shield it from the rain, and studying the terrain around him with narrowed, calculating eyes. Cassie guided her mare off the road and down the incline. Brambles tore at her riding skirt and cloak, but she was scarce aware of them. The suddenness of what was happening made her fear somehow unreal, as if she had been thrust into a bizarre nightmare.
The trees were thick, but her Arabian-bred mare nimbly sought out the narrow passages between them, side-stepping dangerously thorned underbrush. Her mare pushed forward until they came upon a narrow, nearly overgrown footpath, Cassie click-clicked her into a canter, and at the same instant, her mare’s ears flattened at the sound of a pistol shot, followed quickly by another. Their retorts merged into a single staccato echo off the hills.
“Joseph,” Cassie croaked, and slewed her head back in the direction she had come.
She heard the loud crashing of horses through the thick underbrush and felt her mouth go dry. She whipped her mare forward, urging her into a gallop. Low-hanging tree branches tore at her riding hat, and her mare snorted angrily as thorny bushes ripped at her legs. The horses’ hooves pounded behind her, through the thick forest, drawing closer. Suddenly, her mare burst through the trees.
She cried out in disbelief. On the road below her, a man sat waiting on his horse, his face shrouded by a black mask. They had guessed what she would do. She eyed the distance between them, bowed her head close to her mare’s neck, dug her heels into her tender sides, and whipped her into a mad gallop down the slope.
Giacomo watched the girl tearing toward him in some surprise. But he was experienced in his work. He grinned in anticipation, for she was bringing sport to what he had thought would be a dull post. He knew she would try to startle his horse out of her path, and he grasped his horse’s reins more firmly. He whipped his horse into a gallop before she reached the road, and when Cassie’s mare veered away at the last instant, he reached out and raked her off her horse’s back. She clawed wildly against his arms, and he could not stop her mare, who was galloping erratically away from him down the hill road. He felt her nails rake at his neck, and with a bellow of fury, struck her jaw with his fist.
Brilliant flashes of white exploded in her head, and she slumped limply against him.
“Good work, Giacomo,” Andrea said, as his mount gained the road. “You haven’t killed her, have you?”
“No, but she’s a feisty wench.” He wrapped his hand roughly about a mass of golden hair that spilled loosely down her back. “She’s a beauty, this one.”
Andrea laughed heartily. “There’ll be time enough for that once we get her to Vannone’s hut.” He whipped his horse about, and waved to Giacomo. They left her soaked, bedraggled riding hat lying trampled at the side of the road.
Cassie smelled wet, sweat-soaked wool. She gagged and tried to wrench herself away from the stench, but a strong hand pressed hard against her back.
“Make yourself easy, my girl,” she heard a man say. “It won’t be long now.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but a sharp pain in her jaw held her silent. She discovered she was flung like a sack of grain face down over a saddle, her face pressed against the man’s thigh. She tried once again to jerk herself free, and the man pulled viciously at her hair, until she cried out.
“Hold still,” came a snarling command. She felt the man’s hand move downward from the small of her back, until he probed roughly at her buttocks through her thick cloak. She froze, every thought suspended, and swallowed convulsively, fear and bile rising in her throat. Dear God, where was Joseph? She remembered the two shots that had echoed off the hills, and closed her eyes tight against her mounting terror.
She fought against growing nausea and spasmodic pain that gnawed at her belly from the jolting horse’s gallop. It had stopped raining and the gray afternoon shadows had lengthened before she heard the shout of a man and felt the horse beneath her come to a halt.
“Bring her in, I’ll light the lamps.” It was a man’s loud voice.
Her fear made her wily, and she forced her stiff muscles to go limp when she was pulled from the saddle. She thought the man believed her to have fainted for he held her loosely with but one arm about her waist. Without warning, she twisted wildly in his grasp and smashed his face with her fist. He howled, and she was suddenly free, stumbling away from him, running blindly into the growing darkness.
She felt a tremendous weight strike her back, and she went hurtling to the ground, breathless. A man’s heavy body covered her, grinding her into the earth. She heard a deep, throaty laugh close to her ear. “Giacomo is right, you are a feisty wench. More’s the pleasure for us, my fine lady.”
Cassie was jerked to her feet, her arms twisted behind her. She bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying out, to deny them the pleasure of hearing her pain. They dragged her up rotted wooden steps through the open door of a small cabin and shoved her inside. She staggered forward and sprawled to her knees.
“Madonna.” Joseph’s anguished voice restored her to reason, and she jerked her head toward him.
He stood in the far corner of the room, his arms held by two men. There was a wide red stain spreading down his shirt.
“My God, Joseph, you are hurt.” She struggled to her feet, but the huge burly man flung her back to the floor.
“Leave her alone, you stinking pigs!” Cassie heard pain beneath the fury in Joseph’s shout. She had to help him—somehow.
She looked up at the huge man, whose hooded face made him all the more terrifying, for he seemed faceless. “Do you not realize who I am?” she said in a cold voice. “In case you do not, I am betrothed to Anthony Welles, the master of the Villa Parese. If it is money you want, you shall have it, but only if we are returned unharmed. I demand that you release us at once.”
Andrea appeared thoughtful for a moment. He stroked his jaw and turned to the other men. “Well, my lads, what do you think of the lady’s offer?”
“I’ll tell you what I think of the little bitch.” Cassie had no time to pull out of Giacomo’s way, for he stood over her. His booted foot smashed against her ribs, and she doubled over, violent pain ripping her chest. She heard a ragged curse from Joseph, and then a strange, soft whimper. The whimper, she realized dimly, came from deep in her throat.
“That will teach you to fight me.”
“Leave go, Giacomo. You don’t want her unconscious, do you?”
“You’ll not lay a hand on her, you filthy swine.”
“Just see if we don’t, my brave Corsican.”
Cassie looked up through a haze of pain to see the huge man pulling off his cloak. Almost gently, he spread it on the rotting floor.
“Can we, Andrea?” she heard Giacomo say eagerly.
Andrea shrugged. “There was naught said. I was told to keep her here, the Corsican too, I guess, until he comes. If you’ve no taste for such a lovely morsel, then I’ll take your turn as well.”
A wild shout broke from Giacomo’s mouth. “No, you’ll not have her all to yourself.” His voice was suddenly crafty. “We’ll have the Corsican watch. He’s probably lusted after her himself.”
The two men holding the struggling Joseph broke into furious argument.
Cassie’s heart froze within her. They were going to rape her. God, they were fighting over the order. She tried to get control of herself, to think of something, anything that would save her. A pistol. Perhaps she could get one of the men’s pistols. Slowly, she pulled herself to her feet, but the pain in her chest was so great that she gasped aloud.
“Ah,” Andrea said, “the little lady wants us to begin. Look at how she comes to us.”
Frenzied, excited laughter met his words. He was on her in the next instant, tearing off her cloak, and ripping at her riding habit.
“No, damn you, no!” Cassie yelled. The pain in her chest faded from her consciousness and she fought him, clawing at his eyes through the black mask, kicking wildly at his legs.
“Hold the wildcat, Giacomo,” Andrea shouted.
Andrea tore off her clothing, delighting, she thought wildly, in shredding every layer. She twisted frantically, even as Giacomo wrenched her arms behind her back.
Andrea stepped back, his dark eyes glistening, his large tongue running excitedly over his lips.
She stood naked, her body quivering with cold and fear, her hair hanging loosely down her back and over her breasts.
He reached out his hand and cupped her breast. A piercing scream broke from Cassie’s mouth, and without thought, she leaned her head down and sank her teeth into the back of his hand.
He struck her, full in the face, and she fell back against Giacomo. Giacomo’s hands moved urgently over her, down her belly, around her thighs. She could hear his breathing in her ear, heavy and rasping in his lust. Cassie jerked an arm free of him and thrust her elbow into his stomach.
She heard his bellow of rage and hoped that his blow would leave her senseless.
But it was Andrea who struck her. He drove his fist into her belly, and she fell to her knees, clutching her arms about herself. She was hurled upon the cloak, her arms yanked above her head and held there by Giacomo’s knees. She felt his hands pulling her hair from her face and shoulders. His fingers closed over her breasts, tender from her pregnancy, hurting her badly.
“She does not like your gentle attention, Giacomo,” Andrea said, laughing. “Let us see if she prefers this.”
Cassie’s eyes opened wide, despite herself. Andrea had dropped his breeches and bared himself. He was built like a bull, a brute, a raging animal.
She kicked wildly at his hairy belly as he grabbed at her legs. He grunted and thrust himself between her thighs.
Dimly, as if from a great distance, Cassie heard Joseph screaming curses.
“Lay the Corsican out, Giulio. I need both of you to hold her down.”
“Bastardo!” Cassie screamed, and craned her neck forward to see Joseph slumping onto the floor. She was sobbing, screaming her own curses at them, English oaths that they did not understand.
Suddenly there were hands all over her body, rough fingers digging into her, pulling her legs apart. For an instant, the room was silent, save for the rasping breath of the men who held her. Then her body exploded into agony. Andrea drove into her, tearing her, his hands jerking her hips upward to engorge himself with her.
For the first time in her life, Cassie prayed for death, for blessed unconsciousness that would free her of this horror. But the pain continued, plummeting her mind into senselessness. She was scarce aware when the second man took his turn, for he could not tear her body more than had Andrea. Until Giulio. “Damn,” she heard him curse, “the wench grows too slippery.”
She was pulled onto her stomach. And she screamed, screamed until her voice was a hoarse groan in her throat.
“You rutting bastards.”
It was a new voice, a man’s voice, laden with fury.
She was rolled onto her back and the vicious probing hands left her.
“You did not say that we could not enjoy her,” Andrea said, his voice sulky.
“Get out, all of you. What if someone comes, you fools, the lot of you mucking around with your breeches down. For God’s sake, get out of here and keep watch.”
For a moment, Cassie’s mind detached itself from her torn body, and her eyes focused on the man. Like the others, he wore a black mask. But there was something different about him, other than the richness of his clothing, something that she couldn’t quite grasp.
“Joseph,” she whispered between swollen lips. It did not occur to her to beg mercy for herself. She knew with the hopelessness of certainty that there would be none.
“Pazza fragitara nigli inferno,” he said, his voice low and strangely slurred.
Caesare stared down at her and felt a spasm of revulsion at what his bravi had done to her. He had thought to take her himself, but now he wanted only to leave this place and forget her eyes staring up at him, wide with helpless terror, forget the sight of her naked body, bruised and bleeding. He turned abruptly on his heel and strode to the door. “Andrea!” he shouted. “Do as you like with them. Just be certain, if you value your life, that they are never found.”
“No,” she whispered after him, trying to pull herself up, but he was gone.
Andrea appeared in the open doorway. “No more need of these, lads,” he said, and pulled off his mask.
Cassie stared up at his coarse-bearded face, his mouth slashed wide in a grin. “Let her see your handsome face, Giacomo,” he said, again unfastening the buttons of his breeches.
Giacomo’s thin face was drawn and sharp, his eyes a strange golden color, like those of a fox. He ran his tongue over his blackened front teeth. “Wait your turn, Andrea. She’s mine now.”
Giacomo was angry that they had beaten the fight out of her, for he had wanted to feel her heaving and struggling against him.
She moaned softly, helplessly, when he thrust himself into her, and he could feel her quivering with pain.
“Fight me, damn you.” He slapped her breasts and belly with the flat of his hand.
But there was no fight left in her, only a vast emptiness shrouded in pain. Dimly, she remembered the man’s words, their leader’s words. “Pazza fragitara nigli inferno. May he rot in hell.” She was to die now, as was Joseph. Somehow, the knowledge did not quite touch her. She raised vague eyes to Andrea, and saw him pulling down his breeches. She cried out, deep in her throat, and fell into merciful blackness.
Andrea sat cross-legged on the filthy floor, eyeing his three comrades. “Well, what will you, lads? Kill them now or wait for the wench to come around again?”
“What a bloody waste to carve the wench,” Giacomo said, rubbing his hand over the stubble of beard on his chin. “The Corsican though—” He pulled his knife lovingly from his belt.
Andrea nodded. “Gut the Corsican, Giulio.”
Giulio rose to his feet and drew his stiletto free of its leather sheath. He was caressing its razor edge with the tip of his thumb when a shot shattered the silence of the room, and Giulio screamed, clutching his belly.
The earl hurled into the room, the force of his body tearing the cabin door from its rusted hinges.
“Out, men!” Andrea shouted, and kicked over the lighted lamp, plunging the cabin into darkness. The earl heard a booted foot shatter the back door of the hut. At the same instant, he fired his other pistol, and one of the men grunted in pain. He whirled about and rushed out of the hut, to see three men hurling themselves onto their horses.
He turned and dashed back into the hut, his pistols still clenched tightly in his hands. His jaw was grinding spasmodically in fear. He had had only a brief glimpse of Cassie, sprawled naked upon her back, unmoving.
He fell to his knees, his hands groping for the overturned lamp. Frantically, he pulled it upright and lit it with flint and steel from the tinderbox that lay next to it.
The earl strode across the creaking floor and dropped to his knees beside her. “Oh, Cassie, no,” he whispered.
Her face was turned away from him. Her eyes were open, but she did not respond, locked so deeply into her own horror that she was scarce aware of his presence.
She felt a large hand, a man’s hand, lightly stroke her cheek and shoulder. Her horror turned itself outward. “No, please—no,” she whimpered, and tried to draw away.
“Cassandra, don’t be afraid, there is nothing more to fear.”
His fingers lightly stroked her face, smoothed back her tangled hair. Slowly, she turned her head to face him.
She saw her own pain mirrored in his eyes. “I did not think you would find us.” It hurt so to speak. She ran her tongue over her swollen lips. “Joseph, please, you must help Joseph.”
The earl saw movement from the corner of his eye and whipped about. Scargill stood in the open doorway, a pistol in his hand.
“My lord.” He lowered the pistol slowly to his side as he took in the sight of Cassie, of Joseph lying slumped on his belly, and a second man lying in a pool of blood. “Paolo and Marco are outside,” he said feverishly. “We couldn’t keep up with yer stallion.”
“I know, Scargill,” the earl said firmly, seeing shock beginning to cloud Scargill’s ruddy features. “Pay no attention to that scum. See to Joseph, quickly.”
Scargill raised his head a few moments later, his eyes filled with impotent anger. “He’s bad, my lord.”
The earl closed his eyes to blot out his fury. His voice rang out in the silence of the small room, harshly cold. “Send Paolo back to fetch a surgeon to the villa. You and Sordello’s father”—he could not seem to remember his head gardener’s name—“take Joseph back. I will see to Cassandra. As to him”—he jerked his head toward the dead man—“we will fetch him later.”
When the earl turned back to Cassie, her eyes were closed.
“Cassie!” he shouted at her. Her thick eyelashes fluttered open, and she looked at him, vaguely questioning.
“I must take you home now.”
Gently, he slipped his hand beneath her back. She moaned at his touch. His hand froze when he saw a dark bruise over her ribs, beneath her breast. He carefully eased his hand away. Although there was a dank chill inside the cabin, he felt beads of perspiration form on his forehead.
“Cara, I am sorry, but I must hurt you.” He thought of the relentless miles back down the dark, winding road to the villa, and his hands shook.
“I cannot hurt any more than I do now,” she whispered. She was wrong. Suddenly, the muscles in her belly drew taut as a bowstring, then contracted ferociously. She screamed, all vestige of control stripped from her. Her legs, as if from instinct, drew up, and her hands clutched wildly at her belly. She focused her eyes, deep pools of pain, dumbly upon the earl’s set face.
“The babe,” she whispered, and then she was lost to him. He felt the fierce power of the contractions as he gently probed her belly beneath her clawing fingers. Her screams burned into his mind, and he felt completely helpless. There was nothing he could do to help her, or the child.
Cassie was scarce aware that her body was being covered and that she was being carried. Dimly, she heard him speaking to her, but his words were meaningless sounds. She tried to bring up her legs, hoping to lessen the wrenching pain, but she could not. She struck at the arms that held her, clawing for her release. She became aware of a moaning, jagged scream, and understood vaguely that it came from her mouth. It was odd, she thought, dazed by a sudden absence of pain, that she had screamed so. She never screamed. She tasted blood and salty tears. Then she tasted nothing.
The earl felt a great shudder go through her body. Her head lolled against the crook of his arm, and he tightened his grip on her. He quickened his stallion’s pace, thankful for the sliver of moon that shined weakly, lighting the road. His lips moved, and it shook him to discover that he was praying.