| |
The storm broke with unsurpassed fury. With Massimo, Amoro and his band of guardsmen waited outside the stone walls of Monterossa Castle.
A month had passed since he and his men had settled at the inn. In that time, he received rejection after rejection by Morena Monterossa.
His men bided their time and shielded their faces from the foul weather. Amoro studied the sky. The tempest forced everyone indoors.
No sentries walked the battlement wall-walks. It was a perfect night to gain entry into the castle.
A bolt of lightning followed by a shattering quake of thunder agitated the horses and one reared. The beast panicked and tore the reins then galloped off into the darkness.
Amoro didn’t understand why Morena continued to refuse him. He had made it clear to all that he came in peace. He hated having to steal into the castle to gain an audience with her. A terrible start for a first encounter, but she left him no alternative. He paced with fists clenched, the long wait testing his tolerance as he stood in the bucketing rain and howling wind.
Over the din of the storm’s raw fury, Massimo met Amoro’s gaze.
“It’s time. Are your men in position?”
Amoro nodded and roared his command, “Circle the castle. Remain out of sight and wait for my orders.” The fierceness of the gale smothered his words. The taste of salt water lingered in his mouth.
Lightning spiked the sky and cut through the churning clouds.
Undaunted, the drenched men took their posts. Their mantles flailed and twisted in a howling wind that blasted mercilessly.
Amoro tightened his mantle. The rain chilled to the bone. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. His wet leggings and tunic clung to his body as he followed Massimo. He narrowed his eyes against the deluge and scrutinized the dark skies above. Strands of ebony hair thrashed without inhibition in the wind and whipped into his eyes. Another bolt of lightning illuminated the world in a dissonant grey light.
Amoro shouted to Massimo. “The devil curses us with this storm, but it will not be enough for he has met his match with the likes of us.”
As if to dispute his claim, the rain descended ever more potent. The wind increased in turbulence. The cold burned his skin. “Take me to the cursed door. I have a lady to charm.”
***
MORENA OF PORTOVENERE jolted awake. Relentless pounding pierced the night.
“My lady, a band of men surround the castle,” a woman’s voice called out from the corridor outside her bedchamber.
More urgent pounding ensued.
“My lady, awake.”
Morena’s heart drummed with apprehension. Cristina leaped from the pallet in the corner of the bedchamber. Morena wrestled the embroidered bed covers aside. Her fur-lined night rail tangled about her legs as she lunged from the warm bed. She stubbed her toe against a dowry chest. The brass candlestick atop it wobbled. Morena grabbed it before it fell and scuttled to the hearth. She lit the candle with an ember and sheltered the flame with her hand.
Cristina, eyes wild with fear, grabbed a poker from the hearth.
Together they rushed to the door of the bedchamber. With ease born of practice, Morena pushed up the latch and shoved the door open with her shoulder.
Silvia stood in the corridor and grasped her mistress’ hand. “Hurry, the captain of your father’s guards urges us into the secret passage.”
Morena trusted the captain, a family friend and cautious warrior. He would only make such a demand if certain of some threat. “Did he say who the men outside are, Silvia?”
“No, he told me to rouse you and go forthwith into the passage. He said he will fetch us when it is safe.”
A tremor shook her body. Sweat drenched her palms. Her father had left several days prior to deal with a matter in a nearby town. Although a contingent of guards had remained behind to protect her, she never felt safe in the absence of her father. Did something happen to him? Is that why a group of strange men surrounded her home? Morena’s thoughts raced. Her breaths increased, her muscles tightened. She seldom used the secret passage. Her teeth chattered as she entered the corridor and led the way through the darkness toward the end of the passage where a tapestry masked a secret door to an underground tunnel.
“Hold the candle.” Morena handed the tallow stick to Cristina and pushed the tapestry aside and reached for the latch.
“Hurry,” Cristina whispered while her body trembled in obvious fright.
Panic gripped Morena, but a will to flee overcame all other thoughts. Morena jostled the latch hard. It lifted. A loud clack sounded and the door creaked. She shoved it open all the way and waited for Cristina and Silvia to pass through before her then she pulled on the latch. The door’s hinges screeched and swung shut behind her. Cristina returned the candle and Morena led the way down a series of stone steps.
The icy blackness of the ancient Roman passage swallowed them. The flame from Morena’s candle shed inadequate light. Cold stones chilled her bare feet and cobwebs brushed her cheek. Beside herself with fear and disgust, she waved her arm to wipe them away. A damp musty smell and years of grit forced her breath to come in gasps. She sucked in a breath and forged into the depths.
Fear drove her forward. She found it near impossible to manoeuvre in the darkness. Twitters of vermin and the odd flash of little eyes reflected red from the candlelight repulsed her. Her legs trembled and cold dread clenched her gut, but she fought to keep her wits about her.
Above all, she must keep Cristina and Silvia from succumbing to panic.
Half running, half walking, holding up the hem of her nightdress, she led them through the cold darkness of the confined passage to the deep underbelly of the castle. They soon reached a small wooden stairway. “We’re almost there.” When Morena placed her foot on the first step, it crumbled. She toppled over and dropped the candlestick to the ground. The flame perished in the blackness.
“My lady, are you hurt?” Silvia’s voice cracked with dread as she grasped for Morena’s arm in the darkness.
“No, I’m fine. Please help me up. The stairs are rotten from disuse. Be careful.”
She positioned her feet on the sides of the steps near their support boards instead of the center. At the top of the steps, a short corridor led to another door. She found her way to it and gripped the latch with her fingers. Safety resided just beyond. With urgency, she heaved on the rusted handle. “The door is stuck.”
“Here, try this.” In the darkness, Cristina handed her something cold.
The iron poker.
The fear in her maidservant’s voice propelled Morena into action.
From deep within herself, she mustered a hidden reserve of strength and pounded at the latch. Success. It moved, but when she lifted the iron bolt, the door refused to budge. A stab of anger overcame her.
How dare the fates go against them! She muttered a curse, placed both hands against the wood, and thrust with her entire might. The door remained stuck.
“Let me try, my lady,” Silvia offered, but the exit failed to yield.
With clenched jaw, Morena braced herself, stepped back several paces, and thrust her body hard against the door. It crashed open.
Morena plummeted forth. Cristina and Silvia tumbled behind.
Brutal winds and harsh rain pelted her. A bolt of lightning split the sky. The silhouette of a group of men flashed before her. One man turned his head and noticed her. Another bolt of lightning revealed the ugly scar on his face above his red beard. Her scream resonated above the storm. Step by step, he approached. She struck and kicked the brute.
An onslaught of his comrades surrounded them. Morena fought to escape. Terror gave way to a desperate will to survive. She swung the poker and struck flesh with a sickening, but satisfactory thud. Cristina flailed her arms to clout the unknown marauders. Morena pounded the man with every morsel of vigour she possessed. Anger surpassed her fear. The situation remained hopeless. She fought, wild with terror.
A massive guardsman loomed over her. Helpless, she reached out with trembling arms to block him, but clashed with his brawny muscle.
He grabbed her arms. She pitched forward to escape, but the attempt failed.
He jerked her around to face him. A gush of breath, stale with wine, flooded her nostrils. Morena thrashed to escape his grasp. The more she struggled, the more severe his efforts to subdue her became. With all her strength, she kicked and flailed. She stumbled and fell to the ground. Her heart raced, gripped by the urge to flee. Frantically she grabbed at the ground and tried to crawl away. He pulled her back.
Morena cast a wild glance around. Cristina and Silvia suffered similar fates. The men entrapped them too. She could do nothing for them just as they could do nothing for her. Survival became an individual responsibility.
Battle-roughened fingers tore at her soft flesh. The man kept her restrained with weight and muscle. As she struggled to escape, her cries turned into screams the storm consumed. Raw instinct fired her resolve.
His menacing face drew near. Morena opened her mouth and bit him hard on the side of his neck. The coppery taste of blood infiltrated her mouth and burned the back of her tongue. The taste caused her stomach to heave. A fist crashed down on her head. Morena’s world turned black.
***
AMORO CAME UPON THE skirmish between his guardsmen and the three women. He bellowed with rage. To see women manhandled thus incensed him beyond comprehension. One of the men struck the woman who fought the hardest and she slumped to the ground.
The sight ignited Amoro’s fury.
He dashed forward, sword drawn. “Halt!”
The men stopped. The women remained in their grasp.
“I ordered no one harmed. Take these women into the castle and see to their care,” Amoro commanded. The men obeyed and carried the women away unmindful of their continued struggles.
Amoro levelled his stare at the man who knocked the third woman unconscious. A bright streak of blood flowed from his neck. “What happened?”
“My Lord,” the man looked downward. “I tried to ascertain her identity. When I approached, she fought like a hellion and bit me. I reacted without thought.”
Amoro turned his attention to the woman on the ground. He bent over, slid one arm beneath her shoulders, the other beneath her hips, and raised her to his chest.
“Who is she?” Amoro asked of Massimo.
Massimo’s eyes widened. “She is the one you seek, Contessa Morena.”
“Dio mio,” Amoro muttered. “This entire ordeal has gone awry. Take me inside so that I can see to her.”
Massimo led the way. Amoro and Roberto hunched down to enter the dank passageway and stairs. Their spurs clicked against the stone.
They kept their swords raised to brush away the cobwebs and stumbled as the steps crumbled beneath their weight. The passage led to an upper corridor in the castle keep.
Amoro followed. The woman’s nightgown dangled over his arm.
An exposed breast appeared through a rip in the garment. Unbound, fawn coloured hair cascaded over his arm and trailed on the cold floor. A thin streak of blood seeped from her right eyebrow and onto her cheek where a bruise formed. Her full lips fell open and her eyes remained closed. Bare feet peeked out from the bottom of a white fur-lined night rail.
His heart lurched with regret. Anyone who harmed a woman deserved the harshest punishment. Visions of Laria’s rescue revisited his thoughts; he could never forget the months of mental anguish as she healed. He could not abide any man who hurt a woman, whether indirectly or not.
He glanced at her again. So, this is the illusive Morena. Beauty and fighting spirit. Well worth the effort. Such courage would have pleased you, Father.
Roberto checked each room to ensure no sentry lurked.
“All clear,” he declared.
“Over here, my lord.” Massimo waved him to an open door to Amoro’s right. He entered ahead of Amoro and stoked the fire. He removed a candle from the mantle and lit it with the blaze in the hearth.
Shielding it with his hand, he brought it to the small table beside the bed.
Amoro laid the woman down on the bed and slid his arm from beneath her. He covered her with the tousled bedcovers and looked around. He guessed it was her bedchamber as he studied the feminine room. Its simple elegance lent an air of comfort: Persian tapestries of restful flower gardens decorated the walls. At the opposite end of the room were several large chests, one with the top open. Inside he caught a glimpse of rich silk tunics and kirtles in brilliant colours.
Caskets overflowed with an array of gemmed ornaments worthy of a queen. Jewellery spilled over onto the top of a carved table that flanked the room’s window. An embroidery frame with a partially completed tapestry, its needle pinned to the edge, sat beneath the window. Two small tables flanked the bed. A psalter with a decorated cover lay open upon one of them. A small lace-covered prieu-dieu rested in the far corner.
“Now what?” Massimo asked.
“We wait.” Amoro grinned. “I prefer a woman to be conscious when I propose marriage.”
Massimo smiled, shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Are you sure you don’t wish to reconsider? Of the three women, she fought the hardest, like an untamed animal with a taste for blood. She is infamous for her unusual boldness that borders on outrageousness and impulsiveness. I know her father would have been proud to see her fight with such courage.”
Amoro turned away from Massimo’s banter to admire the woman’s beauty. He caressed her face with the back of his fingers and brushed a loose curl from her forehead. With his finger he trailed a path over her bruised eye and bloodied cheek.
“Leave me and close the door behind you.”
Massimo’s eyes widened at the impropriety, but his look of neutrality returned by the time the two walked to the door.
“I’ll be outside should you need me,” Roberto advised as he followed Massimo through the door and latched it behind them.
Amoro removed his mantle and flung it onto the foot of the bed. He slid into a chair. Alone, he examined his prize with practiced scrutiny.
“Exquisite,” he murmured. A beauty to savour to its fullest. He looked upon a goddess, innocent and vulnerable, youthful, but mature.
Her upturned nose rested between rose-colored cheeks.
He sucked in a deep breath. An aroma of lavender and roses emanated from her. He leaned closer to study her wounds. The long nick on her face didn’t appear to require stitching and it would heal with no scar.
A beauty so striking, he never imagined. His heart constricted at the thought of the harm he indirectly caused her. He cursed the fates.
Amoro eased himself onto the bed to listen to her soft breaths. He imagined the feel of her breath upon his ear and body and how it might feel to hold her flesh against his.
Amoro picked up the drying cloth on the night table beside the pitcher. He dampened the linen scrap, wrung the excess water out, and washed the dried blood and dirt from her face and neck.
A flash of gold caught his eye. A golden pendant with a large bloodstone nestled between her breasts. He lifted it and examined the filigree of gold that surrounded it. Mysterious specks of reddish brown that resembled splatters of blood marred the large green gemstone.
Men who lived by the sword carried such a bloodstone, but never one so unique. He allowed the prize to linger in his fingers and held the curiosity aloft. He examined the jewel against the light from the hearth.
Of exquisite quality, the stone befit a noblewoman. He turned the pendant around. Ancient Roman writing decorated the back, but he could not make out the words in the dim light of the bedchamber.