In the Tudor Court Collection. Amanda McCabe
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came I do not know anything…’
‘Lorenzo.’ Her mouth seemed to tingle from his kiss though it had been sweet and gentle, and her heart was racing wildly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Who knows what words mean?’ he asked, an odd smile touching his mouth. ‘Did I not tell you this was a night of mystery? Michael is looking for you. I shall take you back to him, Kathryn.’
She wanted to stay with him, to be back in his arms, but she knew that the moment had passed as he took her arm, steering her back to where Michael awaited her. Then, before she could say or do anything, he turned and disappeared through the throngs of people crowding the square.
‘I have never known Lorenzo to attend the masque before,’ Michael said, watching him go. ‘Nor have I known him to dance.’
‘Not ever—with anyone?’ Kathryn’s heart jerked as he shook his head. How strange that was! ‘He said that his business had finished early.’
‘Even so…’ Michael looked thoughtful. ‘Will you eat something, Mistress Rowlands?’
‘I am not very hungry,’ Kathryn confessed. ‘Would you mind very much if I asked you to take me home?’
‘No, of course not,’ he said and smiled at her. ‘I am here to serve you.’
‘You were very kind to bring me this evening. I have enjoyed myself.’
‘Lorenzo asked me to bring you. He said that you had been confined to the house too long. I asked him why he did not bring you himself, and he said that you would be safer with me. I did not understand him.’ Michael frowned. ‘I would give my life for Lorenzo Santorini, but…’ He paused, then rushed on. ‘I do not think he is a man who would make a woman such as you happy, Kathryn. There are things in his past that he can never forget.’
‘What do you mean?’ She looked at him, her eyes wide, feeling coldness at the nape of her neck. ‘What kind of things?’
‘Forgive me, I may not tell you. I have perhaps said too much. It is not my business to interfere—but I have a deep regard for you, Kathryn. Forgive me if I use your name without permission.’ She shook her head. ‘You are as brave and generous as you are beautiful. I do not know what Lorenzo intends towards you, but I would not have you hurt.’
‘Thank you for your concern, sir. But I do not think he intends anything towards me—other than to deliver me safely to Lord Mountfitchet and collect the ransom.’
‘What ransom?’ Michael stared at her. ‘If you imagine that he snatched you from that Spaniard for a ransom, you are much mistaken. You do not understand him, Kathryn. Yes, sometimes he takes money for restoring a man to his family. Most are only too eager to pay it and he puts that money to good use. For every man that can be restored to his family there are a hundred that cannot; some can never work and without help would simply starve.’
Kathryn felt very strange, her throat tight with emotion. ‘Are you telling me that the money…?’ Her voice caught on a sob as she realised how badly she had misjudged Lorenzo. ‘He helps the men he rescues if they are not strong enough to work?’
‘Did you imagine that he cast them out to fend for themselves? Better that they should die quickly than starve, Kathryn. Lorenzo is rich, but he cares little for money for its own sake. His purpose in life is to destroy those evil men who prey on others, enslaving them and using them like beasts. That is why I warned you not to love him, for there is such pain in him…’ He shook his head as her eyes begged the question. ‘No, I may not tell you more. I have already said too much and I beg that you will not speak of this to Lorenzo. He would be angry. He makes no apology for what he does to any man—or woman.’
‘I shall never tell him what you have said this night,’ Kathryn said. ‘But I do thank you for telling me. I did not understand.’
She had had no idea what lay behind that mask of coldness, the apparent ruthlessness of his business, the way he saved or took life seemingly at will. Even now she could not think of the men left behind in the water without shuddering, but she could begin to understand.
Lorenzo removed the leather wristbands, rubbing at the ridge of dark purplish-red flesh beneath. The badge of his slavery, a constant reminder that would never let him forget those years of pain and humiliation or the hatred that had festered inside him. At Antonio Santorini’s deathbed, he had sworn that he would not rest until he had brought Rachid down and freed all those he held prisoner. That purpose had driven him from this day until now, and he could not let anything change that—not even the enticing lips of a woman who filled his senses as no other ever had.
She had felt so good as he’d held her in his arms during their dance that the temptation to kiss her had been overwhelming. She filled his mind even now, making him burn with desire such as he had never known. Only the strength of his will was keeping him from going to her now and making her his own. He wanted to feel her soft skin as she lay beside him, to touch her, kiss her, know her fully. To make love to her, to love her, have her always…
No! That way lay madness! He could not lie with Kathryn without letting down his guard. He could not seduce her without offering her his home and his name—but what was his name?
A shiver went through him as he recalled the moment she had looked into his eyes and asked him who he was, and his answer had surprised even himself. He was Lorenzo Santorini, a man dedicated to destroying his enemy. Of course he knew who he was! To let himself dwell on the past—on things that could never be proved—would be to invite confusion.
He rubbed at his left wrist. It was always this one that irritated the most. The flesh was swollen now for he did not use the healing salve as often as he should. Getting out of bed, he took the pot of lotion that had been given him by Ali Khayr, rubbing it into the ridges of tortured flesh. He frowned as he traced the thin line, which extended from beneath the welt of scarred skin. It looked darker than the other scars, older and in some way different. He had not really noticed it until lately. His finger traced it absently, sliding down over the welt of disfigured flesh, making the sign of a letter.
Kathryn! She was too often in his mind. If he allowed her to take over she would destroy him. He had begun to imagine things, impossible dreams that were not for a man such as he—and there were the images that came to him now. Flashes of memory, perhaps? He could not be sure. For so many years he had remembered nothing, had wanted to remember nothing beyond the moment he had seen the face of his enemy and known that he lived only to kill him.
Rachid was not of Arab descent, nor was he a Turk. His skin was sunburned and his eyes were grey, but he was from the Western world—something that had made Lorenzo despise him more. How could he, a man raised to Christian values, use and torture other men so cruelly? He was evil, a disciple of Satan—and Lorenzo could not rest until he was dead.
Nothing must deflect him from his purpose. He must not allow himself to be softened by a woman’s smile—nor must he let those disturbing flashes of memory rob him of his identity. It did not matter who he had been. He was Lorenzo Santorini. A man with no mercy for his enemy.
The sooner he could return Kathryn to her friends the better. If he were sensible, he would send her with Michael as her escort, finish it now. The longer she stayed with him the more enmeshed in her web he might become.
Kathryn looked around the cabin to which she had been shown. It was much more luxuriously appointed than the one she had used on board Lorenzo’s war galley. This was the largest and finest of his merchant ships. It was carrying a cargo of goods to the island, which would be sold to the merchants there in return for another cargo of fine wines and citrus fruits. These fruits were much valued by those who spent their lives at sea, for they were believed to help prevent the dreaded disease that some called scurvy.
She turned as she heard someone behind her, and, looking towards the door, saw that Lorenzo stood there. His eyes were thoughtful as they looked at her, almost brooding. She felt herself tremble inside and knew a longing to be in his arms as she had been on the night of the Seventh Moon.