In the Tudor Court Collection. Amanda McCabe
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him in bed. Had he been mad to let himself imagine that she might welcome him once she had accustomed herself to the idea?
Most women he had wanted had been eager enough to fall into his arms, but he had never wanted one this badly before. All too often it had been he who had refused the offer of a lady’s company, too busy and too caught up in his quest to want the bother of a love affair. His chosen companions had been ladies who understood that he would go sooner rather than later.
Dressing in black Venetian breeches and hose and a doublet of black slashed with silver, the hanging sleeves attached by silver buckles at the shoulders, Lorenzo looked a true aristocrat. His hair was longer than usual for it had not been trimmed in months, curling to his shoulders, his skin a deep bronze. He glanced at his reflection in the glass, wondering as he had so often who he really was. For a moment his fingers strayed towards the leather wristbands, feeling the accustomed discomfort. All he knew for certain was that he had been captured by the Corsair Rachid and kept as a slave, chained to the oar until he was abandoned for dead. Yet he must have had a life before that day, a family, friends…perhaps a lover.
There had been no more flashes of memory recently. It seemed that the curtain was back in place, shutting out the past. Yet it did not matter—he knew that he was Lorenzo Santorini, owner of a fleet of galleys, his mission in life to destroy his enemy and others of his ilk.
Yet was his purpose as firm as it had been? Lorenzo frowned as he tried to understand the change that had come over him as he looked into the frightened eyes of that youth. Had it been Rachid himself he would not have hesitated to kill him—or would he?
He cursed softly as he realised that he was not sure. He had fed on hatred for so long. It was necessary to him, for without it what would he have?
The answer was so shocking, so alien to all that he had been and believed that he could not accept it. Dreams of a wife and family were not for him. He would grow soft, forget what had made him the man he was—become someone else.
Surely that was not what he wanted? He realised that he did not know. He did not know who he truly was any more.
Kathryn had dressed in an emerald green gown that set off the colour of her hair and made her eyes glow like jewels. She had only a small strand of pearls that her father had given her as a present for her birthday just before she left England, but she wore them with pride, never guessing that beauty such as hers needed no artifice.
‘You look lovely, Kathryn,’ Lorenzo said when he saw her. She was standing in the open arches that led out into a paved courtyard, her face pensive, a little sad perhaps. ‘Of what are you thinking, Madonna?’
‘It is such a lovely night. I was thinking of my home and my father.’
‘Have you written to him?’
Kathryn turned to face him. ‘I wrote to him when we reached Venice, but thought it best not to write again for the moment. Until we have more certain news of our friends I would not worry him.’
‘Do you not think you should tell him that you are married?’
‘Perhaps.’ Kathryn took a step towards him. ‘Lorenzo…’
She hesitated as a servant came to tell them that a meal had been served.
‘You must be hungry?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Let us eat, Kathryn. We have all the evening to talk.’
Her heart began to race as she saw the look in his eyes. All these weeks she had convinced herself that he did not want her, but the way he looked at her now made her think that perhaps she had been mistaken. Perhaps he had left her on their wedding night because there was no time, just as he’d told her. And now he was home and there was plenty of time before he must put to sea again…
‘Tell me what you like to do with your days, Kathryn,’ Lorenzo invited as they sat down to enjoy their meal.
‘Oh, I walk in the garden. I shop with friends and visit their homes. Sometimes they visit me—but there is one thing I miss here, Lorenzo.’
‘And what is that, Madonna?’
‘Books,’ she said. ‘My father has a library at home and he allows me to read his books. Here there are no books.’
‘Why did you not buy some for yourself? I left money enough for your needs.’
‘I did not like to spend too much,’ Kathryn said. ‘And I did not know if you would approve of such purchases.’
Lorenzo smiled. ‘I must show you my library when we go home, Kathryn.’
‘When shall we return to Venice?’
‘Not for some months,’ he said. ‘I have made arrangements to winter here—and you have friends, Kathryn. You would have to begin again in Venice. I thought it would be better to wait until we can return together.’
‘Yes, you are right,’ she said. ‘I have not been bored, Lorenzo—but you asked what I like to do.’
‘We shall buy you books,’ he told her. ‘But now I would hear about your life in England, Kathryn. Tell me what you did there.’
She told him of her home overlooking the sea, and the long walks she liked to take when the weather permitted, and then, somehow, she found herself telling him of the day Dickon was stolen by Corsairs.
‘You say it was your idea that you should go down to the cove to investigate?’ He was looking at her thoughtfully. ‘And you have felt guilt because of it ever since?’
‘Had I not suggested it, he would not have gone.’
‘Can you be so sure of that? Most men would be curious and you were so much younger.’
‘But Dickon always tried to please me. He was so kind, so generous—always laughing and teasing me…’ Her eyes grew dark with remembered grief.
‘Is that why you still love him?’
‘I…am not sure that I do,’ she confessed, not daring to look at him. ‘We were but children. How do I know that we would still have loved each other when we grew up? Besides…’ Her voice tailed away. ‘I am your wife now, Lorenzo. And…and I would be a good wife to you…’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Kathryn looked at him, her breath catching in her throat. How could she answer, how could she tell him what she meant without betraying her feelings? If only he would give her some sign, show that he at least desired her, wanted her in his bed.
She was saved from answering by the arrival of a servant.
‘Signor,’ the woman said, ‘Captain dei Ignacio is here to see you. He has brought someone with him—a woman.’
‘Michael is here?’ Lorenzo got to his feet. ‘Excuse me, Kathryn. I must attend to this.’
She stared after him as he walked from the room. She had come so close to confessing her love, but the interruption had saved her. She wondered why it was so important that Lorenzo must speak with his captain immediately—and who was the woman Michael had brought with him?
Lorenzo’s eyes went over the woman standing at Michael’s side. She was wrapped in his cloak, and from the slippers on her feet and a glimpse of the harem pants she wore beneath it, he understood why.
‘Donna Maria,’ he said, speaking kindly, for he understood that she must be bewildered and perhaps frightened by all that had happened to her since she was taken from her father’s ship. ‘Welcome to my house. I trust that Michael has told you—you are to be restored to your father on payment of a ransom?’
‘Please…’ Maria looked at him with tear-drenched eyes. ‘Do not tell my father where I have been…’ Tears fell from her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. ‘He would disown me—send me to the nuns.’
Lorenzo glanced