In the Tudor Court Collection. Amanda McCabe
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She could not answer him for he had wounded her beyond bearing. Tears were close. He must not see her weep for her pride’s sake. She moved away from him, bending over Michael, bathing his forehead. When she looked round, she saw that Lorenzo had gone.
How could he reject her now? His loving had been so sweet and tender—how could it have meant nothing to him?
On the night of Elizabeta’s masque she had been so sure that he loved her, but now…what had changed him? Michael had saved his life at a terrible cost to himself, but with God’s help he would recover. Why had Lorenzo set his face against her?
Kathryn could not know of the agony it had cost him to take the decision. She only knew that her heart felt as if it were breaking.
Michael’s recovery was slow but sure over the next week. By the end of the week he was well enough to be moved to Kathryn’s home.
‘Are you sure you wish to have me?’ he asked as she moved about the room, making him comfortable. ‘I could go to an inn now that I am so much better. You do not need to nurse me for I am almost myself again and would not wish to be a trouble to you.’
‘You will do no such thing,’ Kathryn said. ‘Veronique will have returned from her sister’s by now and she will help me to care for you. Besides, Lorenzo is still away and you may bear me company.’
‘He will be making preparations to put to sea soon,’ Michael said and frowned. ‘I should be with him…’ He groaned as he tried to get up from the bed. ‘No, it is no use. I am too weak. I should be of no help. I fear he will have to do without me for some weeks.’
‘You must not strain yourself,’ Kathryn scolded. ‘Lorenzo would rather have you stay here in Rome until you are well again.’
‘I fear I have no choice.’
‘You will be better soon,’ Kathryn said and smiled at him. She felt comfortable with him, for they had become good friends of late.
Lorenzo returned a few days after Michael was moved to the villa. He spent some time sitting with his friend, who had been brought out into the garden to enjoy the sunshine, and afterwards thanked Kathryn for caring for him so well.
‘I had plans for Christ’s birthday,’ he told her. ‘But I fear I must leave you again, Kathryn. I have a gift for you—and you will not be lonely. You have your friends, Veronique and Michael to bear you company.’
It was almost as if those nights of passion had never been, as if he were a stranger, a distant relative who was bound to care for her comfort, but found it a burden. She wanted to cry out that she would always be lonely without him, that she loved him and her heart was breaking, but she said nothing. Her grief was still too raw, and it was pride that kept her from weeping and begging him to let things be as they had been before that terrible night. Yet she held back her tears.
She loved him so much, but he did not love her. The knowledge was almost unbearable and yet she bore it bravely, refusing to shed the tears that burned behind her eyes. She would not beg him to love her.
Over the next few weeks, Lorenzo’s visits were brief, and Kathryn thought that each time he seemed to withdraw from her more. It was as if they were strangers, as if he had never held her in his arms and kissed her. The ache in her heart grew harder to bear and sometimes she did not know how she could live with it. Perhaps it might be better if she had died when Maria tried to kill her, better than this life without Lorenzo’s love.
One morning, after a brief visit from her husband, Kathryn was alone in the garden and unable to hold back her tears. Why had Lorenzo turned from her? What had she done to make him look at her so coldly?
‘Why are you crying, Madonna?’
Michael’s voice made her turn in surprise. She had thought herself alone and was embarrassed to be caught giving way to her grief.
‘Oh…’ she said, wiping her face with the back of her hand. ‘I did not hear you coming, Michael.’
‘I am sorry to intrude,’ he said. ‘But will you not tell me what is wrong—or can I guess? I do not know how Lorenzo can treat you so coldly. He is a fool and so I shall tell him next time I see him.’
‘No, you must not,’ she cried. ‘He has done nothing that should make you cease to be his friend. It is simply…’ The hurt welled up inside her. ‘He does not love me.’
She felt the touch of his hand on her shoulder. ‘I am sure that Lorenzo does love you,’ Michael said, his voice deep with emotion. ‘It is just that he is afraid of his feelings—afraid to let go of the hate inside him.’
‘But he was so loving to me until…’ Her voice died away. ‘He seems so angry, so cold.’
‘Do not despair, Kathryn,’ Michael said and his voice was soft, concerned. ‘You know that I would do anything to make you happy.’ As she turned to look at him, the warmth in his eyes sent a tingle down her spine.
‘Michael…’
He placed a finger to her lips. ‘Do not say it, Kathryn. I know that you love Lorenzo. But I wanted you to be aware of my feelings for you. If in the future you should need a friend, I shall be there for you.’
Kathryn’s eyes filled with tears. He was kind and good and generous, and she had grown fond of him—but her heart was given to Lorenzo.
‘Damn you!’ Lorenzo said as Michael finished speaking. Three weeks had passed since his last visit to the villa, and Kathryn’s eyes had grown sadder with the days. ‘Who gave you the right to meddle in my affairs?’
‘Kathryn is your wife and she deserves better from you,’ Michael said. ‘As for what right I have—we have been friends for years. If anyone has the right to tell you that you are throwing away something precious and good, then it must be I, deny it as you will.’
‘You are in love with her yourself,’ Lorenzo accused, feeling a prick of jealousy as he saw the truth in Michael’s eyes.
‘If she did not love you—if you had not married her—I should have asked her to be my wife,’ Michael admitted.
‘She would be better as your wife, Michael. I was wrong to marry her—selfish. I cannot give her what she needs. I cannot, dare not, love her.’
‘Will you waste your life in bitterness?’ Michael asked, his eyes narrowed and angry. ‘I know that you suffered at that monster’s hand, but nothing can change that. It is over. You are rich and powerful. You have a chance of happiness with Kathryn—throw it away and you will live alone with your regret.’
‘You do not know what you ask,’ Lorenzo said. ‘If I love her…if I let go of what is inside me, I am nothing.’
‘Then you are nothing,’ Michael told him. ‘And I am sorry for you.’
Lorenzo watched as he walked away, going into the house. Anger raged inside him, but with the anger was remorse, for he knew that Michael was right, and he knew something more. The path he had chosen was the coward’s path. He was afraid to love Kathryn, afraid of what his life would be without her if he allowed himself to love her.
The stroke of an assassin’s knife could take her as it had almost taken Michael. And yet, what was his life now—was it worth the living?
Lorenzo faced the truth at last. The hatred had gone, driven out by Kathryn’s love. He had fought against her, but she was there inside him. It was love for her that had made him send Rachid’s son back to him—a love that he could no longer deny, try as he might.
But had he destroyed her love for him?
Kathryn was in her chamber going through her gowns with Lisa. She looked round as the maid suddenly bobbed a curtsy and left the room, her heart beating wildly as she saw him. It was odd, but he had lost that cold angry look which had haunted her for weeks.
‘Lorenzo?’