Lair of the Lion

"I knew Don DeMarco would come. The lion didn't want to kill us, but something was wrong. Something..." Isabella trailed off, unable to put into words exactly what she had sensed in the lion.

  Francesca took a deep breath as she looked around uneasily. "It's evil," she whispered it, as if the walls had ears.

  Isabella's head went up, and she stared at Francesca in shock and relief. "You feel it, too?" She instinctively lowered her own voice.

  Francesca nodded. "The others don't really know about it, but they feel it sometimes. It's why they put you in this room. It can't get in here. This room is protected. It's very dangerous, Isabella, and it hates you. I wanted to tell you, but I didn't think you'd believe me. You awakened it when you came into the valley."

  A chill went down Isabella's spine. She had felt the disturbance even in the midst of her fear of the unknown don and the wild storm. Francesca was telling the truth.

  "How is this room protected, Francesca?" Something inside Isabella went very still. She was almost afraid of the answer, afraid she already knew what it would be.

  "This wing is part of the original palazzo. This was Sophia's room. See the carvings? The don had them done for her. It can't come in here. This room is the only place you're truly safe. I think the entity had something to do with your accident, when you nearly fell off the balcony."

  Isabella nearly gasped but kept her voice calm. "How did you hear about that? I thought no one knew of it."

  "I hear things others do not. If it is whispered, I know. I think this thing has arranged more than one accident to get rid of you."

  Beneath the coverlet, Isabella felt herself shiver, her blood suddenly like ice. "What is it?"

  Tears filled Francesca's luminous eyes. "I don't know, but you're its enemy. Please be careful. I can't bear to think it will harm you as it did..." She trailed off with a small sob and leapt to her feet, pacing halfway across the room toward the secret entrance, pressing a hand to her mouth.

  "Francesca, don't go! I didn't mean to upset you. Please, piccola, don't be unhappy. Think of the fun we'll have when Lucca comes to stay. You can help me cheer him up. He's very ill and will need plenty of rest and entertainment."

  Isabella threw back the coverlet, intending to comfort Francesca, but the girl was already gone, so fast, so silently, Isabella didn't even see her slip through the wall. Isabella sighed. Sophia's room. Of course her bedchamber would have to be Sophia's room. What could be more fitting? Or more frightening? What was the curse said to be? That history would repeat itself over and over. Sophia's husband had started out loving her, but in the end he had failed her, had condemned her to death. Nicolai believed that, as a DeMarco, he was part of that terrible curse, that in the end he would destroy her.

  What of Francesca? How had she known of the accident no one had spoken of? She had access to Isabella's room. And it had been a female voice luring her up the servants' staircase. Surely Francesca wasn't an enemy. Isabella closed her eyes. She didn't want to think that way, didn't want to be suspicious of Francesca.

  Isabella finally slept, but she dreamed of wolves and massive lions. Of chains rattling and the wailing of ghosts. Chanting. Words in a language she didn't understand. She dreamed of Nicolai kissing her, holding her, his fierce features softened by love. It was so vivid she tasted him, smelled his wild scent. Abruptly he was pulling away, his eyes red-gold flames. He wore a demonic expression as he dragged her out to a field. He tied her to a large stake and built a fire as shadowy figures danced in a circle around her. Wolves looked on hungrily, and the lions roared approval. She heard the cackle of high-pitched laughter, women dancing merrily in flowing skirts as she begged for mercy. Francesca was there, smiling serenely, dancing around with her arms up as if she had a partner. Then the fire was out, and Isabella was kneeling with her head bowed, thankful to be alive. A shadow fell across her. Captain Bartolmei smiled at her while Theresa and Violante sang softly and Francesca clapped her hands in delight. Still smiling, the captain lifted his sword and swung it at her neck.

  Isabella screamed in terror, the sound jarring her out of her nightmare. A hand caught her wildly flailing arms. "Shh, piccola, nothing's going to hurt you. It's just a bad dream." The voice was warm and soothing.

  She wasn't alone in the bed. She could feel a warm body entwined around hers. Only the thick coverlet separated them. The fire had long since died, and not even an ember remained in the ashes, yet it mattered not at all. Nicolai DeMarco. She would recognize his scent, the feel of him, anywhere, no matter how dark the night. His voice was distinctive, low, a blend of menace and heat.

  She turned her head slowly, cautiously. Nicolai's head was next to hers. She struggled to get her heartbeat under control. "What are you doing here, Signor DeMarco?" She sounded breathless, even to her own ears.

  "I like to watch you sleep," he replied softly, unrepentant. His hands framed her face there in the darkness. "I come into your room each night and just sit and stare at you sleeping so peacefully. I love to watch the way you sleep. You've never had a bad dream until tonight." He sounded regretful. "I did that, Isabella, and I'm sorry I never should have exposed you to such danger."

  "I often dream." She closed her eyes again, oddly secure now that she knew he was beside her. She inhaled deeply, dragging the wild, masculine scent of him deep into her lungs. The nightmare had shaken her, but the night was Nicolai's world, and she knew he could protect her as no other. He might fear that he would harm her, but Isabella felt safe in his arms. "Aren't you afraid Sarina might come in and find you here?" There was a teasing note in her voice.

  He moved his head closer to press his lips against her temple. His breath was warm against her ear. "I have every intention of treating you honorably, however difficult that proves to be." There was self-derisive laughter in his tender tone. He wrapped an arm around her. "Go back to sleep. It makes me happy to see you so at peace."

  "Why aren't you sleeping?" Her voice was drowsy.

  His body hardened, making urgent demands, when all he had come for was contentment. "I don't sleep at night," he said softly, his fingers tangling in her hair. He closed his eyes against the memory of his own nightmare, welling unexpectedly, as if his heart needed to tell her his every boyhood terror. "Ever."

  As if she could read his thoughts, she fit her body more closely to his, protectively. Her hand crept out from under the coverlet to cup his cheek, her palm warm against the scars of his childhood. "You can go to sleep here, Nicolai. I'll watch over you." The words were so low he barely caught them.

  His insides melted. It had been years since anyone had ever thought to protect him or worry about him or comfort him. She was turning him inside out without even trying. He buried his face in her hair, closed his eyes, and breathed her in. She had said he was the breath in her body, the joy and warmth in her heart. Well, she was the air he breathed into his lungs. She was his soul.

  Don Nicolai DeMarco wrapped his arms possessively around her and closed his eyes, drifting as he listened to her soft breathing. There in the darkness, in the arms of a sleeping woman, he found peace.

  Chapter Eleven

  "Signor DeMarco! Just what are you doing in this bed?" Sarina's voice was shrill with shock and horror. Sarina slammed the door, keeping out any prying eyes and successfully disturbing Isabella's slumber.

  Isabella opened her eyes reluctantly, her body totally relaxed and warm. "Do you have to wake me so early?" She groaned and attempted to snuggle deeper into her pillow. She found it was warm and muscular, a heart beating out a steady rhythm beneath her ear. Her shocked gaze flew to Don DeMarco.

  He was lying beside her, one arm wrapped firmly around her. He bent his head to place a kiss in the hollow of her throat. "Grazie, cara mia. I have not ever had such a peaceful sleep." He rose with his fluid grace while Isabella gaped at him. His hair was wild, pulling loose of the leather tie he had used to tame it the night before. He made no attempt to straighten the long mane, and she thought it only enhanced his good lo
oks. There was no remorse on his face or in his eyes for his improper behavior.

  Isabella caught his hand. "Have tea with me."

  Sarina's scandalized gasp should have made them both wince. "He will not have tea with you in your bedchamber!" She crossed herself and kissed her thumb.

  "Not here." Isabella kept her gaze locked with Nicolai's. "In the dining hall. Out in the open, where everyone can see us together."

  "He must leave immediately, this instant, and not through the door. No one can see him come from your room." Sarina wrung her hands in agitation. "I'll get the priest. You must ask him to perform the ceremony at once."

  "I'll speak with the priest, Sarina," Nicolai said calmly, his gaze drifting over Isabella's face. "And do not reprimand Isabella. The fault lies with me alone. I came in when she was unaware." There was a soft command in his voice but a command nevertheless. His gaze flicked to Sarina, then back to Isabella. "I'd be pleased to share tea with you, bellezza." Calling her beautiful didn't seem to capture the way she took his breath away. He clasped her hand, his fingers sliding over hers slowly in an unhurried inspection of her skin before he brought her palm to his lips. He pressed a lingering kiss in the exact center.

  Mesmerized, Isabella could only stare up at him, this man who had claimed her allegiance by saving her brother but who had stolen her heart away with his fierce pride and incredible tenderness. He stole the breath right out of her body. His eyes held a thousand secrets, dark shadows, and turbulent emotions. When he looked at her that way, she ached for him.

  Don DeMarco moved across the room, his body fluid and powerful. Both women watched as he disappeared into the hidden passageway.

  "I saw him." Sarina said the words aloud in wonder. "You weren't touching him, and I still saw him. As a man, Isabella."

  "He is a man," Isabella said calmly as she pulled on her robe. Her body was sore and battered, but she ignored her protesting muscles as she went to the small alcove to wash and dress. The less she drew Sarina's attention to the previous night's adventures, the better off she'd be.

  "You can't know what that means after all these years," the housekeeper whispered. Abruptly, as if her legs could no longer support her, Sarina sat on the bed and covered her face with her hands. Her thin shoulders shook as she wept without reservation.

  Isabella saw the housekeeper sobbing and gathered her into her arms. "Sarina, what is it? Tell me. Is it Betto again? We can find him a healer. I've heard there are many who know much about herbs."

  Sarina shook her head. "It's Don DeMarco. I watched over him as a little boy, so beautiful with his wild hair and laughing eyes. I loved him like my own." She wiped at the tears streaming down her face. "When he came in from the courtyard that day, that terrible day, covered in blood, his poor face torn..." She buried her face in her hands again in a storm of weeping. It was a few minutes before she recovered herself enough to lift her head and look at Isabella. "His padre loved him, you know. Loved him more than anything. I know he wanted to spare Nicolai the pain, the shame, of what he believed would happen to his son. He tried to kill Nicolai, not out of hatred but out of love. Love can be a terrible thing." She gazed at Isabella. "From that day to this one, I've never seen Nicolai as a man, not when he was standing alone."

  "Sarina." Isabella took a deep breath, let it out, and forced herself to ask what was better left unsaid. "His padre believed Nicolai would kill his own wife someday. He believed it so strongly he was willing to destroy his own son to prevent it from happening. I know Nicolai fears it is possible. You know Nicolai, you know his true heart, and you love him. What do you believe?" Every muscle in her body clenched, waiting.

  Sarina sighed softly, her shoulders slumping in defeat. She looked her age, thin and worn. "Forgive me, Isabella. I've grown so fond of you. I shouldn't have been so willing to risk your life for our sakes. None of us should have." She hung her head. "That first night, the night you arrived, do you remember the scream you heard, when the lions roared?"

  Isabella turned away from the housekeeper, a shiver running down her spine. She had wanted to know. From the very first night she had wanted to know what had happened. Now she wasn't so certain. She backed away from Sarina.

  "Nicolai had a meeting with his most trusted men, Sergio Drannacia, Rolando Bartolmei, Betto, and another man named Guido."

  Isabella took another step back, shaking her head.

  "You have to know," Sarina insisted tiredly. "You need to know. Nicolai loved Guido and trusted him as he does his captains. They were all boyhood friends. There was a terrible argument that night. Guido wanted Nicolai to send you away. Nicolai refused. No one really knows what happened--no one knows whether it was Nicolai or another lion that killed him--but Guido was torn to shreds. It was strange, the argument. They had never raised their voices at one another, they had never said cruel things, but that night Guido did." Sarina sighed softly. "Betto was very upset at what was said. He told me he hardly recognized Guido. Guido fancied himself a ladies' man, and he often was indiscreet with the maids, but he wasn't a man who raised his voice. Everyone ended up shouting at one another. Nicolai told Guido to go take a walk. The last anyone saw that night of Nicolai, he was walking away from the palazzo. The next time Betto saw him, he was standing over Guide's dead body, blood all over him. He looked a lion, with his great, shaggy mane, but it was Nicolai. To us, he is unmistakable."

  Isabella twisted her fingers together behind her back to keep from trembling in front of the housekeeper. She could feel her heart pounding in alarm. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

  Sarina rushed to comfort her, but Isabella shook her head and turned away, desperately trying to compose herself. She thought of Nicolai, his gentle touch, his smile. His eyes. How utterly alone he was in his castello of twisted legends. She knew what isolation did to the soul.

  Isabella lifted her chin as she turned back to the housekeeper. "I am mistress of my own fate, Sarina. I entered into the bargain willingly. If I should change my mind, I'm certain Don DeMarco would allow me to leave. I'm no prisoner, no sacrifice."

  "You're trapped here now. There's no way for you to leave," Sarina said sadly.

  Isabella waited in stillness while her heart pounded out a rhythm of fear. Nicolai had grown from that beautiful child who brought joy to his people, to a powerful, dangerous man of mystery, one with a sinful smile and a promise of erotic ecstasy in his gleaming eyes. Her heart trapped her in the valley, her fidelity to a man who had been willing to bargain for the life of a stranger. She kept her promises. Her word of honor was her life. She wouldn't believe that anything else kept her there; that way lay disaster. She was mistress of her own fate.

  "Nicolai won't harm me, Sarina," she said firmly. Her heart believed it was true, but her mind was stubborn, remembering the needlelike claws puncturing her skin. For one terrible moment the wounds burned and throbbed as a reminder. Had Nicolai killed his friend? A man who had trusted and served him? Was that possible?

  Sarina went to the wardrobe. "If you're to meet him for your morning tea, you must hurry and dress. Something beautiful, Isabella, to give you courage." She flung open the doors to the wardrobe and cried out, the sound escaping before she could stop it.

  "What is it?" Isabella pulled her robe tightly around her and crossed the room to stare in horror at the floor of her wardrobe.

  Captain Bartolmei's coat was lying there, shredded almost beyond recognition. Great, rending tears in the material made the coat nearly unrecognizable as anything other than scraps. There were claw marks on the floor of the wardrobe, great gouges, deep and angry, scoring the wood for all time. Beside the tattered remains of the coat lay the gown Isabella had been wearing the previous evening. It, too, was in ribbons, the remnants of the material mixed with the shreds of Captain Bartolmei's coat.

  "Isabella." Sarina whispered her name in terror. "We must get you out of the valley. There must be a way."

  Isabella wrapped a comforting arm around the older woman. "We mus
t get me ready for tea. I don't want to keep Don DeMarco waiting. Betto must burn the coat and gown." She longed for Lucca, yet she was curiously reluctant to explain Nicolai's legacy even to her beloved brother.

  "Isabella," Sarina protested again.

  "Say nothing. Tell no one. Let me think on this." She used her most authoritative voice, hoping to ward off the housekeeper's objections.

  As Sarina worked on her hair with trembling hands, Isabella attempted to puzzle out why she was so pulled in opposite directions. Could she have fallen in love with Nicolai? So completely in love with him that she was willing to risk her life? She had told him she would trade her life for her brother's life, and she had meant it. But why the unswerving loyalty to Nicolai, the need to stay and remove that look of utter loneliness from his eyes?

  She shivered, her heart pounding at the thought of being ripped apart by a lion with blazing amber eyes. Nicolai feared that such a thing would happen. He had said as much to her. It was in the shadows in his eyes. In his nightmares. He had feared it from the very beginning, when he had asked her if she would trade her life for Lucca's.

  Isabella closed her eyes tightly for a moment, trying to still her nerves and quiet her rapidly beating heart. Lucca always told her to think things through, yet there was a strange buzzing in her ears, and her mind was in chaos. "I want to look my best, Sarina." She needed the extra confidence. "We'll take tea in the formal dining hall, not his rooms." Isabella was uncertain whether she feared being alone with him, or whether she wanted his people to see Nicolai behaving in a normal manner. All at once it seemed more important than ever that he eat with her out in the open as a gentleman would.

  Sarina nodded her agreement. "It's time, I think."

  Isabella took a last peek in the looking glass to see her appearance. Satisfied that her terror wasn't reflected on her face, she took a deep breath and swept out of her bedchamber and down the curving staircase. The gown clung to her figure, the soft material falling in folds and swishing lusciously while she walked. Her hair was in intricate braids, swept up on her head, giving her an elegance her lack of height often prevented. Her appearance hid her pounding heart and a mouth tasting terror. She walked with her head held high, regally, a member of the aristocratizla, born to wealth and position.