Lair of the Lion

  Isabella did as he said. She began to inspect him. His hair was thick and oddly colored. Tawny, almost golden, it framed his face and fell below his shoulders, where it darkened to appear as black and shiny as a raven's wing. The need to touch the thick luxurious mass was so strong, she actually lifted her hand and did so in the lightest of caresses.

  He caught her wrist in a hard, unbreakable grip. She could feel his great body trembling. His eyes became turbulent and dangerous, watching her with the unblinking, unnerving stare of a predator locked onto its prey. She saw his features then, the long, obscene scars etched into the left side of the face of an angel. Wicked and frightful, they ran from his scalp to his shadowed jaw, four of them, as if some wild animal had raked his cheek, tearing the flesh right down to the bone. And he did have the face of an angel, absurdly handsome, a face any artist would want to capture on canvas for all time.

  His grip tightened until she thought he might crush her bones, his eyes becoming wilder, narrowing dangerously, fixing on her face as if he were about to leap upon her and devour her for some terrible misdeed. He bent toward her, his perfectly sculpted mouth snarling, a warning growl rumbling in his throat.

  As she continued to gaze at him, his features changed, blurring oddly so that for a moment she thought she was staring into the face of a great beast, its muzzle open to show sharp white teeth. The eyes, however, remained somehow familiar to her. She stared directly into those eyes and smiled. "Are you going to have tea with me?"

  His body was very muscular, far more so than that of any man she had ever encountered, his sinews defined and rippling with strength beneath his elegant shirt. His thighs were twin columns of power, like oak tree trunks. He was tall but well proportioned, frightening in his size and the power he exuded.

  Those amber eyes stared at her for several heartbeats. He slowly released her wrist, the warmth of his palm lingering on her skin. Isabella twisted her fingers into the folds of her skirt to prevent herself from rubbing at the marks on her wrist. Her pulse throbbed in a rhythm of fear and excitement. It was silly the way her wild imagination persisted in seeing him as the strange, leonine carvings in his home. And it was equally silly that the outside world thought him a demonic beast because of a few scars.

  Isabella was no frightened child to faint away because he bore evidence of surviving a vicious attack. Deliberately she took a sip of tea. "You do not disappoint me, signore, or frighten me, if that is your intention. Do you think me so weak or young? I am no child to have fear of a man." Although he was much more intimidating than she wanted to admit. And he clearly had enormous strength. He could crush her easily should he make the effort. It was impossible to judge his age. He was no boy but a full-grown man, bearing the weight of his title and the burden of ensuring his people's welfare on his broad shoulders. And now that of her brother. She had brought him yet another encumbrance, and the thought made her feel guilty. "Please do have some tea. I would hope to become better acquainted with you."

  "Tell me what you see when you look at me." His voice was quiet, a mere thread of sound, a whisper of velvet and heat. Yet it was a command from a powerful being.

  To steady her nerves, Isabella took another sip of the hot, sweet tea. It was laced with honey and fortified her. "I see a man with many burdens to bear. And I have brought him another. I'm sorry for that, but I cannot allow mio fratello to die. You were my only hope. I didn't wish to complicate your life further." Her words were sincere.

  Don DeMarco hesitated as if uncertain what to do. He finally seated himself in the chair opposite her. Isabella smiled warily at him, offering a tentative olive branch. "I fear you have made a poor bargain, signore. Mio padre spent a good portion of his life frowning and shaking his head in disapproval of my behavior."

  "I can well imagine the truth of that." Irony laced his voice, and she could feel the weight of his relentless stare.

  Isabella felt the brush of butterfly wings in her stomach, and heat curled slowly through her bloodstream. She knew little of the relations between a man and woman. She didn't even know if he would want her in that way. But she couldn't seem to look at him without her entire body clenching with a heat and fire she'd never felt before. It was uncomfortable and frightening. And she didn't want anyone dictating to her, curtailing her activities. She was accustomed to doing as she pleased with few restrictions.

  She tilted her chin. "I do not obey the dictates of others very well."

  His low, amused, caressing laughter startled her. It slipped inside her and wrapped around her heart. "Is that a warning or a confession?" he asked.

  Her gaze touched his, then slid away shyly. She had the feeling he rarely laughed. "I think it was more of a warning. I've never been able to understand the meaning of the word obey." She took another sip of tea and regarded him over the rim of the cup "Mio padre said I should have been born a boy." The hand hidden in the folds of her skirts twisted the material tightly. She was terribly nervous, far more so than she had even been. Don DeMarco was not at all what she had expected. She could have dealt with a stuffy old man, even one with greedy, lust-filled eyes. Don DeMarco was incredibly handsome, more than handsome, and she had no idea how to deal with him.

  "It has been long since I sat and talked with another like this," he admitted softly, some of the tension easing out of him. "My meetings are not social, and I never take dinner with members of the household." He sat back in his chair, stretching his long legs toward the fire. He should have looked relaxed, but he still looked a wild animal, restless in its cage.

  "Why not? Dinner was always my favorite time of the day. Mio fratello would tell me such wonderful stories. It was difficult for me when mio padre decided I needed to learn certain feminine accomplishments and locked me indoors. Lucca would tell me as many wild tales over dinner as he could think of to make me laugh."

  "Were you often locked in?" His voice was mild enough, but something in his tone made her shiver. Clearly he didn't like the idea of her father locking her in, but it was perfectly fine that he had done so.

  "Often enough. I liked to roam the hills. Padre was afraid I would run into wolves." Truly, her father had been afraid he would never find his wild child a wealthy husband. Isabella pushed the thought away swiftly, lest the don see the fleeting sadness in her eyes. His intent stare seemed capable of reading every nuance of her posture and expression.

  Don DeMarco leaned toward her and gently brushed some tendrils of her hair away from her face. The unexpected gesture made her pull away from him, and something sharp scratched her from her temple to the corner of her eye. The edge of his ring must have scraped her skin. She gasped with the sudden pain, reaching up to cover the damage with her palm.

  He stood up so fast, his teacup went crashing to the floor, shattering and spilling its contents. The puddle took on the ominous shape of a lion.

  At once Isabella's heart pounded fearfully, and she tilted her head to look up at the don. His eyes blazed dangerously, his mouth looked cruel, edged with a snarl, and that curious growl rumbled in his throat. The scars along his cheek became red and vivid. Once again the strange look of the lion blurred with his face so that for a moment she was staring at a beast and not a man.

  "What do you see now, Signorina Vernaducci?" he demanded, a kind of fury running through his body, filling the room with danger. Even the falcon on its perch flapped its wings in alarm. Don DeMarco's fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck, holding her still, holding her prisoner.

  She blinked up at him, bringing him back into focus, unsure what she had done to warrant such a reaction. "I'm sorry, signore, if I have offended you in some way. I meant no insult." In truth she couldn't even remember what she had said that could have set him off. His fingers were a tight fist in her hair, yet there was no pressure, just the sharpness of his ring digging into her skin. She stayed very still.

  "You have not answered my question." His voice was pure menace.

  "I see you, signore." She star
ed steadily into his catlike eyes.

  Don DeMarco remained still, his gaze locked with hers. She could hear her own breathing, feel her heart pounding. He let out his breath slowly. "You have not offended me." His fingers left her hair reluctantly.

  "Why, then, are you so upset?" she asked, puzzled by his strange behavior. Her skin throbbed where his ring had pricked her.

  His fingers settled around her slender wrist, prying her hand from her temple. A thin trail of blood trickled down her face. "Look at what I have done to you through my clumsiness. I injured you, perhaps scarred you."

  Relief flooded her as she understood that he was angry with himself, not with her, and she laughed softly. "It's a small scratch, Don DeMarco. I cannot believe you would be upset over such a trivial thing. I've skinned my knees numerous times. I do not scar easily," she added, aware he was probably sensitive because of his own terrible scars.

  She tugged at her hand to remind him to release her. "Allow me to clean up the tea and pour you a fresh cup."

  His thumb was stroking her sensitive inner wrist as he towered over her. The sensation was shocking, little tongues of fire licking up her arm, spreading over her skin until she was burning with some unnamed need she had never experienced. His eyes were staring at her with far too much hunger.

  Don DeMarco's fingers tightened possessively around her wrist. "You are no domestica in my home, Isabella. There is no need for you to clean up the mess." He bent toward her, a slow, unhurried assault on her senses.

  Isabella's body clenched in reaction to his nearness. He came even closer, until his wide shoulders blotted out the entire room around her. When she inhaled, he was there in the air, filling her lungs. He smelled wild. Untamed. Masculine. His eyes seemed to devour her face. She couldn't look away from him, nearly hypnotized by his gaze. When he lowered his head to hers, his strangely colored hair brushed her skin with the sensation of silk. She felt his tongue at her temple, a moist caress as he removed the trace of her blood. The touch should have repulsed her, but it was the most sensual thing imaginable.

  An abrupt knock at the door spun him around, and he leapt away from her with a catlike movement that took him halfway across the room, landing so lightly she didn't hear his feet on the tiles. There was something menacing in the set of his shoulders. His hair was a wild mane flowing down his back, shaggy and untamed despite the cord securing it. Muscles rippled beneath his shirt. He stalked to the door and wrenched it open.

  At once Isabella felt the dark stench of evil pouring into the room, shadow streaming in like filthy water, fouling the air. She carefully placed her empty teacup on the table, rising as she did so. She saw only Sarina's anxious face as the servant hurried into the room. The older woman was looking past Don DeMarco to the puddle of tea and broken crockery on the floor.

  "Mi scusi per il disturbo, signore, but those wishing an audience with you are waiting. I thought perhaps you had forgotten them." Sarina curtseyed slightly, not looking at the don. Instead she was examining Isabella's face, her expression distressed.

  Self-consciously Isabella covered the scratch on her temple with her palm. Even as she did so, she turned in a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the exact location from which the cold, ugly sensation of evil was originating. It was so real, so strong, her body began to shiver in reaction, her mouth went dry, and she could feel the frenzied pounding of her heart. Something was in the room with them, something Sarina didn't appear to notice. Isabella saw the don lift his head warily, as if he was scenting the air. Unexpectedly the falcon began to flap its wings. Isabella swung around to look at the bird.

  Sarina was already at the table, bending to pick up the broken teacup. Isabella felt a sudden surge of hatred in the room, black and fierce. She threw herself forward just as the raptor let out a scream and launched itself straight at Sarina's exposed face. Isabella landed on the older woman, driving her to the floor, covering her with her own body, hands over her own face as the falcon struck at the servant with outstretched talons.

  A roar shook the room, a terrible, inhuman, beastly sound. The falcon uttered a high-pitched squawk as it slashed Isabella's back, shredding the fine fabric of the gown and digging long furrows in her skin. Isabella couldn't prevent a cry of pain from escaping. She could feel the bird's wings beating above her, fanning her. Sarina was sobbing, praying loudly, wretchedly, not even trying to escape the weight of Isabella's body.

  Isabella turned her head to look for the don. He wasn't in her line of vision, but, to her horror, an enormous creature had crept into the room through the open door. It stood only a few feet from her, its head down, its eyes staring at her intently. It was a lion, nearly eleven feet in length, at least six hundred pounds of roped muscle and sinew, with a huge golden ruff tapering to a thick mane of black running halfway down its tawny body. The luxurious crest added to the beast's impression of power. The animal stood completely still. Its paws were huge, its gaze fixed on the two women. The lion was the biggest, most frightening thing Isabella had ever seen. She couldn't have imagined the animal in her worst nightmare. Sarina and she were in mortal danger.

  And the falcon had ripped open her skin, the smell of blood an invitation to the beast. The thought came unbidden to her that something evil had orchestrated the event.

  Isabella knew that neither she nor Sarina could escape. The animal would strike with lightning speed. She forced breath into her body. She would have to rely on the don. Trust him to tame the beast. Or slay it. As she stared into the wild, feral eyes, she vowed to be unafraid. The don would not allow the beast to harm them.

  The lion took a slow step forward, then froze again in a classic prelude to an attack. She couldn't look away from the eyes so focused on her. She would believe in the don. He would come to their aid. Tears blurred her vision, and she blinked rapidly, desperate to keep her wits about her.

  Hands caught at her, gentle hands that lifted her into strong arms. Then she was cradled against the don's chest. She buried her face in his shirt, terror rendering her incapable of speech. For the first time in her life she was close to fainting--a silly, feminine reaction she abhorred. She wanted to see if the lion was gone, but she couldn't find the courage to lift her head and look.

  Don DeMarco reached to help Sarina to her feet. "Are you injured?" he asked the older woman in a gentle voice.

  "No, just shaken. Signorina Vernaducci saved me from harm. What did I do to upset your bird? He has never flown at me before." Sarina's voice quavered, but she brushed off her skirts in a determined, businesslike manner, not once looking directly at the don.

  "He is unused to so many strangers in his territory," Don DeMarco answered gruffly. "Leave that mess, Sarina. Signorina Vernaducci is injured. We must see to her wounds." He was already moving swiftly through the room and out into the corridor, Sarina traveling in his wake.

  Shaking uncontrollably like a ninny, Isabella was mortified at her own behavior. It was beyond bearing. She was a Vernaducci, and Vernaduccis did not carry on when embattled. "I'm sorry," she whispered, appalled at her lack of control. She was crying in front of a servant, in front of Don DeMarco.

  "There, there, bambina, we will take the sting from those wounds," Sarina crooned to her as if she were a mere babe. "You were so brave, you saved me from terrible injury."

  They were rushing down the stairs, the don's body fluid and powerful, not jarring her in the least. The lacerations were painful, but Isabella was crying from relief, not pain. First the falcon and then the lion had been terrifying. She hoped the four-footed beasts didn't have freedom of the castle. Surely the one she saw had escaped from a cage somewhere on the grounds. She took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down.

  "I am sorry for my foolish weeping," she apologized again. "Really, I'm all right now. I'm quite capable of walking."

  "Do not apologize to me again," Don DeMarco said grimly. His golden eyes moved over her face in a dark, brooding perusal. There was an underlying harshness to his voice, a nameles
s emotion Isabella had no hope of identifying.

  She gazed up at him, and her heart stilled. His face was a mask of bitterness, his expression without hope. He looked as if his entire world had crumbled, every dream he had ever had smashed beyond repair. Isabella felt a curious wrenching in the region of her heart. She lifted a hand and touched his shadowed jaw with gentle fingertips. "Don DeMarco, you persist in thinking me a glass bauble that will shatter when dropped. I'm made of sterner stuff. In truth, I wasn't weeping from pain. The bird merely scratched me." She could feel the burning and throbbing now that her terror had receded, but reassuring the don seemed of paramount importance.

  The golden eyes blazed down at her, possessively, settling on her mouth as if he wished to crush her lips beneath his. He stole her breath with that look. Isabella stared up at him, mesmerized, unable to glance away.

  With exquisite gentleness he finally placed her on her bed, rolling her over so that she was lying on her stomach, the long lacerations exposed to his probing gaze. She felt his hands on her, pushing aside the material of her gown, ripping it down to her waist. It was shocking and more than unseemly to have Don DeMarco see her like this, and in her own bedchamber. Isabella squirmed with embarrassment, reaching instinctively for the coverlet. She could feel the cool air on her bare skin, and her back was painful, but she was humiliated that she had wept and nearly fainted and now her gown was down around her waist.

  The don caught her hand to prevent her from wrapping herself in the quilt, and he whispered something ugly under his breath. "These are no small scratches, Isabella." His voice was harsh, yet the way her name rolled off his tongue was a velvet caress.

  "I will take care of her." Sarina's tone bordered on shocked outrage as she bent over the younger woman to examine the wounds.

  "She is to be my bride, Sarina." There was a bite to the don's voice, a self-mocking note that brought a fresh flood of tears to Isabella's eyes. "You will see that she comes to no further harm."