Devil's Embrace

  “I do not know,” he said. He forced himself to straighten and pull his shoulders back.

  “The name of the fourth man?”

  He shook his head.

  “You are really quite stupid, Giacomo. My friend Khar El-Din does not mind stupid men, so long as they are no longer men.”

  The earl gazed down pointedly at Giacomo’s penis.

  “Perhaps the pirate would appreciate another eunuch for his harem. You would grow fat and lazy, Giacomo, but could feast your eyes for the rest of your days upon beautiful women. Of course your pleasure would have to be in contemplation, for there would be nothing between your legs. If you live, that is.”

  The stiletto flashed out and Giacomo screamed. A thin red line appeared across his belly, and blood slowly trickled from it.

  “Prepare yourself, my friend. I don’t want you to die. I want you to always remember your punishment for raping another man’s woman.”

  The stiletto rose slowly. Giacomo’s mind snapped. He screamed uncontrollably and tore himself free of the two men holding him. He clawed at the pistol Francesco held and bore it down to his chest.

  A loud explosion tore through the room, its sound reverberating off the oak-paneled walls. There was a ghastly look of surprise on Giacomo’s face, and he slumped backward, his chest torn open.

  Scargill fell to his knees beside Giacomo. “He is dead, my lord.”

  The earl slowly laid the stiletto upon the desk and straightened. He gazed impassively at the gaping wound and stepped over Giacomo’s body.

  “It is a pity,” he said. He added over his shoulder as he walked from the room, “Do remove the scum. Even in death he offends me.”

  Chapter 19

  Fingers were digging into her, rough fingers with jagged fingernails that tore her flesh. She screamed and struggled to free herself of their hold. She sobbed helplessly as her legs were wrenched apart.

  “Cassie! Love, wake up.”

  The earl was shaking her, pulling her from the horror, but she couldn’t seem to stop the wrenching sobs that tore from her throat. Her nightgown clung to her, damp with sweat, yet she trembled uncontrollably.

  His strong arms closed around her, and she felt the warmth of his breath against her cheek. Cassie pressed her face into his shoulder, waiting for the terror to loose its grip on her.

  “The nightmare again?” he asked gently. He held her close as she drew a shuddering breath.

  “Yes.”

  The earl smoothed her tangled hair back from her forehead and eased her onto her back, careful of her bruised ribs. Her eyes were huge and dark in the dim light of dawn.

  “It’s over, Cassandra, and you are safe, I promise you.” He balanced himself on his elbow and looked closely into her face. “Are you in pain?”

  “Please make it stop,” she whispered. “I cannot bear it. It is so real—”

  He stroked her cheek. “I know. I cannot make it stop, Cassandra, but I think if you talk to me about it, it may help you to forget.”

  She gazed up at him uncertainly. His dark eyes were tender, but she looked away from him.

  “Can you not tell me about it?”

  She shook her head. The pain in her body was almost welcome to her, for it focused her mind on the present.

  The earl did not press her. It had been two days since her rape, but the nightmare kept taking her back to it.

  “Would you like some laudanum, cara?” At least, he thought, she allowed him to care for her body.

  “No, I do not want to be drugged anymore.”

  He nodded, and lightly kissed her forehead.

  “I don’t want your pity.” Oh God, she hated herself and him for her pain. She felt she could not tell him, for he would withdraw from her in disgust, just as she withdrew from herself.

  “Pity you,” he repeated, frowning down at her in surprise.

  She covered her face with her hands. “I know that you must hate me, that I repulse you. Five men took their pleasure with me.”

  For an instant, his mind refused to work. Five men? No, there had been but four. Joseph had been certain of that. “Cassandra, you said five men, but there were only four.”

  She grew very quiet. She had not realized what she had said and even as she sought to remember clearly, her mind would not allow it. Only in her nightmare could she see them clearly.

  “May he rot in hell,” she said.

  “Who?” he said, sitting up.

  Cassie blinked and stared beyond the earl’s shoulder. “It was the fifth man—their leader. Joseph was unconscious and I thought him dead. When I pleaded with the man to see to him, he said, ‘May he rot in hell.”’

  “So Joseph never saw this man?”

  “No, he came later.” Her mind was resisting her, pulling the man’s image away from her. “He was different somehow—and he did not rape me. But it was he who told them to kill us.”

  “How was he different, cara?” the earl asked, forcing calm into his voice.

  She shook her head helplessly, for he was locked away from her. “I do not know, I can’t remember.”

  He smiled at her gently. “It does not matter, Cassandra.”

  “Joseph told me that you killed two of them, Giulio and Giacomo.” She thought of Joseph, his face gray with pain. The earl had carried her to his bedchamber to see him, and had left her alone with him for a few minutes.

  “What else did Joseph tell you?”

  “That the men were assassins. Each of them had a tattoo on his arm—a serpent twined about a sword.” She gazed up at him, her eyes wide with confusion. “Why would anyone want to kill us?”

  “I don’t know, Cassandra, but I promise you, I will find out.” He allowed a slight smile. “It appears that Joseph was a fount of information.”

  “Will he live, my lord?”

  “I don’t know, Cassandra. He’s not a young man, and his wound is grave.”

  She turned her face away on the pillow, for she felt tears close to the surface.

  He stroked her hair. “Can you sleep now, cara?”

  She felt raging bitterness suddenly break from within her. She drew a shattering breath and whispered, “The child. I lost the child.”

  He swallowed convulsively, and for a moment could not trust himself to speak. “Cassandra, listen to me. I am sorry about the child, but you are more important to me than anything or anyone. Please contrive to believe me and throw off this cloak of guilt you are wearing. You are alive and I love you. That is all that matters.”

  A lone tear fell from the corner of her eyes and streaked down her cheek. He gently flicked it away before it touched her lips. “At the very least you must begin to take me to task again, else I’m likely to become an overbearing tyrant.”

  She swallowed back her tears, and forced a smile. “You will always be a tyrant,” she said, and turned her face to nestle against his hand.

  Signore Bissone was tired the next afternoon when he joined the earl and Cassie in the earl’s bedchamber, after completing his examination of Joseph.

  He had had to leave the Villa Parese late the previous evening to deliver Caterina Pisani of a small son, and the mother had hemorrhaged and died just before dawn. He spoke of it unwittingly as he sipped on a glass of wine.

  “One wonders,” Signore Bissone said, shaking his head, “why God in his infinite goodness would snuff out the life of a nineteen-year-old girl so cruelly.”

  “What of Joseph?” the earl asked, his voice harsh.

  Signore Bissone apologized for his lapse before answering the earl. “My lord, were he a young healthy man, the fever would cause me less worry. I have, of course, drained the pus from the wound.” He paused a moment, his tired eyes darting momentarily toward Cassie. She had refused to let him attend her once she had come to her senses. Her stubbornness had angered him, but now he was too weary even to care. He shrugged. “The Corsican has not had time to recover his strength from the wound. He is an old man, my lord.”

  “Wha
t are you saying?” Impatience was heavy in the earl’s voice.

  “I do not think he will survive.”

  “No, you cannot mean it.” Cassie sat forward in bed, clutching at the cover, and shook her head back and forth. “I tell you he will get well. I will nurse him myself. Joseph has a great will, he will not allow himself to be felled by a fever when those men could not kill him.”

  She drew to a breathless halt. Signore Bissone was regarding her oddly.

  “You are speaking in English, Cassandra.”

  “Oh,” she said numbly.

  “La signorina was saying that with proper care, Joseph could recover.”

  Signore Bissone carefully laid his crystal wine goblet on the table and bowed formally to the earl. “It is possible, my lord,” he said stiffly. “I have instructed the woman, Marrina, to make up certain draughts. If he worsens, I will, of course, return as speedily as possible. Otherwise, I shall come to see him again this evening.”

  “This evening?”

  Signore Bissone frowned at the young English girl. He wondered at her relationship with the earl, but supposed that he was allowing her license because of her condition. “There is nothing more that medical knowledge can offer, signorina.”

  “An offer of nothing can hardly be described as knowledge, signore.”

  The earl saw the offended tightening of the doctor’s lips and said smoothly, “I know that you are doing all that is possible. My man, Scargill, also has experience with such fevers. I thank you, signore, for your help.”

  After the doctor had taken his leave, the earl turned to Cassie to remonstrate with her, but the sight of her stricken face stilled his tongue.

  “Please take me to Joseph’s room now, my lord.”

  “Very well, Cassandra.” He wrapped her in a heavy blanket and gently lifted her into his arms.

  Several hours later, when Joseph had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, the earl carried Cassie back to their bedchamber. “I do not wish you to exhaust yourself, little one. Now it is time for you to rest.” He answered her unspoken question. “I will stay with him.”

  The earl looked at the clock on the opposite wall from Joseph’s bed. It was four o’clock in the morning and Cassandra was finally asleep.

  He stared down at Joseph, whose eyes were closed in a fitful sleep. His breathing was shallow and harsh, his cheeks sunken and flushed with fever. It struck the earl for the first time that Joseph truly looked like an old man. His cheeks were sunken and feverishly flushed. His fierce proud eyes were closed in his pain. The earl knew, even without Signore Bissone’s opinion, that Joseph could not survive. He felt a tightness in his throat as he gazed down at Joseph’s parchment skin. He took Joseph’s limp hand into his and said softly to the sleeping man, “I do not want to lose you, old friend. We have shared many years together. Do you remember the time when Mr. Donnetti, drunk as a wheelbarrow, overheard a Spanish captain bragging about his invincibility and the cowardice of the Genoese? And you, brave fool that you were, managed to save him from five Spanish sailors, bent upon bashing his brains all over the tavern.”

  The earl was silent a moment, remembering how Mr. Donnetti, usually a silent, rigidly controlled man, had laughed and cursed all in the same breath when Joseph recounted trussing him up and dragging him back to The Cassandra, moored in the harbor of Cadiz.

  “I remember.” The earl jerked his head up, and looked into Joseph’s shadowed eyes. He saw a spark of life and humor.

  A rasping laugh broke from Joseph’s throat. “Poor Francesco, he was so foxed he did not even realize the danger. For days after, he cursed me for a meddling ass.”

  “Francesco will be here tomorrow or the day after, Joseph. He is in Palermo.” Joseph’s fingers clutched about his hand.

  “It is a pity that I will not see him again. You will remind him, will you not, that it was he who was the fool.”

  “I have a fancy that you will tell him yourself, my friend.”

  A deep crackling cough sounded from Joseph’s chest. He was so weak that he lay choking, unable to draw his breath. The earl quickly raised him in his arms until the attack subsided.

  “I do not want to lose you, Joseph. Cassandra is forever yelling at Signore Bissone about your great will.” He buried his face in the old man’s gray hair, unable to speak further.

  Joseph sighed, and the earl eased him gently onto his back. “It is the madonna who has the great will, my lord. I have wanted for some time to let this rotting body find its final rest, but she will not allow it. I have tried to tell her that I am an old man, that I am content with what life has given me, but she scolds me, and refuses to listen to me.” A travesty of a smile parted his lips.

  “She loves you deeply, Joseph, as do I.”

  “She has never known the death of one who is close to her. Nay, do not tell me about her father. That one must have been a scoundrel, but of course she never said anything of the sort.”

  The earl saw that each word was a great effort for him. “You must rest now, Joseph. We will speak more after you have regained your strength.”

  “There is no more strength, my lord. I beg you not to blind yourself to my fate.” He fell silent for several moments. When he spoke again, the earl saw determination shining through his dulled eyes. “I have tried to speak to her about what happened. You must heal her, my lord. She has a courageous spirit and pretends that her desire for revenge has erased her fear. But it is not true.”

  “I know.”

  “If Maria had had her spirit perhaps my life would have spun itself out in a different way. Do not let her go, my lord. She does not as yet realize it, but her freedom lies with you and of course within herself.”

  The earl nodded slowly. “Joseph,” he began and stopped, for his throat constricted.

  “I thank you for pleasuring the fair Zabetta. I would not have relished being a eunuch in Khar El-Din’s harem. Addio, my lord.”

  “No!” The small word roared in the earl’s mind, but it emerged from his lips as a whisper. He looked numbly down at Joseph’s hand, now lying limply in his own.

  Joseph’s eyes were clear and sightless, free of pain. Very gently, the earl closed Joseph’s eyes. He sat for many minutes gazing at him, words he wished he had spoken lying heavy in his mind.

  Finally, he rose and pulled the cover over Joseph’s face.

  “Good-bye, old friend,” he said, and snuffed out the lone candle. He walked into the garden, a quarter moon lighting his way, and sat down on a marble bench. It was dawn when he stood again and stretched. He looked up at his bedchamber, its long windows bathed in the gray light of dawn, and drew a deep breath.

  “Cassandra.” He shook her shoulder.

  Her eyes flew open, and she stared up at him in the dim morning light, as if afraid to speak, as if she knew why he was awakening her.

  “It is over, cara. Come with me now and say your good-byes.”

  “When?”

  “About an hour ago. He died peacefully, Cassandra, his last words of you.”

  He helped her to rise and to put on her dressing gown. He had expected tears, but her face was closed and set.

  He left her alone with Joseph. When she finally emerged from his room, there was no expression at all upon her face.

  “You will help me go to Joseph’s funeral, will you not?”

  “Yes, Cassandra,” he said, and carried her back to their bedchamber.

  Cassie pulled her black velvet cloak more closely about her, but the damp chill still seemed to penetrate to her very bones. She leaned heavily on the earl’s arm, for she felt wretchedly weak. We all look like black crows, she thought, staring about her. Even the priest. Mr. Donnetti and the entire crew of The Cassandra stood with heads bowed around Joseph’s new grave. Caesare, present, she suspected, out of respect for his half-brother, for he had scarce known Joseph, shifted his weight first to one leg and then the other, some three feet from her. The earl stood beside her, his eyes straight ahead. Signore Montal
to was sniffing with a cold, and looking miserable. There were other men she did not recognize. She listened to the droning words of the priest, but the Latin had no meaning to her. She felt stifled by the black veil over her face, and pulled it back over her bonnet, unaware that in the eyes of the priest, it was an act of disrespect. She had eaten little the past several days, and for a moment, as she gazed at the fresh earth piled atop Joseph’s grave, the earth blurred and seemed to rise toward her. She gulped and took a step back. She felt the earl’s hand upon her arm, and stared stonily ahead of her, wishing the pale-skinned priest would finish with his Latin. She had always thought that priests were ascetic men who had little liking for things of the flesh. Yet this one was fat as a flawn. She shook her head, chiding herself for unkind thoughts. She should be thinking of Joseph, but somehow, she simply could not relate the mound of earth covering the oak casket to the Joseph she had known.

  Finally, the priest closed the vellum Bible and intoned a prayer. Cassie kept her eyes closed some moments after he had finished, and when she opened them, the black-garbed men were milling about, their voices soft. She was about to turn toward the earl, who was speaking quietly to the priest, when suddenly she heard softly spoken words, words that burned into her mind.

  “Pazza fragitara nigli inferno.” “May he rot in hell.”

  She looked wildly about her, but she saw only solemn faces, some familiar and some unknown to her. She tugged frantically on the earl’s black sleeve, oblivious of the priest, who was regarding her with profound disapproval.

  “He’s here,” she said. “I heard him—he’s here.” Her weakness and shock combined, and she felt the ground unsteady beneath her. For the first time in her life, she fainted.

  The earl caught her up in his arms, and called to Mr. Donnetti. “Francesco, quickly.”

  “What has happened, my lord?”

  Tersely, the earl told him Cassie’s words. “Get your men together. Bring any man who is not known to them to the villa.” But even as he gave the order, he knew it was hopeless. Many mourners had already left the graveyard.