Feehan, Christine - The Scarletti Curse Read online

  Nicoletta gasped and attempted to shove the child to safety beneath the massive, untouched bed. She was forced to use precious seconds prying the child's fingers from around her neck, and then she dove for Maria Pia, dragging her out of the chair onto the floor, covering the older woman with her own body.

  She heard a terrible grinding sound, and the enormous fixture ripped loose of the ceiling and slammed into the chair where Maria Pia had been sleeping. The chair was smashed to pieces, and the chandelier broke apart. Nicoletta couldn't prevent her cry of pain as the shorn brass sliced into her calf and other pieces pelted her.

  Sophie screamed, a thin wail of terror. Nicoletta ignored Maria Pia's muffled questions and pushed herself up, shouldering large pieces of the chandelier off herself to scramble on all fours and drag the little girl to her. Sophie burst into tears, burying her face in Nicoletta's neck and clutching her tightly. Nicoletta could feel warm, sticky liquid running down her leg, and it throbbed and burned. She rocked the child gently, soothingly, glancing up at the ceiling. The strange shadow had receded, leaving the carved sculptures nothing but ornate works of art and her own vivid imagination.

  The door to the bedroom was flung open, and an old man, a stranger, stood framed there. "What happened here?" His frame was tall and thinning with age, his thick hair silver, wild, and untamed, sticking out in all directions. He glared at them from beneath bushy eyebrows, intimidating after their recent terror. His fierce gaze took in Nicoletta, the child clinging to her, and Maria Pia on the floor in the middle of a heap of rubble that had once been the chair and the chandelier. "What the devil is going on in here?" It was a clear accusation.

  Sophie cringed at the tone of his voice, and tried to burrow closer to Nicoletta, refusing to look up. Her sobs increased in volume, verging on hysteria.

  The old man came into the room, a towering fury. "Stop that incessant wailing, you wretched little female!" He loomed over them, his fists clenched, shaking a stout cane at them. His eyes glittered like obsidian, his face twisted into a thundercloud. "It is thievery going on in here! Nothing less than thievery in the middle of the night!"

  Nicoletta was uncomfortably aware of the unblinking eyes of the various carvings and sculptures all around them—silent, taunting faces gloating at their misfortune.

  Maria Pia moaned and pushed herself to a sitting position. Nicoletta kept her attention on the little girl. It was obvious that Sophie was as terrified of the old man as she was of the shadowy specters that haunted her room at night. Nicoletta instantly began whispering soothing words to the child, knowing it best to leave the old man to Maria Pia, who wouldn't kick his ankle as he so richly deserved. Nicoletta had been frightened by the odd murmurings and shadows and the crashing chandelier, but this flesh-and-blood rude old man was now making her angry. It would not be wise to say or do anything to call a closer inspection upon herself; she dared not say what she thought. Nicoletta did her best to resume her role as a slow, frightened servant girl. The last thing she wanted was for the don to notice her. She didn't want the villagers to suffer punishment on her behalf. They might be able to go into the surrounding towns and make a modest living, but she doubted it. They had lived in the hills all their lives, depending on the tolerance and good will of the don.

  Maria Pia answered the old man respectfully but on the steadier ground her role as the healer provided her. Unlike Nicoletta, she had much practice through the years in dealing with the aristocratici and their tyrannical ways, and obviously she had encountered this horrid old man before. "Signore Scarletti, we have suffered a terrible accident. We were nearly killed!" she said indignantly.

  "Stupid woman, I can see what has been going on here!" the elder Scarletti snapped, clearly angrier than ever that anyone should contradict him, and a lowly woman from the village, at that.

  A darker shadow fell across them all, blocking the light from the candles in the hall, bringing instant silence to the exchange between the healer and the old man. Even Sophie stopped crying to hiccup sorrowfully. Simultaneously they turned their heads to see the don standing in the doorway. "Nonno, what have you done? I left this chamber but a short time ago to return to my own room, as the healer had things well in hand."

  The elderly man erupted into a barrage of Latin and Italian and another dialect, but Nicoletta had the distinct feelings that the don's grandfather wasn't praying. With his gnarled hands waving his cane around wildly, and his face nearly turning purple, he seemed to be threatening everyone in sight. Once he leaned over and spat on the floor near the door, his fierce gaze fixed spitefully on the little girl.

  At his tirade Sophie clung all the harder to Nicoletta, not daring to look up at the old man. He accused the child of everything from being bad luck to being a witch. Nicoletta glanced quickly at Maria Pia. The older woman was devoutly crossing herself and piously kissing the crucifix that hung around her neck.

  The don looked completely exasperated, so much so that Nicoletta almost felt sorry for him. He was still feeling the ill effects of the poisoning; she could see it in his eyes and the slight way he hunched his body to bring relief to the painful knots twisting in his abdomen. He waved his grandfather out of the room, his voice quiet yet stern as he followed him into the corridor.

  The two men spoke briefly before the don returned to the women, eyeing the disaster in the room. "What happened here?" he asked quietly.

  Sophie peeked out at him from the safety of Nicoletta's arms. "They did it." She pointed at the silent, watching creatures on the ceiling.

  Don Scarletti's gaze settled on the little girl. "Do not start that silliness again, Sophie." His voice was mild but delivered a reprimand.

  The child flinched burying her face once more against Nicoletta's neck. Nicoletta's dark eyes, a hint of fire in their depths, jumped to the don's face. Maria Pia deliberately kicked at a piece of the fallen chandelier to draw attention away from the younger woman. "Clearly the thing fell," Maria Pia pointed out. "It was only by the grace of the good Madonna we were not killed."

  The don moved closer to inspect the debris. "There is blood on the coverlet. Was Sophie injured?"

  Nicoletta quickly averted her eyes from the don, and it was left to Maria Pia to shake her head and answer. "She was untouched. The fever has gone down, too. Our vigilance has paid off," she declared, touching her crucifix for forgiveness for the small lie, since she had fallen asleep even before the don left the room.

  Don Scarletti's penetrating gaze settled thoughtfully on Nicoletta's face. "So you were the one injured. Let me see." He crossed the floor in his long, fluid strides and bent to examine her.

  Shocked, Nicoletta drew her legs under the skirt and silently shook her head, feeling like a frightened, wayward child, butterflies brushing at her stomach.

  "Dio! Piccola, I am out of patience." He circled her bare ankle with his long fingers and straightened her leg out for his inspection. It was a curiously intimate gesture. Nicoletta had never been touched by a man before, and certainly not on her bare skin. Color crept up her neck and flooded her delicate features. He was enormously strong, and she had no way of combating his strength or his hard authority.

  Nicoletta made a soft sound of distress and looked desperately to Maria Pia for help. Don Scarletti was turning her leg to inspect her calf. His hands were surprisingly gentle. "This cut is deep." He glanced briefly at the older woman. "Hand me a rag." There was authority in his voice.

  "I will attend her, signore," Maria Pia said firmly, clutching the rag, her shock mirrored on her face. It wasn't decent that the don should touch Nicoletta that way; worse, it was dangerous.

  The don reached up, took the rag out of Maria Pia's hands, and gently wiped the blood from Nicoletta's leg so that he could see the extent of the injury. Nicoletta winced as the laceration burned, pulsing with pain. She tried not to notice the way the don's hair curled around his ears and rippled in unruly waves down his nape. "Light a candle, woman. This wound is deep and must be dressed, or it may put
refy."

  Once again Maria Pia made a desperate attempt to shield Nicoletta from the don. "I am the healer, Don Scarletti. You should not trouble yourself with such."

  "I have attended many battle wounds," the don answered absently, thoughtfully inspecting the shapely leg he held in his hands.

  Nicoletta was mortified to have the don kneeling at her feet, her ankle in his hands. She was acutely aware of the heat emanating from his body. In her arms, Sophie began to squirm, the beginnings of a whimper starting.

  The don caught the little girl, pulled her out of Nicoletta's arms, and thrust her at Maria Pia in one smooth motion. "See to her needs," he ordered abruptly, his voice as mild as ever. He was clearly distracted by Nicoletta's injuries, not really looking at the child or the older woman. His fingertips moved over her skin, leaving a strange tingling sensation behind. Nicoletta held herself very still, afraid to move.

  Her teeth tugged nervously at her lower lip, drawing his unwanted attention to her face. He reached for a clean cloth on the nightstand to use for a bandage. "Are you training as an apprentice to the healer?" he asked casually as he wound the bandage around her legs. One hand was still circling her ankle, so it was easy enough to feel her trembling.

  Nicoletta looked desperately for help from Maria Pia, but her mentor was attending the child, who needed to use the chamber pot in an alcove at the far end of the room. Nicoletta shrank away from the don, hoping the candlelight wouldn't reach her face. She had trained herself to be extremely careful of contact with others, yet she was in an impossible position. One didn't deliberately incur the wrath of the don Giovanni Scarletti. That was dangerous and foolhardy. Nervously she swept a hand through her thick, hair, horrified to discover her head scarf had slipped off. It was too far away for her to grab it and cover her abundance of hair, but at least the strands were still drawn back in a severe knot.

  "You can talk—I have heard you," Don Scarletti pointed out. "What was the melody you sang to Sophie? It was somehow familiar to me." He asked it casually, idly, as if it didn't matter at all and he was simply making conversation. But Nicoletta wasn't fooled. His black eyes were on her face, sharp like a hawk's.

  She felt the breath explode out of her as if he had hit her with his fist. Unexpectedly she was struggling not to cry. Sorrow welled up out of nowhere, so deep that her throat closed, and tears burned behind her eyes. It had been her mother's favorite song. Nicoletta still held those precious memories, of her mother's soft, beautiful voice, the warmth of her arms. Her mother had worked at the palazzo, and twelve years earlier they had brought her body home from this place of death. Involuntarily Nicoletta averted her face, once again attempting to draw her leg away from the don.

  His fingers tightened like a shackle around her ankle. "Be still."

  Nicoletta was feeling desperate. She did her best to look doltish. Under the circumstances, it wasn't that difficult. She was feeling entirely off balance. She mumbled something unintelligible, knowing instinctively he would have no patience for evasion, and covered her face as best she could. Alas, the don had sharp eyes and likely had missed nothing at all. Something in his voice, something nameless, something undefined, gave Nicoletta the uneasy impression that he no longer regarded her as an ageless, nameless, nondescript servant. He spoke as if he were talking to a young maiden or frightened child. He had even called her piccola—little one.

  "Send for the servants," he ordered Maria Pia, confirming Nicoletta's suspicions that he no longer thought of her as a servant. The older woman had returned silently, but he was aware of her presence immediately. "Your apprentice cannot remain in this room this night."

  Sophie was struggling to gain her freedom, wrenching her hand free of Maria Pia to run to Nicoletta and crawl into her lap. Nicoletta gratefully wrapped her arms around the child, unashamedly hiding behind the little girl.

  Maria Pia hastily tugged the bell pull and hovered anxiously close to Nicoletta. "She is invaluable to me, don." Love and concern etched deep lines into her face, naked, transparent, and easy for someone as sharp as Don Scarletti to read.

  "The wound is deep, but I have cleansed and bandaged it. Where are her shoes?" He stood abruptly, easily, flowing power and coordination combined, lifting Nicoletta and Sophie into his arms in one smooth motion. "I do not want further injuries caused by bare feet on the debris. Gather her things, and we will go to the nursery."

  Where the child should have been all along! Why had Sophie been in that monstrous room? Nicoletta bit back the questions clamoring inside her. It seemed that no one paid much attention to Sophie. If anything, the child appeared to be in the way. Had the soup been intentionally poisoned? Or had it, perhaps, been intended for the don? Pud darsi. He had numerous enemies. Although his people were loyal to him—they were well fed, protected, and cared for—they also feared him, and fear was often a dangerous emotion. It was known, too, that the King of Spain had made an uneasy treaty with the don. The king had conquered other cities and states but had been unsuccessful in taking over Don Scarletti's lands. Could there be a traitor at the palazzo? Few would dare challenge the don outright, but perhaps they sought other ways to defeat him.

  She couldn't believe the selfsame don was holding her so close to him, almost protectively, cradling her in his arms, against his wide chest. Much like a frightened rabbit, she dared not move or speak. In any case, she knew with certainty that struggling wouldn't do her any good. Don Scarletti was a man who got his way.

  The manservant who had shown them in arrived a little out of breath. His clothes were a trifle disheveled, as if he had dressed on the run. His eyes widened at the sight of Nicoletta and Sophie in his master's arms, but he was discreet enough not to comment.

  "See to the debris, Gostanz," Don Scarletti ordered, moving past the man without so much as looking at him.

  Nicoletta held her breath, still not daring to move or speak. The don's body was hard and hot and unspeakably male. As he carried her and Sophie through the massive halls, she noted ribbed archways and domes, automatically attempting to remember the way, but he was moving very quickly. Maria Pia was nearly running to keep up. The spiral staircase they ascended was wide and ornate, the banister shaped like a golden snake curled around a long, twisting, golden branch. Maria Pia was afraid to touch it, muttering a multitude of prayers as she climbed. Ordinarily Nicoletta would have found Maria Pia's superstitions amusing, but being in the don's arms, tight against his chest, unnerved her.

  The nursery was along another long, vaulted hallway, but the room had a smaller, less intricate interior. No sculptures of mythical creatures, no sinister gargoyles preparing to do battle threatened here. However, dark, heavy tapestries covered the wall from ceiling to floor behind the bedstead, and the room was cold, with no logs on the hearth. The don placed Nicoletta and her tiny charge carefully on the bed. He patted Sophie's head rather absently, his attention still centered on Nicoletta.

  "Look at me." He said the words very softly. His voice was a weapon, seductive, tempting, an invitation to something beyond her comprehension.

  She was uncomfortably aware of her own body, how soft and curved it had felt against the hard strength of his. And then there was that strange current that ran between them, arcing and crackling with a life she didn't understand. She only knew that his voice was soft and could move over her skin like the touch of his fingers, and that if she dared look into his eyes, she might be trapped there for all time.

  Nicoletta stubbornly shook her head, her eyes averted, looking resolutely down. The don, clearly exasperated with her defiance, caught her chin in firm fingers and forced her head up so that her dark eyes met his gaze. For a moment they stared at one another. His eyes were beautiful, black as obsidian, glittering like gems. Hypnotic. Fathomless. She felt a curious sensation, as if she might be falling. The feeling was so real, her fingers curled around the coverlet to anchor her to safety.

  She felt a stirring in her mind, a warmth. She was losing her resistance, helplessl
y drowning in the seduction of his eyes. In her lap, Sophie squirmed, already worn out by the brief activity. From somewhere down the hall, Nicoletta heard a door close with a soft thud. For some reason the sound seemed sinister in the gloom of the nursery. It was enough to break the spell. With a supreme effort she pulled her gaze away from his and looked around the chamber, blinking rapidly to bring the room into focus. It felt as if she were waking from a dream. The flame from one small candle gave off so little light, every corner seemed filled with shadows.

  Nicoletta sighed softly. As high as the ceilings were, as large and spacious as the palazzo was, as ornate and luxurious, she preferred the outdoors, the sea and the mountains, the small huts. There was something very wrong in this house; she could feel it. And the don was much more dangerous than anyone had thought. She turned her attention to the child, slipping her into the bed beside her, fussing as she tucked the coverlet around her. She was aware of Don Scarletti towering over her in frustration, but she steadfastly refused to look up again. She held her breath as he turned on his heel without another word and strode from the room.

  The moment the don left them alone, Maria Pia collapsed on the bed with them in relief, conversing in whispers. "I never saw such a brazen thing," she admitted, "the way he touched you, made so free with you. The man must be heathen. I have heard the rumors, but I did not believe them."

  "I saw a shrine to the Madonna in the great hall," Nicoletta disputed, for some reason feeling the need to defend him. "If he is truly without God, he would not have such a thing in his home. And he often meets with the village priest and elders."