Page 33

Ten

T he dream came again that night.

Sanchia lay in the darkness, willing her heart to steady its wild cadence. It was only a dream, she told herself over and over. She wasn’t in the dungeon, she was on Lion’s ship, hundreds of miles away from Solinari. It was only a dream.

It did no good. The walls of the cabin were too close and seemed to be drawing closer with each breath she drew. She had to get out .

She got up and began to dress with frantic speed. She would go out on deck and look at the sea and breathe the sharp, clean air and think about what lay beyond the horizon. Freedom and adventure…

And perhaps the blessed absence of dreams.

A few minutes later she was standing at the rail looking out at the moonlight-dappled sea. Yes, this was what she had needed. She could feel the peace flow into her, banishing the tumult, blurring the memories she could not forget.

“What are you doing out here? Do you realize it’s the middle of the night? You persist in trying to make yourself ill.”

Her feelings of serenity were splintered as she recognized Lion’s voice. Dio , she didn’t want him here. Tonight she desired peace and he brought only turbulence. “I’m wearing my shawl.” She drew the wrap closer about her. “I’ll go in shortly.”

He moved to stand beside her at the rail. “Now.”

“No!” Then she tried to temper the sharpness of her voice. There must be no conflict now. Peace. Serenity. “I cannot sleep. Leave me and I promise to go in within the next hour.”

“Bargains?” A note of surprise colored his tone. “You must already be ill. You were considerably more defiant this afternoon.” He suddenly frowned. “Why can’t you sleep? Does your hand hurt? Lorenzo said it was healing well.”

“My hand doesn’t hurt. It grows better every day. I’m just restless.”

She could feel his gaze on her face. “Dreams?”

“What difference does it make? Go away. You disturb me.”

“You disturb me too.” His tone was abstracted. “The same dream? About the thief thrown out of the Stinche?”

“Not the same dream.”

“Then what do—”

“Why do you not leave me alone?” She whirled to face him.

“I dream of Damari’s dungeon, not the Stinche.

I dream that the hammer is a sword and Fra Luis is cutting off my fingers one by one.

That’s what he was going to do, you know.

But first they wanted to let me think about it, so they played with me.

They brought out the wooden block and put my hand on it and—”

“Hush.” She was suddenly in Lion’s arms, her cheek pressed against the leather of his jerkin, his fierce voice vibrating low beneath her ear. “Don’t talk about it. Don’t think about it.”

“And after they had finished with me for the time they would take me back to the cell for a few hours so that I could recover and think of the next time they would—”

“I said no!” Lion’s palm was suddenly covering her lips. “I don’t want to hear any more. I want you to forget it.”

She shook her head to rid herself of his hand. “I can’t forget. I don’t have that capability. I remember everything and, when I refuse to think of it during the day, I dream of it at night.” She smiled bitterly. “But I will cease talking about it, if it troubles you.”

“It does trouble me. I…feel it.” Lion gazed down at her, his dark eyes glittering in the moonlight. “Tell me,” he demanded suddenly. “Everything. From the first moment you were captured until I came for you. Everything they did to you. Everything you felt.”

“Why? You said you didn’t want to hear it.”

“Gran Dio , I don’t, but I have to share it. It was my responsibility you were there and I’ll not leave you alone with it.”

“It will do no good to—”

“Tell me.”

And she told him, haltingly at first and then with a feverish rush, releasing all the memories, giving them to him.

And he listened, his expression impassive, his gaze locked to hers. Accepting.

Her words finally dwindled, slowed and then ceased altogether.

“Is it over?” His voice was harsh, strained.

She nodded jerkily. “That’s all.” She turned her face away from him. She felt lighter, she realized in surprise. As if in some mysterious fashion Lion had managed actually to lift a portion of those hideous memories from her own mind and into his.

“Thank God!” He jerked her back into his arms and held her crushed against him, his fingers buried in her hair. His chest was moving in and out as if he were running, but there was no passion in his embrace. “I did not like this. It hurt me.”

She found herself laughing shakily. “It hurt me, too.” The laughter brought its own easing and diminished Damari’s importance in her memory as nothing else would have done.

“I know,” he said thickly, then he was pushing her away, his gaze on her face. “Can’t you see that it must not happen again? You belong to me and I must protect—”

“I don’t belong to you.” Yet even as she spoke she realized she felt more bound to him in this moment than when she had held him within her body. She took a panicky step backward. “I belong to no one but myself. I will—”

His hand quickly covered her mouth. “We will not talk about it now. Can you not be still?”

She took another step back and turned her face to elude his hand. “I have no choice, if you persist in covering my mouth with that huge paw,” she said tartly. “If you do not wish to hear me speak, then leave me.”

He stood looking at her with a scowl. “I don’t want to leave you.”

Sanchia felt an irrational rush of relief. She found she no longer wanted to be alone and Lion’s presence was bringing its own rough comfort. “Then you must let me speak when I wish to speak.”

Humor banished the frown from Lion’s face. “I’ve done little else but listen since the moment I came on deck.” He took her elbow and propelled her across the deck. “Come.”

She tried to pull away from him. “Where are you taking me?”

“Here.” He had stopped at the steps leading to the forecastle and now pushed her down on the second step.

“Sit.” His smile held a hint of little boy mischief.

“Did you think I was dragging you to my bed? I’m trying to prove what a patient man I can be.

You’re safe from me for now.” He jerked his head toward the seaman at the tiller a few yards away.

“And, since I have no intention of sharing you, it would be cruel to him to take you here in front of him.”

She glanced at him curiously. “Have you ever shared a woman with other men?”

He shrugged. “Many times. There are never quite enough camp followers to go around.”

He saw the distaste on her face and his own expression hardened as he dropped down on the step beside her.

“Yes, I’ve whored, and killed, and even taken women against their will.

” He saw her go rigid and continued, “What did you expect? I’m no gentle courtier like Marco.

I’m only a rough soldier. When a town is taken, the women are part of the prize. ”

“It still doesn’t make it right,” she said clearly. “How did you feel when you were doing it?”

“You get used to it.” He paused. “Most of it.” He was silent for a moment, remembering, before admitting, “Though only once did I take a woman when she wasn’t willing.

I was fourteen and drunk with power and victory and hurting for a woman.

She was a merchant’s wife I found hiding in a shop.

I thought, why not? No one else hesitated to take what was theirs by right.

I had even seen my father ease himself with comely women, apparently uncaring whether they were willing or unwilling.

” He hesitated for an instant and then burst out, “But I had no liking for it. Her eyes were empty and she wept.… I could not please her. I kept her with me until the condotti left the city and gave her money when we parted. I let no one else touch her but—” He broke off and said again, “I had no liking for it.”

Sanchia said nothing.

He turned on her as fiercely as if she had attacked him. “I make no excuses. I am what I am and I do what I have to do. I have little gentleness but I’m honest and return what I’m given, be it good or evil. You must accept me as I am.”

She was startled by his sudden intensity. “Why are you telling me this?”

Conflicting emotions darkened his face. “I don’t know.” He smiled crookedly. “You have a strange effect on me. Lorenzo says I have a great need to go to confession. Perhaps I want you to absolve what cannot be absolved.”

Her gaze dropped from his face and silence fell between them again.

“You didn’t like being a soldier?” she asked finally.

He shrugged. “I knew nothing else from the time I was a boy. I did it well. My father was pleased with me.”

“But you didn’t like it?” she insisted. “Is that why you gave up your condotti and began to build ships?”

“The sea has always been in our blood. It was not until my family came from Persia to Italy over a hundred years ago that we moved inland away from the coast.” He made a face.

“We are not farmers by nature and did not prosper. So my great-grandfather took up the sword. War suited us much better than tilling the land, and we grew rich on it.”

“But you gave it up.”

“We were rich enough, and I was tired of noblemen who paid me to do battle for them one day and then hired someone to steal my fee the next.” He leaned back against the step, his gaze on the sails billowing in the wind.

“Then one day I was on the docks in Venice watching a ship from Madagascar sail into port. I had spent the morning squeezing the last half of my fee from the signory coffers and I was sickened to death of the Serenissima.” He smiled reminiscently.

“The wind was lifting the sails, and I could smell the scent of the sea and the cargo of cinnamon being unloaded and suddenly I knew—” He broke off and turned to face her. “Do you think you can sleep now?”

“It’s unlikely.” She paused, her eyes never leaving his. “Knew what?”