The Devil to Pay Page 3

  She glanced up, alarmed, and found his strange, blacker-than-black eyes staring down at her, intense and unfathomable. He slipped one hand under her hair and cradled the back of her head. Cara held herself completely still. Slowly, achingly slowly, he drew her closer.

  He was going to kiss her! Alessandro del Sarto, her hero, her nemesis, was going to kiss her! She’d been waiting for this moment for six long years.

  His lips were warm and slightly rough. Cara closed her eyes, determined to savor the sensation, to see if it really was as good as she remembered, but annoying little swirling pinpricks began to dance behind her eyelids. She tried to ignore them, to concentrate on the kiss, but her knees began to buckle. She barely managed to stop herself from groaning in frustration as she sagged back against his supporting arm.

  Del Sarto frowned down at her. “What’s the matter? God, you’re not going to faint, are you?”

  She managed a scornful frown. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve never fainted in my entire life.”

  A tunnel was narrowing her vision; she tried to blink away. This was just typical. Here she was, finally getting the kiss of her dreams, and she was making a mess of it.

  The darkness was irresistible. Cara surrendered to it with a resigned sigh.

  Chapter 6

  Alessandro caught Cara’s limp figure in his arms, amazed at how little she weighed. He swept one arm under her knees and bellowed for Francesco, then stood still, afraid to move in case he somehow hurt her even further. He hadn’t pushed her against the wall that hard, but then, he usually fought against fully-grown men. He was twice her size. Maybe he’d broken something.

  “Francesco!”

  She didn’t stir at his shout, which worried him further. He shifted her to get a better grip and his fingers slipped on a patch of sticky warmth under her arm. He didn’t need to look to know it was blood. “Francesco!” he bellowed again, depositing her gently on his huge bed.

  She looked angelic, unconscious. Not cherubic, exactly. She was too dark and too dirty, her face too angled for mere prettiness. Mud and dust caked her skin and clothes. A filthy angel, then.

  Alessandro made a swift search of her small frame and smiled. His filthy angel was armed to the teeth. In addition to that dagger he’d sent under the bed, she had a blade strapped to the inside of her wrist and another one tied to her thigh. Good girl.

  He pushed back her rough cloak and stopped in surprise. She was wearing the clothes of a stable boy; a rough pair of hose and a tie-neck linen shirt. Sandro tested the material between his fingers, identifying its quality, before he grasped the neck and ripped. Her clothes wouldn’t matter if she bled to death.

  Another layer lay beneath, a cotton shift, apparently her only concession to feminine attire. Alessandro ignored the tantalizing swell of her breasts just below his palms and swore at the amount of blood that stained the white fabric.

  Francesco barely blinked when he saw her on the bed. “Changed your mind, did you? That was fast. Want me to send up another one?”

  “She’s not a whore, you idiot. She’s Ercolo Montessori’s daughter.”

  Francesco raised his brows. “You sure?”

  “It’s her.”

  It had been six long years, but the instant he’d seen her eyes Alessandro had known the truth. And he’d been as stunned as if he’d fallen from his horse wearing full body armor. No one else had eyes that color. Her father used to dismiss them as ‘dirty mossy green,’ but they changed depending on her mood and the color she wore. Alessandro knew them as well as he knew his own blackened soul.

  Francesco stepped closer and peered at the bed. “Not dead is she?”

  “She will be, if we don’t fix this cut on her side. Fetch Renata. And tell her to bring a needle.”

  A moment later Renata da Mosta bustled into the room. The woman took one look at Cara, then glared at Alessandro with all the familiarity of a long-time retainer. “What did you do to her?”

  Alessandro held up both hands. “Nothing, I swear. Why does everyone assume I did something to her? I just disarmed her.”

  And kissed her.

  He’d never had a woman swoon from one of his kisses before, although he probably couldn’t take all the credit. He’d barely touched her lips with his, although even that scant touch had been enough to heat his blood. “She was hurt before she came in here.”

  Renata placed her hand on Cara’s forehead. “Poor little thing, what happened?”

  Alessandro snorted. “Don’t feel too sorry for her. That ‘poor little thing’ pulled a knife on me not five minutes ago.”

  Francesco’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.

  “Stay with her,” Alessandro ordered Renata. “Bind up her wounds and then let her sleep. When she wakes, feed her. And bathe her.” He wrinkled his nose at the filthy, disheveled clothes. “Then send for me. And Renata?” His eyes never left the bed. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

  Renata frowned. “I’ve seen that look before, Sandro. Usually just before you trick someone into surrendering. What are you going to do with her?”

  Alessandro shot her an innocent look. “Why, keep her, of course. She’s fallen into my lap like an offering from the gods. Who am I to overlook a gift like that?”

  Several hours later Alessandro stood at the foot of the bed and watched his captive sleep. She was a brave little thing, and bravery and loyalty were qualities he valued above almost everything. He believed her when she said she’d never fainted before; her stubbornness was just one of the things he remembered about her.

  His huge bed dwarfed her. She’d curled up in one corner, clutching the coverlet as if afraid it would be pulled from her. A primitive satisfaction warmed his belly. He liked seeing her wrapped in material that usually covered his skin.

  She looked so small, so vulnerable. He rubbed the sore spot under his arm with a smile. Hardly defenseless, though. She’d done what hundreds of grown men had tried and failed to do; drawn a blade on him while close enough to inflict some damage.

  He took a step nearer, inhaling the faint perfume that rolled off her skin. A hint of rose petal soap from her hair mingled with the warm scent of her body, barely discernible under the layer of dust from the road. Intoxicating.

  Her desperate scheming amused him. It was clear she had no intention of completing their deal, but it would be interesting to see how far she’d go to get her birthright back. Alessandro shook his head. She was such an innocent. All he had to do was keep her eyes glazed with a little of the passion he’d glimpsed tonight and she’d be easy to control.

  Cara di Montessori was going to make the perfect wife. Not for him, of course. But his guests were expecting a marriage to cement the forthcoming peace negotiations and she would be the sacrificial lamb. The idea was blinding in its rightness. He’d be helping the daughter of his old friend, too. It was charitable, really.

  She’d grace his bed first, of course. She was exactly what he needed to take the edge off his current restlessness. Fate had sent her to him. Why should he deny himself so much temptation when it was right here, under his nose?

  Was she still a virgin? All her reactions pointed to it. Blood throbbed in his temples as he imagined introducing her to the intricacies of sex. He’d enjoy her as a mistress for a couple of diverting weeks, then hand her over to some dull, worthy burgher to live a life of pampered luxury. It would kill two birds with one stone.

  Alessandro glanced over to where Francesco waited patiently by the door. “Send word to all those coming next week. Tell them Cara di Montessori, chatelaine of Castelleon, will marry whoever I deem the most suitable. Say her father left her in my care. It’s close enough to the truth.”

  Francesco placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry about Ercolo.”

  Alessandro nodded. “He was like a father to me. He took me in when I was sixteen and taught me how to fight. I’d probably be dead by now, if not for him.”

  Cara sighed and turned over in her
sleep and Alessandro shook his head at the vagaries of fate that had brought her to his door. His eyes swept from her soft lips, pouted in slumber, over the sweep of her throat to the silky skin of her shoulder, exposed to the cool night air and his hot gaze. He could just make out the tantalizing shadows between her breasts, and cursed his immediate arousal. He had women falling over themselves to grace his bed, women far more beautiful than her. His attraction to this stormy waif was—and always had been—inexplicable.

  She’d be horrified if she realized how much of her history he knew. While he’d been away on campaign with her father, her tutor had sent regular letters to inform Ercolo of the progress of her education. Barely a month had gone by without some missive detailing Cara’s latest lapse in behavior.

  Ercolo had loved reading the letters aloud and Alessandro had listened intently. Lacking any family of his own, he’d been fascinated by those glimpses into her pleasant, if somewhat chaotic, domestic life. Those letters had been the highlight of his days.

  “Who’d have thought one small girl could wind an entire monastery round her little finger?” Ercolo had chuckled, not without a degree of paternal pride.

  Cara had hated her enforced inactivity back at Castelleon. Her lively nature had always been searching for small but significant ways to rebel. Alessandro smiled in memory. The good brothers at the Monastery of St. John, where she’d received her lessons, had obviously failed to quell the feisty spirit he’d come to appreciate.

  Part of him was amazed that he hadn’t recognized her immediately. The girl had plagued him for years, flitting in and out of his thoughts, always lurking at the back of his mind. Somewhere along the way, Cara di Montessori had become his fantasy woman.

  For a soldier between engagements there wasn’t much to do except sit around and think. He’d had plenty of opportunities; long, restless nights where the men would gather around the campfires and the topics of conversation would revolve around the universal male interests of wine, women and song. But while some argued over the first meal they’d have when they got home, or the best type of horse to take into battle, he’d lain awake, thinking of her.

  He’d been cursed with a fiendishly vivid imagination.

  He only wanted her because he couldn’t have her. She was forbidden, unattainable. And therefore all the more desirable. That was the only reason his fevered brain had conjured up literally hundreds of scenarios in which he was making love to Cara di Montessori.

  Alessandro laughed in self-directed irony. He’d lost count of how many times over the past six years he’d caught himself imagining the kind of woman she’d grown into. And now here she was. The woman of his dreams; not only real, but in his home, in his bed.

  His imagination hadn’t even begun to do her justice.

  He toyed—briefly—with the idea of taking her as his own wife, instead of giving her to someone else, then discarded that plan. Marrying her would certainly be a delightful challenge, but the fictional Cara di Montessori had haunted his dreams for so long that reality would, no doubt, be a pale disappointment. He’d tire of her soon enough.

  And besides, she was a high-born lady, a sheltered innocent, whereas he was a violent, cynical bastard, too hardened by war to be a fit mate for anyone. She deserved better than him. However much he might wish it were different, all he could offer was his strength and cunning—for a price.

  Chapter 7

  Cara cracked her eyelids, blinking against a shaft of sunshine that filtered through a high glazed window. She drifted on the fringes of consciousness, enjoying the softness of sheets against her skin.

  The bed was warm, and her ribs ached. Something tugged at the back of her mind, annoyingly insistent. She’d been sleeping on hard ground and soggy leaves for the past few nights, not silken sheets and down-filled velvet pillows. Memory came flooding back with unpleasant speed. A swift glance beneath the covers confirmed her worst fears. She was naked. In the Devil’s own bed.

  Panicked, she checked her throat for the necklace she always wore and breathed a sigh of relief when she touched its familiar weight. The small compass pendant had been a gift from her father.

  How had she ended up here? The last thing she remembered was being in del Sarto’s arms, about to kiss him. And then—nothing. She must have fainted. How humiliating. Someone had tended to her wound; a tight bandage wrapped her ribs. Who had undressed her? Please God it hadn’t been him.

  “Good morning, my lady. I’m Renata.”

  The speaker was an attractive older woman, perhaps fifty years old. Her suntanned face and sparkling dark eyes gave her a youthful, cheeky appearance and her long black hair, threaded through with a few silver strands, had been left loose and unstyled.

  Cara tried to sit up, groaned, and slumped back down again.

  “You’ll feel as right as rain in a day or two, I promise,” the woman smiled.

  A knock on the door made Cara jump. Her heart pounded at the thought of seeing del Sarto again, but instead two kitchen boys entered laden with buckets of steaming water. Renata directed them through another doorway and Cara heard splashing.

  Renata beckoned. “Come on, while it’s hot.”

  Cara gaped at the huge copper bath that dominated the room. How decadent! Her own tub was half the size of this one. She winced as Renata unwound the fabric bandages then bent to inspect the neat row of stitches.

  The servant nodded, satisfied. “I’ve been patching people up for years, both on and off the battlefield. This just needs a good soak.”

  Cara sank into the water. The heat made every muscle ache, but it felt wonderful. Renata handed her a bar of soap and she ducked under the water to wash her hair.

  “There’s linen over there, on the chest. I’ll just let him know you’re awake.”

  No need to ask who ‘he’ was. Cara sat up, sloshing water over the edge of the tub. “Wait! Where are my clothes?”

  Renata gestured to a dress laid out on the trunk.

  “That isn’t mine.”

  “I know. One of his mistresses left it here last year.”

  “I won’t wear some strumpet’s cast offs.”

  The servant smiled. “I think that one belonged to a duchess. He said you’d probably refuse. He also said that if you weren’t dressed in fifteen minutes, he’d come and get you himself. Dressed or not.”

  Cara leapt out of the tub, all plans for a lengthy soak forgotten.

  Renata chuckled as she handed her a bath sheet. “Come on. One dress isn’t going to sap your virtue.”

  Cara scowled at the beautiful garment. She’d never worn anything so luxurious. She stroked the deep red velvet, then ran her fingers over the gilt thread embroidered at the cuffs, waist and bodice. It was so soft, so heavy. So expensive.

  Renata helped her into a silk chemise, underskirt, and then the dress itself. Cara tugged at the low-cut bodice, which exposed an unseemly expanse of breast, and gasped as the garment was laced tight at her back. She’d grown so used to wearing her boys clothes she’d forgotten how uncomfortable dresses were. When she turned to face the mirror she gazed open-mouthed at her own reflection. The bodice pinched in her waist and pushed up her breasts. For once in her life she had something resembling cleavage.

  “There,” Renata said, pinching her cheeks to add some color. “As soon as your hair is dry, you’ll be ready to face him. Come sit by the fire.”

  Cara couldn’t help but be impressed by the luxury of her surroundings as she followed the servant down several long hallways. She hadn’t been looking at the furnishings when she’d sneaked in to the castle last night, but this was no Spartan soldiers’ abode. The walls were hung with rich tapestries and arms, paintings, and gilt sconces. Her own home was comfortable, but this was the abode of someone who appreciated quality and had the means to acquire it.

  They descended a wide flight of stairs and Renata ushered her into a room that clearly served as a study and library. A wide desk stood near a bay window and rows of shelves held books and
scrolls. Maps and drawings hung on the walls, but Cara’s attention was drawn to the man seated in a huge carved chair behind the desk, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

  She took a moment to study her host in daylight. That fascinating mouth was the same as she remembered it; with a scornful curl to the corners and a full bottom lip which made him look both cynical and sensuous. Sunlight flashed off his thick gold signet ring as he rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers in front of him.

  He reminded her of a wolf, wild and unpredictable. Predatory. Cara grew uncomfortable with his unblinking stare. A show of hesitancy now would be fatal. She strode forward and took the seat opposite him, placed her hands in her lap, and raised her eyebrows in polite enquiry.

  At last he spoke. “It’s past eventide. I trust you’re feeling better?”

  She’d slept almost the whole day away! “Much better, thank you.”

  His eyes never left her face. Cara struggled to hold his gaze.

  “I want to know about your father’s death. How was he killed? How can you be sure your uncle was responsible?”

  She glared at him. “I was there.” Her stomach twisted and a wave of impotent rage threatened to overwhelm her as the scene reformed in her mind with horrifying clarity. Her father and his loyal men, holding off the attackers so she could flee. Guilt suffused her. She should have stayed. Fought.

  No. She would have died, too. It had been her duty to survive. To avenge their deaths.

  Del Sarto sat in silence, patiently awaiting her explanation like a spider at the centre of his web.

  “Lorenzo ambushed us while we were hunting in the forest. His men killed my father and three of our men. They died giving me time to escape.” Del Sarto made no reply, so she cleared her throat and continued. “I wasn’t thinking clearly last night. I cannot accept your proposal. I’ll find another way to regain my home without your help. Return my clothes and I’ll be on my way.”