The Devil to Pay Read online

  “I can’t do that. I’ve had them burned.”

  “What?”

  “They were filthy.”

  “What will I wear?”

  “If you’ll reconsider my offer, sweeting, you won’t need anything at all.”

  She gasped. “You’re shameless!”

  “Hardly. If I were as barbaric as you claim, I’d have taken you while you were insensible last night.”

  “How civilized! To prefer your conquests conscious when you rape them.”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “Why were you wearing boy’s clothing?”

  That answered the question of who’d undressed her. Cara was annoyed to feel a blush steal across her cheeks. Awful man. “I’d joined father on the hunt. I could hardly ride in my skirts, could I?” The thought gave her an idea. “Last night you said you wanted someone refined and used to socializing, to act as your hostess. Believe me, I have no feminine accomplishments whatsoever. I’m honestly the last woman you need.”

  “Ah, yes. You’re ‘The Girl Who Blew Up The Monastery’.”

  Cara suppressed a groan. It would have been too much to hope that he hadn’t heard of that particular incident.

  “Your father often regaled me with tales of your antics,” he said, as if reading her mind. “I always enjoyed hearing what new catastrophe you’d masterminded.”

  She flushed, mortified that her childish rebellions should have been exposed to this man’s ridicule.

  “In one letter, I remember, you’d diverted water onto the monastery vegetable patch and flooded the cloisters.”

  “St. John’s needed a new irrigation system. We had an excellent crop that year.”

  “And the injured fox cub?”

  “How was I to know it would scale the organ pipes in a bid for freedom?”

  “It pissed against the lectern, I recall.” Del Sarto’s mouth looked on the verge of breaking into a smile, but never quite did. Despite her embarrassment, Cara bit her own lip. That had been quite funny.

  “My favorite, though, was the time you declared Castelleon’s moat too narrow to deter invaders and tried to prove it by jumping it yourself. How many bones did you break?”

  She clenched her right hand in memory. “Only three fingers. And I cleared it on my second attempt.”

  He leaned across the desk and took her hand, feeling along the knuckles for signs of the injury. His touch sent tongues of heat racing up her arm. “You were lucky you didn’t break your neck.”

  She snatched her hand from his.

  “I always wondered why you weren’t sent to a nunnery. Nuns wouldn’t have you, eh?” he prodded.

  She winced at the truth of his words. “There weren’t any nunneries nearby,” she lied. “The monastery was very convenient.”

  In truth, Father had hoped that some of the piety and calm of St. John’s would rub off on her. Hah.

  Pain stabbed her heart. Though he’d never have admitted it, she suspected that Father had always longed for a son, rather than a daughter. She’d spent her whole life trying to make him proud, to prove that she was not only worthy of his love, but of inheriting Castelleon too.

  It was too late now. All those hours studying subjects she’d known would impress him—military tactics, ancient history, languages—all for naught.

  Contrary to what she’d told del Sarto, she had learned some feminine skills too, albeit under duress. Her old nurse-turned-housekeeper, Bianca, had been given the task of instructing her, but Bianca’s ’s ideas of a fitting education had been diametrically opposed to Cara’s own. Bianca favored tasks like starching bed linen, sewing, flower arranging, and curtseying. She’d ignored Cara’s protests that the kitchens functioned far more efficiently without her interference.

  “So what happened at the monastery?” del Sarto’s deep voice interrupted her recollections.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t get a full account of that, too,” Cara sighed. “I was helping brother Domenico make an explosive powder we’d found mentioned in an Oriental text and a slight accident occurred, that’s all.”

  In truth, she’d doubled the quantities when Fra Domenico had turned his back. The results had been surprisingly incendiary. Who’d have thought such a small amount of black powder could do such a huge amount of damage?

  “Only the west tower actually collapsed,” she muttered. “And it was practically rubble to begin with. That’s why we were using it for our studies.”

  There was no need to mention the smoke damage to the refectory, or the scorched statue of the Virgin Mary in the vestry.

  “In the event, we discovered the most efficient way to evacuate the monastery,” she said piously. Inspiration struck. “See, this just shows how unsuited I am to be anyone’s hostess. I know fortifications and tactics far better than gossip and small-talk. I can’t sew or cook or do anything remotely feminine. I only sing when I want to make the dogs howl. I can barely even dance.”

  “We’ll arrange for a few lessons, to refresh your memory.”

  Cara set her teeth. “I can be remarkably difficult to teach when I don’t want to learn.”

  Chapter 8

  Del Sarto’s gaze flicked to the huge carved letters behind her on the fireplace. “Do you know what that says?”

  She glanced over her shoulder and then back at him. “Of course,” she said haughtily. “Quis est mei ego servo. What’s mine I keep.”

  “Right. And I’ve decided to keep you. At least for the next few weeks.”

  She narrowed her eyes and he chuckled. “Why the outraged virtue? Not to be accused of false modesty, but plenty of women would kill to be in your position right now.”

  “I will not lie with you.”

  “Don’t you want to?” He sounded only mildly interested, as if they were discussing the weather, but his smile was wicked. “You will.”

  He said it with the absolute certainty of a man who always got his own way. Cara laughed to cover her fear. “What conceit! Do you think you’re irresistible?”

  He gave a negligent shrug. “We’ll see.”

  “The only way you’ll have me is by force.”

  “Now, that’s not true. I’ve never raped a woman in my life. But you’re welcome to try to resist me. It will add a challenge to the next few weeks, while you’re my guest.”

  “Guest? You mean hostage. I will not be your whore.”

  “Why not? We all sell ourselves, Cara. I’ve done it myself since I was sixteen years old.” His mouth gave a cynical twitch. “Only instead of hiring myself out for love, I did it for war. For some reason I thought I’d weary of lying on my back all day and chose fighting over whoring. Either way, it’s using your body to provide a service for money.”

  He was being deliberately crude to shock her. She hadn’t even known that there were such things as male whores, but she could quite believe that someone might pay for his remarkable body. The idea left her breathless and uncomfortably hot. What woman wouldn’t want such strength and beauty at her command?

  You could order him to do things. Anything.

  Her ideas about what those things might be were rather nebulous, but still, just the thought brought her out in a hot-cold sweat.

  His lips twitched.

  “Something amuses you, my lord?” she snapped.

  “Yes, you. I’m rarely entertained by my fellow man. You are indeed a novelty.”

  The man was infuriating. She could withstand him, despite his sinful good looks. “What about my reputation? I’ll be ruined! Even if I don’t lie with you everyone will think I have.”

  “Damned if you do and damned if you don’t,” he agreed cheerfully. “You might as well enjoy yourself.”

  Cara ground her teeth. So much for appealing to his conscience. “Don’t you care?”

  “What other people think of me? Never. Of what they’ll think of you? No. Be honest, will you care when you’re back in your beloved Castelleon? Is your pride so great a price to pay?”

  He sounded so reason
able, but it was more than mere pride. More than just her virginity, even. He wanted her integrity, her honor. Her soul.

  As if he’d read her mind he said, “Stop being so dramatic, sweeting. It’s only sex.”

  “So I’m a prisoner here?”

  He made an elegant gesture towards the door. “You can go anywhere you like within the city walls. With an escort, of course.”

  “How kind,” she said witheringly.

  A servant entered bearing a steaming tray of food, followed by another bearing crockery and silverware.

  “Let’s not quarrel. You must be hungry.”

  She was about to deny it, but her treacherous stomach rumbled in anticipation. Perhaps if she grabbed a chicken leg and ate like a ravenous dog he’d have second thoughts about her suitability as lady of the keep.

  The twinkle in his eye suggested he knew exactly the direction of her thoughts.

  She shot him a honey-sweet smile. “I’m surprised you’re letting me near a knife again so soon.”

  “It’s not sharp. Besides, if you were a competent assassin you could kill me with anything. Your spoon, perhaps. Or your bare hands.”

  Without thought, she glanced down at his hands. They were strong and tanned and certainly looked capable of murder.

  “I prefer a sword,” he said, reading her mind again like some black magician. “Do try some wine.” He poured the deep red liquid into her waiting glass.

  Every item on the table was of the highest quality. The cutlery was silver, the glasses exquisite—Venetian, no doubt—with an enameled design under a gilt rim. Murder was obviously a lucrative business.

  Much as she would have loved to refuse his hospitality, the aromas wafting from the food were impossible to resist. Cara took a mouthful and almost groaned in pleasure. She hadn’t eaten properly for days. She took another sip of the wine, an excellent red, and made a point of ignoring him while she consumed her meal in silence. As soon as she finished she pushed her chair back and rose. He did the same.

  “Thank you for dinner,” she said, her effort at politeness straining her voice.

  He smiled, as if he knew how much it galled her to thank him, her gaoler, for anything. “Are you going to bed?”

  “I’m extremely tired.”

  “Shall I come with you?” The corners of his lips turned upwards as her mouth fell open. “You have been sleeping in my bed. But perhaps you’d prefer your own room? At least for tonight.”

  Cara didn’t know what to say. He stepped around the table, took her hand, and kissed it. A jolt of heat shot from her throat to her stomach. “Goodnight, my lord,” she said firmly.

  The two guards stopped barely ten paces further down the hall from Il Diavolo’s chambers and Cara suppressed a growl. He’d put her in the room adjoining his own. Nodding to her escort, she went inside and sank onto the bed.

  What had she got herself into?

  She’d been surrounded by men her entire life but del Sarto was the only one who’d ever had this bizarre effect on her senses. It had been bad enough six years ago, when she’d succumbed to unexpected his kiss, but she’d put that down to the inexperience of youth and temporary insanity on her part.

  She had no such excuse now.

  It was animal attraction, pure and simple. She’d heard the servants and soldiers gossiping about it often enough. It was just so annoying that she should feel it toward this obnoxious, unsuitable man, of all people.

  She glanced around the room. A single candle had been left burning on a table by the bed. Like the rest of the castle, the chamber was furnished in the height of luxury. A dressing table with an ornate gilt mirror above it had been placed against the wall next to the window. A set of silver-backed brushes and a bar of perfumed soap rested on it. An X-framed chair with lions carved on the armrests held a stack of fresh linen, and her bed was a rather grand four-poster—although smaller than the one she’d slept in next door.

  Two further doors led off the main room. The first housed a bathing room with a tub big enough to wallow in. The second door refused to budge and had no key. From its position she deduced that it opened directly into del Sarto’s rooms. No doubt the fiend imagined he could come and go into her bedchamber at whim. She dragged the dressing table across the room and set it squarely in front of the door. There.

  A tall cupboard stood against one wall. Opening it, Cara suppressed a little squeak of triumph. A dozen shirts and hose were folded neatly upon the shelves. The room’s previous occupant had left some of his clothing behind. Or perhaps it was a store cupboard for unexpected guests? Either way, she’d found the perfect outfit for an escape.

  She crossed to the window, climbed up onto the seat, and peered through the diamond-shaped panes of glass. The wall below was in annoyingly good repair; all smooth stonework, with not a helpful toehold in sight. No ivy to climb down. Typical. In the troubadour’s songs the hero always rescued the heroine thanks to some strategically placed trellis or a convenient balcony. No such luck here.

  Cara had always privately wondered why the heroine never rescued herself. She loved reading stories of courtly romances, but the women were always depressingly apathetic.

  Salvation came in the form of a huge chestnut tree growing just beyond the window. She gauged the distance carefully. The larger branches would easily hold her weight but it was a good thirty feet down if she fell. Certainly high enough to break her neck. She hadn’t climbed a tree in years, but the alternative—staying here with the insufferable del Sarto—was far worse. She had erred, thinking she could deal with him.

  It was too dark to escape tonight. Cara stripped off her heavy gown and crawled into bed, luxuriating in the softness of the mattress. Gilded it might be, but a cage was a cage, nonetheless. Come the morning, she’d be gone.

  Chapter 9

  Cara woke at first light. The shirt she’d donned hung down past her knees and she had to roll the waist of the breeches over three times to get them to stay put, but it was still a better outfit for tree-climbing than a dress.

  The window was small—but she was smaller. She squeezed through and gripped the metal frame with white knuckles as she balanced precariously on the outer stone sill. Two servants crossed the courtyard below leading a huge black horse, and she froze, but they were too busy trying to control the snorting, skittish beast to notice her.

  She sent a swift prayer heavenward, and jumped. For a timeless second she hung in mid-air, then hit the tree with a crash that knocked the breath from her lungs. She clutched the nearest branch as tightly as she could and pressed her cheek to the rough bark as it swayed and shook.

  A flurry of leaves and horse chestnuts rained down onto the ground below, startling a wood pigeon into flight, and she waited, her heart hammering, for a cry of alarm, but none came.

  There. Easy!

  Her position wasn’t exactly dignified. She was hugging one large, nearly horizontal branch like a bear, with both arms and legs wrapped around it. At least it hadn’t snapped under her weight. She pried one hand free, spat out a leaf, and inched towards the trunk. The branch creaked but held. Her injured side ached in protest. Her inner thighs were going to be black and blue, but it was a small price to pay for freedom.

  Another servant crossed the yard, whistling, but hurried on without noticing her.

  Damnation. The lowest branch was still about ten feet from the ground and the trunk below was smooth. Cara was just wondering how to lower herself down when the doors at the far end of the courtyard opened again. There followed a clatter of hooves and then a laughter-tinged voice that filtered through the large green leaves.

  “Morning, Signorina. Having fun?”

  Cara cursed—in five different languages. It was del Sarto, the swine, mounted on the same beautiful black horse she’d seen moments before. The animal pranced, eager to be off on its morning canter.

  “Now what does this say about my hospitality when guests throw themselves out of the windows? Has something displeased you, my l
ady? An uncomfortable bed? Insufficient hot water? Unaired linens?”

  Cara looked down in exasperation. “Go away!”

  “And let you escape? I don’t think so. How were you going to get down? It’s too high to jump, although you seem foolish enough to try it.”

  He dismounted in one fluid movement and dropped the reins. The horse simply waited for him, despite not being tied up. No doubt the man was used to blind obedience. Well, he wasn’t going to get it from her!

  “Lower yourself down and I’ll catch you.”

  “No!”

  “I won’t drop you. You weigh less than a starved sparrow. I’ve already carried you, remember?”

  She flushed at his casual reminder. He approached the foot of the tree and stood looking up at her, hands on hips.

  “Leave me alone!” Cara grabbed one of the horse chestnuts and threw it as hard as she could at the smug figure below. She missed; it struck him on the shoulder, instead of the centre of the forehead. He leapt backwards, but her satisfaction was short-lived. He bent down and swept up a handful of the hard, prickly spheres at his feet. Her eyes widened in disbelief as he aimed. “Don’t you dare!”

  “Why not? What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.”

  Cara howled as one hit her on the arm—hard. He wasn’t even throwing them softly. “Ow! Stop!”

  One hit her thigh. Another whacked the top of her head and tangled in her hair. She ducked for cover behind the trunk, lost her balance, and let out a horrified shriek as she plunged headfirst towards the ground.

  Del Sarto caught her effortlessly.

  Cara kicked her legs and pummeled him with her fists. Laughing, he lowered her to the ground, unmoved by her attempts to get free. “You’re welcome, milady.”

  She pushed him away and tried to tame her hair into some semblance of order.