I do not think he intends anything towards me—other than to deliver me safely to Lord Mountfitchet and collect the ransom.’
‘What ransom?’ Michael stared at her. ‘If you imagine that he snatched you from that Spaniard for a ransom, you are much mistaken. You do not understand him, Kathryn. Yes, sometimes he takes money for restoring a man to his family. Most are only too eager to pay it and he puts that money to good use. For every man that can be restored to his family there are a hundred that cannot; some can never work and without help would simply starve.’
Kathryn felt very strange, her throat tight with emotion. ‘Are you telling me that the money…?’ Her voice caught on a sob as she realised how badly she had misjudged Lorenzo. ‘He helps the men he rescues if they are not strong enough to work?’
‘Did you imagine that he cast them out to fend for themselves? Better that they should die quickly than starve, Kathryn. Lorenzo is rich, but he cares little for money for its own sake. His purpose in life is to destroy those evil men who prey on others, enslaving them and using them like beasts. That is why I warned you not to love him, for there is such pain in him…’ He shook his head as her eyes begged the question. ‘No, I may not tell you more. I have already said too much and I beg that you will not speak of this to Lorenzo. He would be angry. He makes no apology for what he does to any man—or woman.’
‘I shall never tell him what you have said this night,’ Kathryn said. ‘But I do thank you for telling me. I did not understand.’
She had had no idea what lay behind that mask of coldness, the apparent ruthlessness of his business, the way he saved or took life seemingly at will. Even now she could not think of the men left behind in the water without shuddering, but she could begin to understand.
Lorenzo removed the leather wristbands, rubbing at the ridge of dark purplish-red flesh beneath. The badge of his slavery, a constant reminder that would never let him forget those years of pain and humiliation or the hatred that had festered inside him. At Antonio Santorini’s deathbed, he had sworn that he would not rest until he had brought Rachid down and freed all those he held prisoner. That purpose had driven him from this day until now, and he could not let anything change that—not even the enticing lips of a woman who filled his senses as no other ever had.
She had felt so good as he’d held her in his arms during their dance that the temptation to kiss her had been overwhelming. She filled his mind even now, making him burn with desire such as he had never known. Only the strength of his will was keeping him from going to her now and making her his own. He wanted to feel her soft skin as she lay beside him, to touch her, kiss her, know her fully. To make love to her, to love her, have her always…
No! That way lay madness! He could not lie with Kathryn without letting down his guard. He could not seduce her without offering her his home and his name—but what was his name?
A shiver went through him as he recalled the moment she had looked into his eyes and asked him who he was, and his answer had surprised even himself. He was Lorenzo Santorini, a man dedicated to destroying his enemy. Of course he knew who he was! To let himself dwell on the past—on things that could never be proved—would be to invite confusion.
He rubbed at his left wrist. It was always this one that irritated the most. The flesh was swollen now for he did not use the healing salve as often as he should. Getting out of bed, he took the pot of lotion that had been given him by Ali Khayr, rubbing it into the ridges of tortured flesh. He frowned as he traced the thin line, which extended from beneath the welt of scarred skin. It looked darker than the other scars, older and in some way different. He had not really noticed it until lately. His finger traced it absently, sliding down over the welt of disfigured flesh, making the sign of a letter.
Kathryn! She was too often in his mind. If he allowed her to take over she would destroy him. He had begun to imagine things, impossible dreams that were not for a man such as he—and there were the images that came to him now. Flashes of memory, perhaps? He could not be sure. For so many years he had remembered nothing, had wanted to remember nothing beyond the moment he had seen the face of his enemy and known that he lived only to kill him.
Rachid was not of Arab descent, nor was he a Turk. His skin was sunburned and his eyes were grey, but he was from the Western world—something that had made Lorenzo despise him more. How could he, a man raised to Christian values, use and torture other men so cruelly? He was evil, a disciple of Satan—and Lorenzo could not rest until he was dead.
Nothing must deflect him from his purpose. He must not allow himself to be softened by a woman’s smile—nor must he let those disturbing flashes of memory rob him of his identity. It did not matter who he had been. He was Lorenzo Santorini. A man with no mercy for his enemy.
The sooner he could return Kathryn to her friends the better. If he were sensible, he would send her with Michael as her escort, finish it now. The longer she stayed with him the more enmeshed in her web he might become.
Kathryn looked around the cabin to which she had been shown. It was much more luxuriously appointed than the one she had used on board Lorenzo’s war galley. This was the largest and finest of his merchant ships. It was carrying a cargo of goods to the island, which would be sold to the merchants there in return for another cargo of fine wines and citrus fruits. These fruits were much valued by those who spent their lives at sea, for they were believed to help prevent the dreaded disease that some called scurvy.
She turned as she heard someone behind her, and, looking towards the door, saw that Lorenzo stood there. His eyes were thoughtful as they looked at her, almost brooding. She felt herself tremble inside and knew a longing to be in his arms as she had been on the night of the Seventh Moon.
‘I hope you will be comfortable here, Kathryn. My own cabin was not fitting for you, but we have made more provision this time.’
‘I was happy enough to live as you do,’ she said. ‘Do you travel with me on this ship, sir?’ Her heart was fluttering as she waited for his response, for though she feared what he did to her with those devastating eyes, she also longed for it.
‘No, on my personal galley,’ Lorenzo replied. ‘You will be safe enough for we shall escort you to Cyprus. I have some business there with Lord Mountfitchet.’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said, though she sensed that he was not telling her the whole truth. ‘It is good of you to go to so much trouble for my sake.’
‘But I do not want to lose my ransom,’ he said, an odd smile on his lips. ‘Surely you must know that, Kathryn?’
‘You shame me, sir,’ she said, blushing. ‘I was wrong to say such things to you.’
‘Were you?’ His eyes narrowed, intent on her face. ‘I am not ashamed of what I do.’
‘Why should you be?’ She flushed deeper as he looked at her more closely, clearly wondering why she had changed her mind, and knew that she must be careful or she would betray Michael’s confidence. ‘Any man is worthy of his hire. If you do someone a service, they should expect to pay for it.’
Lorenzo inclined his head. ‘I have questioned the men we took from Rachid’s galley. No one knows anything of a youth taken from Cornwall all those years ago. It was not likely that they would. I believe that you will never find the man you seek, Kathryn. And if you did…he would not be the same man.’
‘I know…’ She sighed. ‘I have begun to think that it may be best if Dickon is never found. Sometimes I hope that he died long ago. I had heard stories of men being put to the galleys as slaves,
