if Richard could be rescued from slavery. If his father is dead, he is the heir to the Mountfitchet estate in England.’
‘He would need to prove his identity, I think?’
‘Yes—and that might be difficult if his father is dead. There will be other claimants, and those who matter would not listen to the claims of a slave who behaves like a child. If I believe he is Richard, my father will help him, but as for the rest…’
‘Do not concern yourself,’ Lorenzo told her. ‘Something will be done. You have my word.’
‘Thank you.’ Kathryn looked at him shyly. ‘Will you dine with me this evening, husband?’
‘Yes, certainly. It is my hope that now I am home we may spend some time together—learn to know one another, Kathryn.’
‘That would be very pleasant.’
How could she speak so calmly when her heart was hammering against her ribs? Kathryn fought her desire to be close to him. When he looked at her that way she felt as if she were melting and wanted only to be in his arms.
‘Pleasant…’ A wry smile touched his mouth. ‘Yes, it will be pleasant, Kathryn.’
‘If you will excuse me, I shall go to make sure that everything is in readiness.’
She had no need to bother, for the house ran perfectly and the servants would already have done all that was necessary, but if she stayed she might disgrace herself by falling into his arms. She might have begged him to kiss her, to love her.
What had he expected? Lorenzo frowned as he cleansed himself of the dirt of his months at sea. It was good to bathe after weeks when only the most basic of cleanliness was available. A douche in seawater every now and then was all that any of the men could expect. A man got used to the stench of the galleys, but he had been too eager to see her to delay even for that little time. Small wonder that she had kept her distance.
Yet was it only that he had come to her with the dirt of his journey still upon him? She knew what life was like on board ship and had not flinched from it when she was forced to travel with few comforts. Was she keeping her distance because she did not wish to become his wife in truth?
He had thought of this homecoming for weeks, dreaming of what she would smell like, how she would feel lying next to him in bed. Had he been mad to let himself imagine that she might welcome him once she had accustomed herself to the idea?
Most women he had wanted had been eager enough to fall into his arms, but he had never wanted one this badly before. All too often it had been he who had refused the offer of a lady’s company, too busy and too caught up in his quest to want the bother of a love affair. His chosen companions had been ladies who understood that he would go sooner rather than later.
Dressing in black Venetian breeches and hose and a doublet of black slashed with silver, the hanging sleeves attached by silver buckles at the shoulders, Lorenzo looked a true aristocrat. His hair was longer than usual for it had not been trimmed in months, curling to his shoulders, his skin a deep bronze. He glanced at his reflection in the glass, wondering as he had so often who he really was. For a moment his fingers strayed towards the leather wristbands, feeling the accustomed discomfort. All he knew for certain was that he had been captured by the Corsair Rachid and kept as a slave, chained to the oar until he was abandoned for dead. Yet he must have had a life before that day, a family, friends…perhaps a lover.
There had been no more flashes of memory recently. It seemed that the curtain was back in place, shutting out the past. Yet it did not matter—he knew that he was Lorenzo Santorini, owner of a fleet of galleys, his mission in life to destroy his enemy and others of his ilk.
Yet was his purpose as firm as it had been? Lorenzo frowned as he tried to understand the change that had come over him as he looked into the frightened eyes of that youth. Had it been Rachid himself he would not have hesitated to kill him—or would he?
He cursed softly as he realised that he was not sure. He had fed on hatred for so long. It was necessary to him, for without it what would he have?
The answer was so shocking, so alien to all that he had been and believed that he could not accept it. Dreams of a wife and family were not for him. He would grow soft, forget what had made him the man he was—become someone else.
Surely that was not what he wanted? He realised that he did not know. He did not know who he truly was any more.
Kathryn had dressed in an emerald green gown that set off the colour of her hair and made her eyes glow like jewels. She had only a small strand of pearls that her father had given her as a present for her birthday just before she left England, but she wore them with pride, never guessing that beauty such as hers needed no artifice.
‘You look lovely, Kathryn,’ Lorenzo said when he saw her. She was standing in the open arches that led out into a paved courtyard, her face pensive, a little sad perhaps. ‘Of what are you thinking, Madonna?’
‘It is such a lovely night. I was thinking of my home and my father.’
‘Have you written to him?’
Kathryn turned to face him. ‘I wrote to him when we reached Venice, but thought it best not to write again for the moment. Until we have more certain news of our friends I would not worry him.’
‘Do you not think you should tell him that you are married?’
‘Perhaps.’ Kathryn took a step towards him. ‘Lorenzo…’
She hesitated as a servant came to tell them that a meal had been served.
‘You must be hungry?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Let us eat, Kathryn. We have all the evening to talk.’
Her heart began to race as she saw the look in his eyes. All these weeks she had convinced herself that he did not want her, but the way he looked at her now made her think that perhaps she had been mistaken. Perhaps he had left her on their wedding night because there was no time, just as he’d told her. And now he was home and there was plenty of time before he must put to sea again…
‘Tell me what you like to do with your days, Kathryn,’ Lorenzo invited as they sat down to enjoy their meal.
‘Oh, I walk in the garden. I shop with friends and visit their homes. Sometimes they visit me—but there is one thing I miss here, Lorenzo.’
‘And what is that, Madonna?’
‘Books,’ she said. ‘My father has a library at home and he allows me to read his books. Here there are no books.’
‘Why did you not buy some for yourself? I left money enough for your needs.’
‘I did not like to spend too much,’ Kathryn said. ‘And I did not know if you would approve of such purchases.’
Lorenzo smiled. ‘I must show you my library when we go home, Kathryn.’
‘When shall we return to Venice?’
‘Not for some months,’ he said. ‘I have made arrangements to winter here—and you have friends, Kathryn. You would have to begin again in Venice. I thought
