shall never speak of it without your permission—but how did you escape?’
‘I was left for dead on the shores of southern Spain. A sick galley slave is worthless. They left me on the beach, threw me into the shallows, and I should undoubtedly have died if Antonio Santorini, a merchant of Venice, had not chanced to come ashore that day to provision his ship. He found me, took me aboard his ship and brought me to Venice.’
‘You are not his son?’
‘He was childless; his beloved wife dead some years before. He gave me his name, adopted me and made me his legal heir. As much as I was able I loved him, for he was a truly good man. He had suffered at the hands of the Inquisition himself; because of it, he devoted his life to helping others. I helped to restore his fortune, much of which he had given away to those who needed it. And when he died I mourned him.’
‘You were lucky that day, Lorenzo.’ She kissed his shoulder, which tasted salty with sweat after their loving. ‘I am so sorry for what happened to you.’
‘Do not be,’ he said. ‘For years I lived on hatred and that sustained me, giving me strength. It was only my hope of revenge that made me determined to live.’
‘Lorenzo…’ She bent over him, her hair brushing his face as she kissed him on the lips. ‘I love you.’
‘My sweet Kathy.’
He rolled her beneath him in the bed, his mouth plundering hers as the desire flamed between them once more. His hands stroked and caressed her, making her moan and move beneath him, her body arching up to meet him as he thrust deep inside her. Deep, deeper, into the inviting moistness of her femininity, her legs curling over his hips as they reached the heights of pleasure together. She screamed his name as he buried his face in the intoxicating softness of her hair.
‘No other woman has pleased me as you do, Kathryn,’ he murmured huskily against her throat. ‘If you ever left me…’
‘Hush, my love,’ she said and there were tears on her cheeks. ‘I shall never leave you. I want only your love.’
‘My love, Kathryn?’ His voice was harsh, his body suddenly stiff with tension. ‘I am not sure that I know how to love—but all that I have I give to you.’
Kathryn clung to him in the darkness, her heart aching. She had begun to understand the man she loved. He had suffered things that no man should and the scars had gone deep, much deeper than those he bore on his shoulders and back. All the natural feelings, the softness and pleasures that others knew had been denied to him, and it had taken its toll. Perhaps he would never love her as she loved him, but he desired her and she pleased him—and for the moment she must be content with that.
It was only later, when Lorenzo lay sleeping beside her, that she realised he had not told her who he really was. If he was not the natural son of Antonio Santorini, then who was he?
Was it possible that her senses had told her truly the first time they met, when she had looked into his eyes and believed she knew him? He had strongly denied it once, when she had told him that he might more likely be Richard Mountfitchet than the man he had named William.
Surely he would have told her if there was any possibility that he could be the man they had been searching for? Of course he would. She was being foolish. Kathryn dismissed the idea as she drifted into sleep, curled into the body of her husband, warm and safe, protected by his strength.
Lorenzo had told her much this night. When he was ready he would tell her anything else he wished her to know.
When he was sure that Kathryn slept, Lorenzo left her bed and removed his clothes to the adjoining room, dressing before he went downstairs. He had feigned sleep so that she might rest; he could not sleep beside her for fear that the dream might disturb her. Although it had not happened of late, when he woke, screaming a name, his body covered in a fine sweat, he sometimes struck out with his fists or feet. Better that he should not risk injuring his wife. Besides, he would not have her see him that way.
His fingers sought out the leather wristbands, rubbing at the old injuries. Sometimes the irritation was almost more than he could bear. He wondered if a part of it was caused by the wristbands themselves, but he could not bring himself to remove them, to reveal to the whole world the badge of his shame. Kathryn had not recoiled from the scars on his back, but he hated them, hated what they stood for. He hated the memory of his slavery, of the humiliation of knowing that he must obey his masters, of the sharp stinging pain of a whip lash.
How long would it be before Kathryn asked him who he really was? He could give her no answer, for his past was still a mystery to him, though since the dreams had begun again he had wondered.
Was it merely his imagination playing tricks on him—or could he truly remember being taken by Corsairs when he was a youth of barely fifteen? If that were so, he must be six and twenty now, and yet he knew that he looked older. His years of slavery and the hardships at sea had taken a toll of him as it must of any man.
No, it was madness to let his thoughts take him down that road. Already, he had let Kathryn inside his head and that had changed him. Because of her he had let Rachid’s son live and exchanged him for a girl who was like to cause them trouble, if his instincts proved true.
He frowned as he thought of the girl sleeping in his guest room. She was young and he ought to feel pity for her, but somehow he could not. She had looked at him in the same way as the harlots who plied the streets for their trade and he did not trust her.
Maria claimed that she had been kept in the harem and was to be sold to the Sultan’s harem, but Lorenzo had seen something in her eyes—a knowledge that was not often in the eyes of an innocent virgin. Perhaps he wronged her, but he suspected that she had been one of Rachid’s concubines—and that she had liked the experience. He suspected that she had resented being taken from him, and that was the reason for her distress.
She had pleaded with them to keep her in their home. She said that her father would send her to a nunnery because she had shamed her family. She could not be blamed for what had befallen her, unless…If she had enjoyed the position of favourite in Rachid’s harem, that would explain her fear of being rejected by her family.
He would have to watch her carefully, Lorenzo decided as he left the house. And he would find another home for her before he put to sea again—either with her father or someone else.
Chapter Eight
‘I do not like that girl,’ Elizabeta told Kathryn when they were walking together a few days later. ‘There is something about her—a slyness in the way she looks at you and Lorenzo, particularly Lorenzo. Be careful of her and trust nothing she tells you.’
‘Oh, you are too hard on her,’ Kathryn said with a smile to soften the words, for Elizabeta was perhaps the friend she liked to be with the most. She could not explain what had happened to Maria for she did not wish to ruin the girl’s chances of making friends and she might be looked down upon if people knew that she had spent some time in a harem. ‘She has been…ill. We are looking after her for a while, but she will go home to her family soon.’
‘The sooner the better,’ Elizabeta said. She took hold of Kathryn’s arm as they approached the silk merchant’s shop they had planned to visit that morning. ‘Do look at that lovely green material! It would look so well on you, Kathryn.’
‘Yes, it is very lovely,’
