well.’ He hesitated, then, ‘What would you have me do with Maria?’
‘If Michael had died, she must have been punished by the laws of Rome,’ Kathryn said. ‘Perhaps she should be. I do not know. I would wish to send her home, and yet perhaps she should be punished.’
‘Her father is expected here tomorrow. I could let them go—take the ransom and be rid of her. Her father shall know what she is and that shall be her punishment. Is that what you wish?’
‘You must do as you think best.’
‘You do not beg for leniency?’
‘She might have killed you,’ Kathryn said. ‘And she has sorely harmed Michael. She deserves some punishment…’
‘For myself, I would have her cast into prison to rot.’
‘Lorenzo! I would not have you speak so harshly.’
‘Life has made me harsh, Kathryn.’ An odd, wintry smile flickered in his eyes. ‘Yet it seems that Michael will live, because of you, I suspect. Perhaps I shall let Maria’s father deal with her, as he thinks best.’
‘If she has lost the man she loves, I dare say she will suffer enough.’
Lorenzo inclined his head. ‘I am summoned to an important conference. It may be some days before I return.’
‘Take care, my love.’ Kathryn went to him, putting her arms about him. He did not take her into his embrace, and she felt him stiffen, as if resisting. ‘Lorenzo—have I angered you?’
‘You have done nothing wrong,’ he said. ‘But I was at fault in marrying you, Kathryn. You deserve so much more than I can give you.’
‘I love you. You must know that?’
‘Unfortunately, I cannot afford to love you,’ he said and drew away from her. ‘It was a mistake to think that I could be a true husband to you, Kathryn. Forgive me. I should have sent you home to your father when we thought Lord Mountfitchet lost.’ He put her from him. ‘Everything I own is at your disposal, but do not expect me to love you.’
The hurt welled inside Kathryn. She could not answer him for he had wounded her beyond bearing. Tears were close. He must not see her weep for her pride’s sake. She moved away from him, bending over Michael, bathing his forehead. When she looked round, she saw that Lorenzo had gone.
How could he reject her now? His loving had been so sweet and tender—how could it have meant nothing to him?
On the night of Elizabeta’s masque she had been so sure that he loved her, but now…what had changed him? Michael had saved his life at a terrible cost to himself, but with God’s help he would recover. Why had Lorenzo set his face against her?
Kathryn could not know of the agony it had cost him to take the decision. She only knew that her heart felt as if it were breaking.
Michael’s recovery was slow but sure over the next week. By the end of the week he was well enough to be moved to Kathryn’s home.
‘Are you sure you wish to have me?’ he asked as she moved about the room, making him comfortable. ‘I could go to an inn now that I am so much better. You do not need to nurse me for I am almost myself again and would not wish to be a trouble to you.’
‘You will do no such thing,’ Kathryn said. ‘Veronique will have returned from her sister’s by now and she will help me to care for you. Besides, Lorenzo is still away and you may bear me company.’
‘He will be making preparations to put to sea soon,’ Michael said and frowned. ‘I should be with him…’ He groaned as he tried to get up from the bed. ‘No, it is no use. I am too weak. I should be of no help. I fear he will have to do without me for some weeks.’
‘You must not strain yourself,’ Kathryn scolded. ‘Lorenzo would rather have you stay here in Rome until you are well again.’
‘I fear I have no choice.’
‘You will be better soon,’ Kathryn said and smiled at him. She felt comfortable with him, for they had become good friends of late.
Lorenzo returned a few days after Michael was moved to the villa. He spent some time sitting with his friend, who had been brought out into the garden to enjoy the sunshine, and afterwards thanked Kathryn for caring for him so well.
‘I had plans for Christ’s birthday,’ he told her. ‘But I fear I must leave you again, Kathryn. I have a gift for you—and you will not be lonely. You have your friends, Veronique and Michael to bear you company.’
It was almost as if those nights of passion had never been, as if he were a stranger, a distant relative who was bound to care for her comfort, but found it a burden. She wanted to cry out that she would always be lonely without him, that she loved him and her heart was breaking, but she said nothing. Her grief was still too raw, and it was pride that kept her from weeping and begging him to let things be as they had been before that terrible night. Yet she held back her tears.
She loved him so much, but he did not love her. The knowledge was almost unbearable and yet she bore it bravely, refusing to shed the tears that burned behind her eyes. She would not beg him to love her.
Over the next few weeks, Lorenzo’s visits were brief, and Kathryn thought that each time he seemed to withdraw from her more. It was as if they were strangers, as if he had never held her in his arms and kissed her. The ache in her heart grew harder to bear and sometimes she did not know how she could live with it. Perhaps it might be better if she had died when Maria tried to kill her, better than this life without Lorenzo’s love.
One morning, after a brief visit from her husband, Kathryn was alone in the garden and unable to hold back her tears. Why had Lorenzo turned from her? What had she done to make him look at her so coldly?
‘Why are you crying, Madonna?’
Michael’s voice made her turn in surprise. She had thought herself alone and was embarrassed to be caught giving way to her grief.
‘Oh…’ she said, wiping her face with the back of her hand. ‘I did not hear you coming, Michael.’
‘I am sorry to intrude,’ he said. ‘But will you not tell me what is wrong—or can I guess? I do not know how Lorenzo can treat you so coldly. He is a fool and so I shall tell him next time I see him.’
‘No, you must not,’ she cried. ‘He has done nothing that should make you cease to be his friend. It is simply…’ The hurt welled up inside her. ‘He does not love me.’
She felt the touch of his hand on her shoulder. ‘I am sure that Lorenzo does love you,’ Michael said, his voice deep with emotion. ‘It is just that he is afraid of his feelings—afraid to let go of the hate inside him.’
‘But he was so loving to me until…’ Her voice died away. ‘He seems so angry, so cold.’
‘Do not despair, Kathryn,’ Michael said and his voice was soft, concerned. ‘You know that I would do anything to make you happy.’ As she turned to look at him, the warmth in his eyes sent a tingle down her spine.
‘Michael…’
