by his men. Something shattering must have happened to him to bring him across the ocean, just as it had with her.
But what could it possibly have been? Balthazar Grattiano was a veritable prince in Venice, the sole heir to a wealthy and powerful, and ruthlessly cruel, father. He had no need for the riches of the New World, unless it was solely Grattiano greed. One kingdom was not enough.
If he could appear so suddenly in her life, would Ermano be next?
Bianca shivered, remembering her mother’s glazed, staring eyes. The blood, the dagger. The terrible fear that drove her to flee, to never see Venice again. Was it all beginning again?
She shook her head fiercely. “Nay! I will not let it,” she muttered. This was her home. She would not flee the Grattianos twice.
And she would discover what Balthazar did here. Then she would know how to act.
The pale pink light of dawn was spreading over the sky, banishing the dark of night and with it her cold flash of fear. She was not the frightened girl she had been then, alone without her mother and heartbroken at the betrayal of a handsome young man. She was a woman grown, and she would not allow the Grattianos to steal one more thing from her. Not her home, her pride or her due revenge.
Bianca sighed. Well—perhaps Balthazar could steal one more kiss from her. She was a woman, after all, and he was still the most handsome man she had ever seen. But that was all, and it would only be on her terms.
She whirled around and hurried back into the kitchen, where Delores was yawning as she stirred the fire. The morning brought a new day’s hard work, and it couldn’t be disrupted by a beautiful ship’s captain lying wounded in her bed.
Unless he had managed to vanish from her life as quickly as he appeared. She could hear no stirrings abovestairs, but she went about gathering water, bandages and a bowl of the reheated stew anyway.
“Is he still here?” Delores asked.
“Of course,” Bianca answered. “He’s not in much of a condition to just be wandering off.” Though, wounded or not, he had been in fine condition when he kissed her, and caressed her naked hip.
Delores sighed. “How very beautiful he is, señora! It would have been terrible to see him killed last night.”
Aye, terrible for him to die before she could get answers—or kill him herself! “Beautiful or not, Delores, we don’t have time to be mooning over him,” Bianca said, suddenly deeply impatient with Balthazar, Delores, the world and especially herself. “We have too much work to do.”
Delores nodded, turning away from the now-blazing fire to start peeling and chopping cassava. Despite the fact that she did rather like to giggle over handsome sailors, Bianca had to admit Delores was a good worker who actually seemed to enjoy the workings of a tavern.
“Especially with all the people seeking refuge from the storm in town. I heard there was even a Spanish contessa at the fortress! But I think we need more meat, señora, if we’re to feed everyone,” Delores said. “I used the last in the stew.”
“I will go to market myself this morning, then,” Bianca answered. She suddenly felt a deep urge to run away. And if she could not go to the jungle, to the tangled interior of the island, she could at least go to the market on the plaza. The warm morning breeze would help clear her confused mind, and she would be away from Balthazar. “You keep an eye on our wounded customer.”
Delores brightened. “Oh, yes, señora!”
“Not too close an eye,” Bianca warned. She left Delores to her tasks, carrying the tray of water and bandages upstairs with her. She lingered outside the door, listening closely for any signs of movement. After what had happened last night, she wasn’t at all sure she could trust herself with Balthazar, even in the clear light of day.
Bianca scowled at the memory of the humid darkness, the feel of his sea-roughened hand on her naked skin. It seemed the armour she had built so carefully around herself, link by impenetrable link, over the long years was more vulnerable than she thought. But she couldn’t allow that to be. She couldn’t be vulnerable.
All appeared silent behind the door, the heavy quiet of early morning. She slipped into the room, finding Balthazar sound asleep in her bed. It had not been a quiet sleep; the bedclothes were tossed and tangled, his arms thrown wide as if he fought a battle in his dreams.
She remembered his shouts and murmurs in the night, the monsters in his nightmares. She set the tray down on the table and tiptoed to the bed, gazing down at him in search of any sign of dangerous fever. A fierce frown creased his brow, but he seemed to sleep deeply. The wound had seeped through the bandage, a reddish-brown colour untainted by yellow infection.
She carefully smoothed the tangled hair back from his sun-browned face, watching the glint of light on the small gold hoop in his ear. She remembered the pearls and diamonds he had worn in Venice, the riches that set off his fine looks to such perfection.
Bianca glanced at the clothes tossed over her chair, the leather jerkin, the torn shirt and scuffed high boots. The fine silks, too, had been cast away with the jewels.
“What have you been doing all these years, Balthazar Grattiano?” she whispered. “And what in St Iago’s name are you doing here?”
He groaned in his sleep, rolling away from her on to his side. Bianca drew the sheet up around him, careful not to wake him. Much as she wanted, needed, answers to her questions, she couldn’t face him again quite yet. Not until she had repaired that chink in her heart’s armour.
She quickly washed her face and brushed out her hair, confining the unruly curls in a knitted caul. She dressed in a plain brown bodice and skirt of light wool, and a pair of sturdy boots. She was certainly no fine lady of Venice, she thought as she studied herself in the looking glass, tying on a wide-brimmed straw hat. Balthazar would surely never have kissed her if he saw her now, as she truly was! But she would do for the market.
And when she returned, hopefully she could also know what to do about that man sleeping in her bed.
Chapter Five
Bianca hurried out of the tavern, her basket over her arm, and turned towards the town’s central plaza. The street of her establishment, and indeed most of the streets of Santa Domingo, were narrow, closely packed with houses and shops, but they were cobbled like those of any European city. In the morning light, the yellow stones and red brick of the buildings gleamed, and the air was cool and clear with the tang of salt. Only later, when the sun rose overhead, would the thick heat set in and the shutters of the houses be drawn closed.
She descended the sloping streets, answering the greetings of her neighbours as they opened their shops for business. Later she would have to stop at the bakery, and look in at the office of her sugar supplier, who brought in goods from the inner-island plantations. But for now she was intent on her errand. The cathedral bells had rung out long ago, and soon the plaza would be crowded and the best meat and vegetables gone.
At last she emerged from the maze of streets into the open, central part of town. Santo Domingo was built atop a hill, to give a natural defensive position against any who would try to attack. The governor’s fortress, the storehouse of treasure and seat of the cabildo, sat at the highest point, locked behind thick walls and guarded walkways. There was no sign of any Spanish contessa there this morning,
