Secret Worlds (602 page)

The
Conte
shook his head. “No. He barely touches them. They just die.”

Taken aback, Isobel’s mouth fell open. “How exactly?”

He rolled his eyes. “When the malady returned, I found what my son needed and did as I did with you,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “It was the only thing that brought him back. But only for a short time—anywhere from a few days to a week. It used to be longer at the beginning. My servants alerted me to the strangeness of the bodies. They appeared pristine, completely untouched. So we watched a few times from a window or other vantage point.”

Isobel shuddered slightly. The thought of the
Conte
and his men observing Matteo and his victims like an experiment, watching a predator with his prey, sickened her. But the
Conte
didn’t care what she thought. He simply continued.

“After a certain point, you have to stay away from him. He goes very still and cold. Then the next person he touches dies. Man or woman, it doesn’t matter. All he has to do is touch them. He puts his hands on them, and they convulse and fall down dead. That’s all.”

That’s all.

Isobel had never heard of anything like this. And if he didn’t rape any of his victims, what had he been about to do to her? He’d gone still and been icy cold, just as the
Conte
described, and he’d touched her. A lot,
she thought pushing away her troubled memories of that night.

But she hadn’t died.

“It’s gotten more difficult,” the
Conte
continued, snapping her back to attention. “The space between his bad spells is growing shorter.”

“And so Matteo needs more victims,” she said softly.

“It’s not him doing the killing. It’s the thing inside him,” he said in a hard voice.

That much might be true. But it didn’t explain Matteo’s reaction that night.
Not her!
his voice echoed in her mind. She stifled the urge to cover her ears in an effort to drown out the memory.

The count’s mouth firmed. “Your night with him is the only one when he’s returned to himself without a death. So you will stay with him, day and night. If you want to go free, it will be
after
you have found a cure. In the meantime, do everything you can to make him happy. My son has been burdened by this long enough. He obviously wants you, so you’re going to be his solace. I won’t have him begging me to end his life—not again! I don’t care what you have to do, but you will make him want to live.”

He stopped then and rose to bang on the door. The smaller older servant, the one he called Nino, came in.

“Take her to my son,” he ordered.

She didn’t fight. This was not the time. Nino held her securely by the arm and guided her to the stairs.

“I’m very sorry,
signorina
,” he whispered in English as they climbed.

Isobel gave him a sideways glance. Though small in stature, the man had once been handsome. But now he looked wasted and a bit tired, his face grey with deep grooves etched around his mouth. And he did appear genuinely contrite.

“Can you help me?” she asked quietly.

How exactly, she didn’t know. It wasn’t likely the count would let her go if his servant asked. But perhaps the man could convince Matteo.

Nino shrugged uncomfortably before looking around. “You should know…Ottavio always falls asleep during his watch. The second watch.”

Suppressing a sigh, Isobel looked away. What good would that do her if Matteo was in the same room with her? Sighing, she hung her head. It was good to know Nino had some semblance of a conscience, but he wouldn’t take any decisive steps to aid her.

She would have to help herself.

Matteo woke up with a start when Isobel was shoved past the door of his chamber.

It was warm inside, the peat fire still burning cheerfully in the hearth. The strangely satisfying smoked earth smell had lulled him to sleep. He had dozed off in his shirtsleeves on the bed, but when she came inside he rose and they stared at each other.

She stood there, her back against the door, trying so hard to look brave and composed when it was obvious she was terrified. He didn’t blame her. She had no way of knowing when he would succumb to another bad spell.

“I’m sorry. I should have waited for you,” he said gesturing to a tray of food on a small table, a cold repast of game pie and vegetables he’d ordered in the hopes it would stay appetizing long enough for Isobel to finish her conference with his father.

Matteo had eaten his share distractedly earlier, and he regretted that now. He should have waited for her. As she looked at the tray, her stomach rumbled loudly and he smiled. She frowned. He stepped to the table to pour her a glass of watered-down wine before moving away, guessing she wouldn’t want to come near him.

He sat on the bed, but her tension only increased.

And you know why,
he thought, glancing down at the bed.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about that. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.”

“Then why can’t I have my own room?”

He looked away, his hands opening and closing reflexively. “I’m sorry. I know you would be more comfortable in your own chamber, but my father feels it’s safest if I’m with you. For all concerned. I didn’t exactly have a say...”

It was the truth, but not the whole truth. Being close to her, even for a little while, was the only thing he had to look forward to in the difficult days to come.

Isobel wrapped her arms around her waist before walking to the table. She started to eat mechanically, eyes forward and distant. He sat in the corner, pretending to read a book while she finished. When she was done, he presented her with a package.

“I sent out for this. I wasn’t sure you would have one with you,” he said, opening the brown wrapping and pushing it toward her. “That dress can’t be comfortable to sleep in,” he added, nodding at the thick skirts of her widow’s garb.

The gift was a nightgown, short-sleeved but modest with a high neckline, made of thick warm flannel.

“I also requested an extra blanket, so you can keep all the bedding to yourself,” he said as Isobel fingered the fine cloth of the nightgown.

“I had a nightgown in my bag. It was on the carriage.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry we misplaced your belongings. I have already sent word that it should be returned, and promised a sizable reward. It’s possible it is already waiting downstairs. Would you like me to check with the innkeeper?”

Looking away again, she sat on the bed. “It can wait until tomorrow. This one will be warmer in any case.”

“All right then. I’ll wait outside while you change,” he said, slipping out of the door and into the cold hallway to wait.

A door on his right opened, and Ottavio peered out at him with a frown. Matteo glared back at him.

Apparently, his father had ordered his minder to stay vigilant, despite having found Isobel. He stood in the hallway for a few more minutes before turning to tap on the door to let her know he was coming back inside.

***

Isobel undressed as quickly as she could. Fortunately, she’d had the foresight to buy stays and a dress with fastenings in the front, but the dress had many buttons.

She had just thrown the flannel nightgown on and was hastily climbing into the bed when there was a tap at the door and Matteo came back inside.

Embarrassed, she pulled the covers up to her chin, but the expression of dawning horror on his face stopped her.

“Your arms!” he rasped.

Isobel looked down at them, confused.

“What’s wrong?” she asked stupidly, belatedly realizing the bruises on her arms were visible in the short-sleeved gown.

They were a dark black and blue, and quite startling against the pale cream of her skin.

“Did I do that? I did—didn’t I?” Matteo’s confusion was palpable. He was shaking his head. “I don’t understand.”

She stared at him, uncertain what to say. Eventually she took pity on him. “What don’t you understand?”

“I don’t do that!” he said, horrified. “I’ve never done that. I don’t hurt them. They just die.”

Isobel narrowed her eyes at him. “Your father said that too. That all you have to do is touch a victim, and they fall down dead.”

He nodded emphatically. “That’s what happens.”

She cocked her head at him. “How can you be sure? You’ve already said you don’t remember the events during...one of your spells.”

Matteo collapsed in the chair and scrubbed his hands over his face harshly. “I told you. I’ve seen them after, once my memory clears. There wasn’t a mark on them,” he whispered.

“And were they dressed?”

His face turned fiery red. “
Yes
, they were. Although at first they were brought in their nightclothes or in a state of undress. My father assumed I would want them that way. But it wasn’t about that. Once he realized the truth, he never bothered again.” His voice sounded like sandpaper.

She pursed her lips and nodded, stifling the rush of anger she felt for those helpless men and women to focus on what he’d said. The details were consistent with the count’s story. And while she believed his father would have lied to her, she didn’t think Matteo would. He already believed the worst of himself.

“What you describe. The way things happen—it wasn’t the same for me.”

“I hurt you.”

She nodded again.

“Badly?”

Gripping the covers tightly, she considered her answer carefully. “You hurt me some, but that was not your goal. You, or rather the thing inside you, wanted something else.”

He didn’t say anything for a long time. “You’ve always been different,” he finally whispered, wiping at his face with a quick movement. Raising his head, his burning eyes met hers. “I’ll make this right. I’ll marry you.”

Isobel’s mouth dropped open. She cleared her tight throat. “There is no need. You didn’t succeed in dishonoring me. I stopped you.”

His face showed no reaction. “But I did try to...to...rape you.”

Isobel stared down at her hands on the white coverlet. “Yes.”

“
Why
?”

She stared at him in disbelief. How the bloody hell did he expect her to answer that?

Matteo flushed. “I meant, why would I do that with you and not any of the others? Does
it
know about you? About your magic?”

She frowned at him. “I don’t see how, but even if it did, why would that make a difference?”

He threw up his hands. “Yet another thing I don’t know. I’m drowning in my own ignorance. Maybe your magic doesn’t signify. Maybe it’s just about you.”

“What about me?”

“It knows I want you.”

It was said simply, with no prevarication or embarrassment. Isobel could feel the heat in her cheeks as he stared at her, waiting for her reaction.

“And because
you
want me,
it
might want me as well?”

He shrugged helplessly. “Whatever the reason is, I’m sorry.” He grabbed the spare blanket the maid had brought up earlier. “I’ll let you sleep now,” he said quietly, stretching out on the floor near the hearth.

It was far enough across the room that she could see him from the bed.

“All right,” she whispered, wondering how in the world she was going to sleep with Matteo in the same room. Or any man for that matter.

As it turned out, her fears and concerns weren’t enough. The stress and long flight from Ford had depleted her reserves, and not even her instinct for self-preservation was enough to keep her awake.

Her sleep was devoid of dreams.

Sounds in the hall woke Isobel early. There was a minute of confusion before the events of the previous day came back to her. She sat up abruptly.

Matteo was still on the floor, one arm thrown over his face. She relaxed slightly, then hurried to get dressed before he woke up. Once she was decent, she crept up to the sleeping man.

Mouth pursed, she examined what she could see of his face. His color looked fine. Tentatively, she bent down and pressed her fingers to his hand. He was still warm, but he was stirring now, his breathing changing. Hastily she withdrew a few steps until the back of her legs struck the bed.

Matteo’s arm fell, and he turned toward her. For a moment, he smiled at her as if he was confused and then his expression sobered.

“
Bongiorno
,” he rasped in a hoarse morning voice, sitting up with stiff movements. “Have you called for breakfast?”

“No. Not yet,” she said, sitting on the bed. “Are we staying here today?”

Matteo shook his head. “My father mentioned leaving this morning.”

“To go where?”

“He mentioned going home to Santa Fiora.”

Italy
! Her stomach clenched. How would she get away from them in a foreign country? Her Italian was passable, but even if she managed to hang onto her widow’s disguise she would never be able to blend in long enough to escape. And though she knew the essentials of the language, her accent was terrible.

The chances of getting a second opportunity are remote, she told herself. Not with the guards watching her as well as Matteo now. There would have to be another way.

I’m going to have to try and cure him.

But she couldn’t do that alone. She needed her grandmother Helen’s help.

“We can’t. Not yet,” she said. “I have to go home first, to Carrbridge, in the Highlands.”

His brow creased. “Why?”

“My grandmother left me her books when she died. She knew my mother could never bring herself to destroy them, no matter what she said about magic. And my father was a very literary man who loved books. Grandmother knew they would be safe with him. They’re hidden near our home—our former home, I mean.”

His attention was caught. “And these are books on magic? On curses like mine?”

“Some deal with healing. They include recipes for tonics and poultices. But some of them do deal with spellcraft—I don’t know how many. I also have no idea if they mention anything like what is happening to you.”

Matteo stood and began to pace. “You said your education ended when you were a young girl.”