“Is everything a matter of profit?” Kathryn said angrily. “Tell me, how much did Lord Mountfitchet pay you to rescue me?”

Raising her head proudly, she looked into his eyes. “Perhaps you should know that I am an heiress, and my true worth is what my father will give to have me back.”

“I shall bear that in mind,” Lorenzo said, his eyes glinting. “Perhaps I shall not take your uncle’s ransom after all, Madonna. It might be that you would fetch a higher price elsewhere.” He moved toward her, towering above her so that she felt shivers run down her spine. For a moment she thought he meant to take her into his arms, but then he shook his head and stepped back. “You are a troublesome girl and I have better things to do! Be careful, or I may find it easier to be rid of you.”

Kathryn stared as he turned and walked from the cabin. He could not mean that! No, of course he didn’t. And yet what did she really know of this man? He guarded his feelings so well that anything might be going on inside his head.

Kathryn sat on the edge of the bed, hugging herself as she tried to come to terms with her feelings. For a moment, as she’d gazed into his eyes, she had wanted him to kiss her. How foolish she was!

Ransom Bride

Harlequin® Historical

ANNE HERRIES

Award-winning author Anne Herries lives in Cambridgeshire, England. She is fond of watching wildlife, and spoils the birds and squirrels that are frequent visitors to her garden. Anne loves to write about the beauty of nature, and sometimes puts a little into her books—although they are mostly about love and romance. She writes for her own enjoyment, and to give pleasure to her readers. She invites readers to contact her at her Web site, www.lindasole.co.uk.

Ransom Bride
Anne Herries

Available from Harlequin® Historical and ANNE HERRIES

A Matter of Honor #173

*A Perfect Knight #180

*A Knight of Honor #184

*Her Knight Protector #188

**Lady in Waiting #202

**The Adventurer’s Wife #208

††Forbidden Lady #209

†An Improper Companion #227

††The Lord’s Forced Bride #231

†A Wealthy Widow #235

†A Worthy Gentleman #243

††Her Dark and Dangerous Lord #249

‡Marianne and the Marquis #258

‡Married by Christmas #261

‡Marrying Captain Jack #265

The Unknown Heir #269

Ransom Bride #276

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter One

Kathryn stood at the top of the cliff, looking down at the sea as it swirled about the rocks far below her. The wind tore at her hair, catching at her cloak, buffeting her from all sides as she stared out to the far horizon, her thoughts returning as always when she came here to that day in her childhood—the day when the bravery of her companion had saved her life. Never would she forget how they had gone down to the cove in direct disobedience to their fathers’ commands; how their curiosity about the strange ship in the bay had brought disaster.

Kathryn’s cheeks were wet as she wiped the tears with the back of her hand. There was no point in weeping. Dickon had gone from her, from his family, taken by the Corsairs who had come ashore to find water and food. It seemed that some of the villagers had been trading with these evil men who plagued the seas of the Mediterranean and occasionally ventured as far as the coasts of England and Cornwall. How often she had regretted that she had not been more mindful of her duty, for it was she who had prompted her companion to go down and investigate the strange ship.

Shivering, Kathryn recalled the way the fierce pirates had suddenly swooped on them as they walked innocently towards where the pirates were plying their trade with the rogue villager. That man had long disappeared from the village, for when Kathryn escaped from the clutches of the men who had tried to seize her, he must have known she would tell her story. But her beloved Dickon had not escaped. He had pushed her behind him, telling her to run for help while he had bravely fought against the men who attacked them. At the top of the cliff, she had stopped, turning to see that they were carrying Dickon on board the boat that had brought them ashore, and that he appeared to be unconscious.

Kathryn had run as fast as she could to her father’s house, spilling out her tale of abduction and treachery, but when the party of men had arrived at the beach it was to find it empty, with no sign of the brave lad who had fought against impossible odds. He was but fifteen when they took him, but Kathryn knew he would have been sold as a slave, perhaps to work in the kitchens of some eastern potentate. Or perhaps, because he was tall and strong for his age, he had been chained to an oar in one of the raiders’ galleys.

She had wept bitter tears, for she had loved Dickon. He was her friend and her soulmate and, though their families lived some leagues distant from one another, they had known each other well. Kathryn believed that it was the intention of both fathers that they should marry one day, when she was nineteen. She was almost nineteen now and soon her father would make arrangements for her to marry someone else. But in her heart she belonged to Richard Mountfitchet—her own Dickon.

‘Dickon…’ Kathryn whispered, her words whipped away by the wind, drowned by the cries of seabirds and the crashing of the waves against the rocky Cornish coastline. ‘Forgive me. I never thought it would happen. I did not know that such evil men existed until that day. I miss you. I still love you. I shall always love you.’

It was ten years to the day, Kathryn thought, and every year she came here at the same time hoping to see Dickon, praying that he might return to her and his family. Yet she knew it was impossible. How could he return? Their fathers had sent men to search the slave markets in Algiers. They had contacted friends in Cyprus, Venice and Constantinople, the city that the Turks now called Istanbul, but which was still known in the Christian world by its old name. Always, there was unrest between the Turks and the Christians; wars, quarrels, and differences of religion and culture made it difficult to conduct a search within the Ottoman Empire. For Sultan Selim II was constantly seeking to push out the boundaries of his empire and had boasted that one day he would stand victorious in Rome itself. However, there were a few men who could help and one of them was Suleiman Bakhar.

Suleiman had an English wife. He was a clever, educated man and travelled tirelessly, trading, trying to reach out to the world beyond the Ottoman Empire, and hoping to bring about peace, though there was such hatred, such a history of conflict between their peoples that it seemed the breach could not be bridged.

Kathryn knew that Suleiman Bakhar was in England at this time. He had promised to make inquiries on behalf of Lord Mountfitchet, but as far as she knew he had discovered nothing that could help them. Sir John Rowlands and Lord Mountfitchet had gone to London to speak with him, for they had other business of which Kathryn knew nothing, and it would suit them to meet with Suleiman at the same time. But they were expected to return today, and Kathryn felt a flicker of hope as she turned her steps towards the beautiful old manor house that was her home. It had once been fortified against attack from the sea, but, in these more peaceful times of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, it had become simply a family home rather than a fortress, with many improvements to make it more comfortable.

As she reached her home, she saw that a cumbersome travelling coach had pulled up in the courtyard and she began to run, her heart racing. Perhaps this time there would be news of Dickon…

Lorenzo Santorini stood on the steps of his palace. It was built at the edges of the Grand Canal, the huge lagoon that wound through the city and beneath the many bridges of Venice. The city had established trading arrangements with the Muslim world that had helped it to become one of the most powerful seagoing nations on earth a hundred years earlier. It was from here that the great Marco Polo had set out on his voyage of expedition that had taken him as far as the court of Kublai Khan, opening up the known world far beyond what it had been previously. However, the Turkish invasions and the unrest of recent years had led to gradual erosion of the Republic’s supremacy.

The Venetian galleys were, however, still thought to be some of the best craft available and remained a force to be reckoned with; the merchants of Venice were rich and influential—and Lorenzo Santorini was one of the most powerful amongst them. His galleys were famed for their speed, fighting abilities and the discipline of his men, none of whom were slaves.

He frowned as he saw the galley making its way towards the small jetty where he stood waiting. It was one of the fleet that he owned which guarded his merchant ships, and it was late returning from what should have been a routine trip to Cyprus to buy wine. As it drew closer, he could see that it had taken part in some fighting—which could only mean that it had been attacked by a Turkish or Corsair galley.

‘Welcome back, Michael,’ Lorenzo said as the captain mounted the steps towards him. He extended his hand, helping him jump up to the steps of the palace. ‘I thought there must have been some trouble—was it Rachid again?’

‘Is it not always Rachid?’ Michael dei Ignacio replied with a grimace. ‘He hates us and will harry our vessels whenever he gets the chance. Fortunately, I had left Cyprus in company with three other galleys and the ship that carried your wine. We lost one of our fighting galleys, but the merchant ship is safe. It is but an hour behind me, accompanied by two galleys. We came ahead because we have several injured men on board.’

‘They must be tended by the physicians,’ Lorenzo said with a frown, ‘and all shall be compensated for the hurt they have suffered.’ In Lorenzo’s galleys the men were paid for their work, not chained to their oars the way the wretched prisoners were in the galleys of those men most feared in these waters. The Corsairs, or Barbary pirates, as some were wont to call them, roamed the seas from the Mediterranean and Adriatic to the Barbary Coast and the Atlantic. They were fearsome men who were a law unto themselves, owing no allegiance to anyone, though some paid tribute to the Ottoman Empire.

‘It shall be attended to,’ Michael promised. Lorenzo was a good master to work for, and a mystery to most, for few knew anything of his history. Michael himself knew that Lorenzo was the adopted son of the man whose name he bore; of much of what had gone before he was as ignorant as the next man.

‘I know I can leave their welfare in your hands,’ Lorenzo said. His eyes were the colour of violets, a dark blue and as unreadable as his thoughts. His hair, the colour of sun-ripened corn bleached white at the tips, was worn longer than the fashion of the time; thick and strong, it curled in his neck. ‘I leave for Rome in the morning. I have been summoned to a meeting concerning these pirates.’ His lip curled in scorn, for he included the Turks, who had caused the merchants of Venice so much trouble these past fifty years or so and now had the audacity to demand Cyprus of the Doge, something that would be fiercely resisted by the Venetians. ‘As you know, there is talk of gathering a force to curb Selim’s power, otherwise he will sweep further into Europe. The Emperor is concerned and he hopes to bring in Spain as well as other allies to break the power of the Turks.’

Michael nodded, for he knew that his friend was considered an important man by certain men of influence in the Holy Roman Empire. Lorenzo owned twenty fighting galleys besides his fleet of four merchant ships, and he would certainly be asked to join any force that attempted to sweep the menace of the Turkish invaders from the seas. There was a widely held belief that, could they but break the power of the Ottoman Empire, many of the Corsairs would lose much of their own power.

‘They need to be curbed,’ Michael agreed. ‘In the meantime, we have captured one of Rachid’s oarsmen. We sank one of his galleys and this man was brought out of the water, still chained to the wooden spar that prevented him from drowning. We shall see what information we can persuade him to give us about his master’s stronghold—’

‘I will not have him tortured,’ Lorenzo said. ‘No matter that he is a Turk and an enemy, he shall be treated as a man. If he is willing to help us, we shall offer him employment in our ranks. If he refuses to co-operate, we will see if he can be ransomed to his family.’

Lorenzo rubbed at one of the wide leather bands he habitually wore on his wrists, his eyes as dark as the deepest waters of the Mediterranean and as impenetrable.

‘I do not believe he is of Turkish origin,’ Michael said. ‘He will not answer when spoken to, though he understands the language of his masters, also some French and, I think, English.’

Lorenzo looked at him in silence for a moment. ‘This man is not to be ill treated,’ he said. ‘You will leave his questioning to me when I return, if you please, my friend. And now you must rest, enjoy the benefits of home and family for a few days. You have earned them. When I return from Rome we shall meet again.’

‘As you command,’ Michael said, watching as his friend signalled to a small gondola that was waiting to ferry him out to his personal galley, which was further out in the lagoon. He was curious as to why his commander had suddenly decided that he wanted to interrogate the prisoner himself, but he would obey his orders. The reason Michael, born of good family, had chosen to sail with Lorenzo Santorini was because he respected him; he was a fair man, not cruel—though he would not suffer disobedience lightly.

Lorenzo was thoughtful as he boarded the galley, which was the flagship of his fleet, the fastest and newest of the vessels he owned, with the benefit of three sails, to be used when the wind was fair, thus giving the oarsmen a chance to rest. Such galleys were still much faster and easier to manoeuvre than the top-heavy galleons the Spanish favoured. Even the smaller, lighter craft of the English merchant adventurers, who had begun to be a considerable force in these seas, would find it difficult to keep pace with this galley. Turkish galleys seldom attacked his ships—they knew that he was a man to be reckoned with.

His real quarrel, however, was with Rachid the Feared One, a man of such cruelty that his name was well earned. The pitiful creatures that served at the oar in his fleet were wretched indeed, few surviving more than three years of beatings and torture.

Lorenzo’s eyes darkened as he remembered one such object of pity, a man who had survived by chance. He would never rest until Rachid was brought to justice, either at the end of a rope or by the sword. He had vowed it at the deathbed of the man who had adopted him, and one day he would keep his promise.

He regretted that he had lost one of his galleys in this struggle, for men must have died, though their comrades would have saved all they could. Rachid had also lost men and galleys, but for him life was cheap. He would replenish his oarsmen from the slave markets of Algiers or simply send a raiding party to one of the islands of the Aegean to capture men, women and children. The men would serve in his galleys, the women and children would be sold as house slaves—a trade that revolted all good Christian men and women.

It would be interesting to hear what plans were afoot in Rome, for he would welcome any fight that lead to the demise of such men. Rachid paid tribute to the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire and was free to pillage and murder as he would in these waters. If the power of the Turks could be curbed, it would make his enemy that much more vulnerable.

But even if he had to enter his very stronghold to do it, one day he would find and kill the man he hated.

‘It is so good to see you, sir.’ Kathryn kissed the cheek of their visitor. Lord Mountfitchet was almost as dear to her as her own father, and she looked forward to his visits. They had been rare enough since Dickon was stolen all those years ago. ‘Did you see the man of whom Father told me—Suleiman Bakhar?’

‘Yes, we spoke with him at length,’ Lord Mountfitchet told her with a sigh. ‘But there is no news. He has made inquiries for us, for, as you must know, his influence is far reaching in that part of the world. However, he has not given up hope—though he says that it would be rare for a man to survive that long in the galleys. It depends what happened to Richard when he was taken. If he was sold as a house slave…he could be anywhere.’

‘We must pray that he was,’ Kathryn’s father said, shaking his head over the sad business. ‘Otherwise…’ He looked sorrowful. For his own part he believed that Richard Mountfitchet must be long dead, but his friend had refused to give up his search and he did not blame him. If it had been his own son or—God forbid—Kathryn, he might have felt the same.

‘I do not believe that Dickon is dead,’ Kathryn said. ‘I am sure that I would have felt it in here.’ She pressed her clenched hands to her breast as if in prayer. ‘You must go on searching for him, sir.’

‘Yes, Kathryn.’ Lord Mountfitchet smiled at her. She was lovely with her dark red hair and green eyes, a sweetness about her mouth that was testament to her tender nature, but more than that she had helped him to retain the hope of his son being restored to him one day. ‘That is why I have come to stay with you for a while. It is in my mind to visit Venice and Cyprus. As you know, I have recently begun to import wine from Cyprus and Italy to this country. I began to take an interest in the region when I started my search for Richard, and I am thinking that I might decide to live out there in the future.’

‘You would leave England?’ Kathryn stared at him in surprise; she had heard nothing of this before now. ‘But what of your estate?’

‘The house and land could be left to my agents to administer. It might be that I shall want to return one day, but there is little for me here now. In Elizabeth’s England, Catholics like myself and your father are not given an equal chance. I mean no disrespect to the Queen, for I know she must take the advice of her ministers—and they live in fear of a Catholic plot against her. I have taken no part in such plots nor would I, for she is our rightful Queen, but there is nothing to keep me here. If our poor Dickon lives, he must be somewhere in that region of the world—perhaps Algiers, or Constantinople.’

‘We shall miss you,’ Kathryn said and her throat caught with tears at the thought that she might never see him again. ‘How shall we know if there is news of Dickon?’

‘I should write to you, of course,’ he said and smiled at her. ‘But if I live there I shall need a good friend in this country to keep an eye on my affairs. I have asked Sir John if he would join me in this venture of importing wines, and he has been good enough to agree.’

Kathryn looked at her father, who confirmed his satisfaction with the arrangement. ‘Then at least we shall hear from you sometimes.’

Lord Mountfitchet nodded, looking at her thoughtfully. ‘Your father is too busy to accompany me on this voyage of exploration, Kathryn, but I would like him to have firsthand knowledge of what I intend to do there. He has suggested to me that you might accompany my party. My sister, Lady Mary Rivers, was widowed a few months past and has agreed to make the journey with me, for she has nothing to keep her here either and we shall be company for each other in our dotage.’

‘You are not yet in your dotage, sir!’

‘No, you are right—but it comes to us all in time, Kathryn. Mary and I get on well enough, and I have no wish to marry again. She thinks me a fool to search for Dickon, but keeps a still tongue on the subject. She will be your chaperon on the journey, and I believe we shall find a suitable guardian to accompany you on the return journey—unless you meet someone that you would wish to marry.’

‘Oh…’ Kathryn looked at her father, a faint colour in her cheeks.

‘I had it in mind to look about for a suitable husband for you, daughter,’ her father said, and paused. ‘But Lord Mountfitchet is right. There is little opportunity for Catholics in this country these days. If you should chance to meet someone suitable who you liked while on your travels, I should be pleased. I know that Mary and Charles would take care of you and make sure that any suitor was worthy of you before advising me. Indeed, I shall probably make the journey to fetch you home myself. If I were not so busy at the moment, I would come with you. Your brother Philip will be home from Oxford next year and, if I cannot come myself, he will be happy to take my place, for he longs to travel.’

‘Yes, I know.’ Kathryn gave him a look of affection, for she was fond of her brother. ‘Would you truly not mind if I went with Lord Mountfitchet and Lady Mary?’

‘I should miss you, Kathryn,’ her father said, his eyes warm with affection. ‘Had your mother lived I might have been able to introduce you to a gentleman you could like before this. I have been too busy to see to it, and, besides, I think you need a woman to help you make such a decision. When Lady Mary told me she was to accompany Charles I thought it an opportunity for you to see a little of the world. I fear you must have been too often lonely since your dear mother left us.’

Kathryn smiled, but it was true enough. She had her good friends, neighbours and the elderly nurse who had been almost as a mother to her, but she had missed the time she had spent with her mother, talking and working at her sewing. It was nine years since the fever had taken her, just a year or so after Dickon was abducted.

‘Where do you intend to go first, sir?’ she asked, turning her clear green eyes on Lord Mountfitchet.

‘We should return to London and my sister,’ he replied. ‘Then we should travel to Dover, and from thence to Venice. I have made contact with a merchant there, a rich, powerful man from whom I have been buying fine wines these past three years. It is he who has encouraged me to expand my business. I shall consult with him before I make my final choice, though I believe Cyprus will suit me rather than Italy itself. I have it in my mind to establish a vineyard there.’

‘May I think about this for a little and give you my answer in the morning?’

‘Yes, of course. I know it is a grave decision—it would mean that you would be away from your home for many months.’

‘I believe I know my answer, but I would think about it,’ Kathryn said and smiled at him. ‘If you will excuse me now, sir, I shall leave you both, for I have things to attend to.’

‘Until the morning, my dear.’ Lord Mountfitchet bowed to her as she walked away.

‘She is a good girl,’ Sir John Rowlands said as the door closed behind her and sighed regretfully. ‘Her feelings for Dickon went deep and she has never forgotten him. I think they made some childish pact between them, but she has not told me the details. Until she accepts that all hope of Dickon is gone, I believe she will resist the idea of marriage with another.’

‘It would be a shame if she were to waste her life,’ Lord Mountfitchet said. ‘Much as I hope that we shall find some news of him in Venice, I would not have Kathryn grieve for my son for ever. She is young and beautiful of face as well as nature, and she deserves some happiness.’

‘Do you think this merchant of whom you spoke may have news?’

‘I pray it may be so. Suleiman Bakhar knows him well. He told me that Lorenzo Santorini has helped several slaves who have managed to escape from their masters. He sometimes buys them in the slave markets of Algiers or takes prisoners from the pirate galleys he sinks, and he will ransom a Corsair captain for galley slaves. I think he exchanged ten slaves for one such man just a few months back. He gives them the chance to work for him, and sometimes he will return them to their families. He might ask for a ransom for his trouble, but for myself I would gladly pay it.’

‘He sounds a man to be reckoned with?’

‘Indeed, he is. Suleiman admires him—they have a mutual respect, I believe, though Santorini hath no love for Corsairs or the Turks. Indeed, I have heard that he hates them.’

‘Yet Suleiman Bakhar calls him friend.’

‘Suleiman is a man of enlightenment, as you know. He has only one wife, Eleanor, though his religion allows him to have several, and he adores her. They travel together and though she adopts Muslim dress when in his country, she wears English garb in ours. Suleiman says that if anyone can find Dickon, it is Santorini.’

Sir John nodded. ‘And that is the true reason you want Kathryn to accompany you, isn’t it? You believe that Dickon will need both you and her if he is found.’

‘What will he be like if he has survived?’ Lord Mountfitchet said, his face grey with grief. The abduction of his son had haunted him these many years, giving him no peace. ‘He is bound to have suffered terribly. He will need nursing and care if we are to teach him how to live again.’

‘Yes, I fear you are right,’ Sir John agreed. ‘Perhaps Kathryn is the only one who might help him. They were so close as children.’

‘I have not told her my thoughts on this matter,’ Charles Mountfitchet said. ‘It would make her feel that she ought to accompany us—but I would have her come only if she wishes it.’

‘Yes, it must be as she wishes,’ Sir John said. ‘I would not have it otherwise. Yet if she should want to marry…’

‘I shall write to you at once,’ his friend promised. ‘But Mary will have a care to her. We shall not allow some ruthless fortune hunter to snare her.’

‘Her fortune is adequate, but not huge,’ Sir John said. ‘I have my son to think of and, as you said, Catholics are not given the chance to rise these days. Philip will not be given a post at court as I was when Mary was Queen.’

‘That is why you do well to join me in my venture,’ Lord Mountfitchet said. ‘We may trade where we will, for the world is bigger than this country of ours.’

‘Yes, I believe you are right,’ Sir John said, ‘though for myself I would be loath to leave it as you intend.’

‘Perhaps I might have thought as you if…’ Lord Mountfitchet sighed and shook his head. ‘It does no good to repine. If Santorini can give me no hope, then I may accept that I shall never see my son again.’

Kathryn looked at herself in her small hand mirror. It had come all the way from Venice and had once belonged to her mother. She touched the smooth silver handle with her fingertips. The merchants of Venice were known for the quality of their wares, and it was from that city that the beautiful glass posset set, which her mother had treasured, had come.

It would be a great adventure to go with Lady Mary and Lord Mountfitchet. She had never expected to leave the shores of her homeland, for her father was not a great traveller. Yet she had read the histories in his library, those rare and valuable books and bound manuscripts that she was privileged to share, and her mind was open to new things. And of course Venice was renowned as a centre of publishing, particularly of the poets and of great histories. She thought that she would like to see new countries, new places—and there was always the possibility that they might discover something concerning Dickon’s whereabouts.

Her hair was hanging loose about her shoulders, a dark, shining red mass of waves that gleamed with fire when it caught the candlelight. She got up and went over to the window, gazing out into the darkness. She could see very little for there were no stars to light the sky that night. Her father had spoken of her finding someone she might wish to marry—but how could she ever do that when her heart belonged to Dickon? She had given him her promise as a girl and he had taken his knife and cut her initial into the back of his wrist. She had cried out in alarm, for it had bled a lot, and had given him a lace kerchief to bind it.

‘Does it hurt very much?’ she had asked and he had laughed, his eyes bold and daring.

‘It is nothing, for I know that this blood binds you to me for ever.’

She had kissed the wound then, tasting his blood, and had known that she would always love him. She would resist any attempts to marry her to a man she did not love. She would behave modestly when travelling and listen to Lady Mary’s advice, but she would not let them marry her to a man she did not respect or feel some affection for. Perhaps one day she would feel inside her that Dickon was dead. If that happened, she might consider marriage. If not…

Her thoughts seemed to come up against a blank wall, for she did not know what she would do if Dickon never returned to her. There was no alternative to marriage for a woman of her class, unless she wished to retire to a convent. Women married or became nuns, unless their male relatives had a use for them. Perhaps Philip would accept her as a dependent in his household if she grew old and past the age of being a wife.

It was a sad prospect, but what else was there for her? Laying down her mirror, Kathryn went to her bed, which was a heavy box base with four posts and a carved tester overhead. A handsome thing, it was piled high with soft mattresses filled with goose feathers, for the slats were wooden and hard. Slipping beneath the luxury of silken quilts, she wondered what life was like on board ship.

Yet she would put up with any discomfort if, at the end of the journey, she could find the man she loved.

The momentum was gathering, Lorenzo thought as he left the meeting to which he had been summoned. There had been talk of forming an alliance to fight a campaign against the Turks for a long time, but now, at last, it looked as though it might actually happen later that year. Pope Pius V had formed the Holy League with Spain and Venice, and it was hoped that others would bring their ships to help fight the menace that had haunted the Mediterranean seas and the Messina Strait for so long. Many had thought the talking would simply go on and on, and negotiations would probably continue for a while. However, after these latest threats against Cyprus and Rome itself, it seemed that His Holiness was determined to strike against the enemy that had for so long threatened the nations of Christendom.

Leaving the palace, Lorenzo was thoughtful as he walked, his mind dwelling not on the conference that he had attended, but on a letter that had reached him shortly before he left Venice. It was from an Englishman with whom he had done business in the past, telling him that he was coming to Venice and asking if he could help to trace a youth who had been abducted from the shores of his homeland over ten years previously.

Lorenzo frowned, for it was a thankless task. He knew as well as any man how unlikely it was that the youth had survived.

He would, of course, do what he could to help Lord Mountfitchet, for although they had never met he had heard good things of the gentleman. His father, Antonio Santorini, had visited England some years previously and had spoken of meeting Lord Mountfitchet, saying that he was both honest and decent. Therefore, Lorenzo would help him, but to trace a man who had been taken by Corsairs so long ago…

Lorenzo’s instincts remained alert even while his mind wrestled with his problems, and he was aware that he was being followed. So when the attack was made, he was ready for it, drawing his sword as he turned to meet the three ruffians who rushed upon him out of the darkness.

‘Come, my friends,’ he invited with a cold smile that only served to intensify the ice of his eyes. ‘Would you have my purse? Come, take it if you can…’

One of the three, bolder than the others, took him at his word. They clashed swords, contesting the fight fiercely, but the rogue was no match for a master swordsman and called for help from his comrades. The other two came at Lorenzo warily, for they had seen that he was no easy mark. Outnumbered three to one, he held his own for some minutes, slashing to left and right as each one attacked in turn, whirling out of reach, retreating, then advancing as he fought with the skill and ferocity his years as master of a war galley had brought him. Even so, the odds were against him and it might have gone ill with him in the end had not a newcomer joined in the fray, bringing his own skill and courage to Lorenzo’s assistance.

Lorenzo’s sword found its mark, disabling one of the three. Finding that the odds were now even and that they were being driven back, the other two rogues broke and ran, whilst the wounded fellow leaned against a wall, clutching his arm, blood oozing through his fingers.

Lorenzo had sheathed his sword when the others ran, but the stranger who had come to his aid still held his, regarding the would-be assassin speculatively.

‘Shall we kill him?’ he asked of Lorenzo. ‘’Tis what the dog deserves—or do you wish to question him?’

‘His purpose was to rob me,’ Lorenzo answered with a careless shrug. ‘Let him go to join his companions—unless he would prefer a quick death?’ His hand moved to his sword hilt suggestively.

The man gave a squeak of fear, suddenly finding the strength to run in the wake of his comrades. A harsh laugh escaped the stranger, who turned to Lorenzo.

‘You are merciful, sir. I think he would have killed you if he could.’

‘I do not doubt it.’ Lorenzo smiled. ‘I thank you for your help, sir. I am—’

‘I know you, Signor Santorini,’ the stranger said before he could continue. ‘I am Pablo Dominicus and you were pointed out to me at the conference we both attended. I followed you because I wish to speak with you.’

‘Then good fortune followed me this night,’ Lorenzo said. ‘Shall we find an inn where we can sit and talk, if you have some business you would discuss?’

‘My business is twofold,’ Pablo Dominicus said. ‘I am on the one hand an emissary from His Holiness the Pope—and on the other I am a man seeking revenge. I believe we have a common enemy.’

‘Indeed?’ Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed. It seemed the stranger was a Spaniard. He had no great love of the Spanish, for the Inquisition was a fearful thing, practised by many in the name of Catholicism, but stronger and more powerful in Spain than most countries. And it was known that Spain resented Venice for its independence, and considered that some of its inhabitants would benefit from the attention of the Inquisition. There were men who served in Lorenzo’s galleys who had known what it was to suffer torture and beatings at the hands of the fanatics who ruled the religious order. Yet there was only polite inquiry in Lorenzo’s voice as he said, ‘Pray tell me more, señor. I would know how I may serve you?’

‘Let us find somewhere we can be private, Signor Santorini. I have a request from His Holiness, for your name is well known to him—and another of my own.’

‘There is an inn I know in the next street,’ Lorenzo said. ‘If your business is secret we can take a private chamber and be sure that we are not overheard.’

Lorenzo drank sparingly of the rich red wine Dominicus had ordered, listening to the request being made of him. In the darkness of the streets he had been unable to see the face of Don Pablo clearly, but now he saw that he was a man in his middle years. Heavily built, he wore a small, dark pointed beard, his hair short and thinning at the temples. And there was a faint unease in his manner that Lorenzo found interesting.

‘His Holiness requests that you pledge your support to our cause,’ Don Pablo said. ‘Your galleys are some of the finest and your men are strong and brave, and, I am told, loyal to you. If you join us in the League, others will surely follow.’

‘It was my intention to make my offer once I had consulted with my captains,’ Lorenzo said, his eyes thoughtful as he studied the other man. Why was it that he did not quite believe him as honest as he appeared? ‘I shall join your cause for it is also mine, but the men who serve me are free to choose. I believe most will follow me, for they have cause to hate the Turks and their allies.’ Some hated the Spanish just as much, but he would not say that. ‘Now, perhaps you would care to tell me the true reason you chose to follow me this evening?’

Don Pablo smiled. ‘They told me you were clever. I shall not insult your intelligence by holding to the claim that I am here on the Pope’s behalf, for that might have been left to others, though I know His Holiness intends to approach you. I followed you because I believe you have good cause to hate Rachid—he they call the Feared One. I have heard it said that you hate him and would see him dead if it were possible.’

Lorenzo was silent for a moment, then, ‘What has Rachid done to you?’

‘Three months ago his galleys attacked and captured one of my merchant ships,’ Don Pablo said and his fist clenched on the table. It was clear that he was suffering some deep emotion. ‘That cost me a great deal of money—and one of the men he killed was my son-in-law.’

‘I am sorry for your loss, sir.’

‘My daughter and grandchildren are living in Cyprus,’ Don Pablo went on and his hand shook as if he were in the grip of some strong emotion. ‘Immacula wants to return to Spain with her children. I would send ships to fetch her myself—but I have suffered other losses of late. Those accursed English privateers, as they call themselves, have been harrying my ships as they return from the New World…’

‘You are asking me to bring your daughter to you?’ Lorenzo’s brows arched as he studied the other’s face.

‘I am willing to pay for your time, of course.’ Don Pablo’s eyes dropped before Lorenzo’s intense gaze.

‘My galleys are meant for war. They are not suitable for a woman and children. I think you must look elsewhere for your escort, Señor Dominicus.’

‘You mistake me, signor. Immacula will naturally travel in our own ship. I but ask for an escort to see her safely to Spain.’

‘You want my galleys to escort your ship?’ Lorenzo nodded, his gaze narrowing as he studied the Spaniard. Something was not right about this. His instincts were telling him to be wary, and they were seldom wrong. ‘My men work for me. They are not for hire to others.’

‘Surely they would do as you bid them?’ Don Pablo’s eyes were dark with suppressed anger and something more—was it fear? Lorenzo could not decide, but sensed that there was more to this than he had been told. ‘I believed you commanded. Do not tell me that those who serve you dictate what you do, for I should not believe it!’

Lorenzo’s mouth curved in a strange, cold smile that sent a shiver down the spine of his companion. ‘Forgive me if I speak plainly, Don Pablo. Some of my men have suffered at the hands of the Spanish Inquisition. They would spit in your face rather than fight for you.’

Don Pablo’s face suffused with anger, his neck a dark red colour. He started to his feet as if he would strike out in anger. ‘You refuse me? I had heard that you were a man of business. Surely my gold is as good as the next man’s?’

‘For myself I would take your money,’ Lorenzo said, his face a stone mask that revealed nothing of his thoughts, ‘but I cannot expect my men to fight for a Spaniard.’ He stood up and inclined his head. ‘I am sorry, but I believe you may find others willing to assist you.’

‘You may name your own price.’ Don Pablo flung the words after him, seeming desperate. ‘I beg you to help me, signor.’

‘My answer remains the same, Don Pablo.’ Lorenzo turned to look at him, his eyes cold and resolute. He was certain now that his instincts had been right; this was not a simple matter of business. ‘When you decide to tell me the truth, I may reconsider, sir—but until then, farewell.’

A look of fear mixed with horror came to the Spaniard’s eyes and for a moment he seemed as if he would speak, but he shook his head and in another moment Lorenzo closed the door behind him.

His instincts had served him well as always. He believed that the attack on him had been planned, not random, a ploy to make him grateful to Dominicus—to make him accept the commission that was offered in a sense of friendship and trust. Lorenzo had learned in a hard school that few men were to be trusted.

There was more behind this than met the eye, and it smelled wrong. If his enemies had set a trap, it would need to be baited more cleverly than this.

Chapter Two

So this was Venice! Kathryn looked about her eagerly as their ship weighed anchor in the great lagoon. They were too far out to see the shoreline clearly, but the grand palaces of the rich merchant princes lay shimmering in the sunshine, the waters of the lagoon lapping over the steps at which brightly coloured gondolas were moored.

‘What do you think of Venice, my dear?’ Lady Mary asked as she came to stand beside the girl. ‘Is it what you expected?’

‘It is beautiful. I did not know what to expect. I have seen a pastel of the Grand Canal and its palaces, ma’am, but reality far exceeds the artist’s imagination. Those palaces seem almost to be floating.’

Lady Mary laughed. She was a stout, good-tempered lady, who had been pretty in her youth, and her smile was warm with affection, for she had grown fond of Kathryn on their journey. They had been together some months and it was now the spring of 1570. In England it would still be very cool, but here it was much warmer as the sun turned the water to a sparkling blue.

‘Yes, it has a magical appeal, does it not? My late husband was an enthusiastic traveller in his youth. He told me of his visit to Venice. We must visit St Mark’s Square and gaze upon the Doge’s palace while your uncle is at his business, Kathryn.’

It had been decided that she should look upon her kind friends as Aunt Mary and Uncle Charles.

‘We may not be blood related,’ Charles Mountfitchet had told her at the beginning of their journey, as they set out to London to meet his sister. ‘But we shall be together en famille for some months and must be comfortable with one another.’

Kathryn had been very willing to accept him as an honorary uncle, for she had long felt close to him. They had comforted each other throughout the years since Dickon’s abduction and she was fonder of him than anyone other than her father.

‘Oh, I want to see everything,’ she said now. Her eyes had a glow of excitement that had been missing for a long time. The journey had suited her for she had not been seasick, as Lady Mary had for the first few days of their voyage. ‘And you will feel so much better to be on land again, Aunt.’

‘Indeed, I shall. I might wish to go no further,’ Lady Mary said with some feeling. ‘I fear that this is but a temporary respite, for my brother wishes to settle in Cyprus and so we must put to sea once more.’

‘He plans to grow his own wine,’ Kathryn said. ‘But who knows? His plans may change.’

‘You are thinking of Richard, of course.’ Lady Mary frowned. ‘I know that both you and my brother hope for a miracle, my dear, but I fear you will be sadly disappointed.’

‘But it does happen,’ Kathryn said. ‘Suleiman Bakhar told my uncle that sometimes slaves may be either rescued or bought from their masters. If Dickon was sold as a house slave, it is possible that we might be able to find him and purchase his bond.’

‘My brother has tried to find his son,’ Lady Mary said, sighing deeply. She did not believe their search would come to anything and feared that they merely brought more pain on themselves. ‘For years he petitioned men of influence to help him in his search, to no avail. I believe that Richard is dead. I am sorry, but I think that some trace of him would have come to light before this if he were alive.’

‘I know what you say is sensible,’ Kathryn said, her eyes bright with the fervour of her belief. ‘But I feel that he lives. Here inside me.’ She pressed her hands to her breast. ‘I cannot explain it, for it must sound foolish, but if Dickon had died—a part of me would have died too.’

Lady Mary shook her head, but said no more on the subject. In her own opinion Kathryn was living on false hope. Even if her nephew had somehow survived, he would not be the same. Any man who had endured years of slavery must have changed; he might be hard and bitter or broken in spirit. Either way, Kathryn was doomed to grief. It might be better if no trace of Richard was ever found, for surely in time she would learn to love someone else.

The girl had blossomed under her care. While in London they had visited the silk merchants, buying materials to make into gowns suitable for a warmer climate. Lady Mary had been pleased to take the girl about, introducing her to her friends, giving her a taste of what life could be, and the change in Kathryn had pleased her. She smiled more and her laughter was warm, infectious, though there was a stubborn streak beneath her pretty manners. Yet she had thrown off the air of sadness that had haunted her lovely face and was revealed as a charming, intelligent girl.

Lady Mary had great hopes of finding a suitable husband for her charge before the time came for Kathryn to return home.

‘I believe this is the gondola come to take us ashore,’ Kathryn said as she turned to her companion. ‘We are to be taken to the house Uncle Charles has hired for our use, but he is to meet that friend of his immediately. Signor Santorini, I believe he called him.’

‘He hopes for news, I dare say.’ Lady Mary smothered a sigh. ‘Well, at least it will give us time to settle in. Men are always in the way at such times.’

Kathryn smiled, but made no answer. Given a free choice she would have wished to go with her uncle to the meeting, but she had not been asked. She would be of much more help to Lady Mary—but she would be impatient for news.

‘I trust your journey was a good one, sir?’ Lorenzo rose to meet his visitor. He had chosen to receive him in one of the smaller salons to the right of the grand entrance hall, for it was more welcoming and more conducive to privacy. ‘I am pleased to meet you at last, Lord Mountfitchet.’

His words were spoken frankly, his eyes going over the older man and finding that he was drawn to him in a way that was not often the case with strangers. He saw suffering in the other’s face, the greying at his temples and in his beard; it was a face grown old before its time. It was the face of a man who had known terrible grief. For some reason Lorenzo was saddened by his grief, though the man was a stranger to him.

‘Come, sir, will you not take a glass of wine with me? Pray be seated.’ He indicated the principal chair, which was of a kind not common in England, the seat well padded, and the low back comfortable and shaped to accommodate a man’s bulk. ‘I dare say you are weary from your journey?’

‘Indeed, a glass of wine would be welcome, Signor Santorini,’ Charles Mountfitchet said as he took his seat. ‘My sister and niece wanted me to accompany them to our lodgings and rest for a day or so, but I was impatient to meet you.’

‘Unfortunately, I have no definite news of your son,’ Lorenzo said. ‘However, there is a man I would have you meet, sir. He was rescued from a Corsair galley two months ago, but has been too ill to question. We believe that he may be English, though as yet he has hardly spoken a word.’

‘What does he look like?’ Charles asked barely able to contain his excitement. ‘What colour are his hair and eyes?’

‘What colour hair did your son have? Were there any distinguishing features?’

Charles thought for a moment. ‘It distresses me to say it, but I can no longer see Richard’s face. His hair was fair—darker than yours, but of a similar texture. His eyes were blue…’ He frowned. ‘I might be describing a thousand men. I fear I have given you but poor help, sir. But loath as I am to admit it, I spent little time with my son when he was young. He was there and I took my good fortune for granted. It was only when I lost him that I understood what he had meant to me.’ His voice broke with emotion.

‘Yes, it is often so, I believe,’ Lorenzo said. He was not certain why he felt affected by Lord Mountfitchet’s story, for he was not a sentimental man. ‘We all take what we have for granted. My father died some months ago and I miss him sorely. I was away much of the time and afterwards regretted that I did not show more gratitude towards him.’

‘I was sorry to learn of Antonio’s death. We met only twice when he visited England, but we were drawn to each other.’ Charles hesitated, then said, ‘I did not realise at the time that he had a son.’

‘I was adopted some years ago,’ Lorenzo said, revealing more than was his wont. ‘My father was a good and generous man. I owe him much. He was not a wealthy man, so it was given to me to improve our fortunes and I was happy that I was able to see him end his days in comfort.’

‘He was fortunate to have you. I have tried to preserve my estate for Richard, but it would have been a relief to me to have him with me. I fear I grow old and the days seem lonely.’ His eyes were clouded with grief, the years of futile searching carved deep into his face.

‘The man I would have you meet has blue eyes,’ Lorenzo said with a frown. ‘As for his hair—it has turned grey from the suffering he endured at the hands of his captors. I must warn you that this man has terrible scars on his arms, back and legs.’

‘The poor devil,’ Charles said and his hands shook as he sipped his wine. He took a deep breath, trying to control the images in his mind—images that had haunted his dreams for years of his son being beaten and tortured. ‘This wine is excellent.’ He made an effort to banish his nightmares. ‘A new one, I think? You have not sent me this before?’

‘It came from a vineyard in Cyprus,’ Lorenzo told him. ‘I have been trying it before adding it to the shipment.’ He refilled his guest’s cup. ‘I shall speak to the man I mentioned myself, ask him if he will see you.’ He saw the surprise in the other’s eyes. ‘He is not my prisoner. He was saved from the wreck of a galley and we have nursed him through his illness. Now that he is well, he will be given a choice. He may work for me as a free man or return to his homeland. If he asks me for help to find his family, I shall give it.’

‘Do you ask a ransom for him?’

‘If his family can afford to pay. I am a man of business, sir.’

‘And if he has no family?’

‘Then he is free to go where he will—or stay with me.’ Lorenzo’s eyes held a glint of ice. He lifted his head defiantly. ‘He has his life returned to him. What more would you have of me?’

‘Nothing you have not given,’ Charles replied. ‘For myself, I would be glad to pay for the return of my son.’

‘I wish that I might give you more hope,’ Lorenzo said. ‘But let us speak of other things. You have an idea of settling on Cyprus, I believe?’

‘I have thoughts of my own vineyard.’

‘Then I may be of more help to you there,’ Lorenzo said. ‘Come to dinner tomorrow evening. Bring your sister and niece to dine. I may have more news for you by then.’

‘Thank you. I shall look forward to it.’

Charles was thoughtful as he took his leave. He believed Lorenzo Santorini an honest man. His manner was somewhat reserved and at times his eyes were cold. He was clearly unsentimental about his business, a man of purpose. Some might think him harsh to take ransom money for men he rescued from slavery, but Charles found no fault in his seeking some profit from what he did. There were others who would simply have left the galley slave to die or even have sent him back to the markets to be sold again.

No doubt it was Santorini’s keen intelligence and lack of sentiment that had made him wealthy. Yes, perhaps he was a little harsh in matters of business, but who knew what had caused him to be that way? He sensed some mystery in the man’s past, but it was not his affair. Santorini would deal fairly with him and he could ask for no more.

His thoughts turned to the man he had been told of—a man who might be English with blue eyes. Could he possibly be Richard? Charles felt a flicker of hope. Yet it was ridiculous to allow himself to hope. There must be many blue-eyed Englishmen who had been lost at sea and taken as galley slaves, and not only by the Corsairs. Some served in Spanish galleys and there was little to choose between their masters, for they were beaten and tortured, made to work until they collapsed at the oar and were tossed into the sea to die. The Spanish hated the heretic English and it was often said that they were crueller than the Corsairs to those they took in battle.

Charles closed his eyes, trying to shut out the pictures that crowded into his mind. God forgive him, he could almost wish his son dead rather than know that he had suffered such a terrible fate.

‘But that is wicked!’ Kathryn exclaimed as Charles spoke of the ransom he would pay if the man he had been told of should by some extreme chance be his son. ‘Why, this Lorenzo Santorini is little better than those evil men whose business is to trade in slaves.’

‘No, Kathryn,’ he said. ‘You do not understand, my dear. I would be willing to pay any sum for Richard’s return and should be grateful to the man who found him for me.’

‘But a decent man would not ask for money, Uncle Charles.’ She was outraged, her eyes scornful of this man she had yet to meet.

‘Hush, Kathryn,’ he chided. ‘We must not judge him. He does much good, I think, and if he makes a profit by it…’Charles shrugged his shoulders. ‘I found him honest. He is a man I can do business with. You may feel it wrong to take money for restoring a man to his family, but others would have let the poor fellow die.’

‘Please, Charles,’ Lady Mary said with a little shudder, ‘I wish you would not say such things. You will give Kathryn nightmares.’

‘No, dear Aunt Mary,’ Kathryn said and smiled at her. ‘My nightmares have become a thing of the past since we began our journey. I do not know why, but my heart has become much lighter.’ It was as if she felt that she was going to meet Dickon, that she would find him at her journey’s end. In her dreams he seemed very close and he was no longer in pain or distress. She seemed to see him smiling at her, opening his arms to enfold her and kiss her.

‘Well, I am happy for it,’ Charles said with a smile. ‘But it would be too much to expect to find Richard so swiftly. It may be months or years—or perhaps never—but Signor Santorini has promised to do what he can. I pray you, Kathryn, do nothing to antagonise him this evening.’

‘Of course I shall not, Uncle Charles,’ Kathryn said. ‘If you believe he can help us, then I shall do nothing to make him change his mind. I may think him unprincipled and wrong, but I shall not say it.’

He smiled at her, nodding his satisfaction with her promise. It was time for them to leave, and the gondola was waiting at the steps outside their house to take them to Lorenzo Santorini’s palace.

Kathryn’s eyes widened as she saw it, for it was surely one of the most important and attractive of the many beautiful buildings built by the Grand Lagoon. This Signor Santorini must be very wealthy; if that were so, he did not need to ask for money from the families of the poor wretches he rescued from cruel masters.

Her antagonism was growing towards the man she had never met, her feelings of outrage at the obvious trappings of his great wealth building a picture in her mind so that, when the tall, golden-haired man came towards them, she did not at first imagine that he was Lorenzo Santorini. She had seldom seen a more attractive man, Kathryn thought, and as she looked into his deep blue eyes her breath caught and she felt very strange. She had only ever known one person with eyes that colour and so strong was the emotion that gripped her then that she almost fainted. Indeed, she swayed and put out her hand to steady herself, finding her arm gripped by a firm hand.

‘Are you ill, Madonna?’

His voice was so deep and husky; yet she heard only the echoes of the sea against a rocky shore on a windswept night, her mind whirling in confusion. For a moment she was there again, looking down as the Corsairs carried her beloved Dickon away with them, her feeling of terror so strong that she almost fainted.

‘Kathryn? Is something wrong, my dear?’

Lady Mary’s voice brought her back from the edge of the precipice and her head cleared. She looked at the man, who still held her arm in a vicelike grip, her eyes suddenly dark with revulsion as she dismissed the foolish notion that had come to her. How could she have thought even for one moment that this man was her beloved Dickon? His face was deeply tanned, with sculptured cheekbones and lines about his eyes. Richard Mountfitchet would be no more than five and twenty; this man must be some years older, of course, the set of his mouth harsh and unforgiving, so different from the easy smile that she had been wont to see on Dickon’s lips.

Why, from what she had heard of him, he was little better than the evil men who had abducted her dearest friend!

She moved her arm and his grip relaxed, releasing her as her head went up proudly, daring him to touch her again. ‘I am all right, Aunt Mary,’ she said, smiling at the woman who was clearly concerned for her. ‘It was just a moment of faintness. Perhaps the change from the bright sunlight to darkness?’

It was a weak excuse, of course, for it was not truly dark in the palace, which was a place of colour and sunshine from the many windows high above that gave the grand hall a churchlike feel.

‘It has been very warm today,’ Lorenzo said, his eyes narrowing as he sensed her hostility. What ailed her—and why had she looked at him so oddly for a moment? ‘And I believe it may be cool in here. Please come through to my private chambers, ladies. I believe you may be more comfortable there.’

Lorenzo led the way to another, smaller chamber, which was lavishly appointed with beautiful tiled walls and floors, the colours rich and vibrant. It was furnished with the most exquisite things that Kathryn had ever seen, some of them with a distinctly Byzantine look to them. For surely those silken couches belonged more properly in the harem of an eastern potentate?

‘I have never seen such a lovely room,’ Lady Mary declared, echoing the thoughts Kathryn would not for pride’s sake utter. ‘Where did you find all these lovely things, Signor Santorini?’

‘Some of them were given me in gratitude for saving the life of a precious son,’ Lorenzo told her. His eyes were on Kathryn as he spoke, a mocking gleam deep in their mysterious depths. ‘It was in Granada and the boy was a Moor, the son of a merchant prince—a man whose wealth would make me seem a pauper by comparison.’

‘How interesting,’ Lady Mary said. ‘Pray do tell us more, sir.’

‘It was nothing,’ Lorenzo told her with a fleeting smile, his eyes becoming colder than deep water ice as he saw that Kathryn’s mouth had curled in scorn. ‘I happened to be in the right place at the right time—and the grateful father showered me with gifts of all kinds, some of which you see here.’

‘You must also be a very wealthy man,’ Kathryn said and her tone made it sound like the worst of insults. ‘Might it not have been nobler to refuse the gifts and be satisfied with the pleasure of saving a life?’ Her eyes flashed with green fire, challenging him so clearly that the air seemed to crackle between them.

‘No, no, Kathryn,’ Charles reminded her uneasily. He was afraid she would antagonise the Venetian, and Santorini was his best hope of ever finding his son. Indeed, since they had met, he had been filled with new hope. ‘You must not say such things, my dear. It is not for you to judge these matters.’

‘Kathryn’s fault lies in her ignorance,’ Lorenzo said easily and she saw that there was an amused curl to his mouth. His eyes glinted with ice and she felt her heart catch, for something about him drew her despite herself. ‘To have refused the gifts from such a man after rendering him a significant service would have been to offer him a deadly insult. Had I been unwise enough to do so, he would have thought that I believed he owed me more and would simply have increased the size of his gift—even to beggaring himself, if I demanded it. But of course, your niece could not know anything of the customs, or indeed the pride, that prevails amongst such people.’

He was looking at her as if she were a foolish child!

Kathryn felt as if she were in the hands of her old nurse, being scolded for some childish misdemeanour. He was humiliating her, stripping her to the status of an ignorant girl, making her feel foolish—and she hated him for it. If she had not remembered her promise to Lord Mountfitchet at that moment, she might have given him an honest opinion of his morals, telling him what she thought of his habit of asking a ransom from his victims.

‘I bow to your superior judgement, sir,’ she said, her nails turned inwards to the palms of her hands as she fought her instinct to rage at him. Dickon’s father was relying on his help. It was through him that they might learn something that would lead them to find Dickon. She must remember that, no matter how great her disgust of this man and his trade. ‘Forgive me, I did not know…’

The apology was the hardest she had ever had to make and she tasted its bitterness; she was determined to say nothing more that evening, for it would kill her to be civil to him! She could not know that the look in her eyes and the tilt of her head betrayed her, nor that he found her defiance amusing.

‘No, do not apologise, sweet Madonna,’ he murmured and the mockery in his voice stung her like the lash of a whip. ‘We should be churlish indeed not to forgive such beauty a small mistake of judgement.’

Kathryn inclined her head. Oh, he was so sure of himself, so secure in his position of power and wealth! She would like to wipe that mocking expression from his face and were she alone with him she would do it! But no, she must not let him drive her to further indiscretion. She would behave as befitted an English gentlewoman.

‘I bow to your generosity, sir.’ The look she gave him was so haughty that it would have slain any other man, but he merely smiled and turned his attention to Lord Mountfitchet.

Wine was served and there was a choice of a sweeter wine for the ladies, but Kathryn stubbornly chose the same as he and her uncle drank and nearly gagged on the dryness of it. She took one sip and set the glass down, her irritation mounting as she saw that he had noted her distaste. When they were directed outside to a small courtyard garden, where a table had been set for them, she noticed that he made a small signal to his servant, and when she looked for her wineglass her wine had been changed.

Oh, was there no ending to this torture? Kathryn asked the servant who served her from the many delicious varieties of fish, meat and rice dishes to bring her some water, refusing to be tempted by the wine, which Lady Mary had declared was delicious.

The food was wonderful too. Used to the more heavily spiced dishes her father’s cooks served at home and sickened by the awful food on board ship, she could not resist trying the delicious prawns and unusual fruits and vegetables that were served to her. After each main course a cold ice sherbet was served, which cleared the palate, and the sweet courses included a delicious sticky jelly that she simply could not resist.

‘I see you approve of one of the gifts my friend from Granada sends me from time to time,’ Lorenzo said, smiling at her. ‘You see, as his son grows to a man, his gratitude increases and he will not allow me to forget that he considers me as another son.’

Kathryn had been reaching for another piece of the sticky sweet and her hand froze in mid-air, then withdrew, her eyes darting a glare at him that would have made most men retreat in confusion. His answer was to smile so wolfishly that it sent a chill through her, the flash of white teeth sudden and menacing, as if he would devour her.

‘Please continue to enjoy them, Madonna,’ he told her. ‘It will please my friend mightily to know that his generosity is not wasted. He fears that I do not appreciate it, but now I can tell him quite truthfully that it brought me favour in your eyes.’

‘I am glad that your friend will be pleased,’ Kathryn said and defiantly took the piece of lemon-flavoured sweetmeat that she desired, biting into it with such venom that she saw his eyes flicker with laughter. He enjoyed taunting her! She could see it in his face, but there was nothing she could do, for she was at his mercy. Please God, let this meal be over soon and then, perhaps, she need not ever see him again.

‘I was thinking,’ Charles said, seemingly unaware of the duel going on between Kathryn and their host. ‘I have cudgelled my brains to think of a distinguishing mark that might help you find Richard, sir—but I cannot recall a thing.’

‘Oh, but—’ Kathryn began and then stopped as all eyes turned on her. She shook her head. ‘I cannot be sure that it would still be there.’

‘If you know of something, you should tell us, Kathryn,’ Charles said. ‘I believe you knew Richard better than anyone.’

‘Pray do give me any information you can,’ Lorenzo said and reached for his wineglass. As he did so she caught sight of a leather wristband chased with silver symbols. The wristbands were so at odds with the richness of his dress that she was mesmerised for a moment and he saw her interest. ‘You are admiring my bracelets, Kathryn?’ He pulled back his sleeves so that she could see that he wore the curious bands on each wrist. ‘The symbols may not be familiar to you, for they are in Arabic. One stands for life, the other for death.’ There was something in his eyes that made her shiver inwardly, an expression so different to any other that she had seen in him that her stomach clenched with fear. ‘It is to remind me, lest I should forget, that one is the close companion of the other.’

‘Surely…’The words died on her lips, for now she felt a sense of desolation in him and it touched her, reaching down inside her so that she shared his grief, his pain, and it almost sent her reeling into darkness. ‘They are remarkable, sir,’ she said, fighting to pull herself back from that deep pit. ‘But you asked about a distinguishing mark. There was one that Uncle Charles would not know about.’ She paused, for the memory was so strong in her mind then that it made her ache with the grief of her loss. ‘Dickon was my closest companion, my dearest friend. One day he told me that he would always love only me, even though I was but nine years to his fifteen. I said that when he grew up he would forget me, and he drew his knife. He cut my initial into his arm, just above his wrist.’ She saw Lorenzo’s eyes darken, his gaze intensifying on her face. ‘It bled a great deal and I was frightened. I gave him my kerchief to bind his wrist, but it was deep and the bleeding would not stop. My nurse bound it for him when we went home and scolded me for allowing him to hurt himself. When it began to heal, there was a livid mark in the shape of a K.’

‘You have never told me this, Kathryn,’ Charles said and frowned. ‘It might help in the search—if it still remains.’

‘It might have been obliterated by other marks,’ Lorenzo said and he looked thoughtful, serious now, all mockery gone. ‘I do not wish to distress the ladies, Lord Mountfitchet, but you must realise that the manacles galley slaves wear leave deep scars. Even if the scar that Richard inflicted on himself remained, it might not be easy to see after so many years of being chained to an oar.’

‘If he was a galley slave,’ Kathryn said. ‘He was but fifteen, sir. Might he not have been sold as a house slave?’ She had prayed so often that it might be so, otherwise there was little hope that Dickon would have survived.

‘It is possible—but if he was strong for his age he would more likely have been put to the oars. The rate of death amongst such unfortunates is high and anyone with the strength to pull an oar might be used if the Corsairs had lost some of their oarsmen.’

‘Yet that makes it all the more likely that the mark may still be there,’ Kathryn said. ‘For if he lives, it is unlikely that he was in the galleys.’

‘You speak truly, for I doubt that any man could survive ten years in the galleys,’ Lorenzo told her and the expression in his eyes sent a shiver down her spine. ‘We must hope that for at least some part of the time your cousin was more fortunate.’

Kathryn looked at him, seeing an odd expression in his eyes. What was he thinking now?

‘Would your friend in Granada help us to find Dickon?’ she asked.

‘Yes, that is possible,’ Lorenzo said. ‘I will write to him and ask if he will make inquiries, though after so long…’ His words drifted away and he lifted his shoulders in a gesture that made her want to defy him all the more.

‘You think it is impossible, don’t you?’ Kathryn saw the answer in his face. ‘But I don’t believe that Dickon is dead. I am certain he lives. I feel it in here.’ She put her hands to her breast, her face wearing an expression of such expectation, such hope, that he was moved. ‘As we journeyed here my feeling grew stronger. I believe that he is alive and may be closer than we think.’

‘All things are possible,’ Lorenzo said, for he found that he did not wish to dim the light in those beautiful eyes by telling her she was wrong. ‘My friend would tell you that it is the will of Allah, but I believe it is the will of man. If Dickon was strong enough, if he wanted to live badly enough, he would find a way to survive. And perhaps he might have been fortunate. Not all slaves are ill treated, Kathryn. Some masters are better than others.’

‘You speak as if you have some experience of these things, sir?’

Lorenzo smiled oddly. ‘Perhaps…’

Kathryn would have pressed for an answer, but he turned to Lord Mountfitchet and began to talk of Cyprus and the land most suitable for wine growing. Kathryn sat and listened, her first disgust of him waning a little as she realised that he was a man of knowledge and influence.

She could not condone what he did in the matter of the ransoms he demanded from the families of those he rescued, and yet she began to understand that it could be but a small part of his business and not the source of his vast wealth.

She could not like him, she decided, for he was too arrogant, too certain of his position, and he could not understand how she felt—how Lord Mountfitchet felt—about the loss of Dickon. But perhaps Uncle Charles was right and he would deal honestly with them.

Besides, what right had she to judge him when she did not know him?

Lorenzo turned his gaze on her again for a moment, and she felt that strange sensation that had almost made her faint when they first met. Why was it that she felt as if they had met before?

‘This is so beautiful,’ Kathryn exclaimed as they wandered about the square that was the centre of Venice. ‘Is it true that the Church of Saint Mark was built to house his body when it was brought from Alexandria?’

‘That is what I have been told,’ Lorenzo answered her though she had addressed her question to her aunt. ‘The building you see near by is the Palazzo Ducale—and over there is the Cathedral, which was first begun in the ninth century and rebuilt after a fire in the eleventh. Notice the architecture, which bears a distinctly Byzantine influence.’

‘It is very fine,’ Kathryn replied. ‘I had thought the people of Byzantium were barbarians, but it seems that they knew how to build.’

‘They knew many things,’ Lorenzo replied with a smile. ‘It was a great empire that demands our respect.’

‘You seem to know so much,’ she said, a little overcome by all the things he had told them as they explored the beautiful city of Venice and its waterways. ‘What, pray tell me, are those buildings over there?’

‘That is the Procuratie Vecchie, and used by the procurators or magistrates, from amongst whom the Doge is chosen, and is built, as you see, in the Italian style, as are many of the palaces themselves. And those columns were erected in the twelfth century. That one bears the winged lion of St Mark and the other portrays St Theodore on a crocodile.’ He looked at Kathryn, a faint smile on his lips. ‘Would you wish to visit the Bridge of Sighs—or would you prefer return to my home and take some refreshment?’

‘Tell me, why is it called the Bridge of Sighs?’

‘I imagine Signor Santorini has had enough of your questions for one day,’ Lady Mary said. ‘It was kind of him to accompany us, but perhaps like me he is ready to return home for some refreshment.’

‘Oh, forgive me,’ Kathryn said, for she was not in the least tired and might have carried on exploring for another hour or more. ‘Yes, we shall go home—at least, we shall return to your home, signor.’

‘It is also yours for the duration of your stay,’ Lorenzo said. On discovering the previous evening that the lodgings they had taken were less than they had hoped for, he had sent his servants to remove their baggage, insisting that they stay with him until they left for Cyprus. It was also his suggestion that he accompany Lady Mary and Kathryn on their tour of the city, for Lord Mountfitchet had other business and, despite Kathryn’s protests, he did not think it suitable that they should go alone. ‘And as to the matter of why the bridge has that name, it is because the palace connects to the prison and the bridge is the route by which prisoners are taken to the judgement hall.’

‘Ah, I see,’ Kathryn said and smiled. ‘I had thought it might have had a more romantic story attached to it.’

‘Perhaps a lover who had cast himself into the water after having his heart broken?’ Lorenzo laughed huskily. ‘I can see that you are a follower of the poets, Madonna. You have come to the right country, for this is a land of beauty and romance. You have only to look at our fine sculptures and paintings.’

She blushed, looking away from the mockery in his eyes, for her heart was behaving very oddly. ‘I have noticed some very fine paintings in your home, sir.’

‘Tell me, which ones do you admire?’

‘I noticed one that had wonderful colours…’ Kathryn wrinkled her brow. ‘It was in the great hall and I saw that the colours seemed to glow like jewels when the sunlight touched them. Most of the paintings I have been used to admiring were tempera, but I believe that one was done in oils, was it not?’

‘Indeed, you are right,’ he said. ‘The artist was a man called Giovanni Bellini and my father bought the painting some years ago. I have others that I have bought that you might like to see one day.’

‘Yes, I believe I should, if you have the time to spare, sir. I know you must be a very busy man and—Have a care, sir!’ Kathryn gave a little cry as she saw someone suddenly lunge at his back with what looked like a curved and deadly knife.

Lorenzo whirled round even as she spoke, catching the would-be assassin’s wrist as he raised his arm to strike. There was a sharp tussle and she heard something that sounded like a bone cracking, and then, before she knew what was happening, three men rushed up and overpowered the assassin, dragging him away with them.

‘Forgive us, Madonna,’ Lorenzo said and his face had become the customary hard mask that she found so disturbing, all trace of softness and laughter gone. ‘I believe your safety was not in doubt, but it should not have happened. My men were instructed to keep a look out for anything that might cause an unpleasant incident.’

‘What a terrible thing,’ Lady Mary said, looking distressed. ‘I trust you are not hurt, sir?’

‘I thank you for your concern,’ he said, but his eyes were on Kathryn, an odd expression in their depths. ‘Perhaps now you will understand why it would not be safe for you to wander at will in this city.’

‘But why did he attack you?’ Kathryn had been startled by the incident, but he had dealt with it so swiftly that she was not frightened, though Lady Mary looked shaken. ‘Do you have enemies, sir?’

Lorenzo frowned. ‘I believe that any man in my position must have his share of enemies, but I did not know until today that I had one prepared to attack me here in Venice.’

‘Do you know who the man was?’

‘A hired assassin,’ Lorenzo dismissed the man with a twist of his lips. ‘I dare say I know who paid him.’

‘Someone who hates you?’

‘He has cause enough,’ Lorenzo said. ‘He belongs to that fraternity you despise so much, Kathryn—a Corsair by trade and inclination. He is called the Feared One, for his cruelty exceeds that practised by most of his brethren. Even they fear and hate him, but they do not dare to betray him.’

‘Why does he hate you enough to pay someone to kill you?’

‘Because I have made it my life’s work to destroy as many of his galleys as I can.’ Lorenzo’s eyes were colder than she had ever seen them. Gazing into them, she was caught up in an emotion so strong that it robbed her of breath. ‘I have nineteen galleys at the moment—we recently lost one in a battle with Rachid—but I have ordered six more. Soon my fleet will be large enough to meet him wherever and whenever he takes to the seas—and then I shall destroy him, little by little.’

Kathryn gazed into his eyes, feeling herself drawn into a vortex that had her spinning down and down, drowning in the bottomless depths of his eyes. ‘Then I must tell you that I owe you an apology,’ she said when she could breathe again. ‘I believed that you were as guilty as those men who enslave others because you asked for a ransom for those you rescued, but if you have dedicated your life and your fortune to destroying such an evil man, then—’

‘Pray do not continue,’ Lorenzo said and she saw that his eyes had lost their haunted look and were filled with laughter. ‘You run the risk of flattering me, Madonna. Say only that you approve of what I do and I’ll not ask for more.’

‘You are mocking me,’ she said and could not quite hide her pique.

‘Indeed, it is very unkind in me,’ he said, ‘but do not grudge me the pleasure that teasing you has brought into a life that has hitherto known very little, Madonna.’

Once again she was aware of powerful emotions swirling beneath the mask he showed to the world and was silent for the moment. They had been walking as they talked, a little ahead of Lady Mary and two men who now shadowed them more closely than before, and had now reached one of the canals where Lorenzo’s gondola was waiting to convey them to his palace.

‘You are not what you seem,’ she said. ‘Will you tell me the reason you hate Rachid so much? For there must be other pirates almost as feared, and yet it is he whom you wish to destroy.’

‘That is something I have told to very few,’ Lorenzo replied. ‘One day perhaps I may tell you, Kathryn. But for the moment I think I shall keep my secret.’

Chapter Three

Here within the courtyard garden, where brightly coloured flowers spilled over from warm terracotta pots, their perfume wafting on the soft night air, Kathryn could almost believe that she was in the knot garden of her home. It was odd, but there was something English about this garden, though many of the flowers were Mediterranean. The roses were fully bloomed and scented, very similar to some that her mother had grown at home.

She thought of her father, wondering if he was missing her. But Philip might be home from college now and so he would have company, though she was sure enough of his love to know that he would think of her. She missed her family and yet she was moving in a new world that she found interesting and colourful.

Her thoughts turned to the incident in St Mark’s Square earlier that day. Had Lorenzo not acted so swiftly it might have ended very differently. It was true that she had called a warning to him, but she did not flatter herself that she had saved his life; he had acted instinctively, as if he had heard or perhaps sensed the assassin’s approach. What kind of a man was he that he needed to be so alert to danger?

He had begun to haunt her thoughts, for she had dreamt of him the previous night. He had been in danger and she had tried to reach him, but a strong wind had been blowing, carrying her further and further away. She had woken from her dream with tears on her face, though she did not understand why she wept.

Kathryn’s feelings were mixed—she did not know how she felt about Lorenzo Santorini. He was such a strange mixture, at one moment as cold as ice, his features rock hard, his mouth an unforgiving line. Yet when his eyes were bright with laughter…it was then that she had this strange feeling of having known him for ever.

What had he meant when he said he would keep his secret for the moment? That he was a man of mystery she did not doubt, but—

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices. Charles Mountfitchet and Lorenzo were talking together. They spoke in English as always, for Lorenzo’s grasp of the English language was much better than their grasp of Italian. He, of course, spoke several languages.

‘It may be that it would be better for you to buy land in Italy,’ Lorenzo was saying. ‘With this threat of invasion from the Turks…’

‘Do you really believe that they will try to invade the island?’

‘I cannot say, sir. I merely sought to warn you of the possibility.’

‘I doubt there is much danger for the moment,’ Charles said, for he had set his heart upon buying land in Cyprus, an island rich in sugar, fruit and fertile wine-growing soil. ‘I visited the man you told me of—poor fellow.’

‘Would he speak to you?’ Lorenzo was saying.

‘He asked if I had come to buy him,’ Charles said, sounding distressed. ‘When I told him that I was trying to find my son he wept, but would not answer me. I could not tell him that he would not be sold to another master, for it was not in my power, despite what you have told me, sir.’

‘From what you saw of him, was there anything that reminded you of your son?’

The two men had come into the courtyard now, clearly unaware that Kathryn was there, standing just behind a tall flowering bush.

‘It is impossible to tell,’ Charles said with a heavy sigh. ‘He could be Richard, but I do not recognise him.’

Kathryn moved towards them and saw the startled expression in both their faces. ‘Will you let me see him?’ she asked. ‘I would know Dickon if I saw him, I am sure of it.’

‘The scar you told us of…’ Charles shook his head sadly. ‘It would not help you to look for that, Kathryn. His wrists are so badly scarred and callused by the wearing of manacles and chains for all that time that any previous scar would have been obliterated.’

‘Oh, the poor man—’ Kathryn began but was interrupted.

‘It would not be fitting for you to see him,’ Lorenzo said. ‘It caused your uncle much grief and a woman would find it too upsetting.’

‘Have you such a low opinion of our sex, sir?’ Kathryn’s head was up, her eyes flashing with pride. Why must he always imagine that she was foolish? ‘Do you think I have not seen suffering before? My dear mother was ill some months before she died of a wasting sickness, and I have seen beggars with sores that were infected with maggots in the marketplace at home. If I saw this man, I might know if he is Dickon.’

‘Kathryn knew my son better than anyone,’ Charles said, looking at her uncertainly. ‘She is a woman of some spirit, Signor Santorini. I think—with your permission—I should like her to see him. After all, what harm can it do for her to speak with him if someone is near by?’

Lorenzo’s eyes flickered with what might have been anger, but it was controlled, not allowed to flare into life. ‘Very well, I shall arrange it for tomorrow. But I warn you, Kathryn, he has suffered things that you cannot begin to contemplate. I fear your tender heart may sway your good sense.’

‘I shall know if he is Dickon,’ Kathryn said stubbornly, though in her heart she was not sure that she would truly know. For that one moment when her senses had betrayed her, she had thought that Lorenzo himself might be her lost love, though that was impossible, of course. There was no possibility that Dickon and this cold, arrogant Venetian could be the same man. He had clearly been born to privilege and wealth and could never have suffered as this poor slave he would deny the chance of a new life.

‘Very well, you may see him tomorrow. I shall have him brought here for you.’ He inclined his head curtly, clearly not pleased to be overruled in this matter. ‘I fear I have an appointment this evening. In my absence, I beg you to make yourselves free of my home. My servants will serve you supper and care for your needs. Do not hesitate to ask for whatever you want.’

‘You are generous,’ Charles said. ‘I myself have a business meeting this evening, but Mary and Kathryn will be company for each other.’

‘Yes, of course we shall,’ Kathryn said and smiled at him. She did not look at Lorenzo, annoyed with him because he had tried to deny her the chance to identify Dickon. ‘We have many little tasks that need our attention.’

‘Then I shall wish you a pleasant evening.’ Lorenzo inclined his head, turned and left them together.

Charles looked at her for a moment in silence, then said, ‘It was a harrowing experience, my dear. Signor Santorini is probably right in thinking that it will upset you.’

‘I do not expect otherwise,’ Kathryn said. ‘Who could remain unaffected by suffering such as he describes? But it was for this that I came with you, Uncle. I can only trust my instincts. If I do not feel it is Dickon, I shall tell you.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘You said that he hardly spoke to you—do you think he might tell me more?’

‘Perhaps he does not remember,’ Charles said. ‘Signor Santorini believes that he has been a slave for many years, perhaps not always in the galleys. He might have been a house slave for a while and sent to the galleys for some misdemeanour. It is the way of things. Youths make amusing slaves for some men, but when they grow older and stronger they become too dangerous to keep in the house. I shall not tell you of the things these youths are forced to endure, for it is not fitting, but it may be that a man would prefer to forget rather than remember such abuses.’

Kathryn’s eyes were wet with tears, for she could guess what he would not say. She brushed her cheek with the back of her hand. ‘How can men be so cruel to one another?’

‘I do not know, Kathryn,’ Charles said with a deep sigh.

‘How can anyone survive such terrible things?’ Kathryn asked. ‘It seems impossible. Yet this man has done so and deserves our kindness, if no more.’

‘Yes, you are right,’ Charles said, looking thoughtful. ‘I must leave you now, Kathryn. Go into your aunt, my dear, and do not dwell on this too much. I think it unlikely the poor wretch I saw today is my son, but I should value your opinion.’

Kathryn kissed his cheek, doing as he bid her.

She spent the evening with Lady Mary, working on her sewing, for they had purchased many materials before they left England and had not had time to complete their wardrobes. One or other of the servants they had brought with them did much of the plain sewing, but they liked to finish the garments with embroidery and ribbons themselves.

Kathryn was not tired when she retired for the night. She felt a restless energy that would not let her sleep, and sat by the open window looking out over the courtyard. The sky was dark, but there were many stars, besides a crescent moon, and she found it fascinating to look at them, for it was possible to see far more here than at home where there was so often clouds to obscure them.

She became aware of someone in the sunken courtyard. A man just standing there alone, staring at the little fountain that played into a lily pool. He was so still that he might have been one of the beautiful statues that adorned his house and garden, and yet she knew him.

What was he thinking? Was he too unable to sleep? He was such a difficult man to understand, and sometimes she wanted to fly at him in a rage, though at others…she liked him. Yes, despite herself she had begun to like him.

Sighing, Kathryn turned from the window as the man moved towards the house. It was time she was in bed, even if she did not sleep, for Aunt Mary wished to go exploring again in the morning. They were to be taken in a gondola through the waterways so that they might see more of the city.

Lorenzo unbuckled his sword, dropping it on to one of the silken couches that he preferred about him, something he had learned to appreciate at the house of Ali Khayr. A wry smile touched his mouth, for his friend had tried hard to convert him to Islam, though as yet he resisted.

‘You are more at home here with us than in the Christian world,’ Ali Khayr had said to him once as they debated religion and culture. ‘And no one hates the Inquisition more than you, Lorenzo—and yet you resist the true faith.’

‘Perhaps there is good reason,’ Lorenzo said and smiled as the other raised his brow. ‘I do not believe in a god—neither yours, nor the Christian variety.’

‘And yet it was by the will of Allah that you came to me and my son was saved,’ Ali Khayr said. ‘Why do you not accept the teachings of the Prophet? It might help to heal your soul and bring you happiness.’

‘I think I am beyond redemption from your god or the god the Inquisition uses as an excuse for torture and murder.’

‘Hush, Lorenzo,’ Ali Khayr told him. ‘What a man may do in the name of religion may not be called murder, though it would not be our way. We use our slaves more kindly, and those that convert to Islam may rise to positions of importance and a life of ease.’

‘You may choose that way,’ Lorenzo said, a glint in his eyes, ‘but others of your people are less tolerant.’

‘You speak of pirates and thugs,’ Ali Khayr said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘There are men of all races in that fraternity, Lorenzo: Christians as well as Muslims. They say that Rachid, your enemy, was from the Western world, though I do not know if it be true.’

‘It is true,’ Lorenzo said. ‘He wears the clothes of Islam and he speaks the language like a native, but a clever man may learn many languages. I have seen him close to, though he did not look at me, for I was beneath him—a beast of labour, no more.’

‘You have good cause to hate him,’ Ali Khayr said. ‘And I do not condemn you for what you do—but I would bring ease to your soul, Lorenzo. If you put your faith in Allah, you might die a warrior’s death safe in the knowledge that you would be born again in Paradise.’

‘And what is Paradise?’ Lorenzo smiled at him. ‘You would have it a place of beautiful women, and wine such as you have never tasted? My business is fine wines and if I cared for it I could have a beautiful houri when I chose.’

Ali had laughed at his realism. ‘You are stubborn, my friend, but I shall win you in the end.’

Now, alone in his private chamber, Lorenzo smiled grimly as he removed the leather bracelets from his wrists, rubbing at the scars that sometimes irritated him beyond bearing—the badges of his endurance and his slavery. The three years he had served as a slave in Rachid’s personal galley had almost ended his life. Had he been taken sick at sea he would no doubt have been thrown overboard, for there was no mercy for slaves who could not work aboard Rachid’s galley. His good fortune had been that they were near the shores of Granada and he had been taken ashore when the men went to buy fruit and water from traders on the waterfront. He had been left where he fell on the beach, left to die because he was no longer strong enough to work.

It was luck, and only luck, that had brought the Venetian galley to that same shore later that day. He had no memory of how it happened, but he had been taken aboard the personal galley of Antonio Santorini and brought back to life by the devotion of that good man—a man who had also suffered pain and torture, but at the hands of the Inquisition.

Lorenzo recalled the time shortly after he was brought to his father’s house. He had been broken in body, though not in spirit, and it was the gentleness, the kindness of a good man who had brought him back to life. Antonio had taken him in, treating him first as an honoured guest and then as a son, adopting him so that he had a name and a family. For Lorenzo did not know his own name. He had no memory of his life before the years he had spent as a galley slave.

This was the secret he so jealously guarded. No one but his father had known of his loss of a past life, and only Michael amongst his friends knew that he had served in Rachid’s galley, though some might guess. There was a look about him, a hardness that came from endurance. For, once he had regained his strength and health, Lorenzo had worked tirelessly to be the best swordsman, the best galley master, the best judge of fine wines. No softness was allowed into his life. On his galleys he lived as his men lived, worked and trained as hard as they did, and he treated them with decency, though never with softness. He was known as a hard man, ruthless in business, but fair. He had repaid Antonio Santorini for his kindness, taking the Venetian’s small fortune and increasing it a thousand-fold.

‘God was kind to me when he sent me you,’ Antonio had told him on his deathbed. ‘I know that you have cause to hate Rachid and all his kind, my son—as I have cause to hate the Inquisition. I was tortured for what they said was blasphemy, though it was merely the debate of learned men who questioned the Bible in some aspects. They would have us all follow their word in blind obedience, my son. Yet the God I believe in is a gentle god and forgives us our sins. I pray that you will let Him into your heart one day, Lorenzo, for only then may you find happiness.’

It was strange, Lorenzo thought, as he prepared for bed, that two good men would convert him to their faith, though they believed in different gods. A wry smile touched his mouth as he buckled on his bracelets again. He wore them to guard his secret, for knowledge was power and he knew that some would use it against him.

As he lay on his couch, he thought for a moment of Kathryn. He had deliberately shut her out of his mind, for she was too dangerous. When he was with her he forgot to be on his guard, he forgot that he had sworn to dedicate his life to destroying evil.

To feel warmth and affection for a woman would weaken him, nibble away at his resolve so that he became soft, forgot his hatred, the hatred that fed his determination to destroy Rachid. He could not love. He had felt something approaching it for Antonio—but a man might feel that kind of affection for another man and remain a man. To love a woman…He could not afford to let her beneath his guard, though at times she tempted him sorely. Had she been a tavern wench he would have bedded her and no doubt forgotten her, but a woman like that was for marrying.

He smiled as he remembered the way her eyes flashed with temper when she was aroused. She gave the appearance of being modest and obedient until something made her betray her true self. The man she loved—her cousin, it seemed—would have been fortunate had pirates not taken him that day.

It was a sad story, but one that Lorenzo had heard often enough through the years. He thought of the poor creature she had insisted on seeing. If he was indeed the man they sought, she would probably devote the rest of her life to him—and that would be a shame.

Lorenzo glared at the ceiling as he lay sleepless, Kathryn invading his thoughts now though he had tried to keep her out. It would be a waste of all that beauty and spirit if she considered it her duty to care for a man who might never be a husband to her.

Kathryn had chosen to receive the former galley slave in the courtyard of Lorenzo’s home. She thought that it might be easier for him than the splendid rooms of the palace, where he might be afraid of what was happening to him. Here in the garden, she could sit on one of the benches and wait in the warmth of the sunshine until he was brought to her.

‘You do not mind if I join you?’

Looking up, she saw Lorenzo and frowned. ‘I had hoped I might be allowed to see him alone, sir. He may be frightened of you and refuse to speak to me.’

‘I have not harmed him, nor would I.’

‘Yet he may fear you.’ Kathryn hesitated. ‘Your expression is sometimes harsh, sir. If I were a slave, I would fear you.’

‘Do you fear me, Kathryn?’

‘No, for I have no reason,’ she replied with a smile. ‘I find you…difficult, for you seem to be not always the same. At times—’ She broke off, for she heard voices and then three men came into the courtyard. One of them was clearly the former galley slave—he was thin almost to the point of emaciation and his hair was grey, straggling about his face. His clothes hung on his body, though they were not rags, and some attempt had been made to keep him clean, his beard neatly trimmed.

Kathryn’s throat closed and she could hardly keep from crying out in distress as she saw him, for pity stirred her and her eyes stung. She got up and moved towards him, a smile upon her lips.

‘Will you not come and sit by me, sir?’ she invited. ‘I would like to hear your story if you will tell it to me.’

His eyes were deep blue, though not quite the colour of Lorenzo’s—or Dickon’s. Kathryn felt the disappointment keenly. A man might change in many respects, but his eyes would surely not change their colour?

For a moment the man seemed confused, as if he feared to believe his eyes, and then he shuffled forward, sitting on the bench she indicated. He stared at her, seeming bewildered, not truly afraid, but wary.

Kathryn sat beside him. She saw that Lorenzo made a dismissive movement of his hand, causing his men to withdraw to a distance, though he still stood closer than she would have liked.

‘There is no need to be afraid,’ she said to the former slave. ‘No one will hurt you. I promise you that, sir. I only wish to hear your story.’

‘I am not afraid,’ he replied. He spoke English, but hesitantly as though the words came hard to him. Yet that was not surprising, for he must have become accustomed to another language, the language of his cruel masters.

‘What is your name?’

‘I do not know,’ he said. ‘I am called dog. I am less than a dog.’

Kathryn swallowed hard, for the tears were close. ‘Do you have no memory of what you were before…?’

‘I am an infidel dog,’ he repeated. ‘I do not think, therefore I am not a man.’

‘That is so wrong, so cruel,’ Kathryn cried and saw him flinch as she put out a hand to touch him. ‘No, no, I would not hurt you.’

‘Am I yours now?’ he asked. ‘Have you bought me?’

‘You are not to be sold.’ Kathryn turned to Lorenzo with a look of appeal in her eyes. ‘Tell him that he is not a slave…please?’

Lorenzo hesitated, then inclined his head. ‘If you recover your strength, you might work for me, but you are not a slave. If you wish to leave here, you are free to go when you wish.’

‘Where would I go?’ The man’s blue eyes were so bewildered that Kathryn spoke without thinking.

‘You may come to Cyprus with my uncle and me,’ she said impulsively. ‘Not as our slave, but as one of our people. When you are well, you may perhaps work in the gardens or some such thing, but you will be paid for what you do.’

‘You would take me with you?’

‘Yes,’ Kathryn promised recklessly. ‘You shall be my friend and help me when you can.’ Her heart caught as she saw tears trickle from the corner of his eyes and she had to wipe away her own tears. She was shocked as the man fell to his knees before her and kissed the toes of her shoes that were peeping from beneath her gown. ‘No, no, you must not do that. You are not a slave. I shall take care of you.’

‘Get up,’ Lorenzo commanded, his voice harsh. ‘You are a man, not a dog. Since you understand English you shall be called William. You will return to the house where you have been cared for until Mistress Rowlands leaves for Cyprus with her uncle and aunt.’ He signalled to his men, who came to help the newly named William to his feet.

Kathryn watched as the former galley slave shuffled off, helped by Lorenzo’s men. She turned to look at him, her eyes bright with anger.

‘Why were you so harsh to him?’

‘He needed to be told, for you had unmanned him with your kindness. He is not used to that, Kathryn. You must give him time to become accustomed to his new life.’

She felt hurt by his accusation. ‘He needs kindness, not harsh words.’

‘I have dealt with many such victims. You do not know what you do, Kathryn. If you treat him too kindly he will become as your lapdog, a pet to beg at your feet for scraps. No man should feel that way. It is better that he hates, for hatred makes a man strong.’

Kathryn’s eyes widened as she looked at him. ‘Is that how you became so strong?’ she asked. ‘Do you hate so much that you cannot feel kindness, Lorenzo?’

It was the first time she had used his given name and she did not know what had prompted her to do it, and yet she felt that somehow she was closer to him, closer to knowing him than she had ever been.

‘I learned from a master,’ he said. ‘What will you do if your uncle refuses to have the man as one of his people?’

Kathryn dropped her eyes, for she did not know. Lord Mountfitchet had come to find his son and she knew that William was not Dickon, felt it instinctively inside her. She had wanted it to be so, but it was not—and yet her heart was filled with pity for the former slave.

‘I do not think he will refuse me,’ she said. ‘Lord Mountfitchet has always been kind and generous to me—especially since we lost Dickon.’

‘You called him Lord Mountfitchet then—is he not your uncle?’

‘We are not blood relations,’ Kathryn said. ‘My father and Uncle Charles are lifelong friends and I would have married Richard Mountfitchet if…’She shook her head sadly. ‘This man is not the one I loved. I would have known it—besides, his eyes are too pale a blue. Dickon had eyes like…’ She looked up and found herself gazing into eyes so blue that they took her breath. ‘He had your eyes, Lorenzo. If I did not know it was impossible, I would say that you were more likely to be Richard Mountfitchet than that poor creature.’

‘I am not the man you seek!’ Lorenzo’s tone was harsh, even angry.

‘I know that. Forgive me,’ she apologised. ‘How could you be a poor galley slave? You have too much pride, too much arrogance.’

To her surprise, Lorenzo threw back his head and laughed. She had not expected him to be amused and was at a loss for words.

‘Nay, Madonna, do not look so bewildered. Should I be angry when you pay me a compliment?’

‘It was not meant as one,’ she came back swiftly.

‘Perhaps not, but I take it as one,’ he said. ‘You think me a Venetian prince, perhaps, born to the life I lead?’

‘Is that not the case?’ she asked and for a moment as she looked deep into his eyes her heart raced. Something in his eyes made her think that he would take her in his arms and kiss her, and her heart leapt with sudden excitement. Her breath caught, her eyes opening wider as she looked up into his face.

‘It might be—and then again it might not,’ Lorenzo told her, a smile of mockery in his eyes now. His laughter had been genuine, but this was meant to put her in her place. ‘You will not gain my secret so easily, Kathryn.’

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