Twice Upon Time ~ Chapters 1-3

This month, I am excited to introduce my time travel/time slip romance Twice Upon Time on Amazon/Kindle Unlimited. Read the first three chapters of this time-slip historical romance set in Florence, Italy.

Chapter One

London

February 1888

Sarah Longford slept in her cold, shabby room above a Covent Garden cookshop and dreamt of hot, sunny Italy.

***

The azure sea, so calm that it seemed like a painting, stretched alongside the flat, sandy beach. Then two riders burst from the stand of umbrella pines at a wild gallop, shattering the stillness.

Bianca, her unbound black hair streaming behind her like a banner, her scarlet dress a dazzling contrast to her mount’s white coat, glanced over her shoulder at Alessio with a smile. His face dark with annoyance and the promise of passion, she saw him spur his horse forward, narrowing the gap between them.

Vexed that she was going to lose the race, Bianca decided to change the game. She sharply reined in her mount and slipped down to the sand. She watched Alessio veer around toward her, his black clothing blending with the glossy black hide of his stallion so that the two together looked like one pagan, fabulously virile animal.

He laughed as he sprang down even before his mount had stopped. “What now, madonna? I would not think that you would give up the race so easily.”

Hiding her annoyance at his words, she curved her lips in a smile perfectly calculated to provoke, to arouse. “Who says that I have given up?“

Alessio reached for her, his hands greedy, his eyes turbulent. “Strega. You are a witch, Bianca.” His hands slid up from her shoulders and into her hair. As they fisted in the wind-tossed strands, he lowered his mouth to hers.

Despite the sultry invitation in her gaze, she turned her head aside. “No.”

“Why so coy today, madonna?” he demanded.

“Let me go, Alessio.” His ruthless touch was just short of painful—and yet she found that it aroused her. Aroused her so much that she needed distance lest she take what he offered too quickly. With no compunctions, she fired off her most powerful weapon. “Do you forget that I belong to your brother?”

“No.” His eyes flashed. “You are betrothed to my brother. But you belong to me.”

“Indeed?”

Alessio felt his fury, which Bianca seemed to provoke so effortlessly, rise another notch. There was no love lost between Ugo and himself, but did a man dishonor his own flesh and blood for a woman, no matter how desirable?

“You know as well as I that you belonged to me long before I touched you for the first time.” He paused. “Do you remember?” he asked softly.

Her mouth sullen, Bianca remained silent. Because her pride demanded it, she kept her gaze steady on his.

“Do you remember how you looked at me from the tribunal after the tournament.” His blood heated at the memory. “You looked at me, and we both knew that you were mine as if we were already lovers.”

He cupped her head and tilted her face toward his. “Open for me now, Bianca,” he murmured, “and let me kiss you.”

His hands were gentle where they had been rough before. Drawing in a deep breath, his scent—horseflesh and leather and aroused male—flowed into her, and her senses began to swim. Before she lost herself to the moment and surrendered to his strength, she seized control and took Alessio’s mouth.

She kept her eyes open and on his as she teased his tongue with erotic invitation. He remained still, but his eyes were as keen as those of a hunter who is watching his prey, waiting for the moment to strike. Then she retreated and, in a final siren’s call, brushed her open mouth against his. When she let her head fall back in ostensible surrender, triumph was in her eyes.

Slowly, Alessio lowered his mouth to hers, half-inch by half-inch. His lips hovered over hers then descended until they were separated by no more than a breath. And still, he did not take. Instead, he slid his hands down, down and filled them with her breasts.

For a moment, Bianca stopped breathing with the sheer pleasure of his touch that she felt as acutely as if she were naked beneath it. Because she could not speak, she moaned.

Then, knowing that now they were both the vanquished, both the victors, their lips met, and they feasted on each other until they were drunk with the pleasure of it. When they pulled apart, their breath was ragged, their nerves humming.

“And you dare to say that you do not belong to me?”

His breath was hot on her face, and Bianca leaned back, grasping for control of her overriding need to reach for Alessio again. And to take. To take everything. And give it.

“Answer me, damn you.”

She felt his aroused body press against her, and she was hungry for him. She found herself wanting him so badly that her body ached with the wanting. It would be so easy to give in to his demands, and she shifted her hips, pressing against him more fully.

His hands slipped down to lift her up against him, and he nipped at her ear. “Now, Bianca.” His hands pulled up her gown, crushing the satin.

“No!” Raising both hands, she shoved him back. Yes, she wanted him, but even more, she wanted the wealth and power that marriage to Ugo was offering her.

“No.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I cannot do this.”

“You dare to deny it?”

“What would you have me do? Break a betrothal signed and sealed?”

“A betrothal you should never have agreed to.” His voice carried both anger and pain. “You knew that we belonged together.” He gripped her shoulders and pulled her against him. “You knew.”

“I had no choice. If I had not signed, my father would have placed the quill in my hand and forced me.”

Alessio looked into her eyes for a long time before he spoke. “Even if you had had a choice, you would have agreed to this marriage.”

Bianca stared back at him in stubborn silence.

“Would you not?” he shouted. He let her go so suddenly, that she stumbled.

Her eyes on his, she tilted up her chin in response.

“So.” Alessio’s beautiful mouth curled in contempt. “For wealth and power, you are willing to let yourself be ridden by a man deformed in body and spirit?”

“You speak so of your brother?” She tossed her hair over her shoulder, hiding her shiver.

“I speak the truth whether I speak of my brother or a stranger.” His eyes, the color of the sea behind him, turned dull and gray as they rested on her. “And you will marry him.”

“Yes, I will marry him.”

He looked away, but she reached up and, cupping his chin in her hand, moved his head until their eyes met again. “The first night will be his, but then—” She stretched upward to brush her mouth over his.

“Damn you! Do you think I will be satisfied with my brother’s leavings?” He shoved her away, his eyes hot. “Come, madonna. It is time we went back.”

Bianca lowered her gaze as they returned to their mounts. But not because she felt shame. No, she was triumphant. She had seen the heat in his eyes, and she knew he would be back. He would be hers. And then she would have everything she wanted.

***

Sarah sat up with a cry. She had dreamt this dream so many times. This dream and many others. She had experienced the dreams from afar as one experiences a painting in a museum. But tonight, she had been there. The breeze had brushed over her skin. The smell of the sea had teased her nostrils. She had felt all their emotions, his and hers. It was as if she was Bianca.

These dreams had been part of her life for so long; no, she corrected, they had been her life. She did not know why they came to her—these fantastic, erotic dreams full of heat and color that were everything her life was not. But she needed to discover what bound her to these two people so tightly. She needed to know.

The cold in the dingy, little room had her shivering. With the generous bequest she had received from old Mrs. Sheridan, whose companion she had been for so many years, she could have afforded better lodgings. But she had all her money set aside for the trip to Italy she had longed for her entire life. Sarah lay down again and pulled the covers up to her chin. Tomorrow, she reminded herself, as excitement fluttered through her. Tomorrow, she would begin her journey to find out the story behind her dreams. Tomorrow, she would be on the way to Florence. Perhaps there was an answer waiting for her there.

Closing her eyes against the drabness around her, Sarah willed herself back to sleep, hoping that perchance she would dream.

Chapter Two

Florence, Italy

February 1888

Sarah had not dreamt since she had come to Florence. For as long as she could remember, she had lived for the dreams of this city and her unhappy lovers who visited her night upon night. Now that she was here, they eluded her.

By day, too, the Florence of her dreams evaded her.

With increasing desperation, she tried to find it behind the curtain of fog and rain. Where was the Florence of a sunlight so bright it hurt your eyes? Where was the Florence of a scorching heat that made the blood run quick and ready for passion?

She shivered in the early twilight as the rain trickled off the straight brim of her dark brown hat and down the collar of her coat. Of course, she had known—in her mind—that winter in Florence could be as miserable as any foggy, chill day in London. But in a corner of her heart, she had expected—and hungered for—the Florence of her dreams.

She had seen nothing of the churches, the museums, the historical places she had marked in the margins of her frayed guidebook with her careful handwriting. Instead, she wandered the damp, cold streets searching, searching.

Because her sensible, frugal nature needed an excuse, she had told herself that it was her heritage she was searching for. The heritage of the feckless, handsome musician who had seduced her mother and who had appeared at odd times throughout her childhood, just long enough to make a shy, serious child adore him for the brief flash of color he brought to a dull, gray life.

But deep inside, she knew that the dreams had brought her here. No, not merely brought, compelled. Why else would she have spent a good portion of the small inheritance she had unexpectedly received to come here when she could have used the money to live a modest life at home? The compulsion to journey to Italy had been so strong that she had not even been able to wait until spring.

Looking around her, she saw that she had strayed farther than planned from the small, shabby pensione just around the corner from the church where Dante had watched and worshiped his Beatrice. Now, she realized with a start, she was lost in the rabbit warren of streets and alleyways close to the Arno River.

Quickening her steps, Sarah turned down another narrow street and then another. But all she found at the end was yet another dark bylane lit only by the meager light that spilled out of the open door of some artisan’s studio.

Sporadically, she heard voices from behind doors and shuttered windows, but instead of reassuring her, the muffled sounds made the deserted street even more eerie. A burst of laughter somewhere behind her echoed the stone walls. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold slithered up her spine but refusing to give in to the sudden blind desire to run, she kept to her brisk, even pace.

The austere houses, black with dampness, rose like the sheer walls of a canyon on either side of her. Ribbons of fog drifted down between them, blurring the contours, cloaking the uneven cobblestones. She gasped when the toe of her boot struck something metallic and sent it clattering. An answering screech had her stopping so suddenly that her feet almost slipped out from under her. Her hand pressed against her racing heart, she watched a cat’s black tail swish once and then disappear into the mist.

She wanted to scoff at herself, but the sound that emerged from her throat was more a sob than laughter. Her heartbeat was just starting to slow when the creak of a door opening behind her sent it galloping again. Annoyance with her own fear had her turning toward the rectangle of yellowish light, as she reminded herself that she was a sensible, independent Englishwoman who ran neither from black cats nor creaking doors.

Signora?”

Sarah looked at the tall man silhouetted in the doorway of what was—judging from the smell of varnish and rosin and the melancholy sound of a bow being drawn across strings—apparently a violin-maker’s shop. The man’s face was half in shadow, but the chiseled features and the eyes of a blue so bright, so startling that even the somber light could not mask it, looked so familiar that she found herself taking a step closer toward him.

She should continue on her way, she told herself. She knew better than to speak to strange men on a dark street. But instead of turning away, Sarah stood there, her breath uneven, barely aware of the wetness seeping into her boots.

Through the mist that rose like whitish smoke, she peered at the perfect profile, the sensual mouth. It was the face, she thought, as her heart took off on another race. The face that night for night sought her out in her dreams. No. She shook her head. That had to be an illusion. Or if it was not, then perhaps she was dreaming now.

“May I help you, signora?” The man moved forward, his mouth tilting in a charming smile that was echoed in his eyes. “Are you lost?”

Sarah opened her mouth to tell him that she did not need his help, that she was not lost, but then he stepped to the side, making room for her to enter the shop.

Prego.” His hand tracing a gesture of welcome, he bowed. “Come in.”

His graceful bow seemed meant for her personally with nothing of the obsequiousness of a tradesman seeking custom and, her natural wariness forgotten, Sarah found herself following his invitation.

Even though the warmth of the stove that stood in a corner of the small, high-ceilinged room beckoned, she remained standing near the door. Now, in the light, she could see the man clearly. No, she thought with something akin to disappointment. It was not the same face that haunted her dreams. But because it was a beautiful face nevertheless, she found herself unable to take her eyes away from it.

“Are you English?”

There was laughter in his eyes and, embarrassed that she had been caught staring, Sarah looked away and concentrated on brushing the raindrops off her coat, suddenly, painfully aware of how threadbare the fabric was. Just as she was aware that the man in front of her looked like a young god, and she was a plain, thirty-five-year-old spinster.

“Yes, I’m English,” she answered in the slow, careful Italian she had learned in the stolen hours over the years. “How did you know?”

The sound of his laughter, as melodic as a song, rippled over her skin.

“Only the English come to Firenze in the winter.”

“Who—who are you?” she stammered, caught in his eyes the color of the sunlit sea.

“Guido Mercurio.” He bowed again. “At your service.”

“Like Mercury, the messenger of the gods?”

“Exactly.” He smiled. “Come. Sit down and tell me your name.”

She found herself moving toward a sofa as if something were propelling her and lowered herself onto the worn velvet. “Sarah Longford,” she managed. “My name is Sarah Longford.”

Benvenuta, Sarah Longford.” On his lips, her prosaic name seemed to acquire a number of extra vowels, making it sound like poetry or music.

“Here, drink this.” He pressed a silver cup filled with wine into her hands and sat down opposite her in a straight-backed chair. “Drink.”

She wanted to tell him that she could not possibly drink this. She was already dizzy. And, besides, proper Englishwomen did not drink wine with strangers who reminded them of their dreams. But then she found herself taking a swallow of the rich red wine. It tasted of the sun, and she drank again.

“Now tell me, Sarah Longford, where were you going?” He touched a matching silver cup to hers and drank as well. “You were looking for something.”

The matter-of-fact statement had no inflection of a question, and her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

“I can see it in your eyes.” He sent her an oddly sweet smile. “I will help you find it.” Reaching out, he covered her hand with his. “I will show you.”

Sarah felt a small flash of excitement. As she looked down at his olive-skinned, elegant hand on her pale one, she allowed herself, for a moment, to take pleasure in the feeling of his fingers on her skin.

Was this how her father had seduced her mother? With wine and Italian words that were like music?

“I have to go.” She started to rise because she had felt the passion that slumbered inside her stir, like the first, barely audible rumbling of a volcano about to erupt.

“Stay and drink your wine, ?”

His melodious voice had Sarah sitting down again and taking a swallow of wine and then another. Leaning back against the worn red velvet, she sipped her wine, and let her gaze wander around the small, windowless shop, crammed full of string instruments in various stages of disrepair. It was then that she saw the lute.

It was obviously an old instrument, the red and blue decorations painted on its pear-shaped body faded to just a hint of color. It hung from the wall on a braided leather strap cracked with time.

Sarah rose and went toward it. “May I touch it?” Even before she heard his affirmative answer, she was running her fingers along the smooth wood. Her fingertips tingled as she stroked the catgut strings. Raising her head, she smiled across the room. “My father brought me a lute once. He put it into my hands, and I began to play it.” She laughed softly as she remembered. “I closed my eyes and saw myself wearing a rich amber-colored gown and sitting on a window ledge, playing my lute. It was like a miracle.”

When she had hung the lute back on the wall, she returned to the sofa but did not sit down. “I have to go now.” She linked her fingers tightly.

.” Guido stood and ran his knuckles lightly over her fingers. “I will accompany you.”

“Please, do not inconvenience yourself,” Sarah protested.

He opened the door and a wisp of mist swirled in, dissipating in the warmth of the room. It was a symbol, Sarah thought. A symbol for an hour she had spent. For a precious gift she had been given. She smiled, and together, they stepped outside.

It had grown completely dark while she had been in the shop, but the rain had stopped. They did not speak as they walked through the narrow streets, but it was an easy, comfortable silence.

They turned down a street barely wider than an alleyway and found their way blocked by a large wagon piled high with goods. A thin, tall man called out instructions as the sailcloth covering was thrown back to reveal a jumble of furniture, paintings, and crates.

In the light of torches, which had been placed in round metal holders on the walls of a building, several burly men silently began unloading the wagon. The only sound was the sharp, raspy voice of the gaunt, sallow man as he moved from one side to the other, giving orders.

The flames of the torches created stunning contrasts of brightness and shadow, making an ordinary scene look like a Caravaggio painting. How different the scene would have been, Sarah mused, viewed by the pale, demure light of London gas lanterns.

Intrigued, Sarah approached the wagon, her hand outstretched to touch. Then she stopped like a well-behaved child and looked over her shoulder at her companion.

“Go ahead.” Guido smiled and gave her a nod of encouragement.

Excitement gripping her, Sarah took a step forward and then another.

Buona fortuna,” Guido whispered. “Good luck.” He watched her for a moment longer before he stepped back into the mist.

A corner of a marble-faced cabinet, its surface inlaid with lapis lazuli, jasper, and malachite in a wondrous pattern of flowers and birds, peeked over the backboard of the wagon. Sarah tugged off her glove and reached out to run her fingers over it.

The cold surface seemed to warm beneath her touch. Then, as if the cabinet’s surface had become a window, she saw it standing in a large, high-ceilinged room. A woman in a dress of emerald-colored velvet bent over it, and as she reached for one of its many drawers, Sarah found that she knew exactly which one she would reach for. The woman’s long black hair spilled forward to hide her face. Bianca, Sarah realized. This was Bianca.

Buona sera, signora.”

The vision disappeared at the sound of the gravelly voice. Disoriented, Sarah focused her gaze on the man who was scrutinizing her. He inclined his head and smiled, revealing a set of large teeth that reminded Sarah of yellowed piano keys.

Buona sera.” She looked back at the cabinet, half-expecting to see the vision again. But all she saw was the marble surface with its lovely pattern. “You have some very beautiful things here.”

Sì, sì. Look at what you will.” He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “In a few moments, everything will be unloaded, and you can look at your leisure.” He gestured toward the shop. “I make a good price for you. An excellent price.”

“Oh, I do not want to buy anything.” Regretfully, Sarah retreated a step although she longed to touch the cabinet again and see if she could summon the vision back.

“They all say that.” He laughed and raised his bony shoulders in a shrug. “Then they look, and they buy.”

Wanting to share her discovery with Guido, Sarah turned, but all she saw was swirling mist made luminous by the flames of the torches.

“Mercurio?” she called. “Guido Mercurio, where are you?” She turned around in a circle, once and then again, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Signore,” she called out to the owner of the shop. “Did you see where the man who was with me went?”

“Man?” He gave her a curious look. “I saw no man.”

Sarah saw the odd look the shop owner gave her. Had the encounter with the man called Guido Mercurio been a figment of her imagination? Or a vision, like the image she had seen when she touched the cabinet?

Was she going mad? Was all this a dream? Would she wake up and find herself back in London in the wretched little room above a cookshop?

She looked over her shoulder, but all she saw was the incandescent mist enveloping her, closing in on her. Unnerved, she turned to run, but then she looked back one last time. The dull gleam of metal distracted her, and she made a sound of delight at the sight of a small wooden chest—a casket with a vaulted lid and a pattern of metal scrollwork over faded red velvet. As they carried it inside, she wondered if it was a treasure coffer that had once contained strings of pearls or precious stones or gold florins.

The wagon emptied, and she felt an agitation grip her. There was something there, something she could not define, something important. But it was slipping away from her. If she did not reach out for it, it would be gone.

Her breathing uneven, her nerves vibrated like taut strings plucked by a rough hand as she watched the empty wagon move down the alleyway and be swallowed by the mist. She could go now, she thought. She could find her way back to her pensione where the fire in the common room would be burning brightly. Where she could have some civilized, boring conversation with the vicar from Blackpool and his wife.

The owner of the shop stood in the door, watching her. This time he said nothing but merely stepped back until he stood in the shadows of the dim interior.

Without knowing how or why, Sarah understood that she was being given a choice. Slowly, she moved toward the shop. Then she felt the power. Something was there, waiting for her inside the shadowy shop.

For the second time that evening, she stepped over a threshold.

Chapter Three

The shop smelled of petroleum oil and old dust. It must have already been full before the wagon had been unloaded, Sarah thought. Now, crates and boxes were heaped one on top of the other, tables stood on cabinets, chests were piled upon chests, leaving passageways between the stacks just wide enough to squeeze through.

Her heart pumping as if she had run a race, she moved forward, drawn into the labyrinth of furniture and bric-a-brac like a hapless wanderer being sucked into quicksand.

“All this once belonged to the Cornaro family.”

“What?” Sarah jumped at the man’s words, her reflexive movement jarring a pile of furniture making it wobble dangerously. “Cornaro?” she whispered. “Did you say Cornaro?”

. Some distant relation in France ordered everything sold after the last of the Cornaros threw himself from the top floor of his palazzo.” He smiled grimly. “The Cornaro curse. Now it is finally over.”

“Curse?” Sarah felt her mouth go dry.

“For centuries, violent death has afflicted every generation. They were rich and powerful, but the curse was in their blood and drove them to be vicious to others and to themselves.”

The man’s lugubrious voice grew animated, as if the bloodthirsty tale gave him pleasure. “The curse began long ago when two brothers wanted the same woman and spilled blood over her.”

Two brothers and one woman! Sarah opened her mouth to ask if their names had been Alessio and Ugo. If they had loved a woman named Bianca. But no sound emerged.

No, she thought wildly, it could not be. It was beyond all reason that the dreams that had visited her all her life had a basis in fact. Terror flashed through her like lightning.

And if it was indeed so? Was this why she had been compelled to come to Florence? Was this why she had been led here, to this street, to this shop, at this very hour?

The questions careened through her mind like stampeding horses, making her dizzy. The world around her spun faster and faster until it was only a blur. But in her mind was a perfectly clear image of the lovers whose passionate lives she knew better than her own—perhaps because she had but a ghost of a life herself.

“The beautiful Bianca Merisi sowed strife between two Cornaro brothers.”

The man’s voice snapped her out of the vertigo as effectively as if he had slapped her.

“She married Ugo, but she took his brother Alessio as her lover. Ugo found them together—”

“No!” Sarah raised her hands to block her ears although she knew the words that were coming.

“—and butchered them with Alessio’s own dagger.”

Too late. Hearing the words spoken so baldly in the shabby shop was proof that her dreams were based in reality. The knowledge settled around her heart like a lead weight.

“Are you all right?” The man bent down to her and peered into her face. “Here, sit down.”

He shoved a half-open crate that stood on the lid of a chest to the side and helped Sarah sit. “I will get you something to drink.”

Still stunned, she rubbed the heel of her hand against her chest, as if she could ease the weight there of what she had heard. But had she not known that? Had she not seen it in her dreams? Her eyes filled and, as the tears spilled down her cheeks, she rocked back and forth and mourned.

Time passed—she could not tell if it was minutes or hours. When the tears were spent, she leaned, exhausted, against the crate that stood next to her.

Its top was partially pried open and, among the pile of small objects wrapped in newspapers and rags, a twinkle of color caught her eye. Reaching inside the crate, she picked up a bellied jar made of cobalt-blue Venetian glass, its stopper shaped like an open fan, and held it in the palm of her hand. Who had held it as she was holding it now? What had it contained? Perfume? A love potion? Poison?

Even as the questions formed in her mind, her own reflection on the dark blue surface dimmed and reformed into the image of another woman, her lovely face framed by a cloud of dark curls, lifting away the fan-shaped stopper and pouring a liquid into a bowl. As the image faded, Sarah smelled the sweet fragrance of jasmine.

Her fingers trembled lightly as she fingered the stopper. She tried to remove it, but the years had glued it fast. Curiosity driving her, Sarah plucked a pin from her hat. Carefully, she scratched at the stopper until it loosened, and she was able to work it out. Resolutely, she brought the open jar to her nose and took a deep breath.

When she breathed in the faint scent of jasmine, she cried out softly, and her fingers slackened. The jar tipped over and rolled off her hand. Horrified, she watched helplessly as it fell to the floor and shattered.

Signora?”

Her head snapped up as she heard the steps of the owner returning. Oh, God, she thought, as panic rushed through her. What had she done? She would never be able to pay for a piece like this that was surely priceless. Her fingers trembling, she tore off her hat and swept the shards into it with the hem of her coat.

She would hide, she thought. Hide until the man was gone, and then she would slip away. Slip away and pretend this whole evening had been an illusion. Perhaps with time, she would come to believe it.

Even as the thoughts tumbled chaotically through her brain, she grabbed the oil lamp and rushed blindly toward the back of the shop.

Signora?

Just as she heard him call out again, she saw a half-open door. Pushing it open, she slipped inside the room and pressed her back against the wall.

The owner called out again. There was a crash, followed by pungent swearing and a stream of invective about foreign women who acted like lunatics when they heard an interesting story.

Then she heard a door slam, the grate of a key turning in a lock, and she knew that she was alone. Counting the minutes, she waited. When she was sure he would not return, she took the lamp and crept back through the passageway.

The door was locked. Sarah suppressed a shiver as she began to search for a spare key. She found a key and then another and another, but none of them fit the rusty old lock on the door. When she finally capitulated, she brushed aside the fear that was jarring her nerves.

Her gaze fell on the unusual casket with its metal scrollwork and fabric, and her resignation gave way to a flurry of excitement. She ran a cautious finger over the ruby-colored velvet. It had once been richly patterned, but the years had thinned the nap of the fabric so that it was almost bald in places.

Because no image rushed at her, she bravely tilted up the vaulted lid. Telling herself that she had no right to be disappointed that the casket was empty, she dipped her hands inside and ran her fingers over the red velvet lining.

Her fingers began to tingle and, alarm rippling through her, she stared down at her thin, chapped hands. The image blurred and focused again on hands that were soft and white and scented with jasmine. Hands that were plunged into a fabulous profusion of jewels.

A chain of square-cut sapphires was carelessly tossed aside. A collar of rubies and diamonds followed. Nimble, capricious fingers plucked out a long rope of milky pearls the size of mulberries. Again, the image shifted, and Sarah saw a figure in a fine white nightdress. The pearls dripping from one hand like oversized drops of water, the woman turned toward a man who stood in the shadows.

The image receded, and Sarah found herself staring down at her own hands again. She was going mad, she thought, as the memory of a dream that could only be the continuation of the image she had just seen played before her closed eyes. Bianca taking Alessio’s hand and leading him from the shadows to the bed with its crimson canopy and curtains. Bianca twisting the rope of pearls around his hands like a manacle before they tumbled onto the bed.

She opened her eyes, unsure of what she would see. Where she would find herself. When she saw that she was in the grimy antique shop filled to the eaves with the rubble of generations of Cornaros, she was not sure whether to be relieved or terrified.

Gingerly, she snapped the lid of the casket shut. Then, drained of all energy, she propped her hands against the desk. Her knees were starting to buckle, and she gripped the outer edges of the desk to steady herself.

A soft click and the light scrape of wood sliding against wood had her heart racing again. Looking down, she saw that a shallow compartment above the center drawer had sprung open. A thin portfolio lay there, the leather cracked with age, its once rich color bleached to the faded green of winter grass.

Instinctively, she reached out for it but pulled her hand back at the last moment, afraid of what new image would lie in store for her. Still, her fingers itched to touch it.

Then carefully, with only the very tips of her fingers, she picked it up and undid the crumbling ribbon. The top sheet of thick vellum was yellowed with age, but the black ink was still dark and legible. She bent closer and began to read.

Bianca, vita della mia vita, cuore del mio cuore. Bianca, life of my life, heart of my heart.

Sarah closed her eyes as the words struck a chord within her that reverberated like a sweet melody she had heard before. Cautiously holding the portfolio, she picked up the lamp and returned to the back room. She had been blinded by fear when she had hidden there before. Now she saw that most of the room was taken up by a large bed, its canopy awry, the curtains of crimson velvet missing on one side, the horsehair stuffing spilling out of the vandalized mattress.

Horror wound through her, and Sarah retreated a step and then another and another until she collided with the door. She wanted to close her eyes, to look away, but she could not.

This was the bed she had seen so many times in her dreams. The bed where Bianca had given her virginity to the husband who repulsed her with his malformed body and his cruelty. The bed where she had sought and found solace and passion with her husband’s brother. The bed where … the slashes in the mattress had come from Alessio’s dagger wielded by Ugo in his rage fueled by hatred and vengeance.

Her initial reaction was to flee. But stubbornness and pride kept her where she stood. No, she thought, she would not run. Perhaps this bed was the key to all the bewildering, enigmatic things that had happened to her tonight. The key and the ultimate test of her courage.

As if she were performing a ritual, she placed portfolio and lamp on a heavy carved chair and pushed it next to the bed. Then, surrendering herself to whatever lay in store for her, she sat down on the mattress and waited for her heart to begin to race, for her breath to grow ragged, for a bombardment of images.

But there were none of it. Instead, she felt odd vibrations that transferred themselves to her nerve endings, to her heartstrings. Yes, she felt the violence. Yes, she felt the passion. But, most overwhelmingly, she felt the love.

Reaching for the portfolio, she turned up the wick of the lamp and began to read the letters and poems of a man who had loved beyond all measure, beyond all reason.

The lamp was beginning to flicker by the time she was done. Her cheeks damp with tears, she closed the portfolio and set it aside. When Alessio had loved her so ardently, so profoundly, how could Bianca not have responded in kind? How could she have craved wealth and power more? How could she not have loved enough? Sarah felt Bianca’s tangled web of emotions stirring restlessly in her own heart.

The flame of the lamp shot up one more time and sputtered out, but Sarah felt no fear. No, she welcomed the darkness. Unspeakably weary, she lay down on the bed. Her eyes closed, and she drifted into sleep.

And for the first time since she had been in Florence, she dreamt.

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Across Time ~ Chapters 1-3

Plummeted through time from one dangerous world to another, a brave woman may hold the power to change history … but what if she fails?

It is 1794, and Countess Adrienne de Beaufort is smuggling French aristocrats to England to save them from the guillotine. In a moment of mortal danger, fate plunges her across time to 1499 Siena. Adrienne is stunned to find herself inhabiting the body of her ancestress Isabella, a woman for whom deceit and treachery are a way of life. And she is about to come face to face with Isabella’s new husband, Alessandro di Montefiore, the heir to the Dukedom of Siena, on their wedding night.

Alessandro expects duplicity and betrayal from his beautiful new wife. Why then is he seduced by the innocence in her eyes? Why then does he find himself prepared to take unimaginable risks because her spirit touches his heart?

As Adrienne navigates Isabella’s life, her mind and her soul remain her own. She fights to overcome the darkness of Isabella’s story, knowing that only she can prevent Alessandro’s betrayal and death. Fearlessly, she risks her heart, her soul, and her life to save the man she loves.

Chapter One

Normandy, France, March 1794

Although the March sun, which was beginning to burn through the morning mist, was warm on the back of Adrienne’s neck, she could not shake the chill a long, sleepless night had settled in her very bones. Her hands deep in the pockets of the ragged breeches one of the stable boys had left behind, she lingered along the path, loathe to return to the château, where the walls seemed to echo and close in on her now that the last servants had gone.

Her mission had gone well, but despite the relief, her nerves were still jangling. Every time she stood on the beach with the cold surf swirling around her feet and watched old Père Duroc’s fishing boat with its human cargo push out into the Channel, she waited for the fear for their safety that curled in the pit of her stomach to disappear, but it never did.

Rolling her shoulders against the band of tension, she haphazardly kicked at the gravel gathered in clumps from the rainstorm two days ago. Her generous mouth curved in a small, sad smile as she remembered how the path had looked when it had been tidily raked with that slightly wavy pattern her mother had insisted on. She allowed herself a small sigh at the memory, blinking her eyes furiously at the tears that threatened.

A faint sound had her head snapping up. Her dark eyes narrowed, she turned around slowly. But all she saw were the still bare bushes and trees in the overgrown, neglected park.

Then she heard the sound again. Even before her tired brain had consciously identified it as the whimper of a child, she began to run. Skidding to a stop near the jungle the rose garden had become, she called out softly, but there was no answer. Ignoring the thorny branches that caught at her shirt, she ducked under the broken trellis, moving quickly. So quickly that had not the child cried out again, she would have walked right past the spot.

Pivoting, Adrienne pushed aside the thick almost waist-high weeds that had withstood the winter. A young woman, her thin face streaked with dirt, crouched in the shelter of the high grass. With both arms, she pressed a small child to her chest.

“Please, don’t hurt my child,” she pleaded, but her eyes were fierce and determined. “You can do whatever you want with me, but don’t hurt my child.”

Adrienne dropped down to her knees so that she was eye to eye with the woman. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “No one will hurt you here.”

The woman’s eyes filled with tears and overflowed. The soft, gentle voice seemed to sap the remainder of her strength. “Aren’t you one of them?” she whispered, her eyes darting back and forth. “They saw me on the road. I’m sure they saw me.”

“Who saw you?”

“The men.” She swallowed convulsively. “The men who followed me from Paris.” The woman’s eyes blurred, and she stared past Adrienne’s shoulder. “The men who killed my husband.” She focused her gaze again, and her shoulders seemed to straighten a bit with a remainder of pride. “I am Charlotte de Lambert. Jean de Lambert was my husband.”

Adrienne recognized the name of the nobleman who had tried to steal the little Dauphin away from his jailers and had paid for his courage with his life. “I will help you.”

“Who are you?” she managed.

“I am Adrienne de Beaufort.”

Realizing that she was at the destination she had almost lost hope of reaching, the woman’s shoulders slumped, and she lowered her face to her child’s hair, the last of her energy gone.

Adrienne reached out to touch the woman’s shoulder. “Did someone send you to me?”

The woman raised her head and nodded, unable to speak through the tears that ran down her face.

The ache between her shoulders forgotten, Adrienne slid her arm around the woman and helped her rise. “Come on, let’s get the two of you to the château.”

They were almost there when Adrienne heard the baying of the dogs.

Her stomach knotted, but her hands were steady as she guided the woman toward the château, pulling her along to speed their steps. Once inside, she took the time to lock the heavy oaken door behind her.

Her ears trained on the sound of the dogs, she tried to gauge how far away they were. She would manage, she told herself. It would be close, but she would manage.

Quickly, softly, although there was no one to hear her, she spoke to the woman. “I shall hide you in a secret chamber. You’ll be safe there until I can come for you.”

The woman stopped. “Oh, God, please no. Don’t make me go into some dark, closed place.” Her fingers bit into Adrienne’s arm. “I couldn’t stand that.”

But Adrienne pulled her on. “There are candles there,” she soothed. “You’ll be all right.” She tried to smile, although the baying of the dogs was closer. “There’s food there, too, and water. You can rest. And I will come for you as soon as I can.”

The woman began to cry softly, and the child, too, began to whimper. Adrienne would have wanted to stop and comfort them, but she knew she could not spare even a moment.

Pulling them through the library, she slipped inside the adjacent small study. Letting the woman go, she rushed forward. Adrienne heard her slip to the floor, but she could not afford to stop, even when the child let out a wail.

Her breathing was uneven, but she forced her hands to be steady as she reached the painting that guarded the entry to the chamber. As always, she looked into the eyes of her ancestress, Isabella di Montefiore. They looked back at her, cool, distant, and imperious, but Adrienne felt the habitual jolt of intimacy. The cool eyes had never fooled her. Not even before she’d read Isabella’s journals and become privy to the passions and secrets Isabella had shared with no one.

She placed both hands against the inside edges of the ornate gilt frame and, although her racing heart tempted her to hurry, she carefully slid her hands toward the center of the portrait. When she felt first one barely detectible bump beneath the canvas and then the other, she pressed down and then stood back to let the painting spring away from the wall on its well-concealed hinges to reveal a small door.

She swiveled and gestured to the woman. “Come quickly. There is no time to lose.”

The woman shook her head wildly, her eyes huge and frightened.

Adrienne ran back to her, and although she hated herself for her roughness, she half pulled, half pushed the woman toward the chamber. Once inside, she took time she could ill afford to light a candle. Gripping the woman by the shoulders, she shook her gently. “You’ll be all right here. Do you understand?”

The woman’s crying had subsided a little, and she managed a shaky nod.

Adrienne smiled and laid her hand against the woman’s cheek. Her heart heavy, she slipped out of the chamber, closing the door behind her.

She ran back through the rooms. As she took the stairs two at a time, she was already pulling her shirt over her head.

Tossing shirt, breeches, and boots into an armoire, she slipped into a simple gown with more speed than elegance. She was still barefoot when she heard the pounding at the front door.

Adrienne opened her window and leaned outside. “Who’s there?” she called loudly, although she knew full well that her uninvited, unwelcome visitor could only be Marcel Fabien. Her lips curled with contempt. Fabien. She had not forgotten that he had worn Beaufort livery. Just as she had not forgotten that her father had threatened to take a whip to him before he had thrown him out of the château for abusing one of the maids. And now Fabien preached the revolution, but he wore lace at his cuffs and had appropriated the Comte de Louvelle’s carriage and his hunting dogs after he had intrigued his way to becoming chairman of the Committee of Public Safety in Calais.

A large, thickset man whom Adrienne recognized as one of Fabien’s thugs appeared around the corner of the château. “Citizen Fabien has come to speak with you, Citizeness Beaufort,” he barked up at her, obviously displeased that he had to crane his neck upward.

“I shall be down in a moment.” Adrienne shut the window loudly.

Picking up a shawl, she went down the stairs as slowly as she dared. Perhaps it was petty, she thought, but that small gesture of defiance sweetened the bitterness of being at Fabien’s mercy.

When she opened the door, Fabien stood on the threshold, backed by several of his men loitering on the stairs. He greeted her with a charming smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and a bow casual enough to be an insult. Even as his gaze took a leisurely trip over Adrienne’s body, he continued to tap his silver-topped cane against the granite doorstep.

Her mouth thinned as she fought the impulse to step back and shut the door in Fabien’s face. “Is there a particular reason you have come to call on me this early in the morning, Monsieur Fabien?”

His bright blue eyes narrowed. “I could have you arrested for that alone, you know. Or have you forgotten that our government has deemed that people of our republic no longer have titles but are all equal citizens and must be addressed as such?” He leaned closer. “Or perhaps since you refuse so stubbornly to address me as Citizen Fabien”—he reached out and drew a finger down her cheek—“you would prefer to call me by my first name?”

Adrienne felt an icy shiver travel down the length of her spine. This was not the first time that Fabien had come to harass her with his suggestive remarks, but he had never dared touch her before. Her nerves were jumping, and when she spoke, her tone was cooler than was wise. “It is not my habit to address strangers by their first name.”

Fabien placed a slender, well-cared-for hand against his chest and shook his head. “I’m hurt that you think of me as a stranger. I had hoped that you would come to think of me as a friend.”

“Indeed?” With a disdainful toss of her head, Adrienne flicked her thick black braid back over her shoulder.

Fabien’s hands tightened on his cane at the contempt so vividly audible in that single word. Smiling to disguise the rage that had begun to smolder within him, he asked, “May I come in?” His tone was deceptively light. “I would speak with you.”

Reluctantly, Adrienne stepped back from the door to let him pass. She pushed the door closed and preceded Fabien into the salon where cold, stale air greeted her.

Wrapping her shawl more closely around her shoulders, Adrienne strode to the window. Her hands stilled on the window latch when she saw Fabien’s henchmen on the path she had taken with Jean de Lambert’s widow and child just minutes ago. The hounds were whining and barking, pulling wildly against their leashes.

“They seem to have picked up an interesting scent.”

Caught off balance, Adrienne whirled around at the sound of Fabien’s voice right next to her ear and found herself flush up against the Jacobin.

“Is something wrong, Citizeness Beaufort?”

Adrienne fought down both the fear and the angry, direct words that rose to her lips. “Yes.” She moved to step past him, but he reached out to grip her shoulder.

Forcing herself to stand still, she met his eyes. “Yes, something is very wrong, Monsieur Fabien.”

He heard the slight emphasis on the last two words and understood well the insult that lay behind it. His hand on her shoulder tightened.

“I am not accustomed to being accosted and manhandled in my own home.”

Fabien heard the centuries of breeding in her icy tone, and for a moment, he needed all of his control not to throw her down onto the floor and take her on the spot. She needed badly to be shown who the master was these days. But there would be time for that, he thought. His mouth curved in a smile, and he released her. “My apologies.” He stepped back. “Perhaps you should accustom yourself to the manners of the day.”

Scathing words on her tongue, Adrienne suppressed them as she remembered the distraught woman in the secret chamber.

Although she would have liked to put more distance between them, she remained where she was and met Fabien’s eyes squarely. “Just what is it that you want from me?”

“You don’t know?”

The softly posed question sent a shiver down her back, but she managed a cool smile. “No.”

Fabien felt the fury close his throat. “I want you, Adrienne,” he rasped, all the subtlety, all the carefully rehearsed words forgotten. “I’ve always wanted you. And I’m going to have you.”

He reached for her again, but this time, she avoided his hand. “Don’t I have any say in the matter? Or are those rights so touted by your revolution only for the male of the species?”

“Don’t bring the revolution into this, Adrienne.” He lunged for her again. “This is between you and me.”

“No!” Adrienne felt the panic rise and lodge in her throat. She remembered the knife that was strapped to her calf and felt a flash of relief. But it was gone as soon as it had come. If she used it, she realized, Fabien would call out and one of his pet butchers out in the garden would be upon her in a minute. Then both she and the fugitives in the chamber would be lost.

Fabien gripped her shoulder and dragged her back to the window. The hounds, whining with excitement, were retracing the path back to the château. “Where are they?” She could feel his hot breath against the side of her face. “I know you’ve been harboring fugitives. I’ve known it for months.”

“There is nothing to know.” Adrienne fought to keep her voice even. “Besides, if you’d known anything, you would have arrested me long before this.”

“Ah, but Adrienne, what good would you do me in prison?” His hold on her gentled and became a caress as he turned her to face him. “Do you think that I wish to see that pretty head separated from that lovely body?” His hand slid down, molding the curve of her breast.

Nausea rose in her throat at his touch, and Adrienne instinctively struck his hand away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she cried. “Where’s your proof?”

“Proof?” Fabien rubbed his wrist where Adrienne had struck him. She would pay for that, too, he thought almost gleefully. And he would enjoy extracting payment. “I don’t need proof, my dear. Whose word do you think the revolutionary tribunal would believe? Yours or mine?”

Adrienne felt her throat closing. Desperate, she played her last trump card, although she was more than a little unsure of the truth of her words. “My brother Charles might have something to say about that.”

Fabien laughed softly. “Your brother has other worries now.”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems that Charles has fallen out of favor with Citizen Robespierre.” He toyed with a ring that had once graced the hand of an aristocrat, but his eyes remained on hers. “A small matter of misappropriated funds. The incorruptible Citizen Robespierre was very grateful for the information.”

“You!” Her hands fisted, she moved forward. “How dare you?” She despised Charles for selling himself to the revolution in exchange for the safety of his aristocratic neck, but he was still her brother.

“Don’t do something you may have cause to regret later on, chérie.” His mouth smiled, but his eyes remained cold. “If you behave yourself, I may even be moved to do something for that hypocrite brother of yours.”

As all the implications sank into her brain, Adrienne stopped so suddenly that she almost over-balanced. Not only her own safety depended on her submission to Fabien’s desires, she realized, but Charles’s safety and the safety of the woman and child in the chamber behind Isabella’s portrait.

“So, you’re going to be sensible. Good.” Fabien rubbed his palms together slowly. “On the other hand, I wouldn’t have minded a little rough and tumble.”

He moved past her and unlatched the window. “Jacquot!”

Adrienne watched him beckon to the thickset man who had summoned her earlier.

“Leave me one of the horses and go back to town. And take the hounds with you.”

The man’s broad face seemed to split in half as he grinned broadly, showing more gaps than teeth. “Allez-y, mon ami. Go to it, my friend.” With a wave, he moved around the corner of the château.

Still staring out of the window, Adrienne didn’t even notice it when Fabien turned toward her. She was still seeing Jacquot’s face breaking into that lewd grin. No! Her mind spun as defiance churned within her. She could not, would not do it! Not for herself. Not for others. She still had the knife, after all. After she’d used it, she would think of something.

“Come along, my dear.” Fabien stepped closer so that they were separated by no more than the breadth of a hand. “I’ve wondered for years what it would be like to lie with you in that virginal bed of yours.” He slid a finger down her neck. “And now, I’m going to find out.”

She needed time, Adrienne thought, as fear edged toward terror. Just a few minutes until Jacquot was gone so that Fabien could not call for help. She raised her eyes to his face. “I need a moment. Please.” She let her eyes flutter closed and swayed.

“You disappoint me.” He sniffed. “I wouldn’t have thought you the type to simper and faint.” Gripping her arm, he pushed her down into a chair and paced away across the room.

Adrienne leaned back, her eyes closed, concentrating on the sounds outside. When she heard the crunch of gravel beneath the wheels of the carriage, all her muscles tightened in anticipation. She let a minute go by and then another. Then she carefully, surreptitiously reached under her skirt for the knife strapped to her calf. When it was hidden in the folds of her gown, she rose, telling herself that she would have the courage to use it.

Fabien stopped his pacing the moment Adrienne stood.

She stood very still, watching him walk toward her, his slow steps a menacing promise. The knife’s carved handle bit into her palm that was slick with sweat.

He was close now—less than an arm’s length away. And still, she did not move. Even when he raised his hands and reached out, she remained motionless. Then he smiled, and Adrienne struck out at him with the hand that was empty.

“No!” She fell back a step. “Don’t touch me!”

“Don’t make me come after you, Adrienne.”

He spoke so softly that she could barely hear him above the hammering of her heart and her ragged breathing.

“Come here.” Fabien stretched out his hand, palm upward toward her.

Adrienne shook her head.

He took a half step forward. Then his hand moved as quickly as a snake striking. Hooking his fingers into the neck of her gown, he pulled. The sound of the thin fabric tearing was like an explosion in her ears. Instinctively, she brought the knife up, aimed squarely at Fabien’s belly. But at the last moment, she found herself unable to make the lethal strike, and her hand veered aside, sending the blade through the flesh above his hip.

Barely registering his cry, Adrienne ran. The study! She had to reach the study! A vase tumbled to the floor and shattered as she jostled the table, but she did not hear it. Nor did she feel her shoulder collide with a doorjamb as she skidded into the library.

She detoured toward the French doors, hoping that if she opened them, Fabien would be fooled into thinking she had escaped onto the balcony. Clumsy with panic, her fingers fumbled with the stubborn rusted latch. In a burst of frustration, she struck the door with her fists, and her hand slipped and went through the glass. She saw the blood but felt no pain. She struck the door again. This time it sprang open, and she ran toward the study.

When she slammed the study door behind her, her breath was burning in her throat, and for a fraction of a moment, she leaned back against the door. A bizarre pattern of red and black swirled in front of her eyes blinding her for a moment. Then she was moving again.

Twisting the key in the lock, she dashed toward the portrait. Her fingers were sliding over the canvas when she heard Fabien’s fist against the door. She jerked, and her hands slid upward. Beginning again, she placed them on the edges of the painting. Something heavy crashed into the door behind her once and then again.

Adrienne froze at the sound of splintering wood, then her hands began to move again—feverishly, frantically. She knew she had to slow down, find the right place at the edge of the painting, and move inward, but she could not make her hands obey. Her palms raced over the canvas. Again and again.

There was another deafening crash behind her. Adrienne looked into Isabella’s eyes watching her from the canvas. “Help me.” Her lips formed the words, but no sound emerged. “Help me.”

Suddenly, Adrienne felt a jolt as if someone had struck her on the back. She hurtled into a void—completely black, completely silent. She wanted to struggle against it, but she could not move. She wanted to cry out, but she could not make a sound. Panic was clogging her throat until she thought she would suffocate with it.

Then, as suddenly as the void had sucked her in, it spewed her out, and she found herself staring at a painting she had never seen before. A painting depicting a naked, alluring Venus cavorting with an amorous, virile Mars.

Afraid to move, Adrienne shifted her gaze and saw elaborately carved posts and wine-red velvet curtains gathered by tasseled golden ropes. She was lying on a bed, she realized, and the voluptuous painting lined its canopy. Where was she? How had she come to be here? Had she fainted before she’d reached the secret chamber? Was she dreaming?

Sitting bolt upright, she saw she no longer wore the blue gown that Fabien had torn at the bodice. Unbelieving, she drew her hands down her body. She now wore a nightdress of the finest white linen covered by a wide-sleeved robe of a richly patterned brocade in scarlet and purple.

Disoriented, she looked around the room. Closing her eyes, she shook her head, wanting to clear it. Surely, she was in the midst of some mad, opulent dream. But every time she opened her eyes, she saw the same lavish bedchamber with dark and richly carved furniture and walls covered by tapestries and hangings of brocade and velvet.

Adrienne slid off the coverlet of purple silk and stood. Carefully, unsure that her legs would carry her, she began to wander around the room. A table loaded with decanters of ruby-red wine, platters of sweetmeats, each one a perfect, tiny sculpture, and bowls of fruit caught her attention. How strange, she thought. It was as if preparations had been made for guests.

She wandered farther. On a low oblong table, a large casket made of finely inlaid mother-of-pearl spilled its precious contents onto the polished wood as casually as children’s toys. Hesitantly, she reached out to touch, barely believing that what she saw was real. Golden chains, strings of sapphires and emeralds, a ruby as large as a pigeon’s egg, ropes of pearls—white, pink, gray, black—shone up at her. She dipped her hands into the jewels for a moment.

Then she looked up and found herself looking into a clever painting made to resemble a mirror. Lifting her hands to touch it, she saw the movement reflected in the glass. She shook her head, certain that it was some kind of trick. The movement of her head was reflected back at her. Disbelief gave way to panic.

Adrienne moved closer and ran her fingers over the features she saw reflected in front of her. Instead of the pert, heart-shaped face with its tip-tilted nose that she was accustomed to seeing, she saw elegant cheekbones and classic features. Instead of black, curly hair, she saw hair that was a rich auburn that curled gently over her shoulders and fell to her hips. She stared into the mirror, shock turning into recognition. She met the dark brown eyes that looked back at her. Eyes she knew well. A minute passed. And then another. Finally, the moment came when she could no longer deny that she, Adrienne de Beaufort, had—through some mysterious quirk of fate—slipped across time and into the body of Isabella di Montefiore.

Chapter Two

Siena, Tuscany, June 1499

Covering her face with her hands, Adrienne spun away from the mirror in terror. How could this happen? Was this a dream? A nightmare? Was she hallucinating? Had she gone mad? Opening her eyes again, she turned around in a circle, hoping against hope that she would see something familiar. That by some miracle, she would find herself in the surroundings she had known since childhood. That the next time she looked in the mirror, she would see her own features.

But as her gaze skimmed over the glass, she saw the fall of auburn hair over her shoulders, glimpsed features of an imperious beauty. The room remained a luxurious bedchamber of a bygone era. But then her eyes settled on the far wall, and she saw something she had missed when she had first examined the room. There, almost within touching distance, hung the portrait she had grown up with. The portrait of Isabella di Montefiore that guarded the entry to the secret chamber in the Château de Beaufort.

She approached it slowly, step by step. Just as she raised her hand to touch it, the door burst open. Adrienne whirled around and watched a crowd of revelers led by a dwarf in the multi-colored clothes of a jester fill the room.

“There she is!” he cried and danced up to her. “Our blushing bride.” He cackled and brandished a puppet that was loosely stuck on a stick, making its bells jingle.

Her heart in her throat, Adrienne retreated a step. Hidden by the long, wide sleeves of her robe, her hands clenched and unclenched. Her gaze skimmed over the crowd attired in festive, rich clothes. But it was not the clothing of France in 1794. Although her mind was spinning with confusion, she recognized the ornate dress of the Renaissance she had read about.

Her eyes came to rest on the dwarf. Gianni. The realization that she knew his name struck her like a lightning bolt.

I had the dwarf, Gianni, whipped today but only with silken cords. Perhaps that will fire his imagination so that he can better amuse me.

She felt a strange lurch in her stomach as she remembered the offhand comment in Isabella’s journal. She had always wondered what the poor fellow had looked like. She shook her head. No, she thought, this couldn’t possibly be happening. This had to be a bizarre dream. Surely, she would wake up any moment and find herself in her own bed in the Beaufort château.

The dwarf pursued her, his oversize head bobbing as if his thin neck was too weak to support it properly. He jumped up on a tasseled hassock and leaned closer to her, so close that she could smell the spiced wine on his breath. When she retreated a step, he turned to his laughing audience with a grimace.

“Isabella la bella. Isabella the beautiful.” Gianni looked up at her again and something—surprise or perplexity—flickered in his sad clown’s eyes. “Why do you stand there like a cornered doe when you have a night of sport with our new master to look forward to?” He vaulted down from the hassock, hunching his shoulders and pulling in his head as if he were expecting her hand to strike him.

When the blow did not seem to be forthcoming, he straightened. “What’s this?” he demanded, capering out of reach of his mistress’s hands just in case. “Is this the Isabella we know?” Sending his audience an oblique look, he slowly moved his head from side to side. “The Isabella who can slay a man at twenty paces merely by raising an eyebrow?” He pressed his hands that seemed overlarge for his size against his chest and again shook his head.

The crowd laughed uproariously and proceeded to make their own ribald jests.

Adrienne watched the scene with disbelief, her mind insisting that it had to be some kind of illusion or dream. And yet in her heart, she knew that here, now, some supernatural power was at work. She understood what they were saying, she realized. It was the same melodious cadence of the archaic Italian she had painstakingly learned so that she could read Isabella’s journals.

But it couldn’t be, she thought desperately. It was impossible. Surely, if she repeated it often enough, it would be so.

But no matter how her mind, schooled in the logic of the Enlightenment, fought against the realization, in some inexplicable, mystical way, she knew that this was as real as anything in her life had ever been. The mind and soul of Adrienne de Beaufort had traveled back across time almost three centuries to enter the body of Isabella di Montefiore on her wedding night.

“She’s shaking her head,” the dwarf shrieked, hopping from one foot to the other. “Does that mean, Madonna Isabella, that you do not want a night of sport with our new master?” He rattled his puppet again.

A young woman in a dark blue gown rich with precious stones pushed through the crowd. “How could she not want it, my friends?”

Her voice was as high and melodious as the notes a musician coaxes from a flute, yet Adrienne shivered at the sound.

“A night with Alessandro di Montefiore, the most beautiful man in Siena.” She raised a goblet of the finest Venetian glass and drank deeply of the ruby-colored wine within. “The first of many nights,” she added, her mouth curved in a knowing smile.

With a practiced toss of her head, she sent a wealth of golden hair over her shoulder. Putting her goblet into someone’s hand, she fixed her gaze on the man who stood in the doorway, arms crossed in front of him, his expression as dark as his coloring.

“Come forward, Alessandro, and claim your bride.” She laughed. “We cannot wait to see if your prowess and your stamina are as great as those who extol you would have us believe.” Hooking an arm around Adrienne’s shoulders, she beckoned to Alessandro with the other.

Again, Adrienne felt the lightning bolt of recognition. Luisa. This was Luisa Barbiano, Isabella’s bosom friend, with whom she had shared so many secrets. Why then did she feel an icy shiver snake along her spine? Why did she feel an aura of malevolence that seemed to surround the beautiful young woman like a noxious cloud? She jerked away so that Luisa’s arm dropped from her shoulders.

She saw Luisa’s sky-blue eyes narrow, and she met the suddenly appraising gaze as resolutely as the terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach would allow. The smile on Luisa’s lips did not waver, but she did not try to touch her again.

Glancing at the colorful crowd and beyond, Adrienne’s gaze met the jet-black eyes of the man who stood in the doorway, his brows drawn together in a frown. His hair, the blue-black color of a raven’s wing, just brushed his shoulders, framing a face of such perfection that it might have been chiseled of Carrara marble by a master’s hand. Her eyes skimmed over him, and she could not help noticing how his doublet and legwear of white velvet slashed with gold and scarlet were a perfect foil for his dark beauty.

I saw Alessandro di Montefiore face to face for the first time yesterday when we signed the marriage contract in the great hall of the Palazzo Montefiore. I burned with hatred for him. Hatred instilled in me from childhood by my brothers. I burned with hatred, but from the moment I looked into his black eyes, I burned for night to fall. Burned for him to share my bed.

Her eyes widened as she stared at him, and her hand fluttered up to lie between her breasts as if it could still her heart that had begun to pound like a dozen horses galloping in a dead heat. So, this was Alessandro di Montefiore, Adrienne thought, as Isabella’s words spun around in her head. Alessandro, whom Isabella had hated, loved, and finally betrayed. Alessandro, whose death Isabella had atoned for with her own.

As her heart drummed against her hand, Adrienne looked beyond the frown on Alessandro’s beautiful face, beyond the arrogant challenge in the jet-black eyes and saw something she could not quite define. Intensity? Power? Passion? Violence? Yes, she thought. All of them. This was not a restful man. And yet there was something more there. Something softer. Something that made her want to reach out…

Before she could think further, the women in the crowd surged forward to pull her toward the bed. Giggling, chattering, tossing about bawdy remarks and speculation about the night to come, they tugged off Adrienne’s robe before she realized what was happening. But when hands reached for the laces of her nightdress, she pushed at them and tried to turn away. But there were more hands than she could fight off, and the laughter around her rose to a still higher pitch as the laces began to give.

Desperation lending her strength, she swung her arms upward, striking the grasping hands away from her body. Wheeling away, she twisted herself out of the circle of women surrounding her, the carved bedpost a reassuring brace at her back. Realizing suddenly what a picture of disarray she presented, she snatched up the bed curtain, holding the wine-red velvet so that it covered her where her nightdress gaped over her lush breasts.

“No!” she cried. “Lasciatemi! Leave me be!” Her words echoed in her ears as she heard a voice that was not her own speak in a language she knew only in theory.

There was a moment of utter silence before the confusion of voices and laughter rose again, even louder than before. The women surged toward her like a wave, gowns billowing, hands outstretched.

“Stop!” The voice was mellow, but the unmistakable tone of command cut through the noise like a hot knife through butter. All sound, all movement ceased. “Leave her alone.”

As Alessandro moved forward, the crowd parted to let him pass. He strode toward his bride, stopping an arm’s length from her when he saw her dark brown eyes widen still further. What kind of game was she playing, he asked himself testily, a good portion of his irritation directed at himself for allowing her clever performance to touch him. Why was she playing the role of modest, shy virgin when rumor had it that she was not a virgin at all? He had seen her hand flutter helplessly to her heart when their eyes met across the crowd. He had seen the gamut of emotions on her face—shock, distress, bewilderment, fear, wariness. If she was really this good an actress, he cursed silently, she would lead him a merry chase.

His gaze swept over her again, taking in her expression, her stance. He saw the knuckles of her hands that clutched the velvet curtain whiten still further, and his eyes narrowed. This could not possibly be the woman who ordered a servant dealt twenty lashes as casually as she commanded a jester to divert her. The woman who whipped her horse until the beast bled. The woman who, it was whispered, had lain with more than one man.

The din behind him recommenced, and he began to turn around, stilling when he saw Isabella’s hand reach out to him, tremble, and return to clutch the velvet curtain.

“Please, send them away.” Her whisper was barely audible. “Send them all away.”

His dark eyebrows curved upward. She could not be unaware of the custom that a marriage like theirs was consummated before witnesses to ensure there would be no grounds for annulment later on. His gaze flicked over to the long table that was filled with refreshments for those who would spend the night here, making coarse jests and keeping a record of how many times he broke the lance. Despite himself, Alessandro felt his blood begin to heat at the thought of taking this woman.

“Please.”

He might have resisted the urgent whisper if he had not looked into her dark eyes. There was a plea there and confusion. But in their depths, a dauntless spirit glowed like a luminous beacon. He had seen less courage in eyes he had faced over the length of a rapier.

Even as he cursed himself for a fool, he turned around to face the crowd. “Leave us.” Silence fell, but only for a moment. Ignoring the agitated murmurs, Alessandro continued. “This marriage will be consummated in private.”

Two young men pushed through the crowd. “If you think we are going to let you get away with this, you are sadly mistaken.” The shorter of the two men spat the words at Alessandro. “You will have no reason, damn it, to repudiate our sister and ask the Pope for an annulment.”

Adrienne took half a step back as she recognized the same brown eyes, the same auburn hair she had seen in the mirror. Piero and Alfonso Gennaro, Isabella’s brothers.

“I would think you would be pleased.” Alessandro’s voice was dangerously soft. “Think of the rich dowry that would return to your hands.” His mouth curved in a chilly smile. “To say nothing of the beautiful sister to be sold again to the highest bidder.”

“What’s the matter?” the taller man taunted. “Afraid that your performance will fall short of your reputation?” His soft mouth curved in a derisive smile, but he did not move forward.

Alessandro let his eyes travel down Alfonso Gennaro’s body and then up again to his face, as much to give himself time to control his temper as to show his contempt. He placed his hand lightly on the jeweled hilt of the dagger at his waist. “Be grateful,” he said, keeping his voice low and light, “that you are guests in my father’s house.” His anger eased a little as he saw Alfonso swallow and take a step backward.

An older man strode forward, brushing the Gennaros aside with a muscular arm. He planted himself in front of Alessandro and glared past him at Adrienne. “Enough of this foolishness,” he growled. “Stop your simpering, madonna, and come forward.”

As the man with the gray, grizzled beard reached for her, Alessandro shifted to block his way.

The man’s eyes moved to Alessandro’s face, but the steely look in them did not soften. “Think well, my son, before you make this decision.”

Alessandro curbed the desire to look back over his shoulder at his bride. “It will be as I have said, Father.”

Francesco di Montefiore shrugged and shot another surly look at his daughter-in-law. If she brought peace to his troubled state, the marriage was worth it. If she caused any trouble—he shrugged again—there were ways of taking care of that … and her. He turned around and swept the crowd with his gaze. “Out.”

One of the Gennaros began to protest again, but Francesco silenced him with one look. He remained motionless until the chamber had emptied. Then he turned to face his son again. “The witnesses will examine your sheets in the morning.” His voice was crisp and matter of fact. “I would mislike it if you made a laughingstock of yourself—for whatever reason.”

Alessandro looked into his father’s face, so devoid of any deeper emotions. When he had been a small boy, he would have done anything to please his father. Anything to see his father’s eyes light up for him as they did when he looked upon the woman who was his wife. Now he did what he had to and for the rest, pleased himself. “Have I ever done less than my duty?”

“No, my son, and I have always been proud of you.” Francesco di Montefiore sighed, feeling older than his fifty years. “If your mother had been my wife and not my mistress, perhaps I could have given you more.” He clapped his son’s shoulder and turned away.

Adrienne watched the two men, but the words they exchanged were too softly spoken for her to understand them. When the door closed behind Francesco di Montefiore, she felt her stomach knot at the thought of what would come. She had gotten what she wanted, she thought. The people who had crowded the chamber were gone. But now she was alone with this beautiful stranger. The stranger who would in a few minutes take her as his wife.

She opened her mouth to speak but closed it just as quickly. What could she say to him? How could she make him understand that she was Isabella in body only? That she—the woman inside the body that was not her own—came from another time, another place? What words could she use and make him believe her? She could feel the fear pumping through her bloodstream and yet … and yet an odd certainty wove through the fear like a fine gold thread weaves through dark cloth. A certainty that it was here that she belonged. That in this time, this place she had things to do. Vital, important things.

Alessandro looked at his bride. He could have sworn that when they had stood face-to-face in the great hall to sign their marriage contract, her eyes had rested upon him with as much cool calculation as a slave trader’s. But now she looked so artless, so guileless with her eyes wide and full of questions. Had he simply refused to see it because he had grown to adulthood despising everyone who carried the Gennaro name?

Slowly, he reached toward her and, his eyes on hers, began to loosen the fingers that still clutched the bed curtain so tightly. One by one, he pried her fingers away from the velvet until it fell away. Only then did he allow his gaze to slide downward.

The laces hung undone, her linen nightdress falling open just far enough to hint at the curves of her lush breasts. As he stared at her, he saw the soft flesh quiver from her accelerated breathing, and he felt his own body tighten in response. He reached out again and, taking a lace into each hand, began to twine them around his fingers, pulling her toward him until they were separated by mere inches.

When she felt Alessandro’s hands begin to work her fingers away from the curtain that shielded her, Adrienne felt a quick flash of panic. As a protest rose to her lips, their eyes met.

His eyes were as black as his hair—without a trace of any other color. And yet they were filled with light. It was that light that beckoned to her and made her fingers pliant, allowing him to ease them away from the curtain until it fell with a soft rustle.

Her eyes still caught in his, she felt the first tug as he pulled her toward him by the laces of her nightdress. She felt her heart begin to hammer, propelled by the fear that rose within her. But it was not fear alone that had her heart beating like the wings of a songbird caught in a cage. A strange sensation she had never felt before reshaped the fear, both blunting and sharpening it. A sensation that had her body tingling in response.

She had to strike away those slender, dark hands that were pulling her ever closer, she told herself. She had to find words to explain that she was not Isabella. But she could do none of these things, caught as she was in the changeable light of his eyes. She saw and acknowledged the flicker of challenge and the flare she recognized as desire. But it was the glow of something more gentle that held her captive.

Lifting her hands, she laid them against his chest. “Alessandro, ti prego …”

“What?” he asked softly. “What do you beg me?”

But whatever words she had wanted to speak left her, and she could only shake her head helplessly.

Suddenly, he jerked the laces he still held toward him, bringing her flush against his body, imprisoning her hands between them. “What kind of game are you playing?” he demanded. “Just who do you think you are”?

Adrienne opened her mouth to tell him the truth, but the words died in her throat before they could reach her lips. If fate or magic or the divine had sent her here, to this man, to this moment, was it not her destiny to play out the role assigned her? Even before her mind answered her question, she had tilted her chin up at the man who was scowling down at her.

“I am Isabella di Montefiore.” Her voice was firm. “Your wife.”

Chapter Three

“Yes. My wife.” Alessandro felt his body spring to life at the thought that this woman belonged to him. He would guard his mind and heart and guard them well, he vowed, for no child of the Gennaros could be trusted. But he would take her body and bring himself pleasure. Bring them both pleasure. He released the laces and slid his hands onto her shoulders.

Even before Adrienne realized that he was no longer restraining her, his hands were on her shoulders, sliding over the thin linen of her nightdress, sliding onto the sensitive skin of her neck, sliding upward until he cupped her head. As his face came closer, she felt that quick jolt of fear she was already familiar with, followed by that sharp-sweet sensation that made her body throb in the oddest places.

As Alessandro lowered his head toward Isabella, his last rational thought was that this must be what selling one’s soul to the devil was like. Then he was lost in the honeyed taste of her mouth.

The taste of wine and candied almonds was on his tongue as he filled her mouth. But there was another taste there that Adrienne recognized with some instinct she had not known she possessed. The taste of passion lay on his tongue. Passion just a step away from violence. She made a small sound of protest and pushed against him, although her hands were still trapped between them and gave her no leverage.

Alessandro felt rather than heard the soft sound of protest that she made and reacting automatically, his mouth gentled. He sipped where he had drunk greedily. He soothed where he had unsettled. Where he had taken before, he began to give.

He traced the curve of her cheek with his lips, then retraced it with his tongue. The softness, the fragrance of her skin reminded him of the roses in his mother’s garden. His mouth found a pulse below her ear that beat frantically. He teased the pulse with his tongue, the scent of roses rising to intoxicate him like wine.

She was pliant against him, her lush curves molded against his aroused body, her hands resting lightly on his hips. As Alessandro raised his head to look at her, she opened her eyes that were a little glazed, a little unfocused with incipient passion. He smiled. This he could be sure of, he thought. He had seen enough women in all stages of passion to be a competent judge.

Sliding his hands down until they lay between the curve of her breasts and her collarbone, he began to push her shirt aside. All the laces hung open, and the soft linen slid down her shoulders without impediment.

The cool air on her shoulders and breasts barely penetrated the sensual haze that surrounded Adrienne. Before she realized what he was doing, Alessandro had shifted her hands away from his hips to allow the shift to slip down to the floor. Her eyes flew open as she felt the fabric slither down her body, but before she could even begin to tense, he had lifted her in his arms and laid her in the center of the bed that the women had turned down.

She lay there unmoving, her mind still hazy, her body still languid with the desire Alessandro had aroused. She watched him move around the chamber with the careless grace of a large cat. He tossed the heavy gold medallion and chain he wore onto the table to lie next to the jewelry that spilled out of the inlaid box. Undoing the ruby buttons of his doublet with one hand, he walked to the table and filled a goblet with wine. But then, he left it untouched and picked up an apple instead.

Without so much as a glance in her direction, he dispatched his clothing quickly. Perhaps it was that casual neglect more than his lack of modesty that made Adrienne suddenly aware that she was lying naked on a bed and that within minutes, a stranger would invade her body. Desperate, a flush heating her skin, she sat bolt upright and snatched up the coverlet of purple silk to shield her nakedness.

When Alessandro turned to face her, her breath caught in her throat at the sheer physical beauty of his aroused body. Although the impulse to look away was strong, Adrienne met his eyes. She watched him pick up the apple in one hand and his jeweled dagger in the other and move toward the bed.

As he approached, her heart pumped against her hands that clutched the coverlet over her breasts. A few feet away from the bed he stopped. Taking a leisurely bite from the apple he held, he ran his gaze over her with a cool insolence that had anger pushing aside all the other confusing emotions within Adrienne.

Then, without warning, he tossed the apple toward her. Automatically, she held out her hands to catch it, realizing too late what his intention had been when the coverlet slid down into her lap. Again, anger surged within her at his trick and without thinking, she hurled the fruit back at him, just barely missing his shoulder.

He threw back his head and laughed, the warm, rich sound filling the chamber. “Thank God. I was beginning to think I had married a mouse.” Still smiling, he came forward and sat down on the bed.

“How dare you …” Adrienne began, the words dying away when she felt the cold tip of the dagger sheath press lightly against her left breast.

“I dare anything I please.” He smiled again, but this time the smile did not reach his eyes. “It would behoove you to remember that, cara. Your duty is to warm my bed and bear my children.” Pulling the dagger back, he flipped it once. Catching it easily, he threw the jeweled sheath aside and bent forward to slide the dagger under a pillow.

“Are you threatening me?” she demanded.

“Threaten?” His black brows curved upward like the wings of a bird of prey. “Do you take me for a barbarian?” He reached out and cupped her chin in his left hand. “No, madonna. Not a threat. Just a friendly warning.”

Forgetting that she was not Isabella, forgetting that she had been set down in the midst of someone else’s life, Adrienne again felt anger slice through her. Operating purely on instinct, she brought her arm up and slapped his hand away from her face. Before she could draw a breath, his fingers had encircled her wrist and were imprisoning it as securely as an iron manacle.

Alessandro stared at her, fury and admiration balancing each other out. What a mass of contradictions this woman was. She apparently possessed more courage than wisdom. Even now, as he held her wrist hard enough to leave marks on her skin, anger was winning the battle against fear in her eyes. Why then did she act the naïve girl, afraid of the rituals of the marriage bed?

Even though he did not release her hand, his fingers gentled, and his thumb began to rub the soft inner skin of her wrist. “Easy,” he whispered, much as he would to a skittish mare about to be mated. Leaning forward, he brought her hand to his mouth and keeping his eyes on hers, replaced his thumb with his lips.

As his lips and tongue and teeth traced sensuously over her wrist, he hooked his other arm around her waist and pulled her closer, closer until her breasts brushed his chest. Even as he felt the tremor that went through her at the contact, he lowered his face into the curve of her neck that was fragrant with the scent of roses.

He leaned forward, nudging her down to the soft mattress with his body. When she lay on her back, his hands, his mouth began to drift over her—discovering the lush curves, the rose petal skin. His blood began to swim with desire and quickly, more quickly than he would have wanted, the demands of his body grew insistent.

Pulling back, Alessandro propped himself on an elbow, thinking to cool the heat that was driving through him. But as his gaze traveled over Isabella—over her thighs that hid the solace he craved so badly, her breasts that quivered with her quick breathing, her lips that were slightly parted and seemed to invite his kiss—he knew that his patience was stretched as tightly as his body.

As her senses began to whirl, Adrienne found herself forgetting Alessandro’s arrogant words. Forgetting the casual assessment in his eyes. Forgetting even the cold tip of the dagger’s sheath he had held at her breast.

She trembled as he pulled her close so that they were skin to skin, but it was not with fear. Then he began to touch her. As his hands, his mouth glided over her, she began to float in a languorous bubble of sensation.

When she felt a chill, Adrienne opened her eyes to find Alessandro looking down at her. His eyes glowed like live coals with the reflection of his desire. The nostrils of his straight nose quivered lightly with barely suppressed passion. His bronzed skin, sheened with moisture, rippled over muscles stretched tightly. Despite her innocence, she understood just how badly this man wanted her. Understood that he was a breath away from taking her.

Suddenly, panic speared through her again. Even if this body was not hers, how could she allow it to be invaded by a stranger? And although he had kissed her, touched her, made her tremble with pleasure, this man was still a stranger despite all the details she knew about him from Isabella’s journals. Lifting her hand, she placed it against his chest.

“Alessandro?”

He curved his fingers around her hand and lowered his head to brush her fingertips with his mouth. “What is it?”

“Please, will you wait?”

Alessandro frowned. “Wait? Wait for what?”

Adrienne took a deep breath and spoke the words quickly before she lost the courage to say them at all. “Wait to make love to me until we are no longer strangers.”

Unmoving, he gazed at her for a long time before he spoke again. “You mean it,” he said slowly. “You’re actually serious.”

She said nothing, but her gaze did not waver from his.

Alessandro felt a surge of anger, fueled by his arousal, fueled by the impossibility of her request, fueled by his absurd impulse to yield to the plea in her dark eyes.

“Don’t you understand?” he burst out. “Don’t you understand that our marriage should have been consummated before witnesses?”

Adrienne stared at him as she remembered the words in Isabella’s journals.

Alessandro came to me over and over in the night, and I cared not that prurient, envious eyes watched us. I saw the desire in his eyes, and I will make him a willing slave of my body.

Her lips parted in a mute gasp as she suddenly understood. If this was not an insane dream, if she was truly here, now, then she, Adrienne de Beaufort, had already, in one small way, changed the history that Isabella di Montefiore had lived.

“And this? What of this?”

Jolted back by the hiss of Alessandro’s voice, she watched him jerk her hand downward and press it against his aroused flesh. Felt it surge against her palm. Her body throbbed with an answering flash of heat. She tried to wrest her hand away from him, but he held it fast.

“And what of the witnesses who will examine our sheets in the morning?” He flung her hand away. “Don’t you think their eyes will be especially sharp after that little performance of yours?” His hands flexed as he fought for control. “Do you think I will allow myself to be made a fool of by you when they find neither a trace of your blood nor my seed?”

His eyes narrowed to obsidian slits. “Or are you just trying to find a way to disguise the fact that your virginal blood was spilled long ago?” Wrapping his hand in her hair, he pulled her closer. “Are you?”

There was suspicion in his eyes when Alessandro plunged his body into mine the first time. Suspicion that did not fade until he saw my blood running red on his own flesh. Then I knew just how clever I had been to guard my maidenhead during all the pleasurable games I had played.

Adrienne understood now the full import of Isabella’s words.

“You’re hurting me.”

Instead of releasing her, his grip on her hair tightened. “Answer me.”

“Will you believe me if I tell you that I have lain with no man?” Her heart gave a jolt as she spoke the words that were both the truth and a lie.

“Do you swear it?”

“Yes.” Her gaze did not waver from his eyes. “Upon my immortal soul, may I be struck dead this moment if this is not the truth.”

Alessandro released her then and bending his leg, rested his arms on his knee. Propping his chin on his arms, he studied the woman who was his wife.

He must be mad to even consider it, he cursed himself. If he gave in, he would be opening himself to mockery, to shame, to blackmail. He should have bid her to hold her tongue and taken her quickly. Before she had had the chance to worm her way into his soul with her soft eyes the color of a sable pelt. Even as he told himself all this, he knew she had won. After all, it was a personal point of pride that he had never taken an unwilling woman.

Adrienne watched him as he wordlessly reached for the unsheathed dagger he had put under the pillow. His hand steady, he flicked the tip of the blade across his wrist and calmly watched his scarlet blood trickle onto the white bedsheet and spread into a bright stain.

Her stomach knotting with agitation and gratitude and guilt, Adrienne raised herself onto her knees. Reaching for the robe that lay at the foot of the bed with hands that were as tremulous as Alessandro’s had been steady, she took a handkerchief from its pocket and wrapped it around his wrist. There was blood on her hands when she finished—his blood—and she felt irrevocably bound to him.

Sitting back on her haunches, she looked at Alessandro for a long, silent moment. “Thank you,” she said softly. “You will not regret it. I promise.”

Even as the words left her mouth, a sense of foreboding shivered over her skin. How could she make such a rash promise? This night had to be a fluke, a trick played by a spirit, by angel or demon, and it would be over as quickly, as suddenly as it had begun. How could she make promises to this man she would not be here to keep?

Alessandro saw the doubts, the anxiety flicker through her eyes, but he was too weary, his nerves and his body stretched too tightly to examine them more closely. “For your sake, I hope so,” he said brusquely, keeping his eyes on her face. “Now cover yourself before I change my mind.”

Adrienne lay down, pulling the coverlet up over her breasts. Alessandro turned his back to her and slid down onto the soft mattress. She watched the subtle rippling of muscles beneath his bronzed skin. Although she knew she was playing with fire, she reached out, needing somehow to reassure herself one more time that this was not a dream. When she placed her hand against the warm skin of his back, she felt him stiffen, but he did not shift away.

“Sandro?”

“No one calls me that.”

“Good.” Adrienne smiled. “Then I will.” Her fingers spread in a reflexive little caress. “Good night.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t touch me again, Isabella, unless you’re issuing an invitation.”

She tucked her hand under her cheek. “Another threat?”

He heard the smile in her voice. Admiration and amusement warred with his ill temper and won. When he spoke, there was an answering smile in his. “No, Isabella. Just another friendly warning.”

Alessandro lay there for a long time, eyes open, body tense. He listened to Isabella’s soft breathing gradually even out into sleep. He turned over and looked at her. She lay there like a child, her cheek pillowed on her hand. Against the rich purple silk of the coverlet, her skin gleamed like alabaster.

The needs were still driving through him, and the temptation to forget the unspoken promise he had made and take what was his was so keen that his body leapt at the thought of sinking into her. Again, he cursed himself for a fool. But he had made a promise, sealed with his own blood, and—although it was not something he would have cared to admit in public—for his personal sense of honor, a promise made to a woman was no different than allegiance pledged to a suzerain.

His gaze resting on Isabella, he touched himself to complete the fraud of a marriage consummated.

 

Adrienne emerged from sleep, her heart pumping from the onslaught of unfamiliar sensations. She lay half-pinned under a man’s body. A hand was splayed possessively on her midriff, the fingertips grazing the undercurve of her breast. His leg had been slung over hers, bringing his body into intimate contact with her thigh. Dazed, but ready to fight, she half raised herself—and suddenly remembered.

Sandro’s head lay on her pillow, his long black hair partly concealing his face. She fell back onto the pillow and closed her eyes. So, it had not been a dream after all. The past night came to life in her memory—vivid, with all its tastes and scents and textures intact. She had lived it. She had truly lived it.

But what was she going to do? The question thrummed through her head like an insistent drumbeat. She didn’t know by what power she had come here, but she could not stay, she thought desperately. She had to find a way back to her own life. In the thin, early light that filtered through the windowpanes, she remembered all the things that had drained out of her mind in the heated, sensuous atmosphere of the bedchamber last night.

There were people depending on her. Jean de Lambert’s widow and child were in the secret chamber where they would die of hunger and thirst if she did not go back to free them. And more people would come after them. People who would fall into the hands of Fabien and his ilk unless she was there to help them.

She began to struggle, trying to twist herself out from under Sandro’s limbs, but he murmured something, and his hand moved upward to mold her breast. Twin streaks of heat and weakness shot through her, and she lay still, her head turned to face him.

Sandro. She tasted the name on her tongue. This was not some nameless man that a fluke of fate had thrown her together with. This was a man she knew. This was a man who had treated her with surprising kindness when it would have been his right to take her in front of a boisterous audience.

His face was relaxed now in sleep with none of the tension that had been there last night. She lifted her hand to touch him, his beauty tempting her as strongly as the serpent’s apple had tempted Eve. Then she remembered what he had said about touching him and issuing invitations, and her hand fell away.

Still, she continued to watch him. Did he know? she asked herself sadly. Did he know in some secret part of his being that he would never see children born of his loins? That none of the plans, the dreams that he cherished would ever be fulfilled? That he would go to a terrible death, betrayed by his wife?

Forcing herself to look away from him, her gaze wandered around the room. If only she could find some clue to how she had come to be here, perhaps that would help her find her way home. Her eyes passed over the portrait of Isabella that she knew so well then returned to it. The longer she stared at it, the more a strange, agitated restlessness built within her until her body seemed to hum with it. As the restlessness built, so did the assurance.

This was a visible connection between her life and Isabella’s. Perhaps it was a clue, a sign. If the portrait existed in both lives, both times, perhaps, by some secret means, it had been her vehicle to this room. If that was so, it could be the vehicle back into her own life.

Moving more urgently than before, she managed to disentangle herself from Sandro. He murmured something again but did not wake. Sliding from the bed, she tugged the bed curtain closed. She was already moving toward the portrait when she stopped. It was insane, but she needed to look at him again.

Retracing her steps, she leaned against the bedpost and gazed down at him—young and beautiful and doomed. Her heart was heavy, as if she were already grieving for him.

“Isabella.”

Horrified, Adrienne heard his sleep-blurred voice. She wanted so badly to stay. To stay while he woke. To stay and be the wife he deserved. But she knew she could not. Begging him silently for his forgiveness, she dropped the curtain and ran toward the portrait.

She began to run her hands over the canvas, registering vaguely that the texture was smooth, without the cracks in the paint that three centuries had wrought. But nothing happened. Her hands moved ever faster as the panic within her rose.

“Isabella? Where are you?”

His voice was husky, and it beckoned to her. Beckoned so strongly that she almost pushed away from the painting and returned to the bed.

“Please,” she whispered to whatever power had brought her here. “Please bring me back home.” Her palms slid over the canvas.

“Isabella?” The voice was stronger now and held a note of irritation.

Adrienne heard movement behind the curtain, and another jolt of panic flashed through her. She had already started to turn around when she was catapulted into the blackness.

 

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‘Tapestry of Dreams’ Excerpt


“I suppose that’s one way of putting it.” He traced light circles on her palms with his thumbs. “Weren’t you the one who assured me I would never take what you did not choose to give me?”

The thought was wicked, but the words were tumbling out before she could hold them back. “Then I could ask you for a kiss, and it would not—” her breath caught “—not be more?”

“Yes.” Theo found himself wanting to give her anything, everything she asked for. He hoped he could. “Are you asking me for a kiss, Julie?”

“If I were a coquette, I could say I am only giving you the kiss you wanted this morning.”

There was a trace of a smile in her voice, but her eyes were huge and serious.

“You could. But you are not, are you?”

“No,” she whispered. “Kiss me, Theo. Kiss me now before the sun goes down.”

He was still holding her hands in his. Lifting them again, he brushed his lips over her fingertips, once, twice. Then he laid her hands flat against his chest.

Cupping her face as gently as if she were made of glass, he tilted it up to his.

Julie forgot to breathe as she waited for the touch of his mouth on hers, but instead, his lips began a leisurely journey over her face. She sighed as he traced the curve of her cheek. Her sigh became a moan as he dipped to taste the skin warmed by the pulse that beat beneath her ear.

When his mouth found its way to hers, she was already melting. He brushed his lips over hers, teasing, provoking them both. Even when her lips parted in invitation, he continued to tease.

Julie dug her fingers into his waistcoat, sure that if she did not find purchase, she would collapse at his feet. Sure that if he did not kiss her, truly kiss her, she would go mad. But he only skimmed his mouth over hers, watching her, always watching her.

Impatience became longing. Longing became need. Need became hunger. Desperate, she whispered his name.

Something eased within him as Theo realized that this was what he had been waiting for—this knowledge that it was his kiss she wanted. His kiss and no other. Then he deepened the kiss.

Julie thought she had remembered his kiss—the taste, the texture, the sensations that it sent spinning through her. But as Theo took her mouth fully, she realized that her memories had been to reality as a single candle is to a blazing fire. As their tongues tangled, the heat arrowed through her. Here again was the power she had felt earlier, but this time, it did not frighten her. Perhaps because she knew it was too late for fear.

Theo felt Julie’s pulse racing beneath his fingers. Even her skin seemed to quiver with the rush of her blood. He felt his own body stir. It was tempting, so very tempting. Another kiss, a touch, a caress, and she would be his. His body hardened at the thought. But, he reminded himself, he had promised he would not seduce her.

Slowly, he ended the kiss. But, unable to sever the link completely, he allowed his mouth to linger on hers.

Julie felt the rush of her blood subside. The whirlwind within her waned degree by slow degree, but still, it remained a small, spinning ball in her belly, sending out heat throughout her body. It was no longer the frantic, violent heat that consumed everything in its path, but a solid, banked heat that would last through the night.

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