In the Tudor Court Collection. Amanda McCabe
turned and left the hall, which echoed with laughter and music. Snatching a cloak that lay carelessly on a chest in the anteroom, she went out into the chill of the night air and began to walk, tears trickling down her cheeks as the grief spilled over.
‘Lorenzo, my love,’ she whispered to the night. ‘Come back to me…oh, please, come back to me. I cannot bear this life without you.’
‘Kathryn! Please wait!’
She turned as she heard Michael’s voice calling to her. She had hoped to be alone, but the one person she could bear to be near at the moment was Michael. He had been with them in Venice and in Rome. He understood her better than any other, and he cared for her—which it seemed her father did not.
‘You should not be out here on this bitter night,’ Michael scolded her. ‘It looks as if it will snow before morning. If you continue like this, you will become ill.’
‘If I am ill, my father cannot force me to marry a man I neither know nor love.’
‘He would surely not be so unkind!’
‘He has spoken of it. Everyone tells me I must forget Lorenzo and put the past behind me, but I cannot. I love him. I shall always love him.’
‘But to force you into marriage…’ Michael hesitated. He had not intended to speak so soon, for he knew that Kathryn was suffering. But he had fallen deeply in love with her during the time she had nursed him back to health, and he could not bear to see her so unhappy. ‘Your father has been courteous to me. Do you think he would accept an offer for your hand from me?’
‘I cannot marry you. It would not be fair to you, Michael. I like you very much. You are a good friend—but my heart is with Lorenzo. I fear it always will be.’
‘I meant only to save you more unhappiness. I would take you back to Rome, to your friends. You were happy there, Kathryn.’ He moved towards her, looking into her face, her eyes, his hand reaching out to touch her cheek. ‘It would not be a true marriage at first. I would be patient, Kathryn. I would wait until you felt able to be my wife in truth.’
‘Oh, Michael,’ she said brokenly. ‘You make me ashamed. You are so good, so kind—but if I accepted your offer I might ruin your life. Supposing I could never love you, could never give you what you wanted?’
Tears were trickling down her cheeks. She could taste their salt on her lips. Michael put his arms gently about her, not imprisoning her but holding her in a comforting embrace, his lips moving against the fragrance of her hair.
‘I love you, Kathryn. I would wait for ever and count it a blessing to be of service to you.’
She gazed up at him, tears hovering like crystals on her lashes. ‘But you spoke of asking Isabella Rinaldi to be your wife?’
‘My father wishes me to marry and I must oblige him, for he grows old and it is important to him. Isabella is pretty and I like her—but I love you. I have loved you since I first saw you, but I knew you saw only Lorenzo. I did not imagine that there was hope for me then…’ He left the rest unsaid, for to remind her would only cause her more distress.
‘Oh, Michael.’ Kathryn wiped away her tears. ‘I pray you, give me a little time to think. Perhaps…I do not know.’
She could not bring herself to say she would marry him, and yet she would rather it was Michael if she must marry again. Yet was it fair to take what he was offering her, knowing that she would never be able to give him more than second best?
‘Say no more for the moment,’ Michael said and smiled, taking her by the hand. ‘Come back with me now, dearest one. I cannot let you walk alone in this bitter chill. Lorenzo would not demand that your life be sacrificed to grief, Kathryn.’
‘I wish I was in Rome.’ Kathryn sighed. ‘It was so much warmer.’ She smiled, feeling better than she had in weeks, allowing him to lead her towards the light and heat of the great hall.
The music had stopped quite suddenly. People had started talking, whispering excitedly one to another. She sensed that something had happened to change the mood of the evening. Kathryn’s nerves tingled, feeling a prickling sensation at the back of her neck as Michael led her into the room. Everyone seemed to be looking in the same direction, at something—someone! Her heart stood still as heads suddenly turned towards her and Michael, and then the guests were parting, like the sea for the Israelites departing from Egypt, suddenly silent. She gasped as she saw that a man dressed all in black was walking towards her.
She felt as if she were in a dream, her head spinning as she saw him clearly. Her senses were reeling. Could it be—or was she in some kind of feverish nightmare? Her face had drained of colour and suddenly the ground came zooming up to her. As she fainted, two men moved to catch her.
It was Lorenzo whose arms surrounded her, sweeping her up as she would have fallen, lifting her effortlessly. His face was grim, eyes dark with anger as he looked at Michael and saw the jealousy that the other man was unable to hide.
‘She is mine. Do not forget that.’
‘We thought you dead. Kathryn has grieved enough.’ Michael was defensive, angry in his disappointment, for he knew that he had lost all chance of her. ‘I merely sought to comfort her.’
‘We shall speak later.’
Lorenzo turned away, carrying Kathryn’s limp form in his arms. He had such an air of command, such burning anger in every line of his face that when he demanded Kathryn’s chamber, servants hurried to conduct him there.
Sir John watched the little scene from across the room. He had hoped for a match between Michael dei Ignacio and his daughter, but one look at Lorenzo’s face had told him that it would be both futile and dangerous to attempt to deny him. He had come to claim his wife and nothing would stop him.
Sir John moved to confront him as he strode from the hall. ‘My daughter, sir?’
‘Is safe enough with me.’
‘You wed her under a false name.’
‘Not so. Antonio Santorini adopted me. I am legally his heir and bear his name. My father has agreed that I shall keep it at least until I inherit his title—which I pray will be many years in the future.’
Kathryn moaned and fluttered her eyelashes.
‘Take her to her chamber,’ Sir John said, a hint of bitterness in his voice. ‘She has made herself ill with her grief.’
Lorenzo inclined his head. He followed the servants up the stairs to Kathryn’s chamber. Servants fluttered ahead, clearly impressed by this stern-faced, aristocratic man who had declared himself her lawful husband to an astounded company. Covers were pulled back so that he might deposit his precious burden on clean linen. But when they lingered, their eyes large with curiosity, he dismissed them with an imperious wave of his hand.
Kathryn was stirring. Her lashes were wet. She had been crying earlier—and yet she had been holding Michael’s hand when he first saw her enter the hall. He felt a surge of murderous jealousy against his friend. Had Michael stolen her love from him? For a moment as he saw them together in the hall he had contemplated murder.
Kathryn’s eyelids moved. She opened her eyes, gazing up at him for a moment in bewilderment as though she did not believe what she saw, closing them once more as a tear squeezed from beneath her lashes.
‘I am sorry that the sight of me made you faint, Kathryn.’
She opened her eyes again. ‘Is it truly you, Lorenzo? They told me there was no hope—that you were dead.’
‘And if I had been?’ His voice was made harsh by anger. ‘Would you have married Michael?’
‘No!’ She edged herself up against the pillows. The faintness had gone now, but she had a nasty taste in her mouth and her head ached. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? You know I love you. You must know it!’
‘Do you? You had been