Feehan, Christine - The Scarletti Curse (31 page)

She was in the cathedral now, yet she didn't see the ornate sculptures, the
archways, the tall stained-glass windows. She saw
him.
Don Scarletti. He
stood waiting at the altar, overwhelming the enormous church with his presence.
He was turned toward her, and through the veil of lace, their gazes locked. He
was tall and handsome dressed in his elegant clothes. His shoulders were wider
than she remembered, his arms and chest thicker. The aura of power that clung
to him seemed to fill the enormous cathedral so that there was only the don.

His implacable gaze compelled her forward. She had no choice. He was
mesmerizing her into obedience. She walked toward him to the drumbeat of her
terrified heart. There was a strange hush in the cathedral, as if a shroud of
silence had descended, not in reverence but in horrified anticipation. The
sound of the wind penetrated, a sudden slashing at the windows. Outside a wail
arose from the crowd as the wind bit at them, an unexpected assault, piercing
and cold. The wind rose in a mournful howl and rushed through the church, an
icy, swirling omen of disaster.

The guards hastily closed the doors to shut out the violence of the storm
now racing in from the ocean, shutting out Nicoletta's villagers as well. They
couldn't shut out the sound, however, as the windows rattled and the building
seemed to quiver under the attack. Giovanni remained still, his gaze fixed on
Nicoletta's so that she could only stare back into his eyes, captured there,
held prisoner. Even as nature protested their union, she was compelled to
continue forward.

The earth rolled then, a wave beneath their feet, a ripple of protest felt
throughout the church. A collective gasp went up, and several women began to
cry. Nicoletta felt then as if the ground were striving to break the don's
unholy spell over her. She faltered, but she couldn't look away from his
gleaming black gaze. He did look a predator, intent on his prey, staring
fixedly, with a demand as old as time.

Giovanni moved then, gliding in his deceptively casual way toward Nicoletta.
That simple ripple of his power surged through the cathedral, controlled the
crowd, and stopped the hysteria, a measure of his utter domination. His gaze
never left Nicoletta's face; rather it intensified. He strode the short
remaining distance to her side and took her ice-cold hand. Still holding her
gaze, he brought her fingers to the warmth of his lips, then tucked her hand
into the crook of his elbow and walked her to the altar and the waiting priest.

The ceremony was long, the scents of the precious incense and the chant of
ancient Latin reassuring. Nicoletta knelt with the don, bowing her head as the
ritual continued. All the while the wind raged at the cathedral in a frenzy to
get in. All the while she felt the venomous stares of her enemies boring into
her back. She was in a holy place, yet something or someone was plotting
unspeakable evil to punish her audacity for daring to join in marriage to the
don.

The heavens opened and poured a savage fury of windswept rain over the
cathedral as the holy father performed the vows binding her to Giovanni
Scarletti. Wind howled and gnashed at the windows, and the deluge pounded the roof
and sides of the building. The earth had ceased trembling, but lightning
zigzagged across the sky, arcing from black cloud to black cloud, and thunder
reverberated so loudly that the church shook.

As the cathedral shuddered under the storm's wild fury, the priest
stammered, his voice trailing off, unable to proclaim the couple wed. His hands
trembled visibly, and he glanced in fright at the rattling windows. The rain
was pelting the stained glass in a pounding flood. The large crowd whispered of
unholy practices, crossing themselves and kissing the crucifixes hanging around
their necks. No one dared use the term
Il Demonio,
but that unspoken
whisper was the loudest. Giovanni Scarletti stirred then—a ripple of movement, no
more—but it was clearly a movement of aggression, of pure menace. The whispers
ceased instantly, and the priest made the sign of the cross several times,
sprinkling holy water over the couple for good measure.

Nicoletta kept her head bowed, forcing her breath in and out. No one could
save her, not the good Madonna and not the holy father. Even the wind and rain
protested their marriage, slashing at the church in rage. Nicoletta was acutely
aware of the man beside her. His strength. His power. The heat of his body. The
way his mind was so intimately bound to hers. Her fingers were tangled with
his, his thumb feathering along her inner wrist, a silent encouragement with
nature's fury shunning their union. She tried to pray, tried to ask for help to
defeat the don's mesmerizing spell over her, but, in truth, she wasn't certain
she wanted to be free of him.

The priest blessed the small gold ring lying in the middle of his open book
of Scripture. He held it out to the don. Those in attendance saw the holy father's
hand shake so badly that Don Scarletti had to steady it as he took the tiny
golden circle. Nicoletta closed her eyes as the band of his ownership encircled
her finger. Lightning struck, ricocheting down the tower so that for one
terrible moment the sky seemed to rain fire. Again the priest froze,
indecisive, his voice wavering. The don's black gaze gleamed almost eerily in
the flashes of lightning.

Looking warily at the rain pelting the windows and then at the elite guards
standing shoulder to shoulder at the rear of the church, the holy father
pronounced them wed and raised his hand to bless their marriage. Lightning
ripped the sky apart, lighting the cathedral, throwing strange, colored shadows
to dance grotesquely across the wall. Thunder shook, drowning out anything the
priest might be saying. Giovanni never faltered, lifting Nicoletta's veil and
bending his head to hers.

"You are very brave,
piccola"
he whispered against her
lips. Then he gently kissed her upturned mouth, a mere feathering of his lips
over hers. He caught her firmly to him, pulling her beneath the protection of
his shoulder. "At last you are my wife, Nicoletta Scarletti," he
pronounced, a wealth of purring satisfaction in his voice.

Nicoletta remained silent, afraid of her own voice, afraid she would make a
fool of herself if she attempted to speak. It seemed a dream, a nightmare she
was trapped in. She went with Giovanni, moving down the aisle while the guards
pushed open the doors and hastily erected a canopy to shelter the couple from
the fury of the storm. The drenched, frightened villagers had long since fled,
only a few stragglers glancing back over their shoulders as Giovanni swept her
into his arms, striding with sure, long steps to the coach.

He placed her gently onto the seat and climbed up to sit beside her. The
door closed, and they were alone. "Nicoletta"—his voice was low, a
drawling caress—"are you ever going to look at me?"

She could feel his voice whispering over her skin. Nicoletta stole a quick
glance at him, then turned away from his brooding good looks. The storm was now
sweeping away from the cathedral, moving inland to scatter over the mountains.

"Nicoletta, look at me." His voice was quiet, even gentle, but it
was a command nonetheless.

She turned her head, long lashes sweeping upward, her dark eyes enormous in
her face. "It has been much more difficult than I expected today."
Her voice was a mere thread of sound, so low he could barely catch the words.

"I do not know if I have the courage to face the revelers at the
palazzo."

"It is a storm,
cara mia,
a violent storm like all the others
that come from the sea. The earth chose that moment to tremble, as it has done
in the past. These things occur often. They are natural, not the superstitious
nonsense of monsters arising from the seas to walk the land as some teach the
children to believe. Or worse, that the heavens were protesting our union
because either you are a witch or I
il diavolo.
I know you are not a
witch, Nicoletta, although you have cast your spell over me as none other ever
could. And surely you do not believe I am in league with
il diavolo.
How
could I enter the cathedral unharmed? How could I take the crucifix into my
hand, drink the sacramental wine, or have holy water splashed over me?"
His voice was extremely gentle but with a slight edge of mocking amusement to
it.

Nicoletta glanced up again, a quick reprimand of his irreverence while she
twisted at the unfamiliar band of gold circling her finger. "How is it you
can talk to me in my mind?"

"Is it so terrible a sin?" he countered.

"I do not know if it is a sin. Everything else seems to be." The
words slipped out, and she hastily bit down on her lower lip to prevent any
further blasphemous statements.

Giovanni burst out laughing. "You are right, according to Maria Pia
Sigmora. But I do not think of my ability that way. I was simply born with it.
Mia
madre
was a bit frightened by it and warned me never to reveal it to
others. How is it you can heal the way you do? I felt the curative warmth in
your touch; that's no ordinary talent, either."

"I was born with it also," she said. A small smile found its way
to her mouth.

"Have no fear of the revelers, Nicoletta," he said softly, taking
her hand in an effort stop her trembling. "I will not leave your
side."

"You
frighten me much, good signore," she admitted, her
irrepressible laughter bubbling to the surface.

He caught her chin in his hand and forced her to look up at him. "You
are such an innocent,
piccola,
and I may be damned for forcing my will
upon you, but, in truth, I had no choice." This time the edge to his voice
made her shiver. His black eyes were filled with a hungry intensity he didn't
try to conceal from her.

She wrenched her chin out of his palm, her own dark eyes smoldering. "I
do not believe you, Don Scarletti. One such as you always has a choice. You are
the law, life or death to those of us who live in the village.
You
took
away
my
choice."

"Better me than some rude peasant boy," he retaliated.

The flames of battle leapt into her eyes. "It might have occurred to
you that I wanted no man. That I was perfectly happy without one."

His laughter was low and taunting. "You cannot be so naive that you
would think some man would not eventually come along and take you."

"I had learned to hide myself. My people did not speak of me to
outsiders."

"I heard of your beauty long before I ever laid eyes upon you." He
stretched out his long legs, idly complaining, "These coaches are an
uncomfortable means of transportation."

"Did you hear that I was… different?" she asked.

He glanced at her stiff face, her trembling mouth. With a soft sigh, he took
her hand in his. "If you are'different,'
cara mia,
then so am I. I
know we belong together. I have seen the welcome changes in my home already.
Your stay has been short, yet your influence reaches wide. You say I had a
choice. I say, if my people are to survive, I did not."

"You made young Sophie and Ketsia very happy today," Nicoletta
said, deciding on a truce. "Thank you for thinking to have a special gown made
for Ketsia." She knew Portia had not seen to that particular detail.

"I saw only you in the church," he admitted, "but I will make
certain I give the girls my compliments at the festivities."

"Do you know if any others have the ability to send their voices into
people's minds?" Nicoletta asked, curious.

"My brother Antonello is adept at it. My nonno, too, carries this
talent, it is in our bloodline. Still, my
padre
could not do such a
thing; indeed, he was angry that his sons could and thought it most blasphemous."

"What of Vincente?"

Giovanni nodded. "Of course. But he is not as adept as Antonello, and
he rarely uses the ability. Antonello is my most valued emissary to foreign
lands, and it is of great use to us to speak silently when no other can hear.
And even over a great distance, I can feel if he is in danger. Vincente, on the
other hand, is rarely in danger, unless it is from the overly avid attentions
of some young lady. Since the death of his wife, there are many who hope to be
chosen his new bride. I thought he might look to Portia—they are oft
together—but he is still grieving."

"Your brother once said that the Scarletti men love only once,"
Nicoletta said: trembling as she recalled the ominous sensation that had
accompanied his pronouncement. Then she thought to add, "Little Sophie
hears voices at night, and she is very afraid. She is not making it up, though
Vincente and Portia and Margarita claim it is so, or that she is going mad. I
have heard the voices, too. I believe she is in danger. She said her
madre
heard the voices, and some named her mad."

Giovanni shook his head. "It is a sad tale, Nicoletta. Angelita was so
in love with Vincente, they stared longingly at one another for hours when
first they married. But she changed very quickly. She would stay in her room
for days on end, not allowing anyone in but Vincente. He would care for her,
bring her meals, and entertain her. She wanted only him. He worried for her,
took her traveling, tried many things, but she became nearly a recluse. In desperation
he decided they must have a child." He fell silent, and the coach swayed
and jolted over the narrow passage toward the palazzo.

"It did not help," she guessed.

Giovanni sighed softly. "No, it did not help. Vincente devoted himself
to Angelita, would almost never leave her side, but she refused to come out of
her room and eventually would not see even Sophie, her child. I was afraid for
my brother. The laughter had gone out of him. He rarely would look at his
daughter, as if he might blame her for her
madre
's condition. I sent him
on an errand, a small one. He was gone overnight, no more, but in Angelita's
demented mind, she thought he had deserted her."