Bianca felt more tense, more frightened, than she had in the midst of a threatened riot.
She drew in a deep breath, and was surrounded by the smell of the tropical night wind from the open window, the wax of the candles—and of Balthazar. He smelled of clean linen, leather, salt air, sweat, blood, and that dark, mysterious scent that was his alone. She remembered that scent all too well from years ago.
But she was not that infatuated girl, hanging about hoping for one glimpse of him as he passed by, for one whiff of his cologne. And he was obviously not that young man, either. So beautiful. So angry.
She carefully removed his boots and his leather jerkin and cut away his torn shirt, conscious at every moment of his steady gaze levelled on her. Oh, the beauty was still there, undeniably. As she smoothed the damp cloth over his wound, she couldn’t help but notice the lean, sculpted muscles of his torso, the smooth, gleaming skin a light golden colour, as if he worked on deck without his shirt. There were scars, too, pale, thin old ones, and one long, jagged pink cut along his ribs.
So, presumably, the anger was still there, too. That darkness that gave an edge to his angelic beauty, and once made her flee in fear.
But he was in her home now, in her very bed. At her mercy.
She traced the cloth from the wound along his collarbone, lightly over one brown, flat nipple, and down his chest over the light sprinkling of pale brown hair. He drew in a sharp breath, his rippled stomach muscles tightening, but he did not pull away. Did not even say anything. His skin seemed gilded in the candlelight, a taut line arcing down to the band of his hose.
Yes, he was still handsome, the most handsome man she had ever seen. Even after all her travels, she had never found a man to compare. But there was a hard edge to his beauty, a barely leashed violence. She would be a fool to give in again to his fatal allure.
Her gaze trailed the length of his black-clad legs, sprawled across her white sheets, the bulge of his codpiece, his lean hips. Yes, he was handsome, and she knew he was good in bed. All the whores in Venice had sung his praises, and that was long ago. He had now had years to hone his carnal skills to absolute perfection. And she was a widow, who had gone many months without a man in her bed. It was only natural she would be drawn to him now.
But only a fool would give in to lust for a villain. And she hoped she was no longer a fool.
Bianca snatched her hand away from his chest, from the warm rise and fall of his breath, the steady beat of his heart, and went back to the wound. Still he watched her in silence, always watching, as if he divined all her thoughts. Surely he was the wizard, and not the knife-wielding stranger!
She soaked a fresh cloth in rum and pressed it to Balthazar’s shoulder. His breath hissed, but he gave no other reaction to the sting.
“I will have to sew this up,” she muttered. “But you needn’t fear. I’ve done such things many times. You’ll have only the tiniest scar to add to your collection.”
As she turned to reach for her sewing box, he startled her by suddenly grabbing her wrist. She tried to yank away, but he held fast, his roughened fingers like a vise. He drew her closer, until she hovered over his bare body, unable to move or even look away. Her heart pounded in her breast, until she was sure it echoed like a drum in the silent room.
“I know you,” he said, his voice soft and low in contrast to the steel of his touch. “But from where?”
Bianca shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Yes. I have seen you before—and you knew my name.”
“Of course I know your name. Santo Domingo has been buzzing with talk of the arrival of the Calypso and her oh-so-daring captain.”
“That’s not it,” he insisted. But he let her go, falling back to the pillows as if exhausted. A fierce frown creased his brow. “Where have we met before? Who are you?”
“I am Señora Montero,” she answered. She opened her box and tried to thread a needle, despite her trembling hands. “And I am certain I would remember you if we had ever met before, captain. A tavern owner cannot afford to forget a face, especially if it belongs to a troublemaker!”
He gave a harsh laugh. “I would vow you know much about troublemakers, señora.”
“And I would vow you know much about women,” she said, knotting the end of her thread. “No doubt you have me confused with a female of your acquaintance in some other port. Perhaps you are growing feverish and delusional.”
“Perhaps I am. Everything seems very—confused. But I will remember soon enough, señora. A ship’s captain also cannot afford to forget a face.”
Bianca held a goblet of rum laced with an herbal sleeping potion to his lips. “Remember later, then, but drink this now. It will dull the pain.”
He drank readily enough, his lean body growing so relaxed and pliant he did not even move as she sank the needle into his flesh. She just wished she could be so steady, could remove herself from the acute awareness of his body heat, his every breath. At last she finished, tying off her thread before she dared glance at his face.
He seemed to be asleep, the harsh lines of his face relaxed so he seemed young again. She was free at last from those all-seeing green eyes, even if only for a moment.
Bianca threw herself into the chair, burying her face in her hands. She longed to cry, to shout out the confusion of this strange night that had borne Balthazar Grattiano back into her life! Yet she was bound in silence, in the tangle of the past come suddenly into the present.
She went to the window, pushing the casement further open to catch more of the night breeze. The sky was a heavy purple-black, dark clouds obscuring the moon and stars, blown in by that storm that damaged Balthazar’s ship. Santo Domingo was quiet enough now, in the hours before dawn. Only a few houses near the banks of the Rio Ozama were lit from within. The governor’s fortress, high on its hill overlooking the town, was a blank, silent behemoth.
Soon, the streets would come to life. She would have to face cooking, and cleaning up the mess downstairs. She would have to face the man in her bed. But for now it was as if she was alone in the world. Alone with Balthazar Grattiano.
Bianca rubbed wearily at her aching neck, turning to the small looking glass hanging on the wall. She almost laughed aloud at the sight that greeted her in its silvery reflection. How could Balthazar possibly recognise her, when she hardly recognised herself? Her curling brown hair stuck every way from its pins, tangled and wild. Her cheeks were a hectic red, her eyes lined with purplish shadows. Her grey wool dress, never fashionable in the first place, was stained with Balthazar’s blood.
She unlaced the simple bodice and tossed it with her skirt over the chair, standing before the glass in only her chemise and stays. As she brushed out her hair, yanking at the stubborn tangles, she knew that Balthazar would not long think he had her confused with some past dalliance. He had always preferred blondes with lush bosoms and full, pink lips. And she—well, she was a thin, dark tavern owner. Any meagre attractions she had as a girl in Venice were surely coarsened by a life of hard work on a tropical island.
Not that it mattered, of course. Balthazar and she would have their reckoning soon enough. And then it wouldn’t matter a bit what he thought of her bosom, or she his codpiece. For now, she was almost too weary to think of anything at all.
Bianca loosened her front-laced stays and slipped into bed, as far from Balthazar as she could get on the very edge of the mattress. She wrapped a blanket tightly around herself, but even as she fell into slumber she could feel his heat, reaching out to wrap seductively