Читать книгу: «Twice Upon Time»
Bewitched. Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Author Note Copyright
Bewitched.
For the hundredth time, the word filled Bianca’s brain to the exclusion of all else. She was bewitched. She had to be. Otherwise she would not feel this overwhelming need to give Alessio what he wanted. What they both wanted.
“You wanted to besiege me, Alessio. Wasn’t that what you wanted? Just like one of your fortresses.” She felt the anger rising from the pit of her stomach and welcomed it. “To besiege me until I became weak. Until I surrendered.”
Her eyebrows rose with annoyance when he laughed.
“Ah, Bianca. When you and I become lovers, it will have nothing to do with surrender.”
She knew she should say something now. Something caustic, something clever, but she seemed to have lost the power of speech....
Dear Reader,
With Twice Upon Time, her second Harlequin Historical time-travel novel, author Nina Beaumont skillfully places her characters in a dangerous world of wealth and power as they struggle to balance the future with the past and prevent a sibling rivalry from turning into the curse that has haunted generations of their descendants. Don’t miss this exciting tale of a passion too strong to be denied.
In the third book of Suzanne Barclay’s Lion Trilogy, Lion’s Legacy, a Scottish warrior is hired to protect a castle from English raiders, but discovers that his benefactor has nothing to give him in return but the hand of his unwilling granddaughter. And in Emily French’s Illusion, the growing love between an ex-soldier and an heiress who have been drawn into a marriage of convenience is threatened by embezzlement and extortion.
Diamond, the fourth title for the month, is the first in Ruth Langan’s new Western series. The Jewels of Texas, which features four sisters who think they are only children until the death of their father brings them all together at his ranch in Texas.
Whatever your taste in reading, we hope that Harlequin Historical novels will keep you coming back for more. Please look for them wherever books are sold.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
US.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo. NY 14269 Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Twice Upon Time
Nina Beaumont
NINA BEAUMONT
is of Russian parentage and has a family tree that includes the Counts Stroganoff and a Mongolian khan. A real cosmopolitan, she was born in Salzburg and grew up in Massachusetts before moving to Austria, where she lived for twenty-five years.
Although she has relocated to the Seattle area, her European ties are still strong, so she plans to stick with the exotic settings she has had the opportunity to get to know firsthand.
Books and music are her first loves, but she also enjoys painting watercolors and making pottery.
To Mutti, Brigitte, Heinz, Markus (who looks like the
hero of this book), Martha, Matthias and Lukas, my
family-in-law, who will always be family.
Prologue
Sarah Longford lay dreaming.
The sea, so calm, so azure that it seemed like a painting, stretched alongside the flat, sandy beach. The two riders emerged from the forest of umbrella pines at a wild gallop that sent a spray of pale sand up behind them.
Bianca, her unbound black curls streaming behind her like a banner, her scarlet dress a dazzling contrast to her mount’s white coat, turned slightly, a smile on her lips. A smile perfectly calculated to provoke, to arouse. Her gaze swept over Alessio with approval. His black clothing blended with the glossy black hide of his stallion so that the man and his mount looked like one fabulously pagan, virile animal.
Alessio, his face dark with annoyance and the promise of passion, spurred his horse forward.
Bianca saw Alessio’s mount move closer, and her hands tightened on the reins as she urged her mare onward. With a whinny, her horse reared up, and the reins slipped through her fingers. With a cry she tumbled off the saddle onto the sand.
Disoriented, she lay still for a moment, both arms flung outward. The black stallion thundered to a halt a few feet away. As Alessio, his face dark with rage, leapt off his mount, she struggled up. Stumbling to a nearby rocky outcrop, she turned to face him, bracing her palms against the rocks behind her.
Alessio’s hands were rough as they closed on her shoulders.
“What were you trying to do, damn you?” He shook her so violently that her teeth clacked together. “Break your neck?”
“No.” She was still breathless. “I just wanted to see how fast Sultana could go. And I was racing you,” she added with a taunting smile. “And I would have won, too, if you hadn’t startled me.”
“So it’s my fault, then?”
She met Alessio’s eyes. They were the same color as the sunlit sea, which stretched out behind him. The remains of his anger were there. And the desire she recognized because she had seen it often enough in other men’s eyes.
“Isn’t it always?”
“Damn you”
Bianca curved her lips upward in a mocking smile, then parted them as if in invitation. She felt his hands tighten and a low laugh rose in her throat. “Now I suggest you let me go, Messere Alessio. Or do you wish to mark my skin?”
“By God, if you keep playing your role of Circe, I will do more than mark your skin.” But even as he said the words, his hands eased and began to stroke where they had gripped before.
The linen of her shirt, the velvet of her gown lay between Alessio’s hands and her skin, and yet Bianca could feel his touch as if she were naked beneath it.
The heat his hands generated spread over her skin and spiraled down to her belly. Her young, ripe body grew hungry. So hungry that she could imagine giving in to its demands. Now. Here. Her body swayed toward him, until she could feel his hard body against hers.
“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 to hold her, he lowered his mouth to hers.
“No.” She turned her face aside, as much to hide the satisfaction she knew would be in her eyes as to toy with him.
Alessio stared down at her. Impatience and anger melded with desire and his hands tightened in her hair.
“No, let me go.” Her temper rose and she began to fight him.
“Why so coy today, madonna?” he demanded. “There have been days when you were more than eager to feel my mouth on yours.”
Bianca’s eyes narrowed. “Let me go, Alessio, I command you.” His grip on her hair was just short of painful—and yet she found that it aroused her. Aroused her so much that she needed distance from him and needed it quickly. With no compunctions she fired off her most powerful weapon. “Do you forget that I belong to your brother?”
“No.” His eyes flashed with blue flames. “You are betrothed to my brother. But you belong to me.”
Alessio felt his fury, which she 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?
“You know as well as I do that you belonged to me long before I touched you for the first time. Do you remember?”
Her mouth sullen, Bianca remained silent. Because her pride demanded it, she kept her gaze steady on his.
Her silence goaded him, and Alessio’s grip tightened and remained so, even when her barely perceptible wince told him that he was hurting her.
“Do you remember how you looked down from the tribunal as I was awarded the victor’s wreath after the tournament?” His body sprang to life at the memory. “You looked at me and we both knew that you were mine, as if you had already spread your legs for my body.”
In counterpoint to his crude words, his hands released her hair and cupped her head, his fingers rubbing her scalp lightly, as if to soothe the discomfort that he himself had caused. He lowered his head.
“Open your mouth for me now, Bianca,” he murmured. “Open for me and let me kiss you.”
His hands were gentle where they had been rough before. His lips coaxed where they had demanded. Drawing in a deep breath, she inhaled his scent with it — horseflesh and leather and aroused male. Her senses began to swim. Before she lost herself to the moment, she took control and filled Alessio’s mouth with her tongue.
Alessio felt her warm, wet tongue slip into his mouth, and for a moment he remained as motionless as if he had been struck by lightning.
She watched him as she moved her tongue against his in erotic invitation. 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.
Her mouth, as sweet and lush as a ripe peach, beckoned. And still he did not take. Instead he touched his mouth to her full lower lip. Then, his eyes on hers, he drew it into his mouth.
For a moment Bianca stopped breathing with the sheer pleasure of it. Because she could not speak, she moaned.
Alessio stilled. Then, knowing that now they were both the vanquished, both the victors, he plunged into her mouth.
They feasted on each other until they were full of each other’s taste. They drank from each other until they were drunk with pleasure.
Their nerves humming, their breathing ragged, they pulled apart.
“And you dare to say that you do not belong to me?”
His breath was hot on her face, and Bianca leaned back. The rocks bit into her back and she was glad of the pain that helped her control the need to reach for Alessio again. And to take. To take everything.
“Answer me, damn you.”
Bianca pulled herself back from the sensual whirlwird where he had flung her. She wanted him so badly that her body ached with the wanting. But she wanted the wealth and power this marriage was offering her even more.
“No.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I can never belong to you. And you and I both know it.”
“You dare to deny it?”
“What would you have me do? Break a betrothal signed and sealed?”
“Why did you agree to this accursed betrothal in the first place?” 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 but to agree, and well you know it.”
Alessio looked into her eyes for a long time before he spoke. “And you would have agreed to this marriage even if you had had a choice, wouldn’t you?”
Bianca stared back at him in silence.
The rage took him as he recognized the truth. “Wouldn’t you?” he shouted.
And still, Bianca remained silent.
“So.” His 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?”
“I speak the truth whether I speak of my brother or a stranger.” His eyes turned dull as they rested on her. “And you will marry him.”
“Yes, I will marry him.”
Alessio’s gaze slid away from her face.
“Alessio.” She reached up and, cupping his chin in her hand, moved his head until their eyes met. “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, disgusted with her. Disgusted with himself—with the desire that still heated his blood. “Come, Madonna, I will take you back.”
Bianca lowered her eyes as they returned to their mounts. But not because she felt shame. She had seen the heat in his eyes and she knew that he would be back. He would be hers.
Sarah sat up with a cry. As she covered her face with her hands, she felt the wetness of tears. She’d dreamt this dream so many times. This dream and all the others. But tonight it had touched her so deeply that she felt a physical ache in her chest.
These dreams had been part of her life for so long—no, she corrected, they had been her life. She had always wanted to know why they came to her—these wonderful, terrible, erotic dreams that were everything that her life was not. The desire to know had grown and grown until now it had become a need.
The cold in the dingy little room had her shivering, and she lay down again and pulled the covers up to her chin.
Tomorrow, she reminded herself. Tomorrow she would begin her journey. Tomorrow she would be on the way to Florence. Perhaps she would find an answer there.
Closing her eyes against the drabness around her, Sarah willed herself back to sleep, hoping that another dream awaited her.
Chapter One
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 her dreams of Florence and the unhappy lovers that visited her night after 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 one’s eyes? Where was the Florence of a scorching, inexorable heat that made one’s blood run quick and ready for all manner of 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’d 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’d 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 from dawn to dusk, searching, searching.
Because her sensible, frugal nature needed an excuse, she’d 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 it was the dreams that had brought her here. No, not merely brought but persuaded, 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, finally independent of people who expected her to be at their beck and call at all hours of the day or night? The compulsion to come here 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 she had planned from the small, shabby pensione that was 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 narrow streets and alleyways on the other side of the Arno.
Quickening her steps, Sarah turned down another narrow street and then another. But all she found at the end was yet another dark street, lit only by the meager light that spilled out of the open door of some artisan’s studio.
Sporadically she heard voices from behind the 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 off 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.
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, hiding the uneven, refuse-strewn cobblestones. She gasped when the toe of her shoe struck something metallic and sent it clattering. An answering screech stopped her 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, then disappear into the mist.
She wanted to laugh at the jolt of fear she had felt, but the sound that emerged from her throat was more a sob than laughter. Taking a deep, calming breath, she waited for her heartbeat to slow, but the creak of a door opening behind her sent it galloping again. Stubbornness, pride and annoyance at her own fear caused her to turn toward the rectangle of yellowish light, and she reminded herself that she was a sensible, independent Englishwoman who ran from neither black cats nor creaking doors.
“Signorina?”
Sarah looked at the tall man silhouetted in the doorway of what was — judging from the smell of varnish and rosin and the long, melancholy sound of a bow being drawn across the strings of a cello—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 dark streets, didn’t she? Didn’t she? But instead of turning away, Sarah stood there, her breath uneven, hardly aware of the wetness seeping into her shoes, the dampness of her clothes.
Through the mist, which 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. It was the face that, night for night, sought her out in her dreams. No. She shook her head. It wasn’t possible. Or if it was, then perhaps she was dreaming now.
“Signorina, passo aiutarVi? Vi siete perduta?” The man moved forward, his mouth tilting in a charming smile, which was echoed in his eyes.
Sarah stared at the man, even as his words registered in her brain. She opened her mouth to tell him that she did not need his help, that she had not lost her way, but then he stepped to the side, making room for her to enter the shop. He bowed, his hand tracing a gesture of welcome.
“Entrate, prego.”
His graceful bow seemed meant for her personally, with nothing of the obsequiousness of a tradesman seeking custom. The wariness that had become second nature to her forgotten, Sarah found herself accepting his invitation and moving past him.
Inside, the smell of varnish was stronger but not unpleasant. 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 him clearly. No, she thought with something akin to disappointment. It was not the same face. But because it was a beautiful face nevertheless, she found herself unable to take her eyes away from it.
“Siete inglese?”
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 she was painfully aware of how threadbare and shiny the old coat was. Just as she was aware that the man in front of her looked like a young god and she was a plain, thirty-one-year-old spinster.
“Yes, I’m English,” she answered in the slow, careful Italian she had learned in 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.”
Her gaze skittered back to him, and again she froze. No, it was not the face of her dreams. But the eyes. Surely it was not possible that there could exist another pair of eyes of just that color. The color of the sunlit sea amid ever golden islands.
“Who—who are you?”
“Guido Mercurio.” He bowed again. “At your service.”
Sarah closed her eyes and shook her head to clear it. But when she opened them again, he was still there, smiling at her as if she were a treasured guest. When was the last time anyone had smiled at her like that? Had anyone ever?
“Guido Mercurio,” she repeated. “Like Mercury, the messenger of the gods?”
“Exactly.” Pleased, he smiled. Perhaps she was the one. The one he had been waiting for. “Come. Sit down and tell me your name.”
Sarah found herself moving toward a sofa, although she had no sensation of moving her limbs. A force at her back seemed to be propelling her, supporting her. When she reached the sofa she could have sworn that she felt a small push so that she plopped down on the worn velvet with a little bounce.
Looking up at the young black-haired man, she wondered if he was the statue of some mythological god come to life. “Sarah Longford,” she managed to say. “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.
“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.
“No place in particular.” Somehow, with the warmth from the wine moving through her, it did not seem odd to admit that. “I was just walking.”
“You were looking for something.”
His words struck her with their simplicity, a matter-of-fact statement that 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 a strangely sweet smile. “Do not worry. I will help you find it.” 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—just a moment—to take pleasure in the feeling of his fingers on her skin. When his hand began to stroke lightly over the backs of her fingers, she pulled her hand back as quickly as if she had been burned.
Was this how her father had seduced her mother? With wine and sweet Italian words and gentle touches? A quick spurt of anger flared, but it flickered out just as quickly, and she found herself feeling empty and wanting. At least her mother had had that, while she, Sarah; had had nothing.
“I have to go.” Snatching up her gloves, she started to rise.
He lifted his hand to stop her, and although he did not touch her, she found herself sitting back down.
“I’m sorry, I did not mean to frighten you.”
“You didn’t frighten me.” She sat very straight, clutching her gloves so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
“No, I didn’t, did I?” Guido smiled that sweet smile again. “You frightened yourself.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she protested, but without heat, because she knew he spoke the truth. For a moment she had felt the passion that slumbered inside her stir, like the first, barely audible rumbling of a volcano about to erupt.
“No matter.” He brushed away her words with an elegant gesture of his long-fingered hands. “Now, you sit for a moment and drink your wine, sì?”
Sarah took a swallow of wine and then another. Suddenly she began to laugh. “I do not believe this is happening. Here I am in Florence—” her hand lifted to her mouth as if to smother her laughter “—sharing a cup of wine with a stranger.”
He gave her a quizzical look. “And that is bad?”
“I don’t know.” Sarah felt a lightness she had never, ever felt before. No, she thought, that was not quite right. She felt the lightness in her dreams. That was why all her life she’d waited for the night to fall. Because if she was lucky, the night would bring her the dreams. Dreams of Florence. Dreams of Bianca and Alessio and their illicit love.
She looked down at the cup she still held. The wine had gone to her head, she thought. Or perhaps it contained something that made her forget all caution, all sense, like the waters of the river Lethe. She felt her blood stir again. “I don’t want to think about whether it is good or bad.”
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 had 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.
Guido watched the Englishwoman run her fingers over the lute as tenderly as she would touch a lover. He watched her take it down from the wall and coax a melody from the old catgut strings. And he smiled because now he was certain that she was the one he had been sent for.
Sarah felt her fingertips tingle as the instrument came to life under her stroking. Raising her head, she smiled across the room.
“My father brought me a lute once. He put it in my hands and I began to play it.” She laughed softly as she remembered. “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. Guido had tilted his head up to look at her, and suddenly she had an insane vision of herself cupping his face, running her fingers through his short black curls. The heated promise of passion rippled through her and she wondered what it would be like, just once, to give in to it.
“I have to go now.” She linked her fingers tightly.
“Si.” Guido stood and ran his knuckles over the fingers she had clasped together so cruelly. “You have to go, Sarah Longford.”
Sarah hesitated for a heartbeat, then she stepped back from the temptation, from the touch she wanted so badly. “I’m staying at the Pensione Bartolini near the Church of San Martino. Can you tell me how to get there?”
“I will accompany you.”
“It’s not necessary,” Sarah protested. She had been strong enough to deny herself a moment ago. Would she be strong enough again? “Truly.”
“But it is.” Picking up a cloak, he slung it over his shoulders. “I must show you the right way.”
“Is it that hard to find?”
Guido shrugged. “There are many ways, but only one right way.”
Sarah shook her head at his cryptic words. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you remember? I told you that I would help you find what you are looking for.”
“How do you know what I am looking for?” she cried out. “How do you know I have not found it yet?” She almost—almost—ceacbed out for him.
“Lo so. I know it.” He touched his fingers to her cheek. “You have not found it yet, Sarah. But soon, very soon.”
Sarah fought the fierce desire to turn her face into his hand, just as she fought the feeling of disappointment at his words, telling herself that there was no reason for her to feel like a child at Christmas who opens a beautifully wrapped box and finds it empty. She took a step back and then another.
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. So the box had not been empty after all.
Looking up at him, she met his eyes. He gave her a small nod, as if giving approval to her unspoken thought. 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 silence, as if everything that needed to be said had been.
They turned down a street bardy wider than an alleyway and found their way blocked by a wagon piled high with goods. A thin, tall man called out while he threw back the sailcloth to reveal a hodgepodge of furniture, paintings, boxes and crates.
In the light of torches, which had been placed in round metal holders on the walls of a house, 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 instructions, admonishing the men to be careful of the treasures they were carrying.
The flames of the torches created stunning contrasts of brightness and shadow, making an ordinary scene into a primitive picture of the grotesque and the beautiful that could have been painted by Caravaggio. How different the scene would have been, Sarah mused, viewed by the pale, civilized light of London gas lanterns.
