"You will remain here while I hunt our attackers. It's not safe for you anywhere else."
"Not safe? Will those villains come here too?" Pain assaulted the left side of her temple. Anne moaned and pulled at the sheets, but the bed held her like quicksand.
He moved closer and sat in the bedside chair. Anne inhaled sharply, his scent of cedar bringing memories of unrequited, port-tasting kisses and, strangely, safety.
With a leather-clad finger, he pointed at the glass panes. "That is the Misarella Bridge. The only access to this property. I have it guarded day and night." A wry smile came to his lips. "Those villains, as you put it, won't bother us here."
Anne pushed to a seated position and brought her face close to the window, misting the glass. A gruesome bridge loomed above a sheer drop. Water foamed below, scraping now and then to show pointed stones.
"The granite construction dates to the Middle Ages. Common folk believes it was made by the devil."
Anne placed her fingertips on the glass. "Do you believe it so?"
"If it was built by the devil, he is on my side. The bridge makes the coudelaria impregnable." A note of pride colored the velvet tone of his voice.
Anne smiled wistfully. "My brother would admonish you for entertaining folk tales."
"Allow folk their tales. They have little else." His expression softened, and he lifted his hand, his finger reaching for her smile as if it were a delicacy. "You seem to like this paragon of rationality."
"I love him dearly. Griffin is an overbearing oaf sometimes, but he means well."
His hand paused in the space between them, and a pleat appeared on his fair brow. "Griffin?"
"Griffin Maxwell, of Quinta do Vesuvio."
One second, he was relaxed, the picture of a charming aristocrat. The other he advanced, holding her chin to the sunlight. Anne's breath caught, and she held still under his scrutiny, her heart accelerating. The Count of Almoster was as predictable as a feline on high alert, hind legs coiled, pupils narrowed, tail twitching—one never knew if he would purr or pounce.
"You don't look like him."
He released her as abruptly as he had caught her and stood. With his back turned to her, he stared outside, his unyielding shoulders haloed by sunlight. Even marble-still, he gave off energy, a hum she felt in the pit of her stomach.
Anne found her locket in the folds of the loaned camisole and held it tight. "Do you know my brother?"
"One could say we are old friends."
Anne exhaled, her chest light for the first time since she opened her eyes in this strange room. If the count were Griffin's friend, everything would turn all right.
"You will rest now," he said dismissively, already starting for the door.
She caught his hand, her naked fingers intertwining with his. "Please, can you send for him?"
His body went rigid, and he pulled away from her touch. "I believe we have already finished this conversation."
His face held the same comfort as his bridge. How could such beauty cut so deep? The safety she felt with him faded, opening a chasm between them. Anne lowered her weight back to the bed. She touched her forehead and winced at the lump there.
"I’ve agitated you. I will send the housekeeper with tea." He strode to the door, his handopening and closing by the side of his body as if she had singed him.
She watched him until he shut the door, leaving her alone.
The windows creaked on a sudden gust of wind. The room's shadows taunted her with hidden depths. Safe? She shuttered her eyes with such force that her eyelids hurt. The attacker's blotched face flared inside her mind, pulling her hair, his fingers digging into her arms.
Anne blinked, her breaths coming in short bursts. She must get out.
With trembling hands, she pushed the sheets to the side and, shifting to the edge of the bed, stood with a shove. Her legs crumbled beneath her, and she fell to the plush carpet. The dizziness returned, and from atop the bed she heard James barking, the sound coming from far away. Her head throbbed, and she whimpered. Only a man's polished shoes, discarded under the bed, listened.
Chapter 11
Theairfelttoxicinside Pedro's lungs. He shut the bedroom door. The shadows of the empty corridor swayed, shifting into menacing shapes.
