riding closer to their don, protectively. She turned her attention to his hands, so steady on the reins as he guided the horse through the snow. Isabella sat up straighter. Don DeMarco was not guiding the horse.
Sergio and the captain were doing so with their own mounts. The don's total attention was centered deep within himself, and he didn't seem to be fully aware of anything around him.
Not even Isabella.
His expression caught her interest. He was struggling internally—she sensed it—yet his face was a mask of indifference. Isabella knew things. She had always known them, and right now she was very aware that Nicolai DeMarco was fighting a terrible battle.
She knew the lions were still pacing alongside the two columns of riders, much farther away than before but still there. Was the don controlling their behavior in some way? Did he truly have such an ability? The idea was terrifying. No one in the outside world would ever accept such a feat. He would be condemned and sentenced to death. Rumors were one thing—people loved gossip, loved to be deliciously frightened—but it would be an altogether different proposition if Don DeMarco could actually control an army of beasts.
Isabella became aware of the horse beneath them. Where the animal had been steady before, it was becoming increasingly nervous, dancing, tossing its head. The cloak enfolding her in its warmth seemed almost to have come alive, so that she smelled the wild lion, felt the brush of its mane against her cheek.
Don DeMarco reined in his mount, halting the columns of riders. She could feel the change in his breathing, the air moving through his lungs in a rush, his breath warm on her neck. Then the captain signaled the two columns of riders to continue to move forward toward the palazzo. The storm effectively muffled the sounds of the horses and riders as they disappeared into the white, swirling world.
Nicolai touched Isabella's hair, his hand heavy and large as it ran down her head and back. The stroke was incredibly sensual, and Isabella shivered. He leaned into her so that his mouth was close to her ear. "I regret I cannot escort you all the way back to the palazzo, but Rolando will see to it that you arrive safely. I have other pressing duties." That peculiar growling note rumbled deep within his throat, sensual and frightening at the same time.
Easily, fluidly, he swung down from the horse, one hand lingering on her ankle.
Isabella's breath caught in her throat. She was wearing boots, but she felt that intimate touch right through her body. "There are lions, Signor DeMarco. I feel them around us. You can't be out here on foot," she pointed out anxiously. "Nothing can be so important."
"Captain Bartolmei will see you back to the castello. Sarina is waiting for you, and she'll be sure you are well cared for in my absence. I'll return as soon as possible." The wind was blowing hard. The don's hair flared around his face, thick and shaggy, gold at his crown, darkening to almost black as it cascaded down his back. "Isabella, stay close to the captain until you are safe within the walls of my home. And listen to Sarina. She wants only to protect you."
"Don DeMarco," Captain Bartolmei interrupted. "You must hurry."
All the horses were snorting and dancing nervously. Isabella's mount was rolling its eyes in fear, tossing its head up and trying to back away.
Isabella reached out and caught Nicolai's shoulder. "You have no cloak, and it's freezing out here. Please come with us. Or at least take back your cloak."
Don DeMarco looked at the small gloved hand on his shoulder. "Look at me, my lady.
Look at my face."
She heard the swift intake of breath, of fear, by the two men guarding them. She didn't spare them a glance, looking only at Nicolai. For some reason she couldn't fathom, he was breaking her heart. He looked so aloof, so utterly alone. She boldly framed his scarred face with her palms. "I am looking at you, mio don. Tell me what I am to
Sergio and the captain were doing so with their own mounts. The don's total attention was centered deep within himself, and he didn't seem to be fully aware of anything around him.
Not even Isabella.
His expression caught her interest. He was struggling internally—she sensed it—yet his face was a mask of indifference. Isabella knew things. She had always known them, and right now she was very aware that Nicolai DeMarco was fighting a terrible battle.
She knew the lions were still pacing alongside the two columns of riders, much farther away than before but still there. Was the don controlling their behavior in some way? Did he truly have such an ability? The idea was terrifying. No one in the outside world would ever accept such a feat. He would be condemned and sentenced to death. Rumors were one thing—people loved gossip, loved to be deliciously frightened—but it would be an altogether different proposition if Don DeMarco could actually control an army of beasts.
Isabella became aware of the horse beneath them. Where the animal had been steady before, it was becoming increasingly nervous, dancing, tossing its head. The cloak enfolding her in its warmth seemed almost to have come alive, so that she smelled the wild lion, felt the brush of its mane against her cheek.
Don DeMarco reined in his mount, halting the columns of riders. She could feel the change in his breathing, the air moving through his lungs in a rush, his breath warm on her neck. Then the captain signaled the two columns of riders to continue to move forward toward the palazzo. The storm effectively muffled the sounds of the horses and riders as they disappeared into the white, swirling world.
Nicolai touched Isabella's hair, his hand heavy and large as it ran down her head and back. The stroke was incredibly sensual, and Isabella shivered. He leaned into her so that his mouth was close to her ear. "I regret I cannot escort you all the way back to the palazzo, but Rolando will see to it that you arrive safely. I have other pressing duties." That peculiar growling note rumbled deep within his throat, sensual and frightening at the same time.
Easily, fluidly, he swung down from the horse, one hand lingering on her ankle.
Isabella's breath caught in her throat. She was wearing boots, but she felt that intimate touch right through her body. "There are lions, Signor DeMarco. I feel them around us. You can't be out here on foot," she pointed out anxiously. "Nothing can be so important."
"Captain Bartolmei will see you back to the castello. Sarina is waiting for you, and she'll be sure you are well cared for in my absence. I'll return as soon as possible." The wind was blowing hard. The don's hair flared around his face, thick and shaggy, gold at his crown, darkening to almost black as it cascaded down his back. "Isabella, stay close to the captain until you are safe within the walls of my home. And listen to Sarina. She wants only to protect you."
"Don DeMarco," Captain Bartolmei interrupted. "You must hurry."
All the horses were snorting and dancing nervously. Isabella's mount was rolling its eyes in fear, tossing its head up and trying to back away.
Isabella reached out and caught Nicolai's shoulder. "You have no cloak, and it's freezing out here. Please come with us. Or at least take back your cloak."
Don DeMarco looked at the small gloved hand on his shoulder. "Look at me, my lady.
Look at my face."
She heard the swift intake of breath, of fear, by the two men guarding them. She didn't spare them a glance, looking only at Nicolai. For some reason she couldn't fathom, he was breaking her heart. He looked so aloof, so utterly alone. She boldly framed his scarred face with her palms. "I am looking at you, mio don. Tell me what I am to
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