Shadowheart by Laura Kinsale Page A

Melanthe told me!”
    “Oh, did she!” He laughed. “And how did she convince you of this fantasy?”
    “She only said—there were once three families, Monteverde, Riata, and Navona—but I need not study deeply on Navona, for they are finished.”
    “Finished! And that is all? I am stung.”
    “I’m sorry,” Elayne said, ducking her head. “But in truth she made no mention of a pirate.”
    “Pirate!” he exclaimed languidly. “What a low opinion you have formed of me, my lady, on such small acquaintance!”
    “A very princely pirate,” Elayne said, giving a shaky wave of her hand about the chamber.
    “Grant mercy!” He bowed his head in mockery. He picked up the angel card and glanced at it. “Finished,” he said, tossing it down. His beautiful face became a devil’s mask as he narrowed his eyes. “Indeed.”
    “Haps she only meant—that we are not enemies anymore. I have no hate for you myself.”
    His dark eyebrows lifted. He looked at her as if she must be lying, and he would kill her for it. Elayne tried to hold his gaze.
    “How should I?” she asked earnestly. “I don’t know who you are.”
    After a moment he lifted the angel card again between two fingers, turning it to examine the shadowy figure. A faint curve appeared at the corner of his mouth. “Alas, you make me smile too easily. I fear things will go hard for you here.”
    He did not appear amused. Elayne knew not what to make of him. “You object to smiling?”
    “Not at all,” he said. “Only I find that I do not do it often—so it may be I will decide to keep you with me longer than you find convenient. Should you object?”
    Elayne looked away uneasily. “I do not comprehend you.”
    “Oh, you will, my lady Elena,” he said. He pushed himself to his feet, standing over her. He did not touch her, and yet as he looked down, his eyes seemed to move over her face with the depth of a caress. “I promise that you will.”
    Somewhere very far away, at the outermost edge of hearing, a trumpet called three notes. It called again, and was gone, dreamlike in the silence.
    He laughed suddenly. “Franco Pietro, eh? What a tragedy that would be!” With a gesture, he beckoned her. “Come, Elena. Your future awaits.”

Chapter Five
    “Sit!” he said, waving her to the place beside him on the dais. They stood upon a gallery overlooking the sea, with laden tables lining the row of open arches. Elena was vividly aware of her hair falling loose down her back. Her insides quivered from lack of sleep, making her brain dance with flashes of illusion in the corners of her eyes. Torches burned, but the growing light of dawn made them dim. As he bid her sit down at the head table, child-servants passed back and forth, carrying platters and trenchers, casting long sharp shadows across the tiled floor. The prospect from the gallery was magnificent, the sky ablaze with pink and orange, the sea a soft blue. The Raven himself was a figure cast in silver and black, lit by the golden beams. He made no move to eat or speak to her—he sat still, his hand upon his wine cup, watching the sun rise over the sea.
    Elayne sat quietly also. There seemed to be no other diners but themselves. The white linen tablecloth swayed gently in the open air, brushing her hands in her lap. In spite of his stillness, she felt a sharpened vitality in him; a sense that he kept himself motionless by resolve, alert, like a hunter listening for the distant sound of the hounds.
    As the sun rose slowly above the sea, Elayne saw his glance flicker aside from his fixed focus on the horizon. At the same instant, she became aware of another drift of linen at the corner of her eye; a cloth moving lightly—a table that had not been there—but as she turned toward it she saw that it was a man. He seemed to appear from the dawn breeze itself, tall and insubstantial, dark-skinned like the Moors, his long wrists as thin as a skeleton’s in the full white sleeves of his gown.
    He made an elaborate bow, dipping his bronzed, bald head almost to