Veiled Passions. Tracy MacNishЧитать онлайн книгу.
until Kieran thought he might actually strike her.
But she met his gaze with false calm.
“You are far too full of yourself,” Rogan bit out. “You live, dress, and dine on my accounts.”
“That is only because you refuse to accept recompense from Da and Mum.” Kieran kept her voice level. She would not be made to feel indebted simply because she existed. “Is it my fault that I have no means to support myself, barring selling myself into marriage? Would you rather that, over the cost I bring you?”
“You speak nonsense in an effort to disguise the true matter.”
“I do believe we are at the crux of the matter, Rogan. Think on it: If you did not support me as I live, dress, and dine, would you dare to speak to me as you are?”
Rogan let out a long breath. He stared at her for a few minutes until he finally shook his head, a gesture of disgust and resignation combined. “You were raised better than to be a liar, Kieran. I cannot fathom what has made you stoop so low.
“But you have always been our mother’s daughter, as stubborn and headstrong as any man. I know that nothing will make you tell me the truth, even were I to try to beat it from you, and honestly, I have no desire to test the boundaries of that belief.
“You live with me because I love you, Emeline loves you, and we want you with us. The issue isn’t financial, and I’m sorry I made it so.
“I will accompany you to the palace of the Doge. I do want to thank the man who saved you; he deserves that, and any help we can lend him. I care not if he committed the crimes that are laid against him. My loyalty is not to Venice, but to you, my blood.”
Rogan turned and walked away from Kieran. He paused in the doorway and turned. “Just one thing. Did Matteo de Gama treat you inappropriately?”
Kieran thought about the night before, the look in Matteo’s eyes, as if he understood her darkest longings. She remembered his eyes, so dark and full of amusement, but somehow still sad. And his mouth, soft and expressive, quirked up in humor, turned down in rage.
“No, Rogan. He truly did not.”
His gaze met hers, full of meaning that did not need to be spoken. Not when one had been raised the way they had, with honor and conviction as requirements. “I take you at your word.”
The statement could not have been better aimed to injure Kieran any more than it did. She fought the sting of tears as Rogan left her rooms. Nothing hurt more than his disappointment.
For a moment she considered running after him and telling him everything. Every sordid, disgusting detail so he would understand why she had lied. So he could comprehend the gravity of how, in the act of knowing, he could never again look at her the same way again.
Kieran pushed the thoughts away. Better for him to know her as a liar than to know her for worse. Much, much worse.
Liars did not inherit God’s kingdom; the admonition from the Bible rang in her ears.
It was a small consolation to Kieran to consider, however, that by those same standards, neither would most anyone else.
And yes, she admitted to herself, Samuel Ellsworth had struck a chord. Perhaps after all this time, Rogan would not believe her. Had he not discovered what a liar she could be?
In deference to the law that forbade persons from being without costume during Carnivale, Kieran donned the half-mask that matched her gown, a pink and gold creation with cat eyes and pricked ears. It had a headdress of pink feathers that made a hat unnecessary. She picked up her parasol and her reticule and followed her brother out of the palace.
They boarded a gondola, and Kieran sat on the small, hard bench and opened her parasol to shade her from the blazing sun. She angled it so the taut, pink fabric shielded her also from Rogan’s silent regard.
The ride to the Doge’s palace took less than a quarter of an hour, but Kieran felt like the entire afternoon passed before she could disembark.
They left the Grand Canal behind them as they entered by way of the Piazzetta dei Leoncini, passing the columns of Venice’s two patrons, Marco and Todaro. Kieran marveled at the statues that stood atop the tall pillars: the lion of Saint Mark and the statue of Saint Teodoro of Amasea, or “Santodaro” to the Venetians.
The Piazza San Marco dominated Venice, the seat of the republic and the center of Venetians’ lives. Kieran stopped, absorbing the enormity, the beauty, the scents and sounds. The ground floor of the Procuraties were dominated by several cafes exuding the tantalizing scents of pastries and coffee, along with a fair share of laughter and shouts.
Kieran had noticed that the Venetians laughed as much as they spoke, a trait as vastly different from the English as any of the more obvious.
It was the many differences of Venice that enraptured Kieran, nothing like England or Barbados, the island on which she and Rogan had been raised.
The architecture flaunted boldness and audacity without a trace of restraint. Everywhere the eye looked one could see detail upon detail, each surface and area decorated and adorned. Yet, the city wore it with a casual elegance that felt as natural as the elements of which it was comprised: water and wood, marble and metal.
Oh, and the water, she mused, sparkling in a deep green-blue when the sun hit it just so, something beyond color for its luminescence. No horses’ hooves ringing on cobblestones, no clatter of wagon wheels, no cries of people hawking their wares. There was such peace in the water lapping against the black hulls of gondolas, the sounds of conversations held in cafes, and the cries of seagulls and cooing pigeons.
A woman in full Carnivale costume ran from a café, pulling Kieran’s attention to her. She laughed and darted around a pillar, giggles turning to shrieks of pleasure as a man followed to peek around the column, the meter and tone of his voice obviously making it known he was in the midst of playful pursuit. He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him, kissing up her arm until he reached her elbow.
The woman allowed him to pull her closer, and soon they were dancing to a song only they could hear.
“Looks like fun, aye?” Rogan asked.
Kieran sent her brother a cool look of disdain. They walked to the Doge’s palace, pigeons flying out of their path.
All Venetians pursue pleasure…the things that make a life rich. That is what Matteo de Gama said, Kieran remembered.
They stepped inside the shady interior of the palace and as Rogan spoke with the attendants and guards, Kieran allowed herself to mentally answer Rogan’s question.
Yes. It had looked like fun.
Good timing often comes down to chance; Matteo had already been brought in for his Inquisition in the Grand Council chamber. Outside the huge doors, Rogan and Kieran removed their masks, left them on a table, and entered.
An enormous dais held a long, thick table of dark, elegant wood. Centered behind it was a high-backed throne, flanked by five large, carved chairs on either side. The Council of Ten had been assembled, and as Rogan and Kieran had found out, because one of the charges was of treason, the Doge, the Prince of Venice himself, sat for the Inquisition with his Council.
Matteo stood, flanked by two guards as the proceeding took place. To his side there was a man giving impassioned testimony to the Doge and the Council.
The man, his anger thinly disguised by his reddened face and clenched hands, spoke in rapid Italian, his tone accusatory. A red-lipped woman with shiny, curly hair sat at his side, her eyes downcast, her cheeks flushed. Papers littered a table in front of him, and when he reached the crescendo of his diatribe, he slammed his fist down on the documents.
When the man finished his speech, Matteo had a turn to address his defense, and he did so in measured tones. One of the men asked a question, and Matteo answered, and another asked a question, gesturing to the rear of the chamber.
Matteo