His attention flicked to Imelda.
She had been gaping at him, but at his sudden fierce look, she snapped her mouth closed and made herself smaller. The picture of demure obedience.
“Cavaliere Saturnino,” Imelda simpered, dropping into a quick curtsey.
“It’s Imelda, isn’t it?” Saturnino said. “You’re here with your brother.”
A flutter of emotion swept across Imelda’s young face. “Yes.”
“His name?” Saturnino asked softly.
His whisper chilled Ravenna and she took a step closer to the roaring fire. Imelda must have sensed the danger she was in. He had never looked more like an immortal. His manner was almost lazy, as if he had all the time in the world to get what he needed.
And he would get it, by foul means or fair.
“Pietro,” Imelda said through stiff lips.
Ravenna’s lips parted. They were brother and sister? She studied her maid, and recalled Pietro’s face in her mind. They looked nothing alike… save for the color of their eyes. It was a blue that had looked gray down in the dungeon, where the lighting was soft and dim.
“What is your family name?”
Imelda blanched. “We are no one of note, signore.”
“Answer the question,” he said.
She swept her hands behind her back and clenched them tight. “Alessandri.”
“Alessandri,” Saturnino echoed.
Ravenna drew in a shaky breath as she studied his reaction. He had gone very still, and he was clearly thinking—but what? For the hundredth time, she wished she could read his inscrutable face.
“That’s correct, Signor Luni,” Imelda mumbled. She had infused her tone with a note of awestruck wonder, as if she couldn’t believe the lord of the house, heir to the dukedom, knight of the realm, would deign to know her name, let alone speak with the likes of her.
Ravenna had the hysterical urge to bow at Imelda’s performance. If her career as a blackmailer and spy didn’t work out for her, she could make a career starring in a Greek tragedy.
Saturnino studied Imelda for a moment but seemed to become bored by the conversation. He waved her off with a dismissive gesture. “Leave us.”
Imelda flicked a glance at Ravenna. It was instinctive, and in that space of a second, Ravenna read the fear in her gaze, followed quickly by a spark of anger, bright and terrifying. She would go straight to her brother and inform him of Saturnino’s late visit to Ravenna’s room. They would speculate about the reason.
And when they were done speculating, they would come with their threats.
Ravenna clutched at her towel tightly. “I’m not dressed for a visit,Signor Luni.”
Saturnino arched an imperious brow. Any trace of warmth he had shown her earlier was long gone. But then her gaze lowered to his knuckles. They were cut up and raw, slowly healing. Ravenna lifted her eyes to meet his. He stared at her with an expression that seemed intended to goad her into asking what he had done to his brother. And he would tell her how he had won the fight, what Marco’s face looked like, about the bruises covering his cheekbones.
He would tell her everything in order to remind her who he was.
But he would not sharewhyhe had attacked his brother.
Had he done it for her? Because Marco had pulled her hair, had marred her skin with bruises? Ravenna didn’t believe so. He had madehimself clear on that score: Saturnino always had reasons for everything he did, and none of them were kind.
Imelda cleared her throat. “Do you need anything else, signorina?”
It would have been so easy to say yes. Ravenna could make up a task for Imelda, something inane, anything at all for her to remain in the room. But Saturnino would find a way to get her alone—there was no delaying the inevitable.
“Signorina?” Imelda prodded.
Saturnino gave Ravenna a pointed look. His look asked,Will you face me?Her heart raced. His attention narrowed to her pulse beating against her throat. She lifted her chin, straightened her spine, gripping tightly on to her towel as if it were a shield.
