In the Tudor Court Collection - Amanda McCabe Mills & Boon e-Book Collections

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life returned to him. What more would you have of me?’

      ‘Nothing you have not given,’ Charles replied. ‘For myself, I would be glad to pay for the return of my son.’

      ‘I wish that I might give you more hope,’ Lorenzo said. ‘But let us speak of other things. You have an idea of settling on Cyprus, I believe?’

      ‘I have thoughts of my own vineyard.’

      ‘Then I may be of more help to you there,’ Lorenzo said. ‘Come to dinner tomorrow evening. Bring your sister and niece to dine. I may have more news for you by then.’

      ‘Thank you. I shall look forward to it.’

      Charles was thoughtful as he took his leave. He believed Lorenzo Santorini an honest man. His manner was somewhat reserved and at times his eyes were cold. He was clearly unsentimental about his business, a man of purpose. Some might think him harsh to take ransom money for men he rescued from slavery, but Charles found no fault in his seeking some profit from what he did. There were others who would simply have left the galley slave to die or even have sent him back to the markets to be sold again.

      No doubt it was Santorini’s keen intelligence and lack of sentiment that had made him wealthy. Yes, perhaps he was a little harsh in matters of business, but who knew what had caused him to be that way? He sensed some mystery in the man’s past, but it was not his affair. Santorini would deal fairly with him and he could ask for no more.

      His thoughts turned to the man he had been told of—a man who might be English with blue eyes. Could he possibly be Richard? Charles felt a flicker of hope. Yet it was ridiculous to allow himself to hope. There must be many blue-eyed Englishmen who had been lost at sea and taken as galley slaves, and not only by the Corsairs. Some served in Spanish galleys and there was little to choose between their masters, for they were beaten and tortured, made to work until they collapsed at the oar and were tossed into the sea to die. The Spanish hated the heretic English and it was often said that they were crueller than the Corsairs to those they took in battle.

      Charles closed his eyes, trying to shut out the pictures that crowded into his mind. God forgive him, he could almost wish his son dead rather than know that he had suffered such a terrible fate.

      ‘But that is wicked!’ Kathryn exclaimed as Charles spoke of the ransom he would pay if the man he had been told of should by some extreme chance be his son. ‘Why, this Lorenzo Santorini is little better than those evil men whose business is to trade in slaves.’

      ‘No, Kathryn,’ he said. ‘You do not understand, my dear. I would be willing to pay any sum for Richard’s return and should be grateful to the man who found him for me.’

      ‘But a decent man would not ask for money, Uncle Charles.’ She was outraged, her eyes scornful of this man she had yet to meet.

      ‘Hush, Kathryn,’ he chided. ‘We must not judge him. He does much good, I think, and if he makes a profit by it…’Charles shrugged his shoulders. ‘I found him honest. He is a man I can do business with. You may feel it wrong to take money for restoring a man to his family, but others would have let the poor fellow die.’

      ‘Please, Charles,’ Lady Mary said with a little shudder, ‘I wish you would not say such things. You will give Kathryn nightmares.’

      ‘No, dear Aunt Mary,’ Kathryn said and smiled at her. ‘My nightmares have become a thing of the past since we began our journey. I do not know why, but my heart has become much lighter.’ It was as if she felt that she was going to meet Dickon, that she would find him at her journey’s end. In her dreams he seemed very close and he was no longer in pain or distress. She seemed to see him smiling at her, opening his arms to enfold her and kiss her.

      ‘Well, I am happy for it,’ Charles said with a smile. ‘But it would be too much to expect to find Richard so swiftly. It may be months or years—or perhaps never—but Signor Santorini has promised to do what he can. I pray you, Kathryn, do nothing to antagonise him this evening.’

      ‘Of course I shall not, Uncle Charles,’ Kathryn said. ‘If you believe he can help us, then I shall do nothing to make him change his mind. I may think him unprincipled and wrong, but I shall not say it.’

      He smiled at her, nodding his satisfaction with her promise. It was time for them to leave, and the gondola was waiting at the steps outside their house to take them to Lorenzo Santorini’s palace.

      Kathryn’s eyes widened as she saw it, for it was surely one of the most important and attractive of the many beautiful buildings built by the Grand Lagoon. This Signor Santorini must be very wealthy; if that were so, he did not need to ask for money from the families of the poor wretches he rescued from cruel masters.

      Her antagonism was growing towards the man she had never met, her feelings of outrage at the obvious trappings of his great wealth building a picture in her mind so that, when the tall, golden-haired man came towards them, she did not at first imagine that he was Lorenzo Santorini. She had seldom seen a more attractive man, Kathryn thought, and as she looked into his deep blue eyes her breath caught and she felt very strange. She had only ever known one person with eyes that colour and so strong was the emotion that gripped her then that she almost fainted. Indeed, she swayed and put out her hand to steady herself, finding her arm gripped by a firm hand.

      ‘Are you ill, Madonna?’

      His voice was so deep and husky; yet she heard only the echoes of the sea against a rocky shore on a windswept night, her mind whirling in confusion. For a moment she was there again, looking down as the Corsairs carried her beloved Dickon away with them, her feeling of terror so strong that she almost fainted.

      ‘Kathryn? Is something wrong, my dear?’

      Lady Mary’s voice brought her back from the edge of the precipice and her head cleared. She looked at the man, who still held her arm in a vicelike grip, her eyes suddenly dark with revulsion as she dismissed the foolish notion that had come to her. How could she have thought even for one moment that this man was her beloved Dickon? His face was deeply tanned, with sculptured cheekbones and lines about his eyes. Richard Mountfitchet would be no more than five and twenty; this man must be some years older, of course, the set of his mouth harsh and unforgiving, so different from the easy smile that she had been wont to see on Dickon’s lips.

      Why, from what she had heard of him, he was little better than the evil men who had abducted her dearest friend!

      She moved her arm and his grip relaxed, releasing her as her head went up proudly, daring him to touch her again. ‘I am all right, Aunt Mary,’ she said, smiling at the woman who was clearly concerned for her. ‘It was just a moment of faintness. Perhaps the change from the bright sunlight to darkness?’

      It was a weak excuse, of course, for it was not truly dark in the palace, which was a place of colour and sunshine from the many windows high above that gave the grand hall a churchlike feel.

      ‘It has been very warm today,’ Lorenzo said, his eyes narrowing as he sensed her hostility. What ailed her—and why had she looked at him so oddly for a moment? ‘And I believe it may be cool in here. Please come through to my private chambers, ladies. I believe you may be more comfortable there.’

      Lorenzo led the way to another, smaller chamber, which was lavishly appointed with beautiful tiled walls and floors, the colours rich and vibrant. It was furnished with the most exquisite things that Kathryn had ever seen, some of them with a distinctly Byzantine look to them. For surely those silken couches belonged more properly in the harem of an eastern potentate?

      ‘I have never seen such a lovely room,’ Lady Mary declared, echoing the thoughts Kathryn would not for pride’s sake utter. ‘Where did you find all these lovely things, Signor Santorini?’

      ‘Some of them were given me in gratitude for saving the life of a precious son,’ Lorenzo told her. His eyes were on Kathryn as he spoke, a mocking gleam deep in their mysterious depths. ‘It was in Granada and the boy was a Moor, the son of a merchant prince—a man whose wealth would make me seem a pauper

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