The thudding sound it made against the door made her jump. But there was no answer, only silence, and she banged the knocker again. Her shoulders finally slumped in defeat. She was cursed with ill luck.
Suddenly her heart plummeted to her toes. A hand covered her mouth and someone pulled her backward. At the same time, the front door opened, and Adam stood silhouetted in the dim light.
“Jesus Christ. Rayna. Vincenzo—what the devil?”
The hand over her mouth loosened, and the man said, “I followed her here, my lord. She wasn’t out of my sight for an instant.”
“Thank you, Vincenzo,” Adam said. He saw that Rayna was perfectly white. “You may go back to the villa. I will return Miss Lyndhurst.”
Vincenzo released her and stepped off the front steps, quickly disappearing into the night.
Rayna saw the marchese’s disbelief turn to anger. She quickly threw herself against his chest and wrapped her arms around his back.
“How can I protect you, you little fool, if you have no regard for your own safety?” Even as he spoke, his hands were pressing her against him and he was kissing her temple. “Come,” he said, pushing her away, “you are going home.”
“I came to see you, Pietro.”
“Have you lost your damned mind?” She merely smiled and he cursed. “Very well, come inside before someone sees you.”
His hold on her arm was not gentle as he led her through the dim entrance hall to the parlor.
Without speaking to her, he quickly strode to the long windows and drew the heavy curtains. He turned slowly. “This is nonsense, Rayna. I should beat you for your foolhardiness. What if the comte—”
“I was very careful, but I had to see you.”
“Very well,” he said evenly, “now you are here. What did you wish to say to me?”
“Is the cut on your thigh healing?”
“Yes,” he said. “It is nothing.”
“Oh? You cut yourself often to protect virgins?”
“Your wit is flat.”
“Very well,” she said. “Tell me, Pietro, what is the weather like in Sicily this time of year?”
“Rayna, what game are you playing?”
She said, “If Sicily is to be my home, should I not show interest? Surely I would be unnatural if I did not.”
“Sicily is quite warm. There is practically no rain.”
“Tell me, marchese,” she continued, “what is England like—its weather, I mean?”
He regarded her beneath lowered brows. “Are you quite through, Rayna?”
“Perhaps. What I should like to know, sir, is why, when you first saw me, you spoke in the most fluent English?”
“Damn,” Adam said.
“Perhaps you only curse in English, marchese?”
Adam sighed. “I am not a marquess,” he said in English, dropping all pretense. “Rayna, I promised your father that you would not discover who I am.”
“I haven’t, yet. However, if you do not tell me exactly who you are, sir, I swear that I will ask my father directly.”
He smiled reluctantly. “That, I daresay, is a believable threat. Very well, Miss Lyndhurst.” He gave her an elegant bow. “May I present Viscount St. Ives. Quite an acceptable fellow, really. Since you are not quite a stranger to him, I see no impropriety in your addressing him as Adam Welles.”