Brave the Tempest (Cassandra Palmer 9)

“They used to expose unwanted babies on the hillsides, so that they died.” He shrugged.

I felt a shiver go down my arms.

This wasn’t . . . I hadn’t actually expected things to get this dark.

“I named myself Marino—­of the sea,” he added. “I thought to be a fisherman. It was all I knew, and there were plenty of boats in Napoli. But one of the men knew my mother, and said stupid things.” He shrugged again. “I put a scaling knife in his eye.”

“Rico,” I said, not even knowing what I was going to say. But feeling like I ought to say something.

“I ended up a mercenary after that,” he continued, his voice low. “I did things, not so good things, you understand? If you could see them, you would know . . .”

“Know what?”

He looked away, back at that oh-­so-­interesting spot on the ceiling. “Her father is Jonas Marsden, yes? And her mother is—­was—­Agnes Wee-­ther-­by. That is right?”

He’d stumbled a little over the pronunciation of Weatherby, the harsher English syllables sounding strange on a tongue that, even now, was more used to lyrical Italian. Rico was the only one of my guards with a noticeable accent, unless they chose to have one. Or unless you counted Roy’s slight Southern drawl.

“Close enough,” I agreed.

He looked satisfied. “So. You see.”

I didn’t see a damned thing.

I said as much, and Rico looked at me like I was slow. But instead of trying to explain, he took the perfume bottle from my hands and frowned at it, as if trying to figure out the little bulb-­like sprayer. Then he turned it on himself.

“You see?” he asked. “Or, rather, do you smell?”

I didn’t, actually. Until I leaned closer. I closed my eyes and filled my lungs, but it wasn’t the smell of fish, even newly caught ones, that met my nose. It wasn’t anything I could name exactly. If I’d had to describe it, it would have sounded like the cover of a romance novel: a dark night, a full moon, a highwayman galloping past a field of lavender, a girl waiting in a tall tower by the sea, plaiting roses in her hair—­

I broke away, laughing at myself.

God, I needed to get laid!

“What is it?” Rico asked, trying to sniff himself. I guess I didn’t look like a woman who’d just been breathing fish guts.

“You can’t smell it yourself. You have to have someone tell you,” I said. Or so the fey shopkeeper had insisted.

“Then what do you smell?”

“Not fish.”

The door to the suite opened before I could say anything else, and Saffy’s pink head poked out. “Hey! We found it!”

“Found what?”

“An outfit for you.”

Okay, now I was legitimately afraid. “Um, Saffy—­”

“No, really. You’ll love it!”

She started tugging me inside.

“Cassie—­” That was Rico, looking strangely desperate, all of a sudden.

“It’s hard to describe,” I said. “But you keep it. It smells better on you.”

“Better?” He looked at the little bottle in confusion. “What did it smell like on you?”