Devil's Daughter (Devil 2)

Gervaise bowed and offered her his arm. “How long will your illustrious father stay in Naples, mademoiselle?”

Was there a tinge of sarcasm in his voice? “I am not in my father’s confidence. I suppose that much depends upon what happens in the king’s negotiations with the French.”

“I shouldn’t like you to be in Naples when or if the Treaty of Amiens is renounced. I have heard it said that Napoleon is displeased with Acton. The pot is nearing the boiling point again, I’m afraid.”

“I sincerely hope it will not boil over, monsieur. I pity any country that is conquered by another, and its people enslaved.”

The comte arched a fair brow. “There are many in Naples, mademoiselle, who view Napoleon as a liberator, many who would throw the city open to him.”

“I fear they are deluded. Napoleon has looted every country he has taken, and tried to destroy the traditions that bound their people together.”

“And some say these people have never known greater freedom since his arrival, and less corruption.”

“For an ardent royalist, monsieur, you seem rather open-minded.”

Gervaise smiled down at her serious young face. “I have lived more years than you, mademoiselle. Perhaps I have become a cynic.”

“I thank you for the dance, monsieur.”

Before he could ask her for another, Rayna curtsied to him and turned to her mother.

“A bientôt, mademoiselle,” he said softly.

Chapter 7

Sardinia

Old Antonio Genovesi scratched his wiry gray beard as he pondered the slow progress of the man on the beach below him, the man he had pulled from the churning waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea some six months before. He was not a young man, but his features, gaunt from months of fever and pain, made him appear older than his years. That he had survived the stab wounds and hours spent in the storm-tossed water, clutching a piece of driftwood, testified to an extraordinary strength. As his wife, Ria, had said as she nursed him, “This one will not let the devil have him, not before his time.”

Ria had hardly left his side for months, hovering about him as if he were her son. Not that Antonio minded. Ria’s grief over the son they had lost to the sea years before had aged her too. She called him Dono, for to her he was a gift from the sea. There was a fierce light in her rheumy eyes now, and they held purpose again. During the months of fever, he had raved of odd and strange things, and places so bizarre that Ria and Antonio could only gape at him. “He is no common sailor, our Dono,” Ria had whispered to him.

He watched Dono turn slowly back up the beach toward their thatched hut. He raised his head, and even from the distance brilliant black eyes met Antonio’s gaze. Dono raised his crutch and waved it toward him. “Who are you?” Antonio whispered. He waved back and made his way down the crooked path to the beach.

Hamil had just seen his reflection clearly for the first time in six months in a limpid sea pool. A wide strip of shock white hair flowed from his temple through his black hair, as if painted there. His full beard was threaded with white, and there were lines etched about his eyes. He had stared at a stranger.

His once powerful body still trembled from weakness whenever he walked the length of the rocky beach. It was his fury that kept him doggedly exercising, fury at his betrayal that had kept him clinging to that piece of wood when other men would have let go. He still asked himself: Who had paid Ramid to betray him?

Hamil smiled to himself as he watched the old man carefully tread down the path toward him. Antonio would say nothing, but would walk beside him, ready to shoulder his weight should he falter. Soon, he thought, he would not need the crutch; soon his strength would return.

He waited for the old man to reach him, leaning heavily on the crutch Antonio had carved for him several months before.

“Dono,” Antonio said in his soft, scratchy voice. “I watched you. You walked the whole length of the beach without halting. Soon, my son, you will be as you once were.”

My son. Hamil smiled at the grizzled old man who barely reached his chin.

Antonio saw a grimace of pain through Dono’s smile and pulled the younger man’s arm over his shoulder. “Ria will have our lunch ready,” Antonio said quickly, wanting to spare Dono the embarrassment of leaning on him, an old man. “Fish stew today, but it’s tasty, as you know, Dono.”

“I know,” Hamil said, allowing Antonio to support some of his weight.

As they neared the hut, Hamil said abruptly, “I wish to fish with you, Antonio. I have done nothing save take from you. I must repay you if I can for your kindness.”

“Yes, you will fish with me, perhaps next week,” Antonio agreed. “But you are not a fisherman. I would not wish to fish you out of the sea again.”

“No,” Hamil said. “I am not a fisherman, but I am a good sailor. I will learn.”

Ria appeared in the doorway of the small hut, waving her faded apron at them. “Dono. Look at you, boy. You have had enough exercise for this day . . . leaning on that old man. You walked too far. Come, you must rest now and eat. It’s a thick stew I’ve got for you today. Potatoes from that old witch who lives beyond the hill.”

Hamil, used to Ria’s scolding chatter, allowed her to lead him into the one large room and settle him on a chair beside the rough-hewn table. In truth, he was exhausted. He attacked the stew as if his life depended on it.