Carpathian 00 - The Scarletti Curse

kicked at a piece of the fallen chandelier to draw attention away from the younger woman. "Clearly the thing fell," Maria Pia pointed out. "It was only by the grace of the good Madonna we were not killed."
    The don moved closer to inspect the debris. "There is blood on the coverlet. Was Sophie injured?"
    Nicoletta quickly averted her eyes from the don, and it was left to Maria Pia to shake her head and answer. "She was untouched. The fever has gone down, too. Our vigilance has paid off," she declared, touching her crucifix for forgiveness for the small lie, since she had fallen asleep even before the don left the room.
    Don Scarletti's penetrating gaze settled thoughtfully on Nicoletta's face. "So you were the one injured.
    Let me see." He crossed the floor in his long, fluid strides and bent to examine her.

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    Shocked, Nicoletta drew her legs under the skirt and silently shook her head, feeling like a frightened, wayward child, butterflies brushing at her stomach.
    "Dio! Piccola, I am out of patience." He circled her bare ankle with his long fingers and straightened her leg out for his inspection. It was a curiously intimate gesture. Nicoletta had never been touched by a man before, and certainly not on her bare skin. Color crept up her neck and flooded her delicate features. He was enormously strong, and she had no way of combating his strength or his hard authority.
    Nicoletta made a soft sound of distress and looked desperately to Maria Pia for help. Don Scarletti was turning her leg to inspect her calf. His hands were surprisingly gentle. "This cut is deep." He glanced briefly at the older woman. "Hand me a rag." There was authority in his voice.
    "I will attend her, signore," Maria Pia said firmly, clutching the rag, her shock mirrored on her face. It wasn't decent that the don should touch Nicoletta that way; worse, it was dangerous.
    The don reached up, took the rag out of Maria Pia's hands, and gently wiped the blood from Nicoletta's leg so that he could see the extent of the injury. Nicoletta winced as the laceration burned, pulsing with pain. She tried not to notice the way the don's hair curled around his ears and rippled in unruly waves down his nape. "Light a candle, woman. This wound is deep and must be dressed, or it may putrefy."
    Once again Maria Pia made a desperate attempt to shield Nicoletta from the don. "I am the healer, Don Scarletti. You should not trouble yourself with such."
    "I have attended many battle wounds," the don answered absently, thoughtfully inspecting the shapely leg he held in his hands.
    Nicoletta was mortified to have the don kneeling at her feet, her ankle in his hands. She was acutely aware of the heat emanating from his body. In her arms, Sophie began to squirm, the beginnings of a whimper starting.
    The don caught the little girl, pulled her out of Nicoletta's arms, and thrust her at Maria Pia in one smooth motion. "See to her needs," he ordered abruptly, his voice as mild as ever. He was clearly distracted by Nicoletta's injuries, not really looking at the child or the older woman. His fingertips moved over her skin, leaving a strange tingling sensation behind. Nicoletta held herself very still, afraid to move.
    Her teeth tugged nervously at her lower lip, drawing his unwanted attention to her face. He reached for a clean cloth on the nightstand to use for a bandage. "Are you training as an apprentice to the healer?" he asked casually as he wound the bandage around her legs. One hand was still circling her ankle, so it was easy enough to feel her trembling.
    Nicoletta looked desperately for help from Maria Pia, but her mentor was attending the child, who needed to use the chamber pot in an alcove at the far end of the room. Nicoletta shrank away from the don, hoping the candlelight wouldn't reach her face. She had trained herself to be extremely careful of contact with others, yet she was in an impossible position. One didn't deliberately incur the wrath of the don Giovanni Scarletti. That was dangerous and foolhardy. Nervously she swept a hand through her thick, hair, horrified to discover her head scarf had slipped off. It was too far away for her to grab it and cover her abundance of hair, but at least the strands were still drawn back in a severe knot.
    "You can talk—I have heard you," Don Scarletti pointed out. "What was the melody you sang to Sophie? It was somehow familiar to me." He