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seated. Sarina has brought tea to steady your nerves."
    His voice was pleasant enough, but his words immediately pricked her pride.
    She swept across the room regally, a woman of stature, of importance, her head held high. "I do not recall having unsteady nerves, Signor DeMarco. However, if you feel nervous, I shall be happy to pour a cup for you. I trust the tea is free of any herbs that might cause you to become… drowsy." Isabella sat in a high-backed chair, taking time to arrange the long skirt primly over her legs and ankles. She cursed herself silently. Her pride might lose her her hard won audience with the don. What was wrong with her that she bristled in his company? What did it matter what he said, what he thought of her? Let him think her nervous and weak if that was what he wanted. As long as she got her way.
    Don DeMarco allowed the silence between them to lengthen. She could feel the weight of his disapproval, the weight of his stare from the shadows.
    Trying to salvage the situation, Isabella looked down at her hands. "Thank you for the garments. I had very little in the way of proper clothing with me. The room you offered me is beautiful and the bed comfortable. I could not have asked for better care. Signora Sincini took excellent care of me."
    "I am happy to see that the gowns fit you. Are you rested from your journey?"
    "Yes, grazie, " she said demurely.
    "It was foolish of you to venture into danger, and if your padre was alive, I'm certain he would see to it that you were punished for such folly. I am inclined to take on the responsibility myself." His voice was velvet soft, playing along her nerve endings like the brush of fingertips, warming her skin, and she was thankful for the heat of the fire to explain the blush stealing into her face. He was chastising her, yet his voice was nearly a physical caress, and for some reason, Isabella found herself extremely susceptible to it.
    "You were warned repeatedly not to come to this place. What kind of woman are you that you would risk your reputation, your life, making such a journey?"
    Her fingers curled into two tight fists, and her fingernails dug deeply into her palms. She had the feeling he was watching her closely from the shadows, that his eyes caught that tiny telltale rebellion. Surreptitiously she pushed her hands out of sight beneath the skirts of her dress.
    "I am a desperate woman," she admitted, trying unsuccessfully to peer into the darkness.
    He looked a large, powerful being, not quite human. The bird of prey perched on his arm, staring at her with round, beady eyes, added to her nervousness. "I had to see you. To plead for mio fratello's life. I sent messengers, but they were unable to reach you. I know you can help him."
    She swallowed the unexpected sob threatening to choke her. "He is in the dungeons of Don Rivellio. He has been sentenced to death. Mio fratello, Lucca Vernaducci, has been imprisoned for nearly two years, and the conditions are appalling. I have heard that he is ill, and I came here to plead with you to save his life. I know you have the power to have him pardoned. One word from you, and Don Rivellio would release him. If you do not wish to openly ask for such a favor, e possibile you could arrange for his escape." She blurted the words out desperately, unable to hold them back a moment longer, and she leaned forward toward the dark corner. "Please do this, Don DeMarco. Mio fratello is a good man. Do not allow him to die."
    There was a long silence. Nothing moved in the room, not even the falcon. Don DeMarco sighed softly. "What is he charged with?"
    She hesitated, her stomach a tight knot. She should have known he would ask. How could he not? "Treason. It is said he conspired against the king." It was only fair to answer him truthfully.

    "Is he guilty? Did he conspire against the king?" he asked, the softest of growls emerging from his throat.
    Her heart jumped wildly. Her teeth tugged at her lower lip. "Yes." Her voice