Her arms gripped him as tightly as if she were drowning. He felt warmth flood through him.
"Ah, Rachel." He had not seen her since he had taken her to Tilia Caballo's, and not a day went by that he had not cursed himself for doing so. She looked well, her face pink, but thinner than he remembered. She was, he realized suddenly, very beautiful.
"I thought your name was Giancarlo," said a dry voice. Lorenzo looked up to see the old Franciscan monk who traveled with the Tartars standing near him.
"What is going on here?" The Venetian burst into the tent. "Get your hands off that woman." He drew the shortsword he wore at his belt.
Lorenzo instantly let go of Rachel and stepped back. He bowed low, spreading his hands in a courtly gesture.
"Forgive me, Messere," he said in a placating tone. "A long-lost cousin." His hand darted for his boot and seized the handle of his dagger.
"I don't believe that for a—" the Venetian began, but his guard dropped slightly, and his words were cut off when Lorenzo's blade plunged into his chest.
"Jesus have mercy!" said the old Franciscan. The Venetian dropped to his knees and fell on his face on the carpeted wooden floor of the tent.
"Try to give an alarm and you are dead too, Father," Lorenzo growled.
"No, Lorenzo, no!" Rachel cried. "Friar Mathieu is a good man."