Free Nicholas: The Lords of Satyr by Elizabeth Amber Page A

for the purpose of hosting her friends at these events. It was a far cry from the perfection of Rome’s seven hills where their ancestral predecessors had once gathered. Centuries ago, those hills had rung with the frenzied cries of the original maenads, the Sisters of Bacchant. They and their followers had enjoyed the freedom to worship the god of the grape and to practice their rites uninhibited by lawmakers of the day.
    How things had changed! It was now prudent that they—the last remaining descendants of the Sisters of Bacchant—perform their rituals in secret. This secluded garden and grotto provided adequate shelter and privacy from the life teeming outside the gates. One must make do.
    The other four members of her society stared in surprise after Izabel imparted the news of Jane’s impending nuptials.
    “But what of my son?” demanded Signora Nesta, a frown creasing her forehead. “You know I wanted your Jane for him.”
    Signora Bich patted the other woman’s hand consolingly. “She’s right, Izabel. You had struck a bargain.”
    Izabel sipped her wine, a luxury she openly permitted herself to enjoy to excess only in this setting, among these particular friends.
    “Satyr won’t keep my niece forever,” she explained. “If all goes according to plan, your son will have her in good time. Though by then, she will be slightly used.”
    Signora Natoli chortled at this, and all eyes fell to the quiver of her massive bosom. Encased in satin, the orbs were hidden from view for the moment. But that situation was certain to change within the hour. Izabel ran her tongue along her lower lip, catching a droplet of tangy wine.
    “What can you be planning, Izzy? Do tell us,” Signora Ricco encouraged.
    “Through Jane’s marriage, I intend that we will gain access to the inner recesses of the Satyr compound,” Izabel informed them.
    A stunned silence prevailed for a moment.
    “For the purposes of our Society?” ventured Signora Natoli. “In order that we might meet there?”
    “Naturally,” said Izabel.
    “Even wed to your niece, Lord Satyr is unlikely to be influenced into allowing us access to his estate,” scoffed Signora Nesta. “He won’t turn his back on centuries of exclusionary practices.”
    “She’s right, Izzy. It’s common knowledge that only vineyard workers, servants, and those with specific business are allowed on Satyr land,” said Signora Bich.
    “If influence fails, there are other means,” Izabel pointed out.
    Signora Natoli giggled. She was as usual the most quickly affected by the wine and was well on her way to giddiness. “Oh, dear. I fear Jane’s husband may meet with an unfortunate end.”
    “Risky,” said Signora Nesta, her gaze speculative.
    “However, it can be done,” said Izabel. “And once he’s disposed of, control of his estate will fall to Jane.”
    “What of his two brothers?” asked Signora Bich.
    Izabel waved her glass in a careless gesture. “If they interfere, they can be dispatched.”
    “And if your niece manages to bear her husband’s offspring before he’s done away with?” Signora Bich persisted. “Judging by the look of him and tales that circulate, Satyr is quite capable of mounting her with regularity.”
    “Why, that is part and parcel of my very plan,” said Izabel. “Only imagine the sons they might produce if the strangeness in Jane’s blood is mixed with that which we suspect the Satyr possess. With him gone, we’ll school her offspring to our viewpoint. And in time, when her sons are of an age to produce life-giving seed, we will mate them with my younger niece.”
    “And with ourselves, I’ll warrant!” added Signora Natoli. Her cheeks and the upper swells of her breasts were beginning to flush with the wine.
    “Salud!” toasted Signora Ricco. “Maenad blood mixed with that of the Satyr. We’ll sire a dynasty!”
    “But why don’t we simply undertake to mate with the three lords immediately ourselves?” asked