Free The Stargazer by Michele Jaffe Page A

a firm hand on her shoulder.
    “You will stay right there, carissima . I’ll not have you attack me with this thing.” Ian tried to remove the peculiar tool from her hands as he forced her back into the corner. It looked like some sort of strange cutting machine, with one long knife and one short blunt one joined together. But even the shorter blade looked dangerous enough, and Ian was taking no more risks.
    Bianca refused to let it go. “No. It’s all I have left of him,” she said simply.
    “This belonged to your accomplice, then? Is it, perhaps, the murder weapon?”
    “My accomplice?” Bianca looked confused. “My father, you mean. It was his, a gift from King Henry of France for a special operation. My brother sold all the instruments when Papa died, without even telling me, but he couldn’t sell this because Papa left it to me in his will. It is all I have of him. And now it is broken.” Bianca shook her head miserably. Ian watched as the tears welled up in her eyes again. This was certainly a very good act, he thought, feeling a pang. Very pitiable. Very convincing.
    As he looked down at her, crying and clutching the weird tool, he wondered again if perhaps she could be innocent. Then his gaze shifted to his leg. The blood drying in rivulets from his many cuts brought him to his senses, and his rational mind returned. Women were capable of anything, he reminded himself as warm goo trickled out of a particularly nasty gash on his knee, anything at all.
    Bianca’s eye followed his gaze to his bloody legs, bringing her back to her rational mind as well. “I am sorry, my lord,” she said, shaking the tears from her eyes. “I should have attended to your cuts sooner. If you will just let me stand to find the bandages…”
    Ian shook his head. “So you can stab me with that thing of your father’s, if it really was his? You’ll go nowhere until you give that over to me. Then, we will see.”
    Reluctantly, Bianca surrendered the instrument to Ian. “Please, my lord, do not give it away. It is the most precious thing I have and I should be very sorry to lose it.”
    Ian took it from her hand and examined it. It did seem to bear the shield of Henry III, but that was no guarantee that she spoke the truth. He set it down on the table and returned his glare to her.
    “Perhaps now that you are done sobbing, you will tell me who your accomplice is? Or at least what he hoped to do here tonight?”
    “My accomplice…?” Bianca murmured. “I take it, since you are asking me this question, you did not catch up with him?”
    “So you admit that he was your accomplice?”
    “No, my lord, I said no such thing. I fear your loss of blood is impairing your hearing. Perhaps if you let me bandage your legs…”
    Ian ignored both her sarcasm and her proffered aid. “What is your relationship to him then?”
    “I detest him,” Bianca answered frankly.
    “Aha! So you do know him?”
    “That scarcely follows logically, my lord. Loss of blood does not usually affect the powers of reason, but—”
    “Cease these lessons on anatomy! Tell me, carissima , how you know you despise him if you don’t know who he is?” Ian’s demand had the tone of a much worn syllogism.
    “By Santa Olivia’s ring finger, I should say it is obvious. He broke my father’s scissors and he stole my drawings. Both are unique, irreplaceable, and infinitely valuable to me.”
    Ian’s eyes raked her face, looking for signs of deception, but found none. It was all so plausible, it would be so easy to believe. But she might be a devious murderer, or at least know someone who was. Someone who, he reminded himself, had first tried to frame him and then had nearly gotten him killed. He forced his mind back to his earlier train of thought.
    “If you will not admit this man was your accomplice—” Bianca tried to interject something but Ian continued over her. “If you persist in denying that, perhaps you will explain how you came to be