“Take care unless you wish the whole structure to go up in flames.”

“Take care, my arse. Who cares if it burns?” She peered at him in the gloom. “So you speak English. At least that’s something. Who are you? Where am I? And why am I tied up here like a yearling?” She shook her hands again, swishing the ropes through the straw.

She’d lost her shoes somewhere and black mud encased her feet. Blood had trickled down her leg and dried. He hoped to God it was from a wound. He felt a stab of pity.

“They are ignorant men but they believed they were acting in my interests. I am glad they did not hurt you. Do you have a name, signorina?” he asked.

She took in a deep breath and the tatters across her chest moved apart, revealing the deep valley between her breasts. Again that faint stirring below his waist.

“Untie me first,” she said. She lifted both wrists toward him. He saw the tightness of her jaw and the gleam of moisture in her eyes. “Please.”

“Watch her, dottore.” Enrico seized his arm, but he shook him off impatiently.

“Loosen the ropes.”

Enrico muttered below his breath, but moved to do as he was told.

“The wrists first.” Marco had no desire to give the peasant a reason to touch her waist.

Ill-pleased, Enrico seized her arm and cut the tether with a slash of his knife. She quivered when he touched her, but held steady. Only the quick rise and fall of her chest betrayed her dislike. Enrico yanked on the other rope and cut her free. She massaged her wrists where the cable had chafed.

Enrico took hold of the leash tied to her waist and weighed the strands in his calloused hand, as if contemplating whether or not to set her loose.

“Do it. Now.” Marco’s voice carried the authority of countless generations of feudal lords.

Without a word, Enrico wound the rope around his arm and sliced it close to the floor.