Nicco had much better things to do than search the city high and low for his betrothed. Yet after being turned away from Palazzo Michiel when he made the unannounced call, that is exactly what he ended up doing.

The doorman had been polite, but blunt. Signora Ottavia had gone to the morning's market, and he did not know when she intended to return.

The market! The simpleness of it offended the doge's son. No wife of his should have been scouring vendor stalls for the best deals on carrots or cumin, even if they weren't yet married. Everything she did reflected on him, and there were servants for such tasks. Nicco could not imagine why she would stoop to such levels.

Cutting across the Campo Santi Apostoli, Nicco took the usually five minute walk at record pace. His cloak billowed behind him as he crossed over minor tributaries and sped through narrow alleys. Most people along the way gave him deference, whether from recognition or just for the determination on his face. He was a man on a mission, determined to both talk sense into his bride and prevent her from such foolishness in the future.

Nicco's initial reasons for wanting to see Ottavia that morning had been much simpler. Seeking to waste no time, he had brought confirmation that their wedding date had been set. In five short weeks, on the Tuesday after Easter, they would celebrate their union. Whatever she wanted to arrange—a custom gown, imported flowers, or the best chefs—needed to be secured by then. Although his father would spare no expense, he would not accept postponement.

Yet, here he was, delayed by a silly girl out on market day.

Arriving at the foot of the lone bridge across the Grand Canal, Nicco was already displeased. His mood continued to sour with each increasing minute he had to spend at the Rialto among the wafting odor of fish, the annoying chatter of peasants, and the disgusting puddles of filth. Stopping to hold a kerchief against his nose, but finding it to be of no help against the smells, Nicco grimaced. His search would not be easy. In fact, he had no idea even where to start. Ottavia could have been anywhere, perusing any of the dozens of stalls set up on either side of the embankment or on the stone arch bridge. With two arcades of shops fronting three separate paths across the canal, they could easily pass each other without even realizing it.

He was such a fool. A doge's son—a man both feared and respected by most in this city—out hunting for his wife-to-be among the rabble. He should have given up right then and there, but the task actually gave him a much needed challenge. So many things came easily to Nicco Grimani that he sometimes found small pleasures in otherwise wearisome tasks. Whether his prey was a roe deer in the Casentinesi forest or a petite maiden in the Rialto market, it mattered not. He could use his skills of deduction and strategy to effectively bag either.

With a renewed purpose and will, Nicco took a figurative step back. What did he know of his betrothed that would now help him pinpoint her whereabouts?

In truth, not much. At nearly half his age, Ottavia also came from a well-off family in which she'd lost her mother and grew up in the shadows of a powerful father, but that was where the similarities ended. Because while Nicco spent his days negotiating with foreign merchants, inspecting exotic wares, and bribing the right officials, she probably practiced her skills on the harpsichord, embroidered intricate floral patterns onto pillows, and planned elaborate dinner parties.

That was it! Ottavia must have wanted to throw a celebratory get-together of her own to mark their engagement. Women did such things, did they not? With only her closest friends and confidants present, she could share her deepest feelings and get intimate advice on preparing for wife-hood.

But what would such an event entail? Surely flowers would be needed for the decor, wine for the goblets, and the freshest produce for the plates. Nicco grimaced. All of that and more was available in the market, so he was no closer to finding Ottavia than before. He had no choice, but to walk the stalls and hope he'd get lucky.

Lifting the hem of his cloak to avoid the puddles, he began at the fishmongers. Crates of freshly caught squid, sardines, and eels along with buckets filled with mussels, prawn, and snails were just some of the offerings that beckoned to shoppers. Further up, ducats changed hands for turnips, onions, and asparagus next to clucking chickens and peafowl locked in cages. Honey and jams, cheeses and butter, flour and oats could all be found for the right price, while the smell of freshly baked bread and pastries led the hungry by the nose deeper into the market.

Nicco was just about to relent and drop a coin for a still warm, cream filled fritter when the flaxen-colored hair of a maiden caught his eye. Foregoing the sweet treat, he dodged kitchen maids and couriers as he rushed to the end of the row just in time to witness Ottavia stop at a spice vendor. Slowly approaching while keeping out of view, Nicco watched her greet the young Turk manning the stall with familiarity, the smile on both of their faces unmistakable even from afar.

Nicco's blood boiled at the sight, but he needed to see more before making himself known. Perhaps he was a masochist who enjoyed self-inflicted pain, but the way the small girl's whole being shone in the merchant's presence was alien to him. If perhaps he could see what made her happy, he could somehow elicit the same response.

Because Ottavia had never thrown back her head—with her coiffed, blonde curls neatly piled under a feathered hat—when she whole-heartedly laughed in his presence. Not with true earnestness, that is. She'd feigned delight at things he's said, of course, but it was obvious at least to him that it was all for show. But now, as she tucked an errant lock behind her shapely ear or drew the tip of her tongue across her luscious lip, she was clearly being herself. Liberated and unreserved.

So who was this young man who could elicit such a response? It only took Nicco another look at both his person and merchandise to recognize him. A peddler of eastern spices, the twenty-something year old who'd captained his own ship voyaging between Istanbul and Venice was a regular in this market. Known simply as Hakan, the handsome shopkeeper in vibrant, loose robes with a scimitar blade on his hip continued to strictly deal in legitimate business even after Nicco had offered to expand his market. For this, Nicco could forgive him. For stealing the attention of his intended was another matter.

Instinctively adjusting the gloves on his hands, Nicco was preparing for the confrontation when the unexpected happened as Ottavia stepped around a sack of spices and entered Hakan's market stall. But instead of more closely examining any of the offerings—for there were plenty of cinnamon, turmeric and ground ginger to name a few—or even continuing her unseemly conversation with the merchant, she ducked behind a dark curtain. Curiously, Hakan did not follow.

For a moment, Nicco froze. Should he approach and directly ask for the whereabouts of his wife-to-be? Or should he wait for her to emerge and challenge her head on? After a brief internal struggle, he realized he could do neither. Keeping to the shadows once more, he tiptoed all the way to the adjacent stall before going around the back. Squeezing past the canvas sides, he stopped behind Hakan's stand, put his ear against the fabric, and listened.

The tinkling of girlish laughter sounded through and even while muted, it was obvious that there was more than one source. Muffled also voices exchanged quiet words, as though fearing that otherwise they'd be overheard.

What business did Ottavia have that she needed to not only engage with Turks, but also to do it in such a clandestine manner? Was she in the company of another man—a secret lover—whose mere thought put a bigger smile on her face than Nicco's own presence?

Against his better judgment, Nicco had to know. Finding a loose seam at the stall's corner, he placed his eye at the opening. It took a few seconds for his vision to focus on the darkness inside where merely one lantern flickered. But even that was enough to give him a full view of the depravity within.

There was no other man, which would have been a relief if Ottavia's partner in a loving embrace wasn't the most beautiful woman that Nicco had ever seen. With hair the shade of sunset after a storm and skin the color of fresh milk, she towered over the girl whose face was lovingly cupped in her hand. Obviously another Turk by the looks of her clothing, she whispered something before bending her face down toward Ottavia's.

Nicco didn't need to wait for their lips to touch to see more. A blind rage overcame him as he ripped the fabric back and entered the stall. Grabbing both women by the shoulders, he forced them apart to surprised screams. With Ottavia behind him and the she-devil in front of him, he raised his hand ready to strike.

"Get away from my sister," Hakan yelled as he stepped inside, no doubt alerted by the ruckus.

Ottavia also clamored to protect her companion. "Dilara!" she exclaimed.

Nicco hesitated. He had never struck a woman in his life, and he was not going to start with a complete stranger. She was too beneath him for the privilege. But something had to be done. His reputation had been tarnished; his pride hurt. There were several options for dealing with the merchant, who should have kept better reigns on his kin. If he played it right, he could actually turn this betrayal to his favor.

Ottavia, on the other hand, had to be dealt with immediately.

Lowering his hand, Nicco turned to his betrothed instead and grabbed her by the arm. "You have caused me great displeasure, my dear," he hissed through gritted teeth as his fingers dug into her flesh. "But fear not. You'll have plenty of time to contemplate making amends and asking for the Lord's forgiveness where you're going."