Marco disappeared from her sight and left a cold emptiness by her side. Emma had never known anyone who could take all life and warmth with him, just by leaving her alone. But the imprint of his body remained, like the faint tenderness where his beard had rubbed her. The lines of his limbs were etched in memory and her hands longed to touch him again. He had branded her deep inside with the shape and heat of him, and she felt abandoned by the loss of him.
Suddenly, without his presence, the dark shadows in the corners of the hut became menacing. The stars still shone through the broken roof, but with a harder, more metallic sheen. The breeze chilled her skin and lifted a strand of hair from her cheek. She shivered and felt around for something to cover herself.
She heard Mickey move over against the wall and then saw the grey bulk of him edge toward her. He pushed his nose against her neck and, as if satisfied that she was still alive and breathing, lay down beside her with a satisfied grunt. She pulled some kind of fabric over her, whether it was her discarded skirt or the sheet she had used as a towel she couldn’t tell.
She turned on her side and put one arm over the dog. “You’re not much of a substitute for a lover,” she murmured. “But we’re stuck here together for a while.”
The dog licked her face. “Stop that,” she said, pushing his nose away. “You’re far too big and slobbery.” She wiped her face on the cloth that covered her breasts.
The cover and the dog’s body warmed her. She fully intended to stay awake, to listen for the sounds of the ambush, but her limbs were heavy and her eyes closed of their own accord. “I’ll rest for just a few minutes,” she whispered in Mickey’s ear.
It was the sudden movement of the dog that woke her. She had been dreaming she was adrift in a flimsy boat in cold water, huddling from a violent storm under a ripped tarpaulin. Each new blast of the wind ripped the sheet, leaving her increasingly terrified and exposed. When she opened her eyes she did not know where she was, surprised to feel solid earth beneath her. Then the rough walls of the hut brought memory back in a rush. The stars had faded, replaced by a pearly light that heralded the dawn. Mickey was on his feet, stock-still, a low growl rumbling in his chest. She must have been asleep for hours and the ambush was over, already decided for one side or the other.
In the cold light she searched for her clothes and pulled them on, leaning against the wall to spare her injured ankle.
Mickey’s ears flattened and his growl deepened. She thanked heaven that he had roused her, but how much good was this kind of dog as a protector? She hoped that the Italian variety was bred for more aggression than the Old English sheepdog that he resembled.
A faint movement came from outside, then the sound of heavy breathing. She sank to the floor and placed her hand on the dog’s neck, more for her own reassurance than to restrain him. Marco had said he would return for her. She hoped against hope that it was her lover approaching. Nevertheless, one of the discarded pieces of wood lay under her hand, and she took hold of it, waiting with bated breath.
A man appeared against the grey sky. He was as tall as Marco and her heart leaped in her chest, giving thanks that he had returned safely to her.
The figure leaned against the entrance as if tired or wounded. “Bella donna,” he said thickly. “Thank you for waiting for me.”
She scuttled backward at the sound of his voice, a cold terror in the pit of her stomach.
Giovanni raised a pistol in his right hand and pointed it at her. At the same moment, Mickey lurched forward with a loud bark and flew across the tiny space. Without hesitation Giovanni fired. The explosion was ear-shattering within the stone walls and Emma flinched instinctively, cowering against the wall, covering her head with her hands.
Mickey’s body thudded to the floor as the sound faded, and a well of despair opened in her heart. She scrambled toward the dog, unmindful of the threat of another shot. Big and arrogant, Giovanni took a step over the animal and placed a contemptuous foot on her shoulder, pushing her away. As she fell back she glimpsed a bloodstained bandage circling his thigh.
She landed on her side and struggled quickly to her knees. To her relief, Mickey lifted his head and whined. A dark stain oozed from his shoulder. Not dead, but hurt. How badly?
“Let me see him, you swine,” she spat. “You can shoot me if you want. Much good it will do you.”
“No, that is not my intention. I would rather shoot the dog.” He trained his gun on Mickey again. “You are worth much more to me as a hostage. The dog has no value.”
Suddenly it was all too much. She was tired of being a prisoner, tired of men who placed so little value on life and human dignity. Anger swelled inside her, stronger than she had ever known, clutching her throat, clouding her vision. Heedless of her swollen ankle, she launched herself from her crouching position, fingers crooked like claws. She would gouge his heart out with her bare hands if she had to.
Giovanni’s wounded leg worked in her favor because without it, he would have spun quickly and shot her in mid-flight. Instead, he stumbled slightly and Emma landed on him with all her force. She had seen enough rugby matches to know that you first knock the wind from an opponent, then you bring him down. She heard his head crack against the stone floor as he fell. He lay still, but she sat on him for good measure. Mickey thumped his tail on the ground and she bowed in his direction.
“Thank you for your recognition, kind sir,” she panted. “Very much appreciated. And now, for my next magical trick, I will truss our victim like a Christmas goose.”
First she tucked the pistol into the waistband of her skirt and then began methodically to tear strips from the pieces of fabric that had made her bed. When she had tied his arms and legs, she crawled over to Mickey to check his wound. A thin trickle of blood still oozed, but the serious bleeding had stopped. He had sustained a deep gouge in the fleshy part of his shoulder, but with no damage to the bone.
She scratched him behind his ears. “You are a brave dog,” she said. “Who do you belong to, I wonder?”
Her ankle was aflame and she sat to stretch it in front of her.
“Now what, Mickey?” She massaged her calf. “What do we do with him now he’s our prisoner? I suppose we just have to hope it’s not the Blackshirts who come for him.”
The dog panted loudly in her ear. What the hell was she doing here, wrestling outlaws, dirty and far from home? Two days ago, all she had wanted was to find her way back to Naples and then to England. Instead she’d wandered into some fantasy like the adventure stories that appeal to twelve-year-old boys. The thought of taking tea with the proper ladies of the county society was like thinking of going to the moon.
“Well, of course, Lady Utterley, it was almost impossible to take a bath, since there always seemed to be some lusting Italian lurking nearby. But I do find that sex-starved Italians give a really good fuck, don’t you?”
She spluttered with laughter. She was getting lightheaded.
The dog’s ears pricked and he stared at the gaping hole in the wall that had once been a doorway. Sure enough, there were more noises from outside. This time it sounded like more than one person. Blackshirts? Marco’s men? At least she had a weapon, even if she was unable to stand.
She cocked the gun and held it steady.
In the half-light of dawn, Marco paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. During the ambush he’d received a saber gash on the head, and someone had wound a cloth around it to stop the bleeding. It was only a scalp wound, but like all such, it had gushed a fountain of blood. He rubbed the crust that had dried on his jaw.
He dismissed the last of the stretcher-bearers and wiped his hands for the hundredth time on a bloodstained towel. His people had acquitted themselves well. With the advantage of surprise and the warning Emma had brought, they had been ready for the force that had meant to fall on them unawares. Then they had overwhelmed the small convoy with no problem. The Blackshirts had been overconfident, believing they had terrorized the whole area into submission. Like all bullies, they were cowards at heart, and those who were not wounded had fled. The others would be cared for and a decision made what to do with them.
Marco removed his foot from the strongbox where it had rested ever since he had begun to tend the wounded. His thigh protested at the sudden relaxation, and he rubbed the muscles to send the blood coursing through his upper leg again. He had not dared let the box out of his sight or touch after the skirmish. For hours he had treated the wounds of his own men and some of the Blackshirts, but the Comandante had not passed through his hands.
He called to Pietro as he passed. “Are there any more?”
“No, dottore.”
“What happened to the Comandante after he was taken?”
Pietro shrugged and a grin spread over his smoke-blackened features. “Who knows? The last I saw, some of the men from the village had him. He was wounded in the chest.”
Marco knew he was not the only one with a score to settle with the commandant.
“Where-?”
“Best not to ask, dottore. They had the castor oil hidden close by.”
Marco sighed. He was bone weary and knew that in any case he would not find out what happened to the man. God forgive him, but he hoped the sadist died, because otherwise he and his people would never rest easy. If they killed the tyrant, the men would be sure to hide the body where it would never be found. Desperate measures for desperate times.
Pietro turned away, but Marco called to him again. “And Signor Giovanni?”
Pietro shook his head. “No sign of him, dottore.”
Marco swore under his breath. It was a bitter pill to swallow to accept that his cousin had been working against him all the time. He knew how many men had been tempted by the easy pickings and the facile political rhetoric of the government. There were those who too easily lost sight of what was right.
Before the convoy had appeared he had warned all his people of Giovanni’s treachery and every one had vowed not to help him. No one had reported sighting him. Marco hoped he had fled the area and would not be heard of again.
Marco sat on a log, pulled the strongbox toward him, and aimed his pistol at the lock, imagining it was the head of his enemy, the commandant. He had always thought of himself as a peaceful man, dedicated to healing, but in the last few years he had found a depth of righteous anger in his soul that made him deal coldly and harshly with those who oppressed and murdered for gain or sheer pleasure. There had been too many good men maimed, too many women raped, too many children left orphans.
The box was full to the brim with official documents, each with two numbered copies. In his arrogance, the commandant had not even left a duplicate in safe hands. A guilty conscience gave you very few trusted companions, and the commandant had been amongst the guiltiest. He was a man who liked having influence over people’s lives, because he made them fear him or because they wanted the largesse he could bestow. Either way, he owned them heart and soul. He loved having favor seekers pandering to him, loved seeing once-powerful landowners cringe at his vengeance.
Marco sorted through the pile. There were deeds to property, orders for arrests, outlines of charges to be brought. With all these papers restored to their rightful owners or destroyed, the community could sleep peacefully in their own beds for a while. Unfortunately, Marco suspected the reprieve might be short-lived. Another would step forward to take the Comandante’s place, but this time the people would not be so easily intimidated and scattered. The captured consignment of weapons would help strengthen the resistance.
As he looked through the documents, Marco cocked an eye to the trail leading up the hillside. It seemed he had spent most of the last few days watching for Emma, yearning to catch a glimpse of her. He had sent Teresa and a reliable man, Matteo, to fetch her. The small procession should appear soon.
No woman had ever filled his mind and soul as she did, not even his sweet, childlike wife. The thought of Emma tormented him and the memory of her haunted him. It had begun as overwhelming lust, but after two short days he knew lust alone was not the reason why he wanted to lose himself in her, to melt into her, with a yearning so powerful it produced a physical pain. He wanted her by his side with her beauty, her courage and her indomitable spirit. Years ago his desires had been powerful, but they were pale candle flames compared to the burst of incandescence that consumed him now. He not only wanted her, but he needed her. And he needed her because he loved her. He had to know if she felt the same about him.
He longed to take her to his house, to make love to her in the sunlight and under the moon. He wanted to bathe her lovely body in sweet scented water and dry her with soft towels.
A few paces away he saw the flicker of a small fire where the men had boiled water to cleanse the wounds of their comrades. Restless, he gathered together all the indictments, the lists of accusations, the statements of false witnesses and fed them to the flame.
He had almost finished when Pietro returned. “The Comandante did not survive his wounds,” he announced solemnly. “We shall say prayers for his black soul.”
Marco nodded gravely. “Bene.”
Pietro shuffled his feet. Marco looked at him sharply. “What is it?”
“Signor Giovanni was seen during the fight. “
Marco swore under his breath. “And?”
“He fled, dottore. He was seen climbing in that direction.” Pietro waved a grimy hand toward the slope leading to the shepherd’s hut where Emma waited.
Suddenly Marco’s weariness vanished as a surge of fear-produced adrenaline surged through him. She had not been able to walk, so he could not have brought her with him and he had prayed she would be safe with the big dog. What if Giovanni had come across her? If she had been harmed or taken, he would get her back, no matter what it cost him. Money. Blood. His life.
He entrusted the remaining contents of the strongbox to Pietro, gave a few more orders and set off up the trail leading to Emma.
The ambush site was still within view when he saw some figures on the track ahead. He peered intently into the gray light of dawn. Gradually he made out the shape of a dog and two people, one apparently carrying a burden. He waved and shouted and the smaller figure signaled back. Teresa! Deo gratia.
A half-hour before he would not have thought he could place one foot in front of the other, but now he leapt forward to meet the straggling procession.
As he drew closer he could see that Teresa walked beside Matteo. On Matteo’s broad back, Emma was draped like a cloak, her arms dangling limply over his neck, her head resting on his shoulder. He held her legs around his waist. Her head remained immobile and with a sickening dread Marco willed her to move.
Matteo halted as Marco drew level and hitched her more securely around him. She looked up at the sudden movement, blinking her eyes.
“One of the most comfortable rides I’ve had since I arrived,” she said with a sleepy smile when she saw Marco. “I am so very glad to see you.”
Marco seized her around the hips and took her weight as Matteo let her go. He held her in his arms and gazed at her, drinking in the fact that she was unharmed, that she had smiled at him.
“Emma,” he said. “Bella donna.” His voice broke, and he suddenly felt a tightness in his chest. He had not dared to think of her in Giovanni’s hands again, but now she was safe, the relief overwhelmed him. He laughed, a release of pure delight at all the events of the night.
“By the way,” she said. “There’s a package waiting for you at the hut, all nicely tied up.”
“Giovanni?”
“None other.”
He bent his head to kiss her and she wound her arms around his neck. “This is a lovely welcome,” she murmured against his mouth, “and I’d love to continue, but my ankle is giving me billy-o. If someone doesn’t pick me up, I’ll fall down.”
With newfound strength he swept her up into his arms, gave orders to Matteo to bring Giovanni and started back down the path.
As they bumped their way down a long avenue of tall poplars Emma had to say the means of transportation had deteriorated over the past couple of hours. First, there was Matteo’s broad back, where she’d ridden like a sack of potatoes, then Marco’s arms for the last stretch down the hill, and lastly a wooden farm cart that lurched its way over the rutted path, drawn by a very big and slow carthorse.
Still, she said to herself, she shouldn’t complain. According to Marco, his house was around the next bend and he’d promised her hot water, clean sheets and cooked food. It sounded like heaven.
Not only that, but he’d whispered to her that tonight he would feed her figs and honey and sweet wine. Then he would take her to his bed and make wild, abandoned love to her until she drifted into sleep. In the morning he would be there, waiting, ready to pleasure her once more… When he’d found her on the way back from the shepherd’s hut his voice had grown husky and he’d lost the air of cool detachment that he liked to wear. She knew that underneath he was far from cool and detached. The muscles deep inside her tightened at the prospect.
The cart passed vineyards and orchards, interspersed with the silvery leaves of olive trees, then lumbered through a pair of iron gates. There were signs of neglect everywhere. Fences in disrepair, hedges overgrown with binding weeds, the roof of a shed that had fallen in. Nothing that couldn’t be repaired with some hard work. Mickey lay beside her, somnolent in the heat. Marco had dusted some powder into his wound after cleaning it, and the dog had jumped into the cart to ride beside Emma in style.
She reclined with her head on Marco’s coat and watched the play of muscles in his shoulders as he walked beside the cart. Every so often he stretched out a hand to touch her, as if still not quite believing she was there. Between the long shadows of the trees, the sunlight flickered over her legs, making dappled patterns. The scents of thyme and wild sage that marked their passing in the hills had transformed into wafts of lemon and ripening fruit, of fragrant blossoms and warm dust.
Now the crisis was over. Marco and his people had come down from the hills and were returning home. Every time they passed by a habitation, men came up to Marco in a continuous stream, slapping him on the back, laughing, swigging at bottles of wine and brandy that seemed to have appeared out of thin air. Their laughter grew louder, their words more hurried, their gestures wilder.
Home. All going home, save her.
She turned her head a couple of inches and buried her cheek in Marco’s coat. The same coat he’d given her when Enrico’s sons had fished her out of the water. Only three days ago. Together they had lived through emotional highs and lows she would never have believed possible. They had forged bonds like soldiers in a battle.
Marco called a command to the horse, and the cart creaked to a halt in front of a large white building. Mickey struggled to his feet beside her. Marco reached into the cart and took her hand.
“Benvenuto a la casa Antonioni,” he said with a flourish of his free arm. “My house is yours.”
She sat up. On both sides of a massive wooden door, thick shutters covered two rows of windows and a wide overhang cast deep shadows on the walls. Rows of red tiles formed the roof. A flowering vine with bright yellow blossoms crept up the side of the door and hung over the entrance. She inhaled aromas of heat, green growing things-and baking bread.
Her stomach growled. “It’s wonderful,” she said.
Marco laughed. She suddenly realized that she had never seen him laugh before today. It transformed his face, lighting his dark eyes, lifting the corners of his mobile mouth. She longed to kiss the tiny scar on his lip that sprang into prominence with his grin. Impulsively she pulled him toward her and placed her lips on the small, white mark. His arms came round her and he lifted her from the cart, his mouth still on hers, pressing, demanding, taking.
Lost in the depth of the kiss, she felt him begin to walk toward the great door. “Close your eyes,” he said, and she did so, letting him take her where he wanted, knowing his destination would be a bedroom.
She knew when they passed into the cool dimness of the interior by the lessening of the light perceived through her eyelids. Marco’s lips left hers, but he still held her close to his body and his footsteps echoed on stone or tile. She felt him begin to climb some stairs. Her arm brushed a wooden balustrade.
She hid her face against his shoulder and counted twenty steps up until he walked again along a flat surface. She played the game of remaining blind, not wanting to see her surroundings until she opened her eyes to find him beside her in bed.
He thrust open a door with his shoulder and the light grew brighter again. She smelled lavender and wax polish. Five paces into the room, he stopped and lowered her. She sank into a nest of coolness and starched linen.
“Open your eyes, bella donna,” he whispered. “Here is our room.”
She looked around and gasped in delight. It was a beautiful room. It was the room she would have described if she’d been asked to dream of it. White walls, lace curtains stirring in the breeze, dark furniture and gleaming silver. The wood shone with deep luster, nothing was out of place. Quite different from the approach to the house.
“How…what?” she asked.
Marco sat on the bed, sending a small wave through the soft pillows. “I sent Pietro on ahead,” he said. “I told them to make this one room fit for a queen.”
She looked toward the window. High clouds floated across the blue of the sky. She gave a deep sigh. “It’s magic. Which is real, the caves or this?”
“Both.” He took her hand and kissed the fingers. “Both are reality in this world.” For a moment a shadow flitted across his face, but then he smiled at her again. “A bath, food, bed,” he said. “I think the doctor prescribes them in that order.”
“I can’t walk,” she reminded him unnecessarily.
“I know.” His grin was wicked. “You are at my mercy.”
He poured her a crystal goblet of white wine from the carafe by the bed, handing it to her by the stem. She leaned on one elbow and inhaled the aroma of apricots and peaches.
“It is wine from our own grapes,” Marco said, pouring another glass. “We call it Bel Amore, beautiful love.” He touched her glass with his own. “We need a toast. Shall we drink to justice and love?”
She nodded. “And to home. May everyone reach there safely.” She raised her glass and placed her lips to the cool liquid. The first sip slid down her dusty throat like nectar. It tasted of honey and spice.
He nodded as he watched her savor the wine. “My father spent years perfecting it. Now we sell all over Italy and abroad. This wine was one reason the Comandante coveted our property.”
She drained her glass. “I can understand why. It’s like heaven. Is that all it took to get it back? Finding the documents?”
Marco took her empty goblet. “Maybe a little more than that, but the deeds are nine-tenths of the law. I know what I have to do. I am back in possession and the Comandante is gone.”
A dark expression she couldn’t quite read flickered across his face as he said the last words. He set the glasses down on the little table and turned to her again. The wine had sent tendrils of awareness coiling through her, and she felt at once drowsy and yet completely alive.
Her lethargy forbade her to move, but her nerve endings were alert, expecting his touch. She lay still, watching and waiting, anticipating the feel of his hand on her bare skin.
He ran his hand up her leg, under her skirt, and despite her anticipation, she jumped. Immediately she felt the wetness between her legs and her nipples began to ache.
“Bella donna.” His voice deepened as he stroked her thigh. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
The melting sensation in the pit of her stomach made it difficult to catch her breath. She had a flash of memory of her fears of pregnancy, but that was all it was-a flash that came and went in an instant. Right now she ached for him, yearned to pull him inside her.
He placed one hand flat on her breast. The nipple stood to attention, and the dart of fire streaked down between her legs. “Just thinking about your body excites me,” he murmured. “I want us to make love again. I want it very badly, right now. Anywhere and anyhow. Up against the wall, on the floor, in the bed-” The other hand rose higher on her leg, and he touched the dampness on her inner thighs. He gave a deep sigh. “I promised myself I would wait-”
“There is no need to wait.”
She hitched her skirts up around her waist, exposing herself to him. Whether it was the wine, the relief of tension, the sensual feel of the room, or a combination of all three, she wanted it as much as he did. Wanted it hard and fast this time.
He nodded. They understood each other perfectly. Her fingers found the damp folds of her cunt and she pulled them apart, giving him a glimpse of the petals waiting for him. She stroked her clitoris with one exploring finger, encouraging it to swell, relishing the sensations that pulsed through her.
His eyes on her caressing fingers, he opened his trousers to free his cock. It stood ready for her, too thick to encircle with her curved fingers, too long to slip easily into her expectant sheath. She shivered a little at the thought of how he would have to ram it into her to fit inside. He stroked her slowly, kissing her, drawing the tension taut, bringing her need to a peak until she trembled beneath him. He slid his mouth down her body, throat and breasts and belly, dipping his head briefly, firing her with tormenting flickers of his tongue, coming back to skim her lips.
“Now,” she pleaded against his mouth. “Now, please.”
“Soon,” he said. “No need to hurry.”
He took one of the big pillows and placed it under her hips. Then he grasped the hem of her tunic in both hands and ripped it in two, spreading the two halves to bare her breasts. For a long moment he gazed at her naked torso and her waiting cunt, and his breathing grew more shallow. His cock quivered and rose higher, seeking its destination.
Before he mounted her he climbed with slow deliberation onto the bed and opened her legs wider. He took hold of her hands and removed them from between her legs and spread her arms at her sides. A pearly drop of liquid fell like a tear from the tip of his penis onto her thigh. Her nerves were so exquisitely on edge that the light touch made her quiver. As if this tiny movement broke his control he descended onto her, impaling her with his rock-hard cock, driving it deep, making her cry out. The tilt of her hips on the thick pillow forced him up against the far wall of her vagina, nudging the mouth of her womb, caressing a secret spot that spurted in rhythm with his thrusts.
She wound her legs around his waist and clasped him to her. It was hard and it was fast. She felt his teeth on her shoulder as the wave began inside her. Their cry of release came at the same instant.