The Channel between Calais and Dover was rough and choppy as usual. Emma stayed on deck, huddled in a canvas chair tucked into a corner out of the wind. As they approached the berth she pressed up to the rail and she spotted her father immediately. When she stepped off the gangway, he swept her into a wordless embrace, unmindful of the other passengers swirling around them. He kissed her forehead and she felt the dampness of tears on his cheek.
“I’m fine, Daddy,” she said. “I’m fine.”
He released her at last and mopped his eyes with a large, white handkerchief. “Come, come,” he said, as if she had been the one causing the delay. “The car is waiting.”
He’d brought the Rolls and a driver, so he could sit in the back with Emma, holding her hand and asking her endless questions.
After she’d given a few short answers he patted her hand. “Quite understand, my dear,” he said. “Bad experience. Not ready to talk about it yet. Take your time, take your time. It’s enough to have you back safe and sound.”
They fell silent as the car whisked them west toward the Cotswolds. Emma knew her father would never ask her another question until she was ready to talk. Although he might long to know every detail, he would allow her the time she needed and while he waited he would quietly watch over her, looking after her comfort.
Home. Home where she could relax, where she knew what to expect, where she would be welcomed and cherished. Home that had lost most of its power to delight, because it held no trace of Marco.
It began to rain, a soft, gray drizzle that sucked the color out of the surroundings. The suburbs of London were drab, the streets a sea of umbrellas, and the country towns were virtually deserted. The grey stone of the houses blurred through the rain-streaked windows and the roofs shone black like the tarmac of the road. She held her father’s hand and made small talk, blocking her mind to the contrasting memory of the bustle and vivid colors of Marco’s country.
Her father might have decided to wait for more answers, but in the next few days everyone else had questions for her. Her friends, and of course the authorities, were hard to satisfy.
The parents of Catherine Hall, her maid, had to be informed that their daughter was dead, not missing. Emma spent a dreadful few hours with them in their grief, knowing all the time the question they wanted to ask was, Why her? Why not you? The same question had echoed for days in her own head.
Catherine’s body, identified as Lady Emma Houndsdale, was to be shipped from Naples the same day Emma had left, and her father had been preparing to receive it when she had telephoned him. He still seemed bewildered by the sudden change in circumstances and she often found him staring at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, as if unable to believe she was there. As she passed him, or sat close in the evening, he sometimes reached out to touch her, a light, gentle stroke, as if to reassure himself that he wasn’t dreaming.
The cook prepared all her favorite recipes and she took long walks or rode across the fields with the dogs.
But after a few days she grew restless. It was wonderful to be home, to see the happiness in her father’s eyes, to be pampered and spoiled again, but her thoughts continually returned to Marco. Too frequently she found herself gazing blankly at a picture she didn’t see, or staring out of a window where there was no view. What was he doing right now? Was he thinking about her? Was he wondering if she would come back, or had he put her out of his mind? Her bed felt cold and empty and she found it hard to settle back into any of her old routines. At last she decided to travel up to town to fill a day with some shopping and have lunch with Gillian Westmarland.
Gillian had been at the last episode of the Game, before she met Johnny Westmarland and helped save his life. There was talk, too, that she had brought off some clever coup that was important to the country’s security, but the details had remained hush-hush and vague.
Whatever the truth of the story, Gillian had married Johnny as soon as he recovered from his wounds, the Game had been shut down, and a lot of the people who had joined in had discreetly retired from society. Including Emma herself.
She found Gillian waiting for her in the lobby of the Savoy. A silver tray sat on a low table with two cups and a silver coffee service.
As soon as she caught sight of Emma, Gillian sprang to her feet and gave her a hug and a kiss. “Thank God you’re alive,” she said. “We heard such terrible things about the fire on the ship.” She stepped back to look her up and down. “Are you all right? You look pale.”
“It’s nothing. Just a little tired still.” Emma returned Gillian’s penetrating scan, taking in the loose-fitting and most unfashionable frock. “My God,” she said as she plumped into a large armchair. “Don’t tell me you’re-”
Gillian nodded excitedly and stroked the small bulge in her abdomen. “Just in time for Christmas,” she said. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
“Wonderful. Congratulations. This calls for something stronger than coffee-” Emma looked around for a waiter.
“No, no, thank you. This is quite strong enough for me.” Gillian stroked her belly again and gave it a little pat as if communicating reassurance to the baby. “But if you want…”
Emma caught the eye of a waiter at last. “Do you have a bottle of Bel Amore?” naming the glorious white vintage from Marco’s estate.
“No, madame, that wine is not available to restaurants. It’s sold only to a select private list. I’m sorry. May I suggest something else? Or would you like to see the wine list?”
“No, no thank you. I’ll stick to coffee.”
She glanced across and saw Gillian watching her, a thoughtful look on her face. “Is that a special wine you found in Italy?”
“Yes. It’s rather nice, and I thought I’d like to try it here. Away from the sunshine and the hills, you know, it often tastes quite different.”
“Special memories, then?”
“In a way.” Emma took a sip of coffee, then looked at her nails, newly manicured and polished, and changed the subject. “Marriage seems to agree with you.”
Gillian gave a long sigh and stirred her full cup of coffee. “I’m quite sickening about it, actually. I keep telling all my friends they shouldn’t be afraid to do it.” She stirred her coffee yet again.
“Look, are you going to drink that, or just stir it to death?”
Gillian put the spoon down. “Sorry, I ordered it by habit. To tell the truth, it tastes horrible. Ever since I knew I was pregnant, my taste buds have gone haywire.”
“Have a glass of milk or something. Isn’t that supposed to be good for you?”
“Yes, but I’m starting to loathe the sight of milk. Johnny keeps bringing it to me.”
“Johnny? Gentleman Johnny in MI5, the swashbuckling hero?”
Gillian bristled. “He’s not like that at all. He’s very sweet and understanding-”
Emma reached out to touch Gillian’s knee. “I know, darling. He’s gorgeous and wonderful and I shouldn’t be teasing you. He adores you, I could see that.”
Emma finished her coffee, and they went in to lunch. She asked for a glass of Soave. It was nice enough, but not a patch on Marco’s wine.
“Tell me what happened in Italy,” Gillian demanded as they were served.
“Nothing to tell, really. I don’t remember all that much about the shipwreck, just that I was washed ashore and some Italian peasants found me. There was a doctor who helped me find my way back to Naples.”
“Hmm. That’s it?’
“That’s it.”
Gillian picked up the last lettuce leaf and sat back. “So, are you going to tell me about him?”
“About whom?”
“The man who gave you the wine.” She placed her elbows on the table and propped her chin on her hands. “Was it the mysterious doctor? I know there’s more. I want every detail.” She dropped her voice. “Or at least every detail that’s fit to print, as Sam Parfitt used to say.”
Emma laughed. “You don’t miss the newspaper, do you?”
“God, no. Sometimes I do some office work for Johnny. Typing and stuff.” Her face grew serious. “There’s a lot going on in Europe, you know, Emma. In Germany and in Italy…”
“I know.”
Reminded that Gillian and Johnny were associated with the British secret services, Emma launched into a modified account of the village hidden in the caves and Marco’s struggle with the government forces. She still wasn’t ready to share too much and refrained from giving details of the torture and death of Claudia. She only mentioned Marco in passing as the leader of the outlawed group.
Gillian listened wide eyed. “This is all so useful,” she said. “Would you talk to Johnny about some of this?”
“I suppose so.”
“So keep the political details for him and tell me more about this Doctor Marco.”
Emma smiled as she sipped her wine. “There’s not much more to tell.”
“Of course there is. I can see it in your face every time you mention his name. What does he look like?”
She had never realized how good Gillian was at worming information out of someone. She tried to describe Marco without making him sound like a Hollywood star.
Gillian sighed again. “He sounds dreamy. What was he like in bed?”
Emma choked on her last sip of wine. “Gilly!”
“You can tell me. I’m a married woman. How often, where?”
“Several times, wherever we could, and that’s all you’re getting out of me, Mrs. Gillian Westmarland.”
“So are you going to marry him?”
“Oh, Gillian, I don’t know.”
“Of course you know. I knew I was going to marry Johnny as soon as I met him, although I had horrible doubts at times. Did he ask you?”
“Well, not in so many words, but he wanted me to stay with him.”
“Hmm. Do you care about getting married?”
“I should, but I’d take him under any conditions.” Suddenly that truth was as clear as daylight to her. “I’m so torn. My father-”
“Your father,” Gillian said decisively, “would let you marry the local ratcatcher if that’s what you wanted. And he’d book St. Margaret’s, Westminster, for it.”
“Marco’s been on the run and could be again. I’ve been reading a bit about Mussolini since I came back. I’m worried about him.”
“You have reason to be worried,” Gillian broke in. “Rule of iron, but not as brutal as in Germany, although not far off. The Blackshirts enforce authority, those who disagree and speak out can be murdered. A lot of people have left, rather than face death or the prisons on remote islands. I quote from the revered leader, ‘ Italy wants peace and quiet, work and calm. I will give these things with love if possible and with force if necessary.’”
Emma felt a tiny, cold shiver snake through her. “You know a lot.”
“It’s Johnny’s job to know, and I help him now. In 1927 they launched the Battle for Births. They want every family to have at least five children. Next it will be land, then currency, then crops. It’s in their manifesto. They’ll ride roughshod over anyone who dissents.”
Emma thought of the newspaper started by Marco’s father.
Gillian leaned forward. “Sorry to give you a current affairs lecture, but if you love this man, he will soon need you by his side. You need to decide where you want to be. And where he should be. Ask yourself what your real dilemma is… If you marry an Italian at this time you will have to make difficult choices. Think back, Emma. We both know what kind of life you led. Do you still want that?”
Emma shook her head. “The things that came easily to me turned out to be not worth having. I could care less about my social position, although it’s important to my father and I can’t hurt him.”
“Think about the things worth having that are harder to attain. The things you would fight and die for are precious and few, aren’t they?”
Emma took a gulp of water. “Very precious and very few.”
On the way home in the train from London, Emma did a lot of thinking. Talking to Gillian had made her put her feelings into words. To her surprise she’d heard herself say she would take Marco under any conditions. Did she really mean that?
Yes, she did.
In the empty railway carriage she summoned up his face, imagined him sitting opposite her in his loose shirt, one leg propped on the other knee. If he were really here he would sit back and flash her that wicked grin that told her he was undressing her in his mind, taking her to bed-
“Tickets please.”
She came to with a start and felt herself blush as if the ticket collector could read her thoughts. The burly man gave her a swift glance as he punched her ticket. “Next stop is yours, miss,” he said.
“Yes, thank you.” She stood and collected her thoughts. She knew what she had to do.
That evening when dinner was over and coffee served, she took her father his daily cigar. He’d taught her how to select one from the sweet-smelling box that was imported from Cuba, how to cut the end and hold the match just so to light it evenly.
When it was drawing to his satisfaction, she took her place on a padded stool.
“What do you want to tell me?” he asked from behind a spiral of smoke.
“What makes you think I have something to tell?”
He tapped the ash carefully into an ashtray. “My girl, I haven’t watched you grow up without knowing most of what goes through your head. Sometimes I lost track, but when your mother died I promised myself I would never be a distant father.”
She got up and sat on the arm of his big, leather chair. “You’ve been a wonderful father,” she said, placing a kiss on the bald spot on his head.
“And you know how to twist me ‘round your little finger.” He sounded grumpy, but she knew he was pleased.
She leaned her cheek on his head. “You never married again.”
“No.” He tapped the end of his cigar again. “I always felt what your mother and I had couldn’t be duplicated. Then I was busy with the House of Lords, the estate…” He sighed. “Time slips by very fast, Emmy.”
“How did you know you loved my mother?”
“Goodness, child, what brought this on?” He cleared his throat. “Bit embarrassing, really. I couldn’t get her out of my head. Couldn’t imagine living without her, I suppose.”
“So you asked her to marry you. Had you known each other long?”
“Three weeks, actually. Raised a few eyebrows, I can tell you.”
“What did you say when you asked her to marry you?”
He cleared his throat again. “We were standing by the water jump at a cross-country meet. I had a new horse I was trying out, and she came with me. She had on a very pretty frock, I remember, and a big hat-”
“What did you say?”
“I think we waited for the horses to go by and I looked at her, held her hand you know, and said, ‘I suppose you wouldn’t care to marry me, would you, old girl?’”
Emma burst out laughing. “Oh, Daddy. You are so unromantic.”
“Well it worked. She said yes. We had ten years together and I had you. Ten years is more than many people ever get.”
Emma stood up and went to the window.
“So do you want to marry him?” her father asked.
She whirled around. “Who said anything about marrying anyone?”
“No one, but you’ve been wandering around the house like a lost soul since you came back. A good fellow is he, this Italian?”
She ran to him and hugged him. “A very good fellow.”
“Wants to marry you, does he?”
“That’s what I mean to find out.”
Marco was surprised to find his hand was shaking. He was afraid. This mattered too much to him. He stared unseeing out of the window of the train, his body tense, his hands flexed around an unread newspaper. Smoke from the puffing engine drifted past the window and the wheels clacked rhythmically, sounding out her name with their clickety-clack.
The man opposite moved his leg and Marco shifted to give him room. He’d forgotten how cramped these English railway compartments were. Five or so to a side, two doors at each end, luggage rack overhead. Locked into an unwelcome proximity between stations. No corridor, no way to stretch your legs, no view of other travelers save those in your compartment. In a way, it was a good thing to be a prisoner. Once committed to the journey, there was little opportunity to turn back.
Emma had no idea he was coming. He wondered if the days had dragged as interminably for her as for him. He could have cabled, or telephoned when the ferry docked, but the same fear had made him hesitate. Suppose she told him to go away, that she didn’t want to see him? Now she was safely back in her tidy English woods, with her tidy English life, maybe the whole delirious time spent with him was a bad dream.
Did it matter to her that they had known each other only a matter of days? He remembered his literature teacher explaining how the classical playwrights had compressed everything into a span of twenty-four hours. Well, he was right about how much you could cram into little more than a day and a night. The three unities, of place, time and theme. Wasn’t that what had happened between him and Emma? Tragedy, fear, ecstasy, danger had tumbled over themselves to insinuate themselves into the scenario being played out.
The man across the narrow aisle folded his newspaper and reached above his head for a briefcase. The cadence of the wheels changed as the train began to slow. A miniature railway station like a child’s toy came into view and the train came to a halt with a loud hiss of steam.
A porter hurried by, shouting the name of the station.
His fellow traveler stepped to the door and lowered the window by its strap to reach out for the door handle. As the door swung open, he turned to Marco. “I think this is your stop, sir. Couldn’t help hearing you mention it to the collector.”
He gave a brusque nod as if embarrassed that he’d broken the code of silence and stepped down to the platform. Marco gathered his portmanteau and his coat and followed him out into the fresh, cool air of the English summer evening.
He found a car to take him through the narrow lanes to Lord Bicester’s estate. The driver wore a flat, tweed cap and muddy Wellington boots. He smelled of hay and animals and had a country burr to his speech.
“They must have forgot to send the car for you, sir,” he said. “Did you change your train?”
“No,” Marco answered. “I wasn’t able to give them an exact date for my arrival. They know I can find my way.”
“Ah.” The man’s voice was noncommittal. “Foreign, aren’t you, sir? Been here before?”
“I’ve lived in England, but I don’t know this part of the country.”
“Ah. Friend of the family, sir?”
Marco suppressed a smile. Everyone always wanted to know all about a stranger. His own village was exactly the same. “Not of the family, no. I’m a friend of Lady Emma.”
“Ah.” The driver braked for a blind spot on a corner and tooted the horn. “Lovely young lady that. You’re not the first young man to come to see ‘er.” He gave a belly laugh.
Marco found it hard to join in the mirth. “I suppose not,” he said with a weak smile. “Er, I don’t suppose there are other guests right now?” Why hadn’t he thought of the possibility that Emma had resumed her lifestyle, including suitors and a social whirl?
“No, sir, I don’t believe there are. Real quiet it’s been since Lady Emma came home.” His voice dropped. “They say she was kidnapped and tortured, poor lady. Them foreigners treated her very badly.”
Was that the story Emma was telling? His heart sank.
Just then the house came into view, a huge pile with turrets and hundreds of windows glinting in the setting sun. Deer grazed in the park, and sculpted lawns stretched into the distance.
The driver slowed to a crawl and drew to a halt in front of the steps leading to the main door. Marco got out and took a deep breath. He had faced guns and treachery without fear, but the thought of seeing Emma again was enough to make him want to get back into the car and drive away. How could one small woman terrify him to this extent?
He dug in his pocket for some money and turned toward the house. At that instant Emma herself appeared from around the corner, her arms full of cut flowers.
“Mr. Goodfellow,” she called, “I thought I heard the car. Who-” She stood stock still when she saw Marco, then cast the flowers to the ground. She came at him on a run and he caught her in his arms, smothering her with kisses.
“Why didn’t you let me know?” She laughed, yet tears moistened her cheeks.
He breathed in her essence, her own special perfume. “I didn’t know what to say. Are you pleased to see me?”
“Pleased?” She held him away from her. “I’ve missed you so much. I was planning to come back to Italy. Come.” She kissed him hard and deep, then tucked his hand under her elbow and picked up his bag. “Come and meet Daddy. I’ve told him a lot about you.”
They had put his bag in a room at the end of a long corridor and he’d been resigned to spending a lonely night until Emma had whispered a promise in his ear before dinner. True to her word, she’d appeared like a ghost in a robe of white muslin when the house was dark and silent.
She found him waiting for her, hoping for her. She slid into the bed beside him and they held each other without speaking, savoring the feel of their limbs, inhaling the long lost scent of their skin. The room was in total darkness and they could feel, touch and breathe in the heady scent of their bodies, but see nothing.
“Daddy liked you.” Emma snuggled against him in the darkness.
“How could you tell?” Lord Bicester had subjected him to a barrage of questions about his family, his property, his political views. He’d escaped to his room after dinner feeling battered and convinced that he would be on the next train back to London after breakfast.
“Lots of ways.” She stroked his chest. “He asked you lots of questions-”
“That was good?”
“Oh, yes. If he hadn’t liked you he would have eaten without saying a word. Then he offered you a glass of his best port.”
“I see I have a lot to learn about English fathers.” As he spoke, he lightly traced the tip of his finger down the side of her neck, over the pulsing artery and down to her collarbone, finding the sensitive hollow at the base of her throat. He felt the movement of her jaw under his fingers as she swallowed.
“Concentrate on the daughters first,” she said.
Like a blind man, he let his fingers wander over her curves and hollows, sensing her by touch alone. Slowly he slid the muslin from her shoulders, imagining every inch of soft, pearly flesh. It nearly killed him to wait, but wait he did, listening to her breathing, until her breasts were free of any covering. He cupped a lovely globe in each hand and brought the pebbly nipple to his mouth as if tasting a glass of fine wine. Her nipples were hard and erect, and he took each one between his lips in turn, circling it with his tongue, sucking it into his mouth.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” she said. “Every night since I’ve been home, I’ve imagined you in my bed.”
“Don’t talk,” he said. “Just let me touch you, let my hands learn you.”
She lay still as he pulled her nightdress over her hips. In the velvety blackness he touched gently between her legs, feeling her creamy wetness. He brought his fingertips close to his face and inhaled deeply. “The scent of Emma.”
Her fingers rested lightly on his hip and he felt them begin to explore his thigh, his belly, until they seized upon his cock.
“You’ve had me on a horse, on the ground, on your lap, in a shepherd’s hut, and in your bed,” she said. “Which did you like best?”
“Wicked woman. You’re trying to trick me. Whatever I say, you’ll wonder why the other wasn’t my favorite.”
Her fingers traced the line of his cheek, touching his lips and the sensitive nerves jumped.
“Then don’t tell me. Just fuck me however you want.”
His eyes were adapting to the darkness and he began to make out the pale gleam of her body and the glitter of her eyes.
He kissed her mouth and put his hands on her hips. Gently but forcefully he turned her until she lay prone. He ran his hands down her back and over the curve of her ass. Her hips twitched in response. His fingers dipped between her thighs from behind and he cupped her cunt in his hand, lifting so that she rose to her knees, her face pressed against the pillow.
He played with her in this position, one hand stroking her, his fingers dipping into her, first one, then two. As he thrust inside her she moaned and tensed, pushing against his hand. He let his other hand snake around to cup a dangling breast.
His cock quivered against the cheeks of her ass, begging for a way in to relieve the ache in his balls. He withdrew his hand from between her legs and spread her thighs. His teeth nipped at the smooth, round cheek as he held apart the folds of her cunt with both hands. He positioned his cock and slid deep inside her warm softness. Her muscles spasmed around him, squeezing him until he cried out. She gasped and tensed against him, driving him deeper.
Firmly embedded inside her, he felt for her clit with one hand and caressed her breast with the other. He thrust inside her rhythmically as she moaned and tensed, writhing as he tormented her clit and her nipple. She could move only back and forth, massaging his bursting cock with every tremor and tiny motion. He held her prisoner, utterly at his mercy. He nuzzled the nape of her neck.
“Now?” he said. “Are you ready to come when I tell you?”
“Yes.”
“Then now.” He clasped her to him and thrust deep inside until he felt the far wall of her vagina. She cried out and he felt the waves through her whole body, squeezing his cock, making every inch of her tremble.
She lay in his arms in the soft darkness, knowing she wanted to spend the rest of her life in his embrace.
He spoke very softly. “It isn’t over, is it? It’s the same here as in Italy?”‘
A part of her stood to one side, watching herself take the irrevocable step. “It isn’t over.”
He kissed her again with passion and an underlying tenderness. Passion is fleeting and possible to resist. Tenderness promised permanence and left her defenseless. Needs she had suppressed for too long rose up and swept over her like a tidal wave, destroying her carefully constructed defenses like a child’s castle in the sand, and revealing the truth of her feelings for him.
“I love you, Emma, my bella donna. I think I loved you from the moment I saw you in Enrico’s stable.”
She felt tears shimmer on the ends of her lashes and he brushed them away as he showered kisses on her face.
She said the words she had never spoken to anyone else. “I love you, too. I think I loved you from the instant you found me.”
In the hills of Italy he had been able to arouse her with a single kiss, and the time apart had changed nothing. She resisted the touch of his lips for all of ten seconds before pressing her body against his and returning his kiss with all the heat and passion that had been missing from her life for the past years. It was more than a kiss, it was a consuming ecstasy, brushed with soft magic
It was a very long time before they broke apart.