She tested her steadiness. “Well, I have never fainted before.”
“That is because you have never been forced to marry me before. The notion so horrified you that you could not contain your shock.”
“You told me to faint. You all but commanded it.”
“If you obey all my commands with such thorough precision, marriage to you might be tolerable.” She seemed to have recovered. He offered his arm. “Hold on. The lane is steep.”
She slid her arm through his and skipped to keep up with his strides. “We are not going to the villa.”
“I am counting on Greenwood having the boat ready before that procession winds its way down there. With luck we will be launched before anyone is the wiser.”
She picked up her pace at the promise of escape. When they emerged near the docks they could see Matthias waiting beside a fishing boat manned by four men.
He hailed them and ordered the crew to prepare to launch. “In you go. No time for ceremony and long farewells. Your baggage is on board.”
Elliot handed Phaedra up. He paused for a farewell anyway. “You must come and visit England. You have been gone too long.”
Matthias turned his face to the burning sun. “I am too acclimated to this land, Rothwell. England’s damp holds no appeal. But, perhaps…who knows.”
“I will write and tell you how I fare at Pompeii.”
“My letter is among your papers. I slipped it in.” While Elliot climbed on board, Greenwood addressed Phaedra. “Whitmarsh sends his felicitations on your marriage.”
“I am not married.”
“Well…” His shrug underlined the ambiguity of that point. He bowed to take his leave.
“Mr. Greenwood,” she said. “I may not chance to meet you again. Thank you for your hospitality and your help.”
“It was my pleasure to have the daughter of Artemis Blair as a guest. You must write to me and tell me if you ever solve that little mystery we discussed.”
The boat drifted away from the dock. They watched as Matthias grew smaller against the dramatic backdrop of Positano’s spill of roofs and steep lanes.
Safe now, free from the danger that she dared not contemplate, Phaedra’s heart filled with soul-drenching relief.
Elliot’s arm slid around her waist. He moved and embraced her from behind. She succumbed to the security and protection offered by the intimate, human cloak he formed. She sank back against him, and ignored the way his strength lured her into relinquishing her own.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Phaedra fell asleep in Elliot’s arms. He moved her to a wooden bench away from the boat’s railing. He directed the crew to secure a makeshift canvas awning over them, to protect her pale beauty from the high, hot sun.
Two hours passed with Phaedra absorbing his thoughts. The vows that they spoke in Positano may have been the last lines in a comic opera, but they complicated his intentions. He doubted she would accept the responsibility that he now felt for her. No matter what English law might decide, she would never agree that he had a right to protect her. She would deny any man the authority that exercising such obligations required.
As if his thoughts summoned her to battle, her eyes opened. Still nestled against him, she peered across the sea to the hazy line of the coastal hills on the eastern horizon.
She glanced to the sky and assessed the sun’s position. “We are some ways from the shore. Should we not be in Amalfi by now?”
“I told them to take us down the coast to Paestum. You expressed an interest in seeing the temples there.”
Her lashes hung low while she considered this change in plans. “You might have woken me and asked if a visit to Paestum suited me.”
He had not asked because he did not want to give her any choice. When they reached Pompeii she would once more be consumed with whatever mission she pursued. He would be obligated to take up his own quest when they later returned to Naples. Soon they would be at odds again. He wanted to avoid those arguments for a day or so.
“Your illness at the church was real. You need to rest.”
She nodded slightly, her hair rubbing his shoulder. He was pleased that she made no attempt to extricate herself from his embrace. The sleeping Phaedra was a lovely wonder. He had spent the last hours studying the details and nuances of her face, breathing in her feminine scent, and holding her soft body. But Phaedra alert and aware interested him far more.
“We are not truly married, of course.” She spoke as if they had been talking about it for hours. In a silent manner, perhaps they had been.
“Actually, in the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies I think that we are.”
“No documents were signed.”
“This is a Catholic land. They see marriage as a sacrament, not a contract.”
“We are not Catholic.”
“That could make all the difference. I do not know for certain, however. I think if it is legal here, it may be legal at home.” He braced for her explosive denial.
Instead she expressed consternation in ways so subtle he would miss them if her face was not inches from his and her body not cradled in his arms.
“What this kingdom thinks is legal does not matter,” she said. “We will soon return to England where better laws reign. What is important is that we both know we are not really married.”
The boat turned. Its bow aimed southeast, toward the coast. He narrowed his eyes on the distant, tiny port that was their destination.
“Say it,” she demanded.
“Say what?”
“Say that of course we both know that we are not really married.”
He could say that to appease her, but he was not inclined to lie. Nor did the ambiguities disconcert him the way they should. He had never sought marriage, least of all to a woman like Phaedra Blair, but he had spoken the vows well aware that they might stick.
In the meantime there was a usefulness in being her husband in this land. He could protect her better and throw the special immunity of the family’s aristocratic cloak around her. He could keep an eye on her too, day and night. And should they learn upon returning to England that the vows in Positano bound them—there was a certain usefulness in that too.
If they were truly married the decision to publish those memoirs would no longer be hers. He had never calculated such a drastic path to protecting the family name, but fate may have provided an unexpected solution to the problem that brought them together.
She would loathe the solution, of course. That was why he had told the crew of this boat to aim toward Paestum. He wanted to indulge his fascination as long as possible before discovering whether Phaedra Blair would spend the rest of her life making his existence on this earth a living hell.
“You are demanding that I say what we both know when I know nothing of the kind. Nor do you. You are really asking me to say that I will act like we both know we are not married.”
“It would be a wise way to view it.”
“I do not agree. I think that would be a criminal waste of a grand opportunity.”
Peeved at his refusal, and perhaps at the teasing note that entered his voice, she pushed out of his embrace and stood. She faced him with her hands on her hips, the picture of a woman planning to scold until she swayed him to her point of view.
The dusky shade beneath the canvas sail gave her skin an ethereal shimmer. The breeze lifted tendrils of her hair until they danced around her body like a living halo. The thin gauze of her skirts blew back, revealing the forms of her legs and hips, reminding him of her naked body and how this day had begun.
“Allow me to explain all the reasons why we must ignore that wedding until we are back in England.” She began itemizing the logic of it all, ticking off her reasons on her fingers.
He heard her voice like a distant chant. He was back in the tower, on his knees, gazing down at her naked body. Then he was taking her like he had last night, only this time it was an act of true possession decreed to a husband by law
.
She paced in front of him, crossing back and forth along the edge of the shade. Her argument went on and on, insignificant words barely audible outside the door of the room where he had ravished her.
She stopped walking. Her hands went back to her hips.
“You are not even listening.”
“I am. Your logic would do an Oxford don proud. Nor can I disagree with a single word. I merely do not care one way or the other right now.”
She sighed deeply at the stupid man on the bench. “You do not think it is worth considering whether you might be tied for life to a woman you do not want?”
“I have considered it thoroughly already. As for not wanting the woman in question, that is where it gets complicated.”
He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her. He forced the intimacy of the night back on her. He commanded her desire to join his, so that she would understand the only part of this untoward development that mattered to him right now.
The innkeeper’s wife threw open the door of Phaedra’s bedchamber with a flourish worthy of a queen’s courtier. Down the passageway the innkeeper himself showed Elliot to another room. Their hosts had decided that the arrival of this particular uomo magnifico necessitated a little groveling.
Phaedra glanced down the passage just as Elliot glanced back. She suspected he measured the steps between their doors. Her calming arousal fluttered hard again for several uncomfortable moments. She stepped into her chamber and closed the door, seeking a sanctuary from how he affected her.
The last half hour on that boat had muddled her thoughts about the peculiar situation that she found herself in. His kisses had confused her mind, her body, and her heart. Minute by pleasurable minute he had slowly pried her hold from the moorings that kept her securely in a place she knew. She felt as if she had been towed into uncharted waters.
She was almost positive those vows would not stand scrutiny, but they promised to create terrible problems anyway. It would be sensible to assume there was no marriage. Unfortunately, Elliot appeared to think it would be useful to assume that there was.
She did not think it was only the prospect of an ongoing liaison that appealed to him. As her husband he could claim rights to other things. To know her thoughts and plans. To protect and possess. To interfere if he disagreed. No one in this land would accommodate her if her “husband” did not want her accommodated.
The woman opened the portmanteau. She lifted and shook the dresses, then hung them on hooks in the wardrobe. Her dark eyes scanned the array of black gauze and crepe. “Mi dispiace.”
She thought they were mourning garments. Phaedra did not know the words to disabuse her of that notion. Nor had her explanations in Positano led to much good.
The woman left to get water. She returned, poured some into the washing bowl, and offered to help Phaedra undress. “Your husband—bello, elegante,” she said, while she released the back hooks.
He is not my husband. The denial remained a silent objection. It did not matter what this innkeeper thought. Elliot was right about one thing. This journey would be easier if people thought they were married. She had already seen the difference. Instead of the subtle scorn that she normally endured in her life, on the boat and at this inn she had been treated with respect and deference.
Dusk began to gather by the time she was settled in. As the woman left, Elliot arrived at the door. His command of the southern language had improved over the last week, and he gave the innkeeper’s wife some instructions.
“What did you tell her?”
“That we will dine alfresco. They have a lovely garden. I also told her to prepare baths for us afterward. Let us go down now. Except for that bit of bread and cheese on the boat, we have not eaten all day.”
“I will join you soon. I would like a few minutes alone first.”
The door closed. She inhaled the silence that fell with his departure. She waited for his presence to thin too, for the air to return to normal and for her isolation from him to be complete. It took longer than she expected.
She blamed last night for that. The intimacy had been too intense. He had indeed taken, and more than his pleasure. She had made very plain what she permitted and what she did not, but he deliberately pressed his advantage. She did not shrink from admitting that she had been helpless to stop it because he was the first man to have an advantage to press in the first place.
She looked around her chamber. She guessed it was the finest in the inn. It held wood furniture that appeared a country version of the elaborately carved pieces so common in Naples. Pale blue patterned drapery swathed the bed in simple luxury and a hooked rug spread flowers on the wood planked floors.
She looked forward to dining in the garden. The bath would be most welcome too. He had anticipated her needs and she could overlook the assumptions behind his plans if she wanted to. He was taking care of her the way men did with women, and any other woman would be delighted. To object would appear ungracious and perhaps even ungrateful.
The problem was that she knew how it would all turn out if she permitted those assumptions to continue unchecked. The danger was not in him so much as it was in herself. The world conspired to convince women to live the normal lives decreed by society. There had been many times when the choice to do it differently had seemed so hard, so lonely, that she had questioned her beliefs. Swimming against the current of the world’s expectations could be exhausting. If a boat passed going downriver, it was very tempting to climb on board.
If the man offering to lift her up and protect her was handsome, wealthy, intelligent, and passionate, how easy to conclude one had been swimming in the wrong direction all along. It would probably be a long while before one realized one had totally forgotten how to swim at all.
She sat at the dressing table and brushed out her hair. She bound it into a thick roll at her nape for Elliot’s sake, so he would not be embarrassed by her eccentricity if other guests also dined in the garden. She opened her portmanteau, found her hat, and pinned it on.
She gazed in the looking glass. This small compromise in her appearance had been easy to make. It really cost her nothing and she had done it fully aware of why she made the choice. Such small gestures did not redraw the outline of her character. The changes that could do that would not be so obvious, nor so clearly selected.
She thought of the man waiting in the garden. So handsome, so appealing. It was very tempting to play at marriage with him for a few days. A tired part of her soul yearned to let someone take care of her for a while. Perhaps she could just give up the fight for a week or two, and pick up her weapons again when she returned to England.
Her mother’s memory intruded. One skeptical eyebrow arched on the internal vision of Artemis Blair’s lovely face. Artemis had never demanded that her daughter follow her path. She had merely explained and described what one lost and what one gained if one claimed such freedom. She had also warned there could be no half measures, no respites of acceptability and respectability. The world did not permit a woman to find a place of compromise. The laws were written to make the decision to be a normal, acceptable woman an irrevocable one.
Phaedra finished her preparations. She would allow the strangers in this land to assume she and Elliot were married, but she could not afford to allow him to think it. Not even maybe married or temporarily so. If they played that game, she could only lose.
She grew more lovely as the sun set. Dusk’s light gave her dramatic coloring a cool cast, softening her. Elliot permitted himself some poetic sentimentality while they finished their meal. The flowers in the garden formed a deep circle of blended jewels around the terrace where they sat.
They had spent the long supper talking about their visit to the temples of Paestum the next day. Now Phaedra grew quiet as night closed in. He sensed that she contemplated the following hours and those chambers upstairs. Her eyes reflected her awareness of the anticipation tightening between them. She tried to hide it for the first time, but she wa
s not well practiced in that.
One by one the other guests left the terrace. The innkeeper brought out coffee, served it with elaborate deference, then retreated into the house.
“The sun is gone, Phaedra. The others have left. You can remove the hat now.” He did not know if the hat had been a symbol of compromise or merely a precaution against a recurrence of sun sickness. Now its brim cast a deep shadow, obscuring her bold eyes. He wanted nothing hiding her desire from him.
“You sound as if you are giving me permission, Elliot. Or making a demand.” All the same she unpinned the hat and set it on a nearby table. “Whatever you think about our situation, you must not treat me like a wife. I will not like that.”
How would she know? She had never been one. She had not even grown up in a household with one.
He trusted his vague smile would be read as agreement so he could return to enjoying her company in the waning light. She gazed at him expectantly, waiting for a more official affirmation. She appeared determined to settle this now. He guessed they would not be leaving this terrace until she did.
“How should I treat you instead, Phaedra? Like a mistress? Like a brief flirtation?”
“Like a friend.”
“We were friends last night. I look forward to treating you like that as often as you will allow it.”
He was sure he saw a blush, despite the dimming light. “Not exactly like last night. That is part of my concern.”
“You did not seem concerned at the time. However, I am willing to change. Tell me, how do your friends treat you?”
“With less…It need not, as you spoke of it last night, be a surrender or a victory for either one of us. It need not be a matter of submission and possession. And a man need not—one need not intrude on the other’s spirit so much.” She seemed oblivious to the implications of her last words.
He instinctively reacted to these references to her past lovers. Badly, despite her admission that there had been no spiritual intrusion with them.
Jealousy cracked through him. It was not an emotion that had claimed him much in the past. Both awed and repulsed by its dangerous power, he tried to push it back into the dungeon of his soul. No doubt among all the need nots that Phaedra had decided men had no right to feel about her, this topped the list.
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