Tallie's Knight

by Anna Gracie

  had a home of my own, but I will do everything in my power to ensure my

  brother has one. And if my husband doesn't like it..." Her eyes

  filled with tears.

  "I do not know what I will do--but I will not give up on my

  brother--bastard or not."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jo, John Black and Monique and Carlotta's nephews and I will travel to

  Turin with your letters of credit and introduction, and you'll stay

  here with Carlotta. " Tallie patted the reticule containing the

  letters. She was dressed for immediate travel.

  "But--' Magnus glowered at her from the bed. He was not at all happy

  about her travelling without him. But Tallie was determined.

  "Magnus, you know it is the only possible thing to do. We cannot all

  go, for then Carlotta will think we mean to run out on her, when she

  has already been to so much trouble and expense on our behalf. And

  besides, I'll be perfectly safe with Carlotta's nephews and John

  Black--and if you cannot trust him, who can you trust?"

  "Yes, but--' " Would you prefer I stay behind, then--by myself? While

  you risk your health and possibly your life? Or perhaps it suits you

  to continue to allow a lone widow to support us and our servants. To

  be sure, she has not yet begun to dun us, so perhaps--' Magnus looked

  frustrated.

  "No, of course I do not wish it. It galls me past bearing, but--' "

  Very well, it is agreed," Tallie said decisively.

  "You need not worry, Magnus. I am not at all tempted to take your

  purse and continue my journey. I have no intention of abandoning

  you."

  The look of blank shock on his face told her he had not even considered

  such a thing. But now he was, if the black frown was any indicator.

  Tallie hid a smile.

  "And you could not possibly be lonely, with dear Father Astuto visiting

  you so often. I wonder if he could visit more frequently while I am

  away?"

  A low growl erupted from the bed.

  "Saddle me with any more of that blasted priest, madam, and you will

  rue the day you wed me."

  "Will I? And are you so sure I do not do so already?" she said

  lightly, and, planting a quick kiss on his mouth, she hurried from the

  room, leaving Magnus frustrated and uneasy.

  Curse it, but there was a vast deal of decision about his wife these

  days. What the devil had happened to the dependent little creature he

  had married? He missed her. She was fast turning into an impertinent

  baggage. He swung his legs out of bed and tried to rise. Blast--he

  was still as weak as a kitten. He had to get his strength back

  quickly, or the way things were going his wife would consider it was

  she who wore the pantaloons in this family. She was already wearing

  the drawers.

  He felt his body stir as he recalled the sight of her in those damned

  alluring pink drawers. He settled back into bed, prepared to indulge

  himself in a fantasy where his wife was standing over him, clad in

  nothing but her pink drawers, her hair tumbled around her pert, naked

  breasts. "Ah, Signer d'Arenville, you are awake, I see."

  "Father Astuto," groaned Magnus.

  "Repose yourself, my son, and I will tell you of the Holy City and my

  audience with His Eminence," said the priest with a gentle, reminiscent

  smile.

  "It was a cold, wet day..."

  Magnus closed his eyes and tried to recapture his fantasy about his

  wife in the pink drawers with their very erotic slit. "I was wearing a

  new cassock--that is the correct term, yes?--which I had purchased

  especially for the audience..."

  It was no good. It was simply not possible to indulge oneself with an

  erotic fantasy when one was entrapped by an elderly, unworldly,

  celibate, stupefyingly dull priest.

  Magnus closed his eyes and prayed that sleep would come soon.

  "And of course I had prepared a small speech to make to the Holy

  Father. To this day, I still remember--it went like this..."

  Magnus hunched down in his bed, trying to block out the priest's

  rambling. But sleep eluded him. He was kept awake by his wife's last

  comment.

  Did she rue the day she had wed him? It was an unsettling thought. She

  seemed to him to be quite happy. but you never could tell with women.

  Women were natural actresses, in his experience. They never said what

  they meant. Although his wife was not like most women. She was

  different. but how different? Could she feign happiness so

  consistently? He pondered the notion. Now he thought about it, there

  were times he had caught her looking at him as if. Damn it, what was

  that look she got sometimes? Sad? Wistful? Pensive?

  This wretched weakness of his--he hated the idea of her heading off to

  Turin alone, with none but John Black and a gaggle of Cariotta's

  nephews to protect her. What if there were more banditti on the

  road?

  They would not be so gallant as that blasted Irishman. Magnus snorted.

  A bandit who kissed women's hands! And who did that fellow think he

  was--rot him--to compliment Magnus on his wife? None of his business

  what sort of wife Magnus had. Shouldn't even be looking at another

  fellow's wife, blasted bandit. Blasted green-eyed bandit.

  Magnus closed his eyes, reliving the moment when he had realised that

  the bandit was taking Tallie up into the mountains to hold her hostage.

  It still haunted him. He had never in his life felt so furious. or so

  terrified. -or so helpless.

  If he lived to be a hundred years old he would never forget that brave

  little smile she'd given him as she kissed him goodbye. I love you,

  Magnus. And then she'd hugged him as if he was the most precious thing

  in the world.

  She'd offered to go. To take his place as hostage. Like a heroine in

  a Greek drama. Because she'd thought if they took him he would die of

  his fever in the mountains. And she would have gone, too, quite

  happily if that maid of hers hadn't said what she'd said.

  Pregnant. Every time he thought of it, he felt. He didn't know what

  he felt. Breathless? Joyful? Proud? Obviously. Then why did it

  feel so much like terror? Lord, what was the matter with him these

  days? He should be over the moon-after all, a child of his own was the

  reason he'd decided to take a wife. He tried to envisage a child, a

  child of Tallie's. A little girl with glossy honey-coloured curls and

  big amber eyes. A miniature tip-tilted nose and teeth like tiny

  pearls, one of them endearingly crooked. But all he could think of was

  that women died in childbirth all the time. He broke out in a cold

  sweat just thinking about it. Pregnant. Oh, Lord.

  He thought of her playful threat to abandon him. After the first

  shock, he hadn't actually believed it for a moment. Of course she

  wouldn't leave him. He knew it as well as he knew himself. She'd do

  exactly what she'd said she would--go straight to Turin, get the money

  and return to him immediately. With a start, it occurred to Magnus

  that he trusted her; he actually trusted a woman.

  No--he didn't just trust a woman--he trusted Tallie.

 
; Good God! When had that happened? When she had offered to take his

  place? No. He thought back. He couldn't pin a time on it, but it had

  started well before then. He trusted her. The realisation was

  shattering. His heart thudded faster in his chest and he shivered,

  feeling suddenly exposed and vulnerable. What if she? -No, he

  wouldn't think about that. There was no point in dredging up the

  past--she was different; his wife was different. Somehow, by some

  incredible, wonderful stroke of luck, he'd got himself a wife who was

  different from any other woman he had known. And he was overwhelmingly

  grateful for it.

  He trusted his wife.

  And she was increasing. But, oh. Lord. what if he lost her?

  The priest's voice droned on in the background. Magnus wrestled with

  his demons, plunging from exhilaration, to doubt, to despair, then back

  to exhilaration, until at last, in the middle of a description of the

  vestments worn by a bishop at a mass Father Astuto had attended forty

  years before, Magnus finally dozed off.

  "What the devil do you mean, the mistress isn't with you? Where the

  hell is she, then? Don't tell me you left her on her own in Turin--you

  know better than that, John!" Magnus stared at his coachman, baffled

  and not a little worried. Of course he didn't believe for a moment

  that his wife had gone off and left him. but where the hell was she?

  John Black shifted uncomfortably. For the first time in twelve years

  he failed to look his master in the eye. Magnus felt a cold hand steal

  around his heart. She couldn't possibly have left him. She

  couldn't.

  She wouldn't. But where was she? He braced himself.

  "Out with it, man, where is she?"

  "The mistress never went to Turin," said John Black at last.

  "Never went to Turin? What do you mean? I saw her leave."

  John Black nodded.

  "Went with me a dozen miles or so, then turned up into the

  mountains."

  Magnus felt as if he'd been hit in the chest with a hammer. That

  damned green-eyed, hand-kissing bastard!

  "And you just let her go? By herself?" It was more than a week ago.

  He'd never be able to catch her now. His insides felt hollow.

  "No, my lord, of course not," said John Black indignantly.

  "I hope I know better than that. She had that French wench with her,

  and a half-dozen of the Italian widder-woman's relatives, including one

  old woman."

  "What?" Magnus stared at his-coachman. Something eased slightly in

  his chest. It was one thing to suspect his wife had run off with some

  damned good-looking bandit, but quite another to imagine her taking her

  maid, an old Italian lady and half a dozen relatives of the eminently

  respectable Carlotta with her. It was not the usual way of elopements.

  But then his wife was not the usual sort of wife.

  "If she was escorted by the widow's relatives, the widow will no doubt

  be able to cast some light on the matter." Magnus strode to the door

  and flung it open.

  "Carlotta," he roared.

  She came immediately.

  "What the devil have you done with my wife?"

  Carlotta looked at him for a moment and smiled.

  "Do not worry Signer d'Arenville, your wife is perfectly safe. She has

  gone on a visit with the wife of my husband's oldest brother. She

  wished to visit her uncle, you understand."

  "Her uncle?" Magnus was dumbfounded.

  "She never she told me she had an uncle living in Italy."

  Carlotta laughed.

  "Not your wife's uncle, signer. The uncle of my husband's

  sister-in-law."

  "The uncle of your sister-in-law's husband? But why on earth-?"

  Carlotta laughed again.

  "No, not the uncle of my sister-inlaw's husband--he lives in

  Chiomonte--he is the stonemason, you understand?

  No, your wife has gone to visit the uncle of my husband's

  sister-in-law. The uncle of my sister-in-law's husband is a very

  unpleasant man. The uncle of my husband's sister-in-law is--' "I don't

  give a hell's bloody damn about your blasted relatives, madam. I want

  my wife."

  Carlotta drew herself up and gave him a look of magnificent Italian

  scorn.

  "I do not care for cursing in my house, signer. No matter if you are a

  great lord in England." She sniffed, turned her back, and with immense

  dignity began to depart.

  Magnus groaned.

  "Carlotta." He laid a hand on her shoulder. It remained stiff and

  averted. Magnus took a deep breath and counted to ten.

  "Signora-- Carlotta." He forced himself to use a much softer voice.

  "I apologise for cursing in your house."

  The shoulder twitched huffily.

  "And I apologise for any offence I may have made concerning your

  relatives. I am sure they are very worthy and respectable people." He

  would have them all hanged if harm came to The shoulder twitched

  again.

  "Please forgive me. I did not mean to upset you, signora, but I am

  extremely worried about my wife."

  Carlotta turned and said stiffly, "She is with my relatives, signor.

  No harm will come to her, I assure you. "

  Blast the woman's touchy Italian soul. He should give up this

  soft-soaping and just choke the truth out of her. Magnus made one more

  effort.

  "I know," he said.

  "It is just that I am very anxious about her. She... she is

  increasing, you know."

  Carlotta frowned in puzzlement.

  "Increasing?" Then her face lit up.

  "You mean a baby?"

  Magnus nodded, wishing he knew whether he was telling the truth or

  not.

  "Oh, signor, that is wonderful. No wonder you are anxious about the

  signora. But how happy you must be. A baby."

  Magnus nodded, and managed what he hoped looked like a joyful smile.

  But he was too damned worried to waste much more time grinning at some

  woman whose blasted relatives had carted Tallie off into some

  godforsaken mountain village.

  "So, would you tell me now, please, where is my wife?" He managed a

  reasonably polite tone.

  "But I told you, signor, she is in the village of my sister- in--'

  Magnus held up his hand.

  "No more relatives, I beg of you."

  Carlotta sighed and said simply, "She has gone to find the place where

  her mother died."

  The breath left Magnus in a great gush. So that green-eyed scoundrel

  hadn't got her after all. He closed his eyes in relief. The place

  where her mother died. Of course. She'd mentioned it before. It was

  very important to her, he remembered. The main reason she'd wanted to

  come to Italy.

  But why had she not waited until he was well enough to escort her? He

  would have gone with her. No question about it. In fact, now he came

  to think of it, he damn well wanted to go with her. She needed

  him--not just as an escort, but to support her in her grief. She would

  need support; his wife was a very emotional little creature.

  So why the deuce had she not waited? And why sneak off as she had,

  pretending she was going to Turin? As if there was something

  havey-cave
y about visiting her mother's grave. There was no need for

  secrecy and deception for such a visit. So what was she about,

  creeping off behind his back? He frowned. Carlotta shifted

  uncomfortably under his stare. She averted her eyes and gazed with

  sudden interest at the ornately carved settee beneath the window.

  His suspicion deepened. There was funny business going on, or Magnus

  was a Dutchman. And he wasn't. He was English to the core, as far

  back as the Conqueror. And beyond.

  So what was his wife up to, the deceitful little baggage?

  Tallie stood and stared desolated at the tumbledown cottage. The

  whitewash was ancient, dirty, and falling off in great flakes. The

  uneven shingled roof had holes visible from the narrow track below. A

  door swung drunkenly on one leather hinge and the wind rattled

  broken-slatted shutters and whipped at tattered remnants of oilcloth.

  It was a ruin. Nobody could possibly live here.

  Her heart sank. She turned to their guide.

  "I thought you said a man and woman lived here. With a little boy."

  The man shrugged and mumbled something in an incomprehensible