The Echoes of Love

by Hannah Fielding

  Venetia’s heart gave a sharp twist as if she had been stabbed. An overwhelming and unexpected emotion surged within her, frightening in its implication. Not for the first time that day she felt a passionate desire to put her arms around Paolo and comfort this lonely, unhappy man. She looked at him, her eyes wide and tender, the golden lights in them quenched, their colour deepened. Still, she fought it down, refused to recognise it for what it was.

  ‘You mustn’t talk that way, Paolo. Look around you – you’ve created so much beauty. You’re talented and creative – a visionary who has plenty to offer.’

  ‘You mean a mirage. A ghost,’ he said, without looking at her. His eyes had taken on a wintry expression as he gazed, unseeing, at the view of the indigo sea that stretched to infinity beyond the window, while he turned the stem of his wine glass round and round in abstracted fingers. Venetia saw the lines around his mouth deepening, and the tragic weariness steal back into his face, which earlier had been relaxed and amused, almost youthful.

  ‘Not at all! How old are you? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?’

  ‘Thirty-eight, going on ninety.’

  ‘Nonsense! You’re a passionate man with plenty to live for. What will all those women who pine after you do if you desert them?’ Venetia spoke with more lightness than she felt.

  Paolo turned his gaze upon her.

  ‘You’ve not been through what I have, and God forbid that you ever will, Venetia. You can still play with words and play with feelings, but I’ve been broken. Life has maimed me inside and out. The truth is that all the experience and substance that was once me is now dead, and I can’t remember how anything feels, or should feel. I can’t go hunting with the hounds of imagination any more… I don’t want the fine flowers of life. Something has gone with my memory – the carefree big-heartedness of youth. But when I met you, I glimpsed a way out of this abyss, a glimmer of hope. All I know now is that you have lit up the darkness with a dazzling light and the whole current of my being flows to you. It’s you, and you alone, who can make me whole again.’

  He paused. Dusk darkened the room and the silence was heavy.

  Venetia shook her head. Paolo’s hard voice made her realise the pain that drenched him, and at his slightest movement a strained trembling came over her. The pain etched into his features was too raw to be feigned – this man was not playing games.

  ‘Of course, if you persist in being blind and pushing me away,’ he said, ‘I will not pursue you any more. I’ll be your friend as you asked from me once, and I’ll try to quench my thirst at more accessible streams.’ He laughed a rough, deep, humourless sound that shimmied its way to the far end of Venetia’s soul. ‘I’ve been doing it for so long now – bitter water they might be after you, cara, but I will have no other solution, and I will “dream the rest, and burn” for you, “the secret food of my fires unseen.”’

  Venetia sighed, her eyes on the darkening sea. ‘Oh, please, don’t talk like that,’ she cried out, looking at his face set in such rigid lines. She knew the poem well, ‘When Passion’s Trance is Overpast’, of which Paolo had just cited a couple of lines. It was one of Shelley’s miscellaneous works that she loved so well.

  ‘You’re right, cara,’ he said, suddenly springing to his feet. ‘The sun has gone down and it will soon be dark. Besides, I’m boring you with my maudlin talk. I get into this mood from time to time – you must ignore it when it happens. It never lasts long anyhow.’ He smiled at her. ‘Come, it’s been a long day and you must be tired. I’ll walk you back to the cottage.’

  Venetia didn’t answer – there seemed nothing more that could be said, or at least, nothing else she felt able to say. As they came out of the house there was a charcoal line on the horizon where the sun had struck on to the sea, and along the dark grey strip a fishing-boat sailed westward, its pointed sails black against the still pale blue water. Mysteriously chilling to the spirit, it filled her with unreasoning melancholy, as though all the beautiful things of life were being borne away upon the waste of the ocean in that little craft. A breeze got up and made a steady rustling noise, driving along the path that led behind the house to La Sirena, and tint upon tint of grey enveloped everything as they walked slowly back.

  * * *

  Venetia woke up with a hoarse cry. She was sitting up in bed, panting, her eyes wide open, disorientated for a few moments. Her hair clung to the back of her neck and her head was pounding as if a hammer had been taken to it. Although the windows were wide open, the room seemed hot and airless; her lips were parched, her skin was warm and tight and her chest felt heavy as if her heart was made of lead. She couldn’t remember the details of her nightmare, but she knew that it was about death, and that it concerned Paolo.

  Sliding out of bed, she went to the bathroom. She splashed her face under the cold tap and poured a glass of water to calm herself. The day she had spent with Paolo had been emotional, to say the least, and it had deeply affected her. He had bared his soul to her with touching fervour and she had found his words disturbing. Could she not lay herself open to him too, and trust in his response? Why could she not bring herself to be his salvation?

  Listening to Paolo, Venetia had feared for him. She had always considered him a handsome man – not good-looking in the traditional sense, but distinguished, charismatic and hard. Yes, he could look extremely hard at times. But there was also a suggestion of melancholy, even of tragedy, which quickened her interest. Ignore it as she may, Venetia couldn’t fool herself any longer: she was falling in love. The fact that Paolo reminded her of Judd was neither here nor there. Something of the one was present in the other, of that she was sure, and that certain something seemed disturbing, although she was not clear why; but deep and tender feelings had been resurrected that were as much part of her as her own mind and body. In the past, after Judd had gone, when she had found the painful remembrance of such thoughts and feelings coming, she had done her best to put them away. But now she knew that although this might have been the reason for her initial attraction to the owner of Miraggio, there was a sea of difference between the two men.

  There had never been anything tragic about Judd, nor the slightest hint of vulnerability; he was a soldier in every sense of the word. His vigour and courage had been part of what she’d admired about him. Paolo was strong too – you had to be strong to have suffered such terrible misfortune and still manage to adjust, to be successful, to have a life. But he was also fragile, and it was this that made him touching, human.

  Venetia glanced at her watch. It was five-thirty, almost dawn. She was still feeling restless and hot; maybe a cold shower would cool her down and make it possible for her to sleep for a couple more hours. The water felt lovely and refreshing on her skin, as it slowly washed away the tension of the previous day.

  Stepping out, she put on her bathrobe and padded to the veranda to watch the dawn come up over Miraggio. She stood leaning against the stone balustrade, her back to the countryside, looking towards the sea. There was no horizon, nothing yet but the soft dusk everywhere so that she couldn’t tell for a while where the sky began. Then, oddly, the sea became darker before the first streaks of colour lit the sky. Venetia wondered what created the unearthly greens and blues and mauves in the sky before the first bars of gold heralded the sun.

  Gradually, moment by moment, as she watched entranced, the pale translucent green grew more lovely till at last it seemed as though all tender colours – shiny rose, wisteria, pale blue, the transparent purity of emerald – played on the shimmering fields of the sea, and touched the liquid curves which stretched away and away. Those softly changing colours altered dreamily, as if a divine artist were entertaining kindred spirits with a magnificent show before allowing the sun to bathe the world in molten gold. The array reached up to the horizon and overflowed, spreading over the sea, blotting out the entire colour with sheer light. Colour and light and space… never could one drink enough of
such beauty, Venetia thought, as she bathed in that golden glow with her hair rippling gently across her shoulders in the early morning breeze.

  As she prepared to go back into the house, her attention was suddenly riveted by a figure standing nearby, across from the cottage. Dressed in a navy-blue silk robe, Paolo was leaning against the trunk of a tree smoking, bathed in auroral light, looking positively unearthly, like a powerful Roman god in an ancient, timeless myth. What was he doing there at this hour? Was he restlessly finding a moment of beauty, as she was? How long had he been there? She hadn’t noticed him when she had first come on to the veranda. He seemed to be in a world of his own. Had he seen her?

  And then he turned and looked up to where Venetia was standing and she caught her breath. His presence was so potent that it was as if a current passed directly from him to her. Sometimes one moment can cut off a whole period from another and so it was now; that breathtaking instant held an almost mad exhilaration as though the colours, the scent, the entirety of nature, were intensified for her. And finally, as their eyes met, she realised that a veil had been abruptly dropped: there was no mask, no barriers, nothing more between them but their fire, and their hunger for each other.

  Nothing stirred at this early hour: it was as if some spell had been laid on this unworldly scene that no one had the power to break. Paolo’s eyes were still fixed on hers. The silence deepened; the blush of daybreak seemed more brilliant. What beautiful danger was this, rolling in with the dawn? Some wave of strange life seemed to carry them far from anywhere they had ever been and almost drowned them in its gold, glowing splendour before it lifted them on to an unknown shore. Scarcely breathing, they gazed at each other. The leaves in the garden fluttered in a sudden sigh of the breeze, whispering their mysterious message. Venetia turned and went back in, knowing that he would come to her.

  And then Paolo was standing there, inches away from her in the sanctuary of the open door, staring hesitantly at her, mutely asking, are you sure? Venetia swayed a fraction towards him, her whole body tensing almost to the point where it was impossible to move, forgetting all she had planned: her determination to be cool, composed and a little haughty towards him. You can still change your mind, she told herself. It’s not too late, not if you react now, tell him to leave.

  Paolo pushed his hand through his hair and slowly crossed the short distance between them, his eyes gentle with concern, the features that had seemed so hard to her in the library last night now softened into a questioning frown as he looked searchingly into her face. She watched him, eyes locked on his, still paralysed. The heat of his body was producing a scent, subtle yet wildly male, prompting a pulse of startled recognition along Venetia’s senses. His hand reached up and touched her hair as though he was touching something beautiful and rare. She couldn’t help but close her eyes momentarily and lean in to his hand as her nerves awakened and sang.

  ‘Dio mio, si cosi bella,’ he whispered, his face transformed with awe, making Venetia’s heart flutter helplessly.

  Lifting wide amber eyes again to the search of his piercing blue gaze she reached up for him now, her hand sliding over his shoulder and around the back of his neck. As he urged closer, her body curved towards his in a gesture that told him what her lips could not yet say. Paolo let his fingers tangle into Venetia’s long silken chestnut hair. The faint caress of his cool fingertips against her skin sent almost painfully sensual tremors through her, drowning whatever good intentions her mind may have had, in the fiery, uncontrollable response of her body.

  She saw his eyes smouldering darkly above that sculptured mouth she wanted on her parched lips, and then he plucked her to him. Only the touch of his warmth on her skin and his hardness against her gave away that her bathrobe had been discarded, baring her naked body to his feverish gaze. Her slenderness, her smoothness were lost in his embrace and his strength, his power incited fierce needs in her flesh. She felt the sweet ache between her thighs and wanted to feel him hot and damp, sliding against her.

  ‘Venetia!’ He breathed her name before his lips touched her temple, her cheek, her ear, and then traced the shape of her mouth with his own, stroking the surface of her pink full lips, murmuring words that thrilled against her skin.

  Her hands needed to touch him, discover the strength of his naked flesh and muscle, to feel the driving urgency that was igniting her. Venetia lifted her arms to push away the silken dressing gown from Paolo’s back, but at once he gathered her up, swinging her effortlessly into his arms. His hands were like steel bands where he held her tight, cradling her against his chest, his mouth hot at her ear, pouring out passionate words of desire, and before she knew what was happening he had carried her into the bedroom and laid her gently on the bed, stretching out beside her.

  ‘I want to feel you,’ she murmured, her fingers running over his muscled shoulder and attempting once more to free him from his robe.

  With a movement that was lightning fast he caught her hand and whipped it aside, pressing closer to her so that their bodies were almost touching.

  Venetia searched his face questioningly. ‘Why?’ she breathed. ‘I want to feel you… touch you.’

  ‘Venetia…’ He tensed and stared at her for a moment, but there was a new intimacy in the way he spoke her name, sensually low and seductive with barely controlled restraint. His face was in shadow but she saw the sadness that clouded the intense blue of his eyes; they seemed so light now, gazing down at her with an almost tactile caress, while he drew his hand delicately, almost hesitantly over her body, raising a wave of gooseflesh, making her shudder as she felt the excited response of every sinew under his touch.

  ‘Let me,’ she whispered again. This time he didn’t protest but kept his eyes on hers as she pulled the garment away. Venetia sucked in her breath. Deep scars criss-crossed his shoulders, sliced across his lower torso, and the side of his thighs. The marks showed up more sharply because their strained pallor contrasted so dramatically with the tanned colour of the rest of his skin. It struck her that with scars like this, the car accident must have left him in agony for weeks. All she could do was look at him, containing her emotion.

  ‘You are so beautiful and I’m…’ his voice trailed away.

  But Venetia laid her fingers against his lips to silence him, and lifting herself up she pressed her burning lips against his trembling mouth. She wanted to kiss away the pain of all those terrible injuries.

  He smiled ruefully. ‘The beauty and the beast,’ he murmured against her mouth, pushing her gently back into the pillows. ‘Amore mio, let the beast make love to his beauty. Will you let me, Venetia?’ His voice held a hoarse, driven sound which seared the blood in her veins.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  Paolo lifted his head back and his erotic gaze held her totally at his mercy, moving over her sensitised flesh, caressing every part of her. The passion and desire she read in his eyes was fuelling her own need, exciting every nerve, making her pulsate with aching anticipation.

  ‘I want to feel you. Do you have any idea how much I want you?’ And then he rolled her back so that her hands were pinned above her head in one of his, in an iron-like grip that was almost painful but not quite. He was stiff against her thigh and she arched slightly, feeling the ache in her nipples and the moisture between her legs.

  ‘Paolo,’ she murmured, pleading for him to touch her, with no thought in her mind other than that she loved him and would do anything for this man. Nothing else seemed to matter in this electric moment of expectancy and desire.

  And so he bent to brush her lips, and it was as if fuel had been poured over flames; for good, for ill, forever; the world ceased to exist.

  At the silken stroke of the down on his chest against her swollen, naked breasts, a great shuddering sigh shook her. Paolo’s mouth was firm and demanding, and Venetia closed her eyes as a furnace deep inside her body made her lips part hungrily beneath his and mat
ch his ardour. And as his tongue met hers, she gave herself up to his urgent plundering, gripping his muscled back and upper arms as she floated in the euphoria of pure feeling. His hand slid down her spine, circling the soft curve of her behind, caressing and squeezing, pushing her against his hips, moving her against his hardness. She moaned into his mouth and answered his movements wantonly, her fingers clenching his solid shoulders.

  Then their tempo slowed. They found a beautiful sensual delight in kissing, caressing and tasting each other, setting out on an erotic journey of intimate discovery, and wanting to savour every second without haste. Their hands, their mouths, their tongues stirred, stimulated, soothed, heightening every fragment of awareness that would lead to the final merge of their bodies and their souls into one.

  Now, Paolo’s hand was cupping her breast, the pad of his thumb moving rhythmically across the hardening tip as he captured her mouth with infinite tenderness and let his tongue coax hers slowly and erotically. His hands on her skin were skilled, sensuous and feathery, almost worshipful. They trembled as he traced the feminine contours of her body. Every stroke, every kiss, every lick revealed his devastating need for her, as he murmured his adoration against her quivering flesh, always returning to her mouth. She existed only where he touched her, making her limbs fill with a melting heat that spread quickly to her whole body.

  His warm, sensuous lips left hers now to travel the length of her throat, down over her silk-like skin to the swollen curve of her other breast, taking his time, playing her, taunting her, flicking his tongue to wet the fiery nipple, each stroke an explosion of fire, intensifying the burning ache she felt between her thighs. Her fingers curled deep into his hair as she cried out against the sensations sweeping through her.

  Attuned to her need, Paolo laid his other hand on the soft triangle between her legs and began a languid caress. Her wet readiness slicked against the skin of her thighs as his fingers glided further and deeper with each pass, parting the swollen lips that concealed the heart of her desire, finding the moist, tumescent bud and rubbing over it delicately, persuasively with the tip of his finger.