Constantino's Pregnant Bride

by Catherine Spencer

  “A week or two of rest and relaxation is just what she needs,” the doctor affirmed, when they met with him the next afternoon. “However, although the findings of the ultrasound are inconclusive at this stage, the cervix remains a matter of slight concern. We’ll reassess the situation when you return but, for the time being, I recommend you refrain from marital relations. Not the kind of news a couple wants to take away with them on a honeymoon, I know, but when a high-risk pregnancy is at stake….”

  “This is the first I’ve heard about there being any kind of risk attached to the pregnancy,” Benedict had said, shooting an accusatory look Cassandra’s way. “Explain, if you will, Doctor, the possible difficulties my wife will be facing.”

  Later, over dinner at Pier 39, she’d again suggested they postpone the wedding until such time as they could enjoy a normal honeymoon.

  “Absolutely not,” Benedict ruled. “Marriage is about more than just sex, Cassandra, and in our case, about a lot more than just you and me. The safety of our baby takes precedence over all else.”

  His stoic acceptance of the doctor’s ruling, added to the brisk, almost businesslike manner with which he treated her thereafter, rendered Trish’s parting gift of a diaphanous negligee somewhat pointless, Cassie thought, conscious of the unfamiliar weight of the heavy gold ring on her finger. That it signified marriage was as foreign a concept as the fact that the man sitting next to her was her husband. No matter how many times she told herself, I am now, for better or worse, Mrs. Benedict Constantino, the reality didn’t sink in. Even yesterday’s wedding possessed the elements of a dream fraught with a touch of nightmare.

  “I don’t even know his birthday!” she’d wailed to Trish. “I don’t know his middle name, or what size shirt he wears. I don’t know if he likes pajamas or sleeps naked, drives a Mercedes or a pickup truck!”

  Trish, ever practical, had said, “Check out the marriage license for his birth date and middle name. As for what he drives, you’ve only got to look at the man to know it’s a Ferrari or a Porsche, and you’ll find out soon enough what he wears in bed. Quit fretting about minor details, Cass, and put your shoes on. Ian’s bringing the car round, and we don’t want to keep the groom or City Hall waiting.”

  “I can’t leave yet,” she’d protested, swamped in a rush of panic at what she was about to do. “I think I’m going to be sick again.”

  “It’ll have to wait until after the ceremony,” Trish had decreed unsympathetically. “You’ll smear your lip gloss and make your mascara run if you throw up now.”

  But the nausea had persisted. Was with her still, caused not by the pregnancy, or the sudden swooping dip of the aircraft as it hit a patch of turbulence, but by the nervous shock of realizing she’d thrown in her lot with a virtual stranger.

  How long before the panic subsided, before being addressed as Signora Constantino stopped taking her by surprise? And how long before Benedict became the man who’d wooed her so persuasively that, within twenty-four hours of his learning she was carrying his child, she’d agreed to marry him?

  Beside her, she heard the rustle of papers, the snap of his briefcase closing, the sibilant whisper of the soft leather seat as his body made itself comfortable for the night. His elbow nudged hers, remained there, warm and solid. She felt, rather than heard his breathing become slow and relaxed.

  Alert for a sign that he’d fallen asleep, she waited five minutes…ten. The man in the row behind snored loudly enough to be heard over the drone of the jet engines, but not Benedict. If he slept, and she thought from the utter stillness of his body that he must, it was with the same unruffled competence that he did everything else.

  At last, cautiously, she turned her head, and opened her eyes. Yes, he was sleeping, sprawled elegantly in his seat with his hands clasped loosely in his lap, which left her free to examine at leisure the strong, clean lines of his profile.

  He looked just as he had the previous morning, when they exchanged their wedding vows: a study in charcoal and bronze, iron-jawed and unsmiling. Thoroughly masculine, thoroughly composed. No untoward dreams would disturb his rest. They wouldn’t dare!

  His lashes, thick and luxuriant enough to make a woman weep with envy, smudged dark against his high cheekbones. His hair, usually tamed to within an inch of its life, lay slightly rumpled across his brow. And his mouth…?

  She studied the patrician curve of his lips and her throat went dry. But a flush of heat settled between her legs as if that part of her body had stolen all her moisture to ease its sudden ache.

  No question about it! She knew more about his mouth—how it tasted and felt, and what it could do to drive her crazy with desire—than she did about any other part of him.

  What sort of a basis did that make for a solid marriage?

  She was still pondering the thought when, without a flicker of warning, his lashes swept up and she found herself trapped in the unblinking enigma of his dark eyes.

  “Well?” he said, his voice low and commanding. “Will I do?”

  Taking refuge in the absurdly obvious, she said, “I thought you were sleeping.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in the ghost of a smile. “Your kind of intense, unswerving scrutiny could raise the dead, Cassandra, let alone awaken a sleeping man. But you haven’t answered my question. Will I do, or are you already regretting having married me?”

  “You’re very handsome,” she allowed. “Very aristocratic-looking, and very…decent. A woman would have to be crazy to regret being your wife.”

  “And at this moment, you’re having serious doubts about your sanity, yes?”

  She wanted to wrench her gaze away, but found she couldn’t. Found herself compelled by the candor in his eyes to respond in kind. “I admit, at the moment, I’m feeling somewhat overwhelmed.”

  “I wish I could reassure you,” he said, “but that’s something only time can achieve. The best I can do is tell you that I am exactly as I’ve presented myself to you: a man bound by honor and tradition to abide by his marriage vows and provide well for his wife and baby. Furthermore, I consider myself fortunate in the extreme to have found a woman of such beauty and intelligence to be the mother of my child.”

  He reached across the console dividing their seats and touched the sleeve of her wedding outfit, a deep aquamarine silk knit dress with a knee-length skirt and matching jacket, which she and Trish had shopped for during their lunch hour, earlier in the week. She’d worn it again today because it was both comfortable and stylish, and she wanted to look her best when she met his family. “We didn’t have an elaborate wedding,” he said, “but you made a beautiful bride, nevertheless.”

  “I hope your family thinks so. You never did tell me how they received the news, when you phoned to tell them you were bringing back a wife. Were they pleased?”

  “They responded much as I expected they would.”

  The ambiguity of his reply was not lost on her. Uneasily, she said, “That doesn’t sound very promising.”

  He gave her hand a perfunctory pat, as if she were a child incapable of understanding the complexities of the grown-up world he occupied. “Leave me to worry about my family, Cassandra, and concentrate only of giving birth to a healthy, full-term baby.”

  “Don’t brush me off like that, Benedict,” she said sharply. “If this marriage of ours is to stand any sort of chance at all, the very least you can do is address my concerns, just as you expect me to address yours.”

  He expelled a sigh, though whether of annoyance or fatigue she couldn’t tell. “Very well. It’s fair to say my family was surprised.”

  “And happy for you?”

  “I didn’t ask them.”

  More disquieted by the second, she said, “Why not?”

  “Because the call was brief, and the connection poor. We will be in Italy only a matter of a week or two. That being the case, my family’s happiness, or lack thereof, is scarcely relevant.”

  Although he answered straightforwardly en
ough, she knew there was more to it than he was telling her. It showed in the sudden tightening of his mouth, the way he shifted impatiently in his seat.

  “They don’t approve, do they?” she said. “They don’t want you bringing home a bride.”

  “What does it matter, Cassandra? I wanted it, which leaves them with little choice but to accept you.” The almost clinical detachment with which he spoke turned his meager crumbs of comfort to poison. “You and I are, as our French friends would say, a fait accompli, and there’s not a damned thing anyone can do or say to change that.”

  Crushed, she turned her head and gazed bleakly out at the star-spattered sky beyond the porthole. Any other husband en route to introducing his new wife to his family would have said, They’ll adore you, just as I do. But unlike most bridegrooms, Benedict was not besotted with his new wife,

  Nor did he pretend to be. “I wanted it,” he’d said, meaning “the marriage.” Not, “I wanted you.” And the reason, as she’d known from the outset, was that she was pregnant with his child. So why the sudden stinging hurt, the acute sense that she’d been robbed?

  “Will the whole family be meeting us in Milan?” she asked, praying they would not. Nine hours of jet travel, no matter how comfortable the accommodation on board or forgiving the outfit she was wearing, did not leave any woman looking her best, and it seemed she already had her work cut out to make a favorable impression.

  “No. Only Bianca and Enrico will be there. As I already explained, there’s no direct flight from New York to my family home, and Milan lies almost a thousand kilometers north of Calabria. It makes no sense for my mother and Francesca to cover such a distance when they’ll meet you anyway the following day.” He yawned and closed his eyes. “Get some sleep, Cassandra. You’ve had a hectic couple of days, what with flying from San Francisco to New York yesterday, and now this. You must be exhausted.”

  Exhausted, Benedict? she thought, turning her face away from him and refusing to allow another hormonally induced rash of tears to take hold. How about discouraged, offended, and resentful? Just who do these relatives of yours think they are, to judge me unfavorably before they’ve even laid eyes on me?

  “Does Cassandra not speak any Italian?” Bianca asked.

  “A word or two—ciao, grazie, arrivederci. Common, everyday words only. Enough to be polite but not enough to carry on a conversation.”

  “Benedict, are you mad to have brought her here at this time? You know how she’ll be received by our mother.”

  He shrugged and kept on walking. The evening was mild for late March, the parklike grounds of his sister’s country home, an hour’s drive from the city, a feast for the eyes with its tree-shaded paths and long sweeps of lawn rimmed with flower beds just beginning to bloom. “Leave me to enjoy tonight, Bianca. Tomorrow is soon enough to worry about our mother. Regardless of how she might react to my marriage, you know I’ll deal with her.”

  “Not easily, for something this momentous, and especially not at this time.” She slipped an affectionate arm through his. “I didn’t want to burden you with bad news when you phoned to tell us you were getting married, but she’s becoming more irrational by the day, and I’m afraid the situation’s even worse now than it was when last you were here.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible. There were only a handful of people left working the land then, and I paid them handsomely to stay on the job, with the promise of a further bonus when I returned.”

  “And as far as I know, only a very few have remained loyal. The rest are gone. Even worse, the dissatisfaction has spread to the kitchen and household staff. Sergio walked out at the weekend, which meant his wife and daughter went with him. Then, two days ago, Guido left. The only one still there is Speranza, and how much abuse she’s taking as a result isn’t something I like to dwell on.”

  “That’s completely unacceptable!” Speranza was past seventy, had been with his family since well before Benedict was born, and would, he knew, die on the job before she’d abandon the family she loved as if it were her own. For her to be attending to her own work and taking on that of four others, all considerably younger, was not to be tolerated.

  “Of course it is!” Bianca gave a troubled sigh. “How did this happen so fast, Benedict? A year ago, everything was running smoothly, everyone was happy. Now, we have a full-scale disaster on our hands, and I dread to think how we’ll manage when harvesting the bergamot begins again in October. Unless you can turn things around quickly, we’ll default on some of our most important client contracts. Should that happen, not only will we stand to lose money but, far worse, our reputation, too.”

  “It won’t happen,” he promised. “I’ll handle everything.”

  “On your honeymoon? I don’t see the two mixing well!”

  “It’s a working holiday. Cassandra understands that.”

  “But she looks frail and anxious, this little wife of yours, and sad, too. And you…you’re not glowing with happiness, either. Shouldn’t you be concentrating on each other, and not business?”

  “We’re both tired, that’s all. The last week’s been hectic, what with making travel arrangements and then the wedding.”

  “Is there a reason that it took place so suddenly?”

  He blew out a long, uneven breath. “Oh, yes! She’s pregnant.”

  “Dio!” Her face a study in shocked exasperation, Bianca pulled her arm free and planted herself in his path. “Benedict, how could you have allowed—?”

  “I know, I know! You expected better of me. I expected better of myself. But things are what they are, and I have to make the best of them.”

  “You’re not in love with Cassandra?”

  “I am drawn to her. She wouldn’t be carrying my child otherwise.”

  “Does our mother know?”

  “About the baby, no. Nor do I plan to tell her until I see how things go. But I’m confiding in you, Bianca, because we’ve always been close and I know you’ll accept Cassandra without censure.”

  “Of course! She’s a sweet and lovely woman. I can see why you’d be attracted to her, and I welcome her as my sister. But Benedict…” She looked away and he knew from the way that she lapsed into silence that she was deeply concerned.

  “But I’ve disappointed you.” His smile was part amusement, part regret. “I’ve fallen off my pedestal and shown myself to be as human as the next man,”

  “Oh, it’s not that! You’re my brother and I’d never judge you.” She let out another sigh. “But the difficulties I spoke of at home in the south…well, they don’t end with our mother.”

  “You mean, there’s more, and it’s worse? I don’t see how that’s possible!”

  “I’m afraid it is. Apparently, those few retainers who’ve remained loyal to the family are being bullied by defectors with blood contacts in the Aspromonte.” She cast him a worried look. “We both know the kind of danger that presents, Benedict. We’re dealing with la ‘ndrangheta, something which never would have happened in our father’s day because he would never have hired such ruffians in the first place.”

  Benedict was no coward, but this latest revelation gave rise to a thread of uneasiness which ran too close to fear for his peace of mind. The threat from la ‘ndrangheta—the local Mafia, whose chief source of income was kidnapping members of wealthy families and extorting huge ransoms for their safe return—was not something to be taken lightly. Lawless and without conscience, they lived in the wild mountainous region of the interior of the province and were answerable to no one but themselves.

  “If that’s the case, we have a critical situation on our hands,” he said, again questioning how wise he’d been to insist on having Cassandra accompany him on this trip. “To expect that they’ll feel themselves bound by the moral dictates which govern the rest of our lives is unrealistic. If vengeance is an issue, they’ll deal with it in ways we can’t begin to imagine.”

  “Exactly. We grew up hearing the stories—about the people who di
sappear and are never heard from again, the vendettas carried out—and nothing’s changed. I’m afraid for Francesca, as well as for our mother.” She tucked her hand more firmly under his arm. “And I’m afraid for you, as well, Benedict.”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “I can take care of myself, and Francesca and our mother, too. But Cassandra is another matter. If the situation at the palazzo strikes me as too risky, I’d like to know I can send her to you for refuge.”

  “Of course! As often, and for as long as you need.”

  “Thank you.” He stopped and squeezed her hand. “I’ve always been able to rely on you.”

  “We’ve relied on each other, caro, and that doesn’t change just because we’re both now married. We’re family. We always will be.”

  They resumed walking. Dusk had fallen, and lamplight shone behind many of the windows fronting the house. But looking up, Benedict located the room where Cassandra waited in the wide guest bed, and saw that it lay in darkness. Did that mean she was asleep?

  He hoped so. He wasn’t sure he could face her again tonight and not have his concern show.

  Hidden by a fold in the filmy drapes, Cassie looked down on the gardens. Earlier, peacocks had strutted across the lawn and the children playing hide-and-seek. But now, with the moon rising in the east, the garden was deserted except for the figures of her husband and his twin strolling back along the night-shadowed path to the balustraded forecourt below her window. They were enviably at ease in each other’s company—and so oblivious of her that she might as well not exist.

  Not that she hadn’t been well received by his sister and her husband. When they’d met at Malpensa airport, Bianca Constantino Manzini had folded Cassie in a hug, kissed her on both cheeks, and said in charmingly accented but otherwise perfect English, “I am so happy to meet you, Cassandra, and so thrilled that my brother has found someone with whom to share his life. Welcome to Milano and our family!”