Undercover Cavaliere

by Judith B. Glad

  Her pa had always said that when a body bluffed, he'd better be prepared to have it called.

  She'd bluffed.

  Gabe had called.

  "No, Gabe, as in here. Where you are. As your wife." She worked to moisten a tongue gone dry. "You asked. I accepted. Then all hell broke loose." Closing her eyes on the memory of their desperate escape from the burning warehouse and its terrifying aftermath, she fought to keep her voice steady.

  "It seems to me that our lives have pretty well settled down now. We're not getting any younger, so it's time we were wed."

  Gabe's face was half shadowed by the fire, but she could see that what he'd been through had left its mark. There were lines beside his mouth that hadn't been there when they'd met in England. Shadows in his gray eyes replaced the laughter that had always dwelt in their depths. And worst of all, the lilt that had always showed his zest for life was gone, replaced by an even, matter-of-fact timbre when he said, "Suppose I no longer want to marry you?"

  "Then I will sue you for breach of promise."

  "We have nothing in writing."

  "But we do. You wrote to your mother after we were together at Heatherwood." She couldn't help but smile. "Actually, I believe I had a passionate affaire with a certain Maggiore Masuccio. Anyway, you told Aunt Flower that one way or another, you were going to convince me to marry you."

  Her hands wanted to clench, her stomach to roil. She forced them to relax. "I'm convinced."

  A light knock stopped him from speaking. The woman--Orsina?--bustled in, set a laden tray on the desk, pulled a small table to stand beside her, and moved the tray to it. "Mangiare," she said. "Gustare il cibo. Vorrei preparare la vostra camera da letto."

  "Thank you. I confess I am hungry and very tired." When Orsina cocked her head, Regina realized she'd spoken in English. She repeated her words in Italian, glancing quickly at Gabe to see if he'd forbid her a bed.

  "Lascia la sua suite di cremisi." To Regina he said, "The crimson suite looks east. I remember how you always liked to have the morning sun in your eyes."

  "If today's weather means anything, I'll have to wait a while for that. I thought Italy was warm and dry."

  "Winter is winter. At least it's not snowing."

  Silence descended once Orsina had departed in a flurry. Gabe poured pale golden wine for both of them, but waved her offering of bread and cheese away. She ate hungrily, tearing the warm, crusty bread with her teeth, breaking off bite-sized chunks of crumbly blue-veined cheese with fingers that she immediately licked, to get the last tiny crumb. The wine was a little bitter but delicious, with a unique flavor reminding her of oranges and something else. Almonds? She said as much.

  Gabe smiled. "Vernaccia. That was a good year, 1882. Just yesterday Alonso was bemoaning the fact that we've only a few gallons left."

  "Is it local?" She sipped again, enjoying the smooth bite, the bouquet, rich for a white wine.

  "This is. Grown and fermented here. It's one of the reasons I kept this place. That and the view. On a clear day, you can see the towers of San Gimignano."

  "Towers?"

  While she finished her meal, he told her of the town he called the loveliest in all Italy. His voice grew soft as he spoke, and she heard his love for this place in it. Much like his father spoke of Cherry Vale. A small pang twisted through her chest, but was quickly gone. This was Gabe's home now. It would be hers, too. Whither thou goest...

  Orsina came when summoned and took away the ravaged tray. Gabe divided the last of the wine between their glasses and set the empty bottle on the hearth. "Gina, I--"

  "Wait." She held up her hand. "Before you say anything, let me speak. Please."

  His shrug said she wouldn't change his mind, but he was willing to listen anyhow.

  "First, I want to apologize. I never took your work seriously. Perhaps because Buff always made it sound like a game. Until Paris I never really knew what a need there was for people who did what you do--"

  "What I did." The words were little more than a whisper.

  She ignored him. "Even knowing what happened to Siri, how she was taken by white slavers, I didn't really believe there was a problem. Maybe I didn't want to. I don't know. And Buffalo didn't help, with his rousing tales of high adventure and heroic deeds. I realize now he didn't want us to worry about him. Well, neither did you, I guess. So you never told us what you really did, what sorts of dangers you faced on a regular basis.

  "The other problem was my own dislike of traveling, which stems from the fact that I can't ride in any moving vehicle without getting sick. I didn't stay in Boise because I liked it there, or because I loved my work--although I did enjoy teaching. I stayed because once I got home after I received my degree, I never wanted to get aboard a train or a stagecoach again."

  "Yet you came to Europe last June." It wasn't quite a question, but was more than a statement.

  "I think I'd finally realized, without admitting it, that I couldn't face the rest of my life without you. You had come to me and I sent you away. The next step had to be mine. You weren't ever going to come home to stay, because it wasn't home to you anymore." She stared down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "But even then I didn't understand why.

  "After we got back to England, Jonathon said something, and it all started to make sense. I finally understood why you'd never come back to Boise, or even to Cherry Vale."

  "Did you? And what did you understand?"

  "That nowhere in the United States would you be accepted. When Jonathon said that any university would be grateful to have you on its faculty because of your knowledge of European affairs, I agreed. Until I thought about it. What he didn't recognize--what I'd never considered--is that no American university would hire you in an academic position, because of your race."

  "Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to say no university would hire me. There are some that would."

  "Oh, yes, but what kind of life would you have--would we have--outside their hallowed ivy-covered walls?" Setting her empty wineglass on the table, she went to her knees before him. "Gabe, I want to live as your wife where we can be accepted as just another couple. Jonathon says you've made a place for yourself here, and I believe him. Even more, I saw, on my way here, how well you must blend in here in Italy. Here I'm the remarkable one, with my blonde hair."

  His fingers sifted through her hair, pulling pins free, untangling the snarls that had resulted from her replacing the hat that had blown off three times between here and Rome. "There are blondes in Italy, though they aren't common. But with your accent, you'll never be seen as anything but an American."

  "It's that bad?"

  "It's terrible." For the first time he smiled in the old way. "Ah, Gina, you tempt me."

  "Good." She laid a hand on each thigh, felt the truncated one twitch under her touch.

  Gabe caught her fingers, attempted to lift them away. "No--"

  "Yes. I love all of you, even though there's less than there used to be. I want to touch you, to learn the feel of you again. Will you marry me, Gabriel Emmet King? Or do I have to call in my pa and his shotgun?"

  "Great God, no. Not that." He pulled her to him, lifting her with arms strong and hard. When she was seated across his lap, he touched his lips to hers, the barest beginning of a kiss. "It won't be easy," he said, his word like a breath on her mouth. "I'm still learning to use the peg, and it's damned uncomfortable. David says it may always be. That means I'll be a bear much of the time."

  "Bears like honey. That might sweeten your disposition." She closed the tiny distance between them, ran her tongue along his lips. "Gabe, we've wasted years. Let's not waste any more time." When he opened his mouth to answer, she slipped her tongue inside. Tasted him. Touched his teeth. Explored inside his lips. He was wine-flavored, man-flavored. Strong and sweet and hot.

  His tongue met hers and sparred with it, until they both trembled, both panted. After too short a time, only an eternity, she pulled back. "The Crimson Suite, you said? Is th
e bed big enough for two?"

  "Gina!"

  "Gabe. If you think I'm going to wait one more night, you can think again. Our parents won't be here for a while yet, but that doesn't mean I'm planning to sleep alone until then."

  "Our parents?"

  "Oh. Yes, didn't I tell you? Pa wanted to come with me, but I told him I might need some time to convince you. Ma said she wasn't crossing the Atlantic until she could do it in a D&L ship, even if she had to share the deck with a cargo of redwood logs. Your folks agreed. So they'll all be here sometime in April. Buffalo and Siri, and Silas and Soomey, too. It will be a grand wedding."

  He pushed her off his lap and reached for his crutches. "Pretty sure of yourself, weren't you?"

  The fire had almost died, but there was still enough light from it that she could see into his pale gray eyes. "No. No, I wasn't at all sure of myself. I told them not to come until they heard from me. But Uncle William said no son of his would refuse a lady he'd compromised." She bit her lip, looked down at her hands, twisting together at her waist. "Apparently the earl mentioned to Aunt Flower that we'd...ah...shared a room when I was at Heatherwood the first time."

  A series of expressions flitted across his face. She wasn't sure, in the uncertain light, but she thought the one that stayed was amusement. "Jonathon. That son of a bitch."

  "That son of a bitch saved your life, Gabe. If he hadn't practically kidnapped Dr. Stapleton, you might not be here right now."

  "And I'm duly grateful, although I wasn't until recently. Let's go to bed."

  Together they conquered the stairs and found their stumbling way to the Crimson Suite. They left a trail of garments to mark their route.

  The next morning they had to find the dining room without help. Someone had tidied up after them.

  Epilogue

  Castello di Re, Italy

  April 1887

  The festivities lasted three days. First there was the village's grand welcome to the American visitors. The next day a celebration honoring the bride and groom was organized by the vineyard and grove workers, and enthusiastically attended by their relatives and friends from several surrounding villages. Finally there was the wedding, held in the village church, followed at Castello di Re by another celebration, this one both thanksgiving and blessing.

  All three were gifted with perfect spring weather, but that on their wedding day surpassed even perfection.

  Gabe and Regina sat at the center of a long table on the patio, with family on either side. At a dozen more long trestle tables in the yard, a curious mixture of international visitors and Italian peasants, their lack of common language not at all hampering their conviviality, were seated on rude benches. Children scampered among the tables, snatching tidbits and treats from the mounds of bread and cheese and fruit piled along each one.

  His groomsman stood, lifting his hands in a request for silence. Gradually the joyous noise faded. "My friends," Silas said, "today we celebrate the joining by marriage of two families who have been long joined by common goals and by deep friendship."

  He paused, to allow Dr. Ferguson to translate his words for the villagers.

  "I confess, I often wondered why there have been no marriages between the Lachlans and the Kings, until my dear wife--" Here he bowed to the tiny Chinese lady beside him, dressed in traditional costume of a brilliant red.

  She swatted him with her fan, and he pretended to be severely wounded.

  There were a few surprised exclamations from those unfamiliar with the American families, but everyone at the head table laughed.

  "Ahem. As I was saying... My dear wife reminded me that they were raised as brothers and sisters, so could never consider marriage. Only when Gabriel became an Italian--"

  At the translation, cheering from the lower tables interrupted him for several minutes. Gabe stood and bowed, then reseated himself and pulled Regina close.

  "When he became an Italian, he was no longer like a brother, but a mysterious stranger, much more interesting and romantic. How could any woman resist him?"

  Regina threw a roll at him, but it was intercepted by her father, who frowned most fiercely. Murmurs were heard from several local men that she would need a strong hand to teach her proper wifely behavior. Several women took offense, and the groomsman's speech was again delayed until the debaters were silenced.

  "Please join me in wishing our bride and groom long life, good health, great fortune, and enough children to make their lives interesting. Ladies and gentlemen, signore e signori, I give you Gabriello Caesario e sua moglie--Gabriel and Regina King."

  In the ensuing pandemonium, Gabe's short speech of thanks was almost superfluous. At last the musicians struck up a sprightly polka and at least half the guests flocked to the open space before the fermentation shed to work off the effects of flowing wine and the lavish feast.

  Gabe leaned close to Regina, who was more beautiful than he'd ever seen her. "Do you suppose we might slip away now?"

  "Of course not. Leave our guests? However could you even consider it?"

  "Gina, it's our wedding. We're supposed to be anxious to be alone." He lifted her hand to his mouth, nipped the pad at the base of her thumb, then soothed it with a quick lick of his tongue.

  She retaliated by pulling free and reaching across his thigh, to find him already hard, eager for her warm clasp. "Insatiable," she accused. "After last night, and this morning, too. Good heavens, Gabe, are you never satisfied?"

  He was grateful for the linen tablecloth that draped across his lap when her nimble fingers unbuttoned his trousers and slipped inside. "What the hell do you think--ahhh!"

  "Relax, my love. I have the perfect cure for your impetuous desire," she said, with a perfectly straight face. Her fingers enclosed him, stroked.

  He clenched his teeth. "You can't--"

  "Ah, but I can." She smiled angelically, and leaned even closer. "Kiss me."

  He tightened his arm around her and pulled her close. With his other hand, he fumbled for the handkerchief he knew was in his trousers pocket.

  Her mouth was hot and welcoming. The hullabaloo around them ceased to be important as she drove him toward completion with darting tongue and knowing hand. Just in time, he covered himself with the handkerchief, for the next instant the paroxysm took him and all thought fled.

  "I'll pay you back for that," he said against her mouth, as soon as he could speak.

  "Oh, I hope you will," she murmured. "Soon and often."

  "Count on it."

  The End

  About the Author

  Among her varied careers are a couple Judith B. Glad actually chose, rather than falling into. With her children in school, she decided it was time for her to follow her own dreams, so she went back to school and studied botany. After completing her M.S., she became a botanical consultant, and spent the next twenty-odd years picking flowers for a living. Well, it was a little more complicated than that, but she picked enough flowers to keep her happy.

  Consulting is not always steady work, so one slow winter Judith decided to spend a little time at her second career choice. Now she'd done a lot of writing as a consultant, but somehow describing proposed mine sites and interpreting statistical data wasn't the kind of writing she wanted to do. So she wrote a book. And another, and... Before she knew it, she was spending more time writing than picking flowers.

  Judith lives in Portland, Oregon, where her garden blooms all year 'round and the long, rainy winters give her lots of time for writing. Visit her website (www.judithbglad.com) for samples of her stories.

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