At last they reached a flat area, walled in by a sheer rock face on two sides. The third side rimmed a steep drop down to the beginning of the terraces through which they’d labored. Far in the distance, where the sun still shone, the deep blue sea sparkled, and she could make out tiny boats moving like toys on the water.
But she had no interest in admiring the landscape. The muscles of her calves and thighs burned as if knives had sliced into them. Her dry throat made it difficult to swallow. And she was hungry. When Marco let go of the rope that led her, she sank down upon a rock and put her head in her hands, thinking of the food and drink that had gone to the bottom of the Mediterranean with the Lady Rose. Succulent steaks, delicious soups, ices and sparkling water-
Why hadn’t she made a run for it while they were still in the farmyard? Her uncle had fought in the Boer war and always spoke well of the enemy soldiers who never gave up looking for an escape route, even when it seemed hopeless. If she’d tried, she might have made it, and even if she’d been caught, she couldn’t have been worse off than she was now. A prisoner.
Marco squatted beside her and she looked up. He took her hand in his. “Va bene, bella donna. We have arrived. Now you can rest.”
She straightened her shoulders. “Thank God for that.” She looked around at the men unloading the sacks from the animals. “I suppose you can’t tell me where we are.”
“No. It is still best that you don’t know. Behind us,” he waved his damaged hand toward the rock face, “is the grotto where we can shelter.”
Emma pushed her hair back to peer more closely at the stone walls. The grottos she knew about were elaborate fantasies constructed in lush gardens by wealthy men who had run out of things to do with their money. “I don’t see a grotto.”
Marco smiled. “That is the idea, my lady.”
“Oh for God’s sake.” Emma stood up. “Just call me Emma. Under the circumstances I don’t think we need stand on ceremony.”
He rose to his feet, still holding her fingers, and gave a little bow. “Whatever you wish.” He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. The caress sent a quiver straight to her heart. She looked at the lines of fatigue etched more deeply around his mouth and longed to smooth them, to rest her fingertips against his lips.
“Come,” he said, “I will show you my domain.”
Still holding her hand, he drew her toward a long vertical crack in the rock. As they approached she saw that the slit was, in fact, a deep opening that faced away from the path, making it almost invisible to anyone venturing to climb this far.
Marco led her through the opening. The narrow aperture rose steeply for a few yards, then widened into a vast cave that soared overhead, too high for her to distinguish the roof. On her right ran a manmade wall of chiseled stones in which she saw windows, some in darkness, some with flickering lights behind them. Several people moved around at ground level as if sauntering in a village square. Torches flamed in sockets on the cave walls and a fire burned in one corner. A woman leaned over it, stirring something in a cooking pot. A child scampered by, pursued by an older boy.
The women gave a little bob and the men touched a finger to their head in a salute as Marco passed. All seemed to bear a great respect for him.
“My God,” she said in amazement. “What is this place?”
“This is my village,” Marco said in a low voice. “The shelters were built years ago and we adapted them to our use. In another cave not far away, the people built a church. Here, circumstances dictated that we had to be more practical.”
Emma shook her head in wonder. For all the activity, a pall of silence hung over the whole place. Even the children who had run by had not uttered a sound. Every community in Italy she had ever visited had been full of noise, of quarrels at full volume, of song.
“Why is it so quiet?”
“Voices carry great distances in the mountains. There are villages in the valleys and on the hillsides. Each a long way on foot, but close in a direct line. If we are to maintain our security we cannot risk arousing the curiosity of anyone below. The children know not to shout in their play.”
Marco’s touch had set her heart to hammering, but now apprehension made it beat even faster. “Aren’t you afraid that I will give your hiding place away when I return to Naples?”
He smiled at her, a smile that never reached his eyes. “If our mission is successful, we will no longer have need of it. Even if you could find your way here again.”
“But-” Before she could continue, a man of about thirty came up to them and threw his arms around Marco. The two men embraced and exchanged a few words.
Marco turned to her. “This is Giovanni,” he said.
She gave the man a friendly smile, but met a hostile glare. His dark eyes swept her from head to toe.
Seemingly unaware of Giovanni’s silence, Marco continued, “He has news for me and I must talk to him. You can sit here.” He led her to a bench carved out of the rock. She sank into it and wriggled her behind against the smooth surface. Giovanni stood waiting for Marco and she caught his eye. His face remained expressionless, then he frowned and looked away. For everyone, including Marco, she was the enemy, tolerated for their own protection. Face up to it, girl. You’re the only one here who really cares what happens to Emma Houndsdale.
An overwhelming longing to be home swept through her. Just about now, Daddy would be pouring a glass of sherry and asking her about her day, sharing comments and insights about the people they had come across. The hour before dinner in the evening was their special time. It had been pointed out to her often enough that her father overindulged her, but no one really understood the bond that existed between them. No one but she could make him laugh after a long day in the City. No one else shared his love of the countryside around the estate. When she married, as marry she must to ensure the continuation of the line, she would choose someone who would respect her father and all he stood for.
She leaned back and watched the scene before her. Men and women moved around the open space, all obviously intent on business. The few children sat in a group, huddled over some kind of a game. From time to time a peal of laughter rang out, quickly hushed by a nearby adult.
Her gaze drifted back to the two men, their heads close together, deep in discussion. Marco held a paper in his hand, folding the creases with sharp movements. He seemed upset by what Giovanni was telling him. Once he waved the paper in the air.
A profound weariness stole over her. Fatigue and the bizarre surroundings could easily convince her this was all a dream.
Her mind wandered back to what he had said about betrayal. How far could she trust him? How far was he willing to trust her? There was an edge of danger to all this that made her pulse quicken even as she still considered how she could get away.
Marco refused to give her information about the name of the place. Maybe his name was false too. Although there was little danger of her encouraging the authorities to look for one Marco out of several million in Italy. Even if she did tell anyone, she could only talk of Marco, who has a friend called Giovanni. Of course at once, we will find them, signorina. She smiled to herself as she imagined the shrug of the shoulders and the poorly concealed sidelong glances from any Italian policeman who might deign to spare her a few minutes.
Through half-closed eyes she continued to watch Marco. He was taller than the other men, handsome in an Arab sheik kind of way. She knew how firm and toned his body felt. If he climbed up here on a regular basis, his thighs would be like steel traps.
A sudden image of being held between his thighs sent warmth down low in her belly and she squirmed, crossing her legs as if that would banish her desires.
It seemed that the longer she stayed in his company, the more her thoughts dwelt on lying naked with him. Her nerve endings quivered as she imagined his body pressed hard against her, the texture of his skin under her exploring fingers, the feel of his hand on her breast. Her breath came faster and her heart rat
e quickened. He wanted her and that gave her power over him if she chose to use it. Not too many men, with the exception of Johnny Westmarland, had ever resisted her for long when she set her cap at them. But granting Marco sexual favors in return for freedom would certainly recoil on her, ensnaring the hunter together with the prey. If he held her, kissed her again as he had on the way up to his hiding place she would be lost. She dared not linger if she was to remain resolute. Besides, prisoners had a duty to escape.
She shifted her shoulders against the rock wall of the cave. Despite the cool mountain air, the stiff climb had left her feeling hot and dirty. Hoping to catch a cooler breeze, she lifted her hair from the nape of her neck. It hung limp and lifeless against her hand, still heavy with salt and the remains of the crude soap. A movement close by drew her attention and she looked up, catching the stare of a young woman about her own age. The girl blushed and looked away.
“Don’t go,” Emma called softly. “Do you have something I could use on my hair?” She mimed combing the tangled mess.
The girl bobbed in a curtsey and sped away. Had she even understood? Thank God Marco spoke good English, although it made her much more dependant on him than she liked.
The girl hurried back to her side, holding out a tortoiseshell comb and a small hand mirror.
“Grazie.” At least she’d learned to say a few words in Italian from her holiday in Rome. She began to work the comb through her hair, frowning as she tried to recall a few more phrases. She wasn’t likely to be ordering from a menu, so she could forget anything but words for basic food.
The comb stuck on a knot of hair and she cried out in pain. The young woman watched her, wide-eyed.
“Bugger this for a lark,” Emma said. Here was one frustration she could do something about. “Do you have scissors?” She made a cutting gesture with her fingers. Again the girl nodded and sped away.
Emma looked at herself in the mirror. Her face already looked thinner and her nose and forehead had turned pink from the sun. She ran her fingertip around her lips, feeling the tingling response. Despite her weariness, despite the danger and the circumstances around her, her body sparked with an inner energy that had nothing to do with the hours spent in the water or the long climb up the mountain, but had everything to do with the mysterious Marco.
The girl came back and thrust long-handled shears into her hand. She said something incomprehensible. Emma smiled her thanks and grasped a hank of hair. Despite their obvious age, the scissors were sharp and she snipped off a handful of hair just below her ear. She paused for a moment and looked again in the mirror. A glimmer of the old Emma with the fashionable bob was beginning to reappear.
“Tally ho,” she whispered and sawed off another clump.
She heard a gasp from behind her and felt the girl’s fingers on her hands. “Signora,” she said, “signora, no.”
“Oh yes. Oh most definitely si, si.”
“Auito. Momento, signora.” The young woman tugged at the scissors and Emma understood she wanted to help. She let go of the blades and watched in the hand mirror as the girl snipped off the rest of the long tresses and evened the ends. A year of her life disappeared with the hair. A year of the new reformed Emma, who no longer went to titillating parties, who had nothing to do with politics. A year’s penance that had finished by putting her on a boat to Cairo and then washed her up at the mercy of an Italian brigand who set her pulses racing and her blood on fire.
When her hair was as short as it had ever been, she moistened her lips, still watching as the comb ran the length of each strand. She shook her head. It felt light and unencumbered.
“Bene,” she said and grinned at the girl.
“Io sono Irena,” the girl replied, pointing to her own chest.
“Well, Irena, I’m happy to meet you.” Emma shook the girl’s brown hand. “Thank you for your help.”
A shadow fell across them. Irena dropped her hand and the smile disappeared from her face as Giovanni loomed over them and spoke sharply. The girl gathered up the things she had brought, gave another bob and hurried away.
Emma watched her go, then turned to Giovanni. “Was that necessary?” she asked. “She only wanted to help me.”
Giovanni frowned, making his expression even more dark and brooding. To her surprise he spoke in English. “No talking with our people.”
Before she could protest, Marco strode up to them and dismissed Giovanni with a wave of his hand. The man disappeared in the direction of the dwellings. They all seemed very good at ordering people around.
“I don’t think he likes me,” Emma said.
“It’s not his job to like anyone. He is responsible for our security.” Marco looked at her more closely. “You have cut off your hair.”
“Absolutely right. It feels good.” She bent her head forward and shook it again, peering at him through the dark curtain.
“You should have asked me first.”
She paused in her movements. “I beg your pardon?”
“It will be more difficult to disguise you as one of us. Italian women do not cut their hair.”
“I’d bet five pounds that some of them do. But let’s talk about leaving here-”
“It will soon be dark,” he said abruptly. “We must talk. Then, you must eat and sleep. Come with me.”
He turned on his heel and took two steps, picking up a flaming torch, then looked back at her, tapping the paper he still carried against his leg. “Come.”
Emma stood with a sigh. This wasn’t going to be easy.
She followed Marco farther into the cave, noticing that most of the people who had seemed so busy when she arrived had disappeared, probably into the houses or outside. Way at the back was an empty space where the roof was lower than in the inhabited area. It was a darned good job she wasn’t claustrophobic, she thought as they moved into the tight space. Marco wouldn’t want a prisoner with the screaming heebie-jeebies.
Marco stopped by some boxes piled against the farthest wall. “Sit.”
All this bossing around was beginning to irritate her, but she did as she was told.
Marco paced before her. He waved the paper under her nose. “This is yesterday’s newspaper,” he said.
“What news is there? Do they have anything about the ship?”
He opened it out so she could see the headlines and columns. “All the front page.” He folded it smaller again and pointed to one column. “Here is the passenger list and the names of the bodies they have recovered.”
Emma craned her neck to see better. It was difficult to make out the small print in the flickering light.
Marco let his finger rest on a name under the heading: Morti. “Here is Lady Emma Houndsdale. They recovered her corpse last night.”
“What?” Emma seized the paper and peered more closely. There were three lists, one of the passengers, one of the bodies. The last column held the names of five survivors.
“I don’t understand.”
“They found a body they identified as Lady Emma. So that leaves the question of who you are.”
“I’m Emma Houndsdale.” She searched the passenger list. “There she is-” She pointed to a name. “Catherine Hall. She was-is-my maid. They haven’t found her. I mean, they have found her.” She closed her eyes and held back tears. “Poor Catherine,” she whispered. “Poor, poor Catherine.”
She let the paper fall and leaned back against the stone wall. “We changed places last night. She has dark hair like me and is about the same height. There was a fancy dress party after dinner and I let her go in my costume. She was excited about it and I thought it would bore me to death. No one would know who she was behind the mask. She and I had traded places before.”
Catherine had given her many an alibi in the past when she wanted to slip away unobserved from a boring evening. Or had a secret rendezvous.
She looked at him as the hot tears brimmed in her eyes and she blinked them back. “My family must believe I’m dead,” she said. �
��You have to take me back to Naples first thing in the morning. I need to let them know the truth.” The thought of her grieving father stabbed at her heart. Don’t mourn me, Daddy. I’m alive. I’ll be home soon.
Marco shook his head. “Believe me, bella donna, I would do so if I could. I understand that this will cause your family grief. But I have things to do before I can set you free. Tomorrow is impossible.”
She formed no coherent thought. In an instant she was on her feet. “Fine. Good luck to you.”
She spun on her heel and ran toward the entrance to the cave. Marco’s shout echoed behind her as she flew on her sore feet, clutching her shawl. She reached a couple of women hovering over the cooking pots and slid around a spot where a group of children had been playing. The women paused in their cooking to stare at her as she flashed past, but because there were fewer people moving around than earlier, she sped unhindered in a direct line to the narrow entrance.
In a few seconds she was outside in the cool evening air. She hardly paused to take her bearings but set her feet toward the path that led back to the valley, back to roads and policemen and telephones. They had crossed a wide track where the police vehicle had passed. Then she’d been gagged and tied, but she was sure she could find it again. It must lead to a town of some kind.
The path dipped sharply away from the grotto and she paused to catch her breath. Behind her she heard a sharp command, footsteps, and then silence. Was Marco even going to pursue her? Maybe he thought she’d be afraid of the night and the steep descent and would return of her own free will. He’d have another think coming. She hurried on.
At the entrance to the cave Marco hesitated. For a frozen moment he had stared after her as she fled from him, unable to believe what she was doing. He had lunged at her too late, only feeling the movement of the air as her shawl whipped past him. Then Giovanni had sprung to his feet, ready to give chase.
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