She went to the window and looked over the hills stitched with grapevines in long straight rows. They had been pruned of their twisted arms and tangled manes and stood starkly against the wooden crosses that held each stalk. The sky hung misty blue, not brilliant as the mountain sky. Fuzzy green and frothy yellow filled the spaces between. The land was awakening, but not yet the vines.
Quillan joined her there, his palm warm against the small of her back. Carina couldn’t tell what he was feeling. Her own feelings overwhelmed her. What had she done? How had it come to this? She thought of that day when Quillan had suggested they marry. So much fear had driven her, she never stopped to think of consequences outside of Crystal. In Crystal one lived by the edge of one’s teeth. Here . . .
The door opened behind them. Tia Marta carried the pitcher to the washstand and placed it in the bowl. Then she came out of the anteroom. She did not avoid Quillan but stared pointedly. He gave a slight nod, which she returned, then rushed to Carina and held her. “Ah, Carina, ever the tiger. I told your Mamma . . .” She shook her head. “Ah, but you’re back, eh? She’s crying her eyes out in the kitchen. But she’ll see.”
Carina felt bleak. Mamma crying in the kitchen? Why? Because her daughter made a poor match? How could she tell? She knew nothing of Quillan. Nothing of what they’d shared, suffered, accomplished. Nothing of his own battles. But there was no reasoning with Mamma. “Where’s Nonna?”
Tia’s face jerked up, tears shining. She gripped her hands. “Oh, Carina. Nonna’s in the grave, God rest her soul.”
“No!” Carina’s legs gave way, but Quillan caught her waist and kept her upright. Tears stung her eyes. This was the punishment she’d dreaded.
Tia Marta swiped at her eyes. “She passed two months after you left. In her sleep.” She crossed herself.
Carina’s chest heaved. She sagged against Quillan as Tia Marta went out and closed the door behind her. Nonna gone? Carina gasped for breath. And she hadn’t said good-bye, hadn’t prayed for Nonna’s passing, hadn’t even been there to ease her final hours. She spun and gripped Quillan’s chest. “It’s my fault. She was so worried, so—”
Quillan caught her hands. “It’s not your fault.” He circled her in his arms.
But it was, just as it had been with her baby. If she hadn’t provoked the men, they would not have beaten her child to death inside her. And Nonna had been overwrought at her leaving. She’d seen more than Mamma had. You’ll regret it, Carina. It’s yourself you’ll punish, not Flavio. But she hadn’t listened, and now Nonna was gone.
“Why didn’t they tell me? How could they not tell me?” She poured her tears onto Quillan’s chest.
His voice stayed low, gentle. “What good would it have done? You were too far to do anything.”
“Don’t tell me that!” She cried harder. It didn’t matter that it was true. Nonna had died while she was gone. And it was her fault. She knew Nonna’s heart was not strong, and she had broken it. This loss brought back the other, and Carina cried for the baby and Nonna together. Oh, why had she gone away?
Quillan held her in silence. He stroked her back and let her beat against his chest. This was not how she’d imagined it, not the way she’d wanted it. Had she thought they would welcome her with smiles and laughter, taking Quillan to their breasts and kissing his cheeks? Had she thought Nonna would be standing there, arms wide to welcome her home? She cried harder, shaking with sobs.
Now her whole family resented her, resented Quillan. She had come home, but it was not the refuge she had sought. Oh, Signore. She sniffed painfully. “What will I do? How can I face them?”
“They can’t blame you, Carina. It’s not your fault.”
But he didn’t know how it was, how their lives were intertwined like the very vines in their fields. If something killed one, the others sickened. What weakened one threatened the rest. She was like the insect destroying vineyard after vineyard while Papa worked furiously to keep it from his own vines.
There was a tap on the door, and Tony poked his head inside. “Giuseppe is asking for you, Carina.”
She pushed back from Quillan. Giuseppe. Oh yes, she must see him, now especially. Tony glanced at Quillan, then shut the door without another word. Carina hurried into the anteroom and poured water from the pitcher into the sink. She plunged her hands into the warm, lemon-scented water and splashed it over her tear-streaked cheeks.
Quillan held the towel, and she pressed it to her face, slowing her breath and containing the awful emotion. Help me, Signore! As she prayed, she had a clear vision of Nonna rocking a baby in her arms. Carina gasped and opened her eyes. “She’s in heaven with the baby.”
Quillan furrowed his brow.
Dropping the towel, Carina grasped his hands. “Our baby, Quillan. Our baby’s with Nonna. Maybe she knew, maybe God knew they must be together.”
His expression showed he was not certain she was in her right mind, but she didn’t care. She hurried out to the bedroom. “Come with me.” She tugged him through the door and down the stairs. Women’s voices came from the kitchen, some loud and angry, others trying to hush. Carina ignored them.
Outside they crossed the courtyard where their wagon stood unattended. Quillan hesitated. Carina knew he wanted to see to the horses. But she tugged him by the hand. “It’s over here. By the barn.” She took him through the courtyard gate and over across the yard. The mules would be out to pasture, though the winter grasses were thin. She passed the barn to the cottage beside it, a small whitened structure with a clay tile roof.
She didn’t knock, just burst through the door and found Ti’Giuseppe sitting by his fire. No stove for Giuseppe. He filled the alcove with wood each morning and poked at it through the day. He turned in time to catch her, and she clung to his bony shoulders, kissing his cheeks with tears again streaking her own. He had shrunk. She felt his bones through his shirt, gathered and tied at the neck. “Tio?”
His lips parted on bare gums as his cheeks pulled into myriad lines, forming the smile she loved so dearly. “Bella Carina.” His tongue formed the words, but it was his eyes that spoke them.
Carina knelt at his side. “Tio, this is Quillan.”
Ti’Giuseppe squinted and reached out his hand.
Quillan gripped it, then covered it with his other. “Il piacere È il mio.” The pleasure is mine. Quillan said it with perfect pronunciation, and she could see Ti’Giuseppe appreciated it.
She pulled up a chair beside Giuseppe for Quillan, then settled at his feet. “How are you, Tio?” She had to know he was well.
“I am better now to have you home.” He cradled her shoulder.
Voice shaking, she said, “Tell me about Nonna,” and covered his hand with hers.
His eyes stared away. “Nonna went with the angels. Very peaceful.”
“Was she ill?”
He shook his head. “Only age. And there’s no cure for that. Not even your papa, the dottore, can claim one.”
Her throat tightened. “She had no pain, no suffering?”
Giuseppe’s face softened. “There is always pain when you’re old. She has none now.”
Carina sighed. “I wasn’t here.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “You are now. And you’ve brought this man.”
“My husband, Tio.”
“I heard. You caused a fuss?”
Carina nodded.
“Your mamma?”
“Papa, too.” She sank back against Quillan’s legs.
“And Flavio.” Giuseppe spread his papery hands.
She shrugged. “What do I care?” But she felt Quillan stiffen.
Giuseppe shook his head. “He will not take it lightly. The insult.”
“The insult was his,” she snapped.
Giuseppe looked at Quillan. “You watch your back, eh? They will avenge an affront to Flavio’s honor.”
Carina jerked up. “Flavio? With all his peace talk?” Did he not argue the evils of violence, decry physical force? It was h
is banner, yet underneath . . . No, Flavio would not—surely he would not . . .
Giuseppe spread his hands. “Talk is easy until it touches here.” He tapped a finger to his chest.
Quillan rested his hand on Carina’s shoulder. “Is Carina in danger?”
Old Giuseppe shook his head. “No. But you . . .” He pointed one finger at Quillan’s face. “You have enemies. Not only her fidanzato, but her brothers, as well.”
Carina knew that was true. Nevermind Flavio’s unfaithfulness. They were blood brothers inside. Still she couldn’t believe it would come to violence. “What can they do? Quillan is my husband. Will they make me a widow?”
Giuseppe sat back without answering. She looked up at Quillan. He met her gaze, defiant. She wet her lips. “We shouldn’t have come.”
“It’s your home.”
She shook her head. “Not if they’re going to be ugly.”
Quillan rested his hand on her head. “Don’t worry about me.”
“But you heard Tio.”
“I heard.” He stood up. “Now I need to see about my horses.” He went out.
Carina knelt before Ti’Giuseppe. “What do I do?”
He spread his hands. “Pray for God’s will.”
SIXTEEN
What lies a man believes to guard his feeble pride; illusions fill his mind to succor him inside.
—Quillan
QUILLAN HAD UNHARNESSED the horses and led them to the trough by the time old Giuseppe came out with an oat bag. As he walked around the swan fountain trickling water from its upraised beak, Quillan gauged him older than Alan Tavish by a decade perhaps. He was bent but not gnarled, stiff though not arthritic. Life was kinder to some.
But there was a tremor in the old man’s hand as Quillan handed the reins over, and he had lost all his teeth. Maybe the calamity of time just manifested differently. As Giuseppe led the horses to the barn, Carina came and stood at the gate; she looked lovely and exotic even with her features drawn in grief. Had he seen her in this environment, Quillan would never have dared to love her. Now that he saw what she was, what she came from, what she stood to lose—he would never have dared. But since he did, he was not going to back down because of any threats from her brothers. Or Flavio.
He hadn’t arrived with any mental picture of the man. In fact, he’d forgotten him until this morning when Carina’s face grew fierce. Flavio had wounded her, sent her running to Crystal with the hope he would come after her, prove his love, his regret. One look and Quillan knew that would never happen. Flavio was not that kind of man.
He had that melancholic beauty women gasped over, and probably the changeable nature to match. But he was not one to lose face gracefully. Quillan believed Giuseppe’s warning. His stomach twisted, but not with fear. He had thought he was through with the dragon, but what he’d felt for Alex Makepeace was nothing to this.
And he’d seen Carina’s face. She might deny caring with all the bravado she could muster, but there was something between them still. Fine. Let Flavio come. He would release the wrath of Wolf ’s son. Quillan felt a check in his spirit. He looked up. What did God expect?
Then he thought of Carina’s own words. “Family is the most important thing.” Quillan’s chest tightened painfully. He couldn’t be an agent of destruction in her family, couldn’t threaten what Carina held most dear.
What then? Leave? Never. He’d given his word. He watched her wander now over to the fountain and sit on the stone rim of the base. Her grief was apparent, but not eruptive at the moment. He untied and pulled the tarp from the back of the wagon. The furniture would need to be stored as long as they stayed in her father’s house. But how long would that be? Anyway, there were things they would need now. Quillan opened the back, climbed up, and slid the trunk to the end of the bed. The sooner they found a place of their own, the better.
Quillan looked out through the courtyard gate to the land beyond— terraced and lined with vines, smelling of damp earth and sunshine . . . Something stirred again like a tug inside his chest. He slid the trunk down and laid it on the cobblestones. Carina sighed. “What now?”
He straightened. “I don’t know.”
Carina’s brother Lorenzo, he thought, came into the yard and stood, arms crossed. Quillan gave him a nod. “Lend a hand?” He took one trunk handle.
Lorenzo just stood. Quillan couldn’t manage the trunk up the stairs by himself, so he set his end down and climbed into the wagon. He filled his arms with smaller bundles and bags, then jumped down. He passed Lorenzo near enough to sense the combative aura. Ignoring it, Quillan carried the bundles to the room, then returned.
Another brother had joined Lorenzo. Quillan wasn’t sure which one; Tony, he guessed, the youngest. Together they carried Carina’s trunk past him and up the stairs. Quillan took a crate that held books and met the two brothers coming down the stairs. They neither turned nor retreated, so he backed down and let them pass, then started up again, every tendon tense. He hoped Carina appreciated his restraint. But then he realized that wasn’t why he did it. Not for her approbation, but just because it was right.
She was still sitting at the fountain when he went back out. Both Tony and Lorenzo went up with a crate of books. Between Carina’s collection and his own, there were several trips’ worth. Quillan followed them up with another. They worked silently, emptying the wagon of all but the furniture—Carina’s bed, lamp, washstand, and table.
“Bring the mules, Vittorio,” Lorenzo called.
Quillan noted which brother that was and waited while he brought a pair of mules to pull the wagon. Quillan covered the bed again with the tarp, then tied it securely. He didn’t want any moisture to damage the wooden furnishings. He felt as protective of Carina’s things now as he’d been careless before. She didn’t seem to care. Her tears had left her listless.
When Vittorio led the mules and wagon to the barn, Quillan sat down beside her at the fountain. Even that much made Lorenzo bristle. Couldn’t a man sit beside his wife? Not if the man didn’t belong, was a usurper, an outsider. That was what Lorenzo’s glare said.
“Is all this land your father’s?” Quillan spoke as naturally as he could manage.
Carina stood up. “Come. I’ll show you.” She walked stiffly toward the gate.
Angelo materialized there. “The ground is wet.”
“We won’t go into the vineyard.”
“Go into the house. See what Mamma needs.”
Carina drew herself up. “Get out of my way. I want to show my husband our land.”
“It’s not his land.”
Carina’s hands tightened at her sides. Though he had enjoyed seeing her kick Lorenzo, Quillan touched her shoulder now. “Another time, Carina.”
“No.” She stamped her foot. “This is my home. I will go where I please.”
Angelo moved aside enough that Carina could pass if she wished, but Quillan was blocked. She turned and stalked to the house. Quillan held Angelo’s gaze a full ten seconds before following. He found Carina in their room. She had opened the trunk and thrown her clothing over the bed. “They are insufferable! They think—”
“I’m after what you have.”
She spun. “That’s the only way you would marry me? Is that what they think?”
“I doubt they’ve gone as far as rape and pillage. But they don’t put me past plundering.”
“It’s not funny, Quillan!” She stamped her foot again.
“I’m not laughing.” He pulled her into his arms, dismayed when she started to cry again. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh!” She threw up her hands.
Quillan caught them. “Give it time. They’re shocked and angry.” Especially Flavio, whom he noticed Carina avoided mentioning. “They’ll get used to me.”
“Oh, you don’t know.” She turned away and picked up a blouse from the bed. “Bearing a grudge is an art around here.”
Quillan raised her chin. “They can’t hate me forever.”
“T
his life and the next.”
Quillan reached for the blouse, draped it under her chin. “Isn’t this the one we fetched off the mountain?”
She nodded.
“You hated me then. But see, I’ve brought you clean around.”
She slid her arms around his waist.
He kissed her, whispering, “T’amo.” Saying “I love you” in her language gave him a warmth that smothered all other concerns. If emotion brought forth Italian, Italian definitely brought emotion. But now was not the time. “I think I’ll wash up.”
“How can you do this?” Her fists came up between them.
“Do what?” He caught her fists in his palms.
“Act as though nothing is wrong?”
What could he tell her? He’d spent most of his life acting as though things didn’t hurt, hiding his fear, his feelings. He wanted to be real with her, as she was with him, but he didn’t know how. He kissed the crown of her head and released her. Then he gathered up his suit and went into the water closet.
Carina stared at the closed door behind which her husband disappeared. Had she missed something? Failed to understand the brutal looks from her brothers, Ti’Giuseppe’s warning? Why did Quillan think this a lark? She had brought him into danger.
She spun and paced the room. She had thought Papa would be gracious even though she had insulted him by not seeking his blessing. She had thought Mamma might be difficult but would come around when she saw their love. She had imagined her brothers playful and adoring as they used to be. Had she changed everything so much?
And then she considered the heart of it. Flavio. She had expected him to marry Divina. Hadn’t she? Or had she known bringing Quillan would be a slap to him? She searched inside, trying to see if there was a motive she had ignored. Yes, she had left with impure intentions. But the Lord had bought her for a price. He had brought her through more than she wanted to think. Even now, when her mind touched all she’d suffered, the hurt was fresh and raw.
No, she hadn’t come home to punish Flavio, hadn’t brought a husband to flaunt in his face. She had only wanted the safety and love of her people. But she had taken wicked delight in Flavio’s shock. “Signore, forgive me.”
The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine Page 21