Bartaldi's Bride

by Sara Craven

  In the meantime, she had to deal with the sultry heat of the afternoon, the heavy quiet which had descended on the entire household, admixed with the scent of the flowers from the garden below and the drowsy hum of insects.

  It was not, she thought grimly, the kind of atmosphere for solitude. It was all too evocative of whispered words, stifled laughter, and the slow, languorous movement of bodies reaching a familiar and precious attunement. A time when love was reaffirmed, and babies were made…

  With a small, stifled sound, Clare swung herself off the bed and went into the bathroom, discarding her underwear on the way. She turned the temperature of the shower to cool, and let it rain down on her until she was half-blinded, half-deafened.

  Seizing a handful of towels, she blotted the moisture from her body, then rubbed her hair so fiercely that her scalp tingled.

  Wrapping a dry bath sheet around her, sarong-style, she wandered over to the window and looked out across the shimmering landscape to the dark green hills crowding behind.

  There would be shade in those trees, she thought wistfully. And space where she could be alone without feeling suffocated. And a walk might clear her mind, as well as giving her something to do before she met up with Paola.

  Quickly, she donned white broderie anglaise briefs, topping them with crisp turquoise cotton pants and a matching loose shirt, picked up the wide-brimmed straw hat she wore for sightseeing, and let herself quietly out of her room.

  When she’d been looking at the chapel that morning, she’d noticed there was a gate in the wall at its rear which seemed to allow access straight on to the hills, and she made for that.

  It opened with a squeal of protesting hinges that cut the somnolent afternoon like a knife. Wincing, she slipped through, and dragged it shut again behind her.

  There were several paths to choose from, one of which actually skirted the hill, but Clare decided to head up a well-worn but steep track which zig-zagged its way up to the trees.

  She was soon in their shadow, and glad of it as the gradient increased sharply. From this point, she saw, rough steps had been cut into the rocky ground and rope looped alongside, between the trees to assist in the climb.

  She went up at a steady pace, only realising how high she had reached when she paused for a breather and saw the Villa Minerva and its gardens laid out beneath her like a child’s dolls’ house.

  How lovely it looked, she thought, her throat tightening. And how hauntingly, achingly familiar it had become in such a brief time.

  She resolved that before she left she would come up here with her camera, and get a more tangible picture than the one she would always carry in her heart.

  In the meantime, she was curious to know where these endless steps were leading. They were obviously well used, demonstrating that visitors to the villa were hardy souls.

  Maybe you go on climbing till you get altitude problems, then come down again, she thought, her mouth twisting.

  But, after another five minutes’ climbing, the ground levelled out suddenly, and the path divided.

  ‘Decisions, decisions,’ she muttered, hesitating. Then, invading the heavy stillness of the afternoon, she heard the distant sound of running water coming from the direction of the left-hand fork, and the choice was made for her.

  Ahead of her, the trees were thinning out, and she glimpsed the solid grey of rock. She’d picked a cul-de-sac, it seemed, and for a moment she was tempted to turn back.

  Moments later, she stepped out into what seemed to be a pool of sunlight. The narrow plateau she’d been traversing had opened out into a deep, grassy bowl, bounded by a wall of solid rock soaring high above her. She’d walked straight into a fold of the hills, she thought.

  And there was the water she’d heard, a tiny, fierce stream bursting out of the wall of stone into a channel of its own making, until it was lost again in a deep fissure at the foot of the rock.

  But she was wrong to think she’d have this isolated spot to herself. Someone was already there, waiting as she had been over all the centuries in a niche cut in the rock. A statue of a woman in a pleated robe, wearing a war-helmet, with a spear in her hand and a bird like an owl perched on her shoulder. Even the crudeness of the carving could not disguise the power of the figure, or the calm stone eyes looking down on the mortal girl who’d stumbled on her shrine.

  ‘Minerva, the warrior-goddess of wisdom.’

  Clare started violently at the quietly spoken words, as Guido walked out of the sheltering trees and came to her side.

  ‘And my house’s greatest treasure,’ he added. ‘No jewel, no piece of gold ever compared with this.’ He smiled. ‘I knew she would draw you here.’

  Clare swallowed, conscious of the swift thunder of her pulses. ‘Did you follow me?’ she demanded, lifting her chin defiantly.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I was here before you. But when I heard you coming, I went away, because I wanted you to discover her for yourself. And you did.’

  ‘I just came out for a walk,’ Clare said defensively. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy. And I had no idea that this place or the statue existed. Your uncle never mentioned her when he was talking about the villa’s history.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘We rarely speak of her openly for security’s sake. And very few who come to the house find their way this far.’

  Clare looked back at the stone figure. ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Two thousand—three thousand years. No one is sure. But she was well hidden in her shrine. Rocks and stones had been piled up to hide her, probably when the barbarians invaded. Then, five hundred years ago, there was an earthquake, and she was found again. And there she has stood ever since.’

  ‘Even through the last earthquake?’ Clare shook her head. ‘Wouldn’t she be safer in a museum.’

  ‘Perhaps, but my family have always fought to keep their Minerva here in her own sanctuary. The legend says the house of Bartaldi will stand while she does, so we would not wish to see her go.’

  He looked around him. ‘This is her place, Chiara, her first and her last. Can’t you feel it?’

  She’d thought that all her awareness was focused on him, yet as he spoke she realised there was another element in the tense atmosphere—another kind of stillness that did not seem to belong to this world at all, but to some distant, primeval time.

  Dry-mouthed, she whispered, ‘Yes…’

  ‘Drink some water.’ His voice was gentle. He walked forward and took down a small metal cup which stood on a ledge at the statue’s feet, holding it under the stream of water. ‘It is safe. See?’ He drank himself, then passed her the cup. The water was like ice, but she gulped it gratefully, and handed the cup back with a murmured word of thanks.

  ‘Shall we go back to the house?’ Guido poured the last few drops of water on the ground, and replaced the cup on its ledge.

  ‘Oh, I thought I’d walk on a little further,’ Clare fibbed hastily.

  ‘I do not advise it.’

  She stiffened. ‘Is that an order, signore?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Merely some advice. At this level you are safe enough, but these are not gentle English woods. Wild boar have been seen in the locality, and wolves. And you should wear more substantial shoes,’ he added, directing a critical glance at her sandals. ‘There are snakes too.’

  ‘Oh.’ Clare bit her lip. ‘In that case, I’ll certainly go back.’

  ‘A wise decision,’ he said softly. ‘Minerva’s influence is working already.’

  She gave him a mutinous look and started back along the track, keeping a careful eye on the ground for stray vipers.

  When they reached the steps, ‘Perhaps I should go first,’ Guido suggested. ‘Sometimes it can be treacherous here if there has been recent heavy rain.’

  ‘It was perfectly safe coming up,’ Clare began, and immediately slipped on a loose stone, sliding forward to collide heavily with Guido. She cried out in panic, thinking they were both bound to fall, but it was
like hitting Minerva’s rockface. He didn’t move an inch, apart from the arm that fastened round her like a vice, preventing her from slipping any further.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, when she’d controlled her flurried breathing. She tried to laugh. ‘That was stupid of me.’

  He did not share her amusement. Nor did he unclamp his arm from round her waist. His face was grave, almost bitter as he looked down at her. ‘And I am also a fool,’ he said softly, and kissed her.

  He was not gentle this time. Nor did he hurry. It was a deliberate, totally sensual ravishment of her mouth, as if, she thought dazedly, he was putting his mark on her for all eternity. He pulled her closer, crushing her breasts against him, as if he intended to absorb her into his physical being, while one muscular leg ruthlessly parted her thighs, pressing on her in blatant erotic demand.

  She gasped, her body convulsing in startled pleasure, her head falling back helplessly. But he captured her face between both hands, bringing her swollen mouth back to his, the subtle thrust of his tongue mimicking the more intimate contact that his thigh was enforcing.

  His hands left her face, moving slowly down her throat and over her shoulders, in hungry search of her breasts. His fingertips spread the fabric of her shirt, drawing it tight, so that the aroused nipples were clearly visible. For a long moment he stared down at her, then slowly he released the buttons on her shirt, pushing the loosened edges away from her body.

  His hands moved on her gently, cupping the soft flesh with exquisite, lingering delicacy. His fingers brushed the hard peaks, sending burning shafts of sensation through her body to her loins.

  Then, he bent his head, and she felt the burning moisture of his mouth moving achingly on her naked, eager body.

  She was spiralling out of control fast, her hands twisting crazily in his shirt-front, trying to drag it apart so that she could feel his skin bare against hers. A wordless sob was rising in her throat. Sunlight, trees, and the baked stony earth were spinning round her in a dizzying circle.

  He lifted his head and looked down at her, his face stark, his breathing hoarse.

  He said, ‘Dio, I meant to be patient, I swear it. To wait for you. But I cannot—cannot. Mia bella, we must not stay here. Come with me now. Let me make you happy…’

  The temptation was unbearable. All she wanted in this life was to yield—to go wherever he wished to take her—become whatever he wanted.

  Only, she realised with heart-numbing suddenness, she would have to live with the consequences for the rest of her life. And that life would be spent alone.

  ‘No.’ The word was torn from her, hurting her throat. She dragged herself free, backing away across the path, half collapsing against the trunk of a tree as she struggled to pull her shirt across her breasts. A first step on the way to regain sanity and a modicum of self-respect.

  ‘Chiara.’ His voice broke on the word. ‘You can’t do this to me—to us. I cannot bear it.’

  ‘Us?’ she echoed. ‘There is no “us”.’ She invested the tiny word with scorn. ‘And you don’t have to bear a thing, signore. I’m the one who’s going to be left feeling used, and worthless.’

  ‘No.’ He took a step towards here, hand outstretched pleadingly.

  She recoiled. ‘Don’t come any nearer.’

  ‘I will stay here,’ he said. ‘I will not move; I swear it. I shall wait for you to come to me.’

  ‘Then you’ll wait a long time. Because this is where I belong, Marchese. On the other side of the track. Thank God I remembered in time.’

  ‘Mia cara.’ Guido drew a deep breath. She saw the muscles move convulsively in his throat. ‘Listen to me, I beg of you. You don’t understand…’

  ‘But I do,’ she said. ‘I understand only too well, and I despise myself for getting into this situation. Because it’s happened to me before. Isn’t that incredible? Isn’t that your actual nightmare?’ She gave a small, harsh laugh.

  ‘But this time I can step back,’ she went on. ‘Because I decided a long time ago that I was never going to be anyone’s—piece on the side, Marchese.’

  She saw him flinch, his mouth hardening in distaste, and pressed on.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you could make me forget everything—at least for a while. I don’t doubt your technique is second to none. But in the end my conscience—my sense of honour—would be waiting for me. And it’s easier to run from you than from them.

  ‘And don’t take my rejection too much to heart,’ she added. She wanted to hurt him, as she herself was wounded. Wanted to use words against him, as if they were stones she had picked up from the ground and thrown. ‘I’m sure you have a waiting list. After all, you’re the man who has everything—looks, brains, and all that wonderful money to buy yourself wives and mistresses by the cart-load.

  ‘But you forgot one thing. As I’ve said before, I’m not for sale.’

  ‘Have you finished?’ The harshness in his voice stopped her dead, the breath catching in her throat.

  ‘Yes.’ She flung back her head defiantly, when in reality, she wanted to howl like a banshee. ‘I hope I’ve made myself clear.’

  His face was a death mask, his eyes like winter. He was no longer the man who’d kissed her into delirium—caressed her to the edge of madness—but a formidable, forbidding stranger. ‘Clear as crystal, signorina. As a first step, I suggest we take our separate ways back to the house.’ He paused. ‘And in future I shall ensure that our paths cross as little as possible.’

  He turned and walked away, back up to the plateau and out of her sight.

  The moan came from deep inside her, filling her head with its animal keening. She had not believed she was capable of such a sound—or of such pain either.

  Uncaring of her safety, she turned and plunged down the steps, gaining momentum with every step.

  Suddenly she heard voices, and grabbed at the rope to slow herself, narrowly avoiding crashing into Violetta and the Count, who were preparing to start the ascent.

  ‘Carissima.’ Violetta’s voice was shocked. ‘What is the matter? Why are you dashing about like a mad-woman?’

  ‘You should not run on these steps, dear child,’ the Count added, his face concerned. ‘It is not safe. You could break your neck.’

  Under the circumstances, Clare thought, as she muttered an incoherent apology, that would be a bonus.

  And she began to run again to the villa, leaving them staring after her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘THERE.’ Paola tossed the glossy magazine she’d been reading from on to the tiles beside her lounger. ‘I managed every word. I am so good.’

  Clare smiled at her. ‘Yes,’ she agreed gently. ‘You’re doing very well.’ But only when Paola was translating features about fashion and beauty or high-level gossip, she reminded herself wryly. Faced with anything more intellectual, her pupil went into sulky reverse. And she also insisted that lessons were combined with sunbathing by the pool— ‘So that they are not like school.’

  ‘The Marchese will be pleased,’ she added with a touch of constraint.

  Paola tossed her head. ‘Perhaps—but what does it matter? I still shall not marry him.’ She shrugged. ‘And I do not believe he wishes it any longer, either. After all, he is never here.’

  It was no more than the truth, Clare acknowledged with an inward sigh. Since that traumatic parting between them on the track below the Minerva shrine three weeks ago, Guido had been as good as his word.

  Their paths had barely crossed at all, because he had spent minimal time at the villa. And she had never again found herself alone with him, even accidentally.

  When she did encounter him these days, it was solely on formal occasions in the dining room, or in the salone during the evening, and Clare found herself treated with exquisite but chilling politeness.

  And no matter how many times she assured herself that it was all for the best—and exactly what she wanted—nothing could dull the pain of longing that drove her early to the silence of her bed
room each night. But not to sleep. That was too much to hope for.

  Instead, she lay, staring into the darkness, counting the hours, as the slatted moonlight moved slowly across the floor, her whole body aroused and alive, yearning for the surcease of a fulfilment forever denied.

  The celibacy she’d adopted since James’s departure from her life had never been a particular burden. She’d embraced it with a kind of relief, telling herself it was the only way to protect herself from betrayal and heartbreak. Because physical passion made you vulnerable.

  Now she knew that all she’d experienced with James was the denting of her self-esteem. That she’d never come close to loving him.

  She’d learned a hard and bitter way what it was to care in real earnest. To need a man as simply and essentially as she needed to draw breath.

  She’d tried in vain to argue with herself that she was confusing lust with love. That what she felt for Guido was sheer infatuation—a brief flame that would flicker and die. More importantly that she hardly knew him for God’s sake. In the normal timescale of relationships they were still strangers.

  And yet—and yet…

  The first time she’d seen him there’d been a kind of recognition. An immediate shock to her senses. The first time he’d touched her some unbridgeable gulf had been leapt.

  As if we’d always known, she thought. As if our lives had always been moving towards this moment.

  Except that it wasn’t true, and hadn’t happened. Except in her own too-vivid imagination.

  She lashed herself with self-derision. What had passed between Guido and herself was no mating of two souls. He’d made a pass, and she’d stupidly responded, and that was all. Anything further was just a useless attempt to justify her own pathetic foolishness.

  Guido Bartaldi was an expert at seduction, and she’d almost allowed herself to be seduced. Nearly, but not quite, and it was his turn to have a bruised ego.

  Every time he set eyes on her the memory of her rejection must be at the forefront of his mind, she reflected without pleasure. The cold civility of his manner was an effective barrier to the anger and resentment that she must have provoked.