Bartaldi's Bride

by Sara Craven

  He stood, shoulders propped against the door, as she ate and drank.

  ‘That was delicious.’ She smiled at him when she had finished. He reddened, and muttered something defensive.

  ‘Tell me.’ Clare put the napkin on the tray. ‘Is Fabio really your cousin?’

  He shook his head vehemently. ‘No, we met in a bar. He told me he was in love with Signorina Paola, and that the Marchese was keeping them apart.’

  ‘Like Romeo and Juliet?’ Clare suggested.

  He nodded. ‘Si, signorina. My mother is from Verona, and she has told me that story many times. I felt sorry for Fabio, and he said he would pay me when he and the signorina were married. I got him a job on the estate, so that they could meet.’

  He hunched his shoulders. ‘Only Signor Lerucci sent for me, and told me that he knew I had no cousin, and I have lost my job.’ He sent her a sullen look. ‘My father worked for the Bartaldi, and his father before him, so this is a great shame for me. When she returns from my sister’s house, my mother will be very angry.’

  He paused. ‘And then Signorina Paola told Fabio that she would not run away with him, so it was all for nothing.’ He sighed heavily.

  ‘But Fabio came up with an alternative plan for making money by stealing the Minerva statue?’ Clare suggested.

  ‘Si. We all know that the Marchese sets great store by the statue. It is an ancient treasure, and very valuable. And Fabio swore to me he would not damage it.’

  ‘And that makes everything all right?’ Clare asked. ‘I don’t think so, Marco.’

  ‘Fabio promised me money,’ he insisted. ‘Now I have no job, and my mother is not well. And who will employ me when they know I have been dismissed by the Bartaldi? No one.’ He sounded very young, suddenly.

  A germ of an idea came to Clare. Her lips were parting to speak when the door opened, and Fabio came in carrying the cord for her wrists.

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ she asked with distaste.

  He grinned at her. ‘I think so. You are a valuable property, signorina, and you have the advantage that you are made of flesh and blood, not stone. I need to keep you here.’

  ‘Perhaps I’m not worth as much as you think.’ Clare lifted her chin. ‘The Marchese Bartaldi doesn’t respond to blackmail. And he certainly won’t be interested in buying me back. I mean nothing to him.’

  Fabio’s smile widened unpleasantly. ‘Good try, signorina. Unfortunately, I know differently. Because I saw you together, near the Minerva shrine one afternoon when I had been meeting Paola. And it looked to me as if you meant a great deal.’

  He looked her over, making her feel as if she was coated with slime. ‘You are very pretty under your clothes, signorina. Maybe I should get a camera, and persuade you to undress for me—just to remind the noble Bartaldi what he is missing.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ Marco broke in, his voice alarmed. ‘Dio, do not make him angrier than he is already by shaming his woman. You do not know him. You do not know what he might do.’

  Fabio shrugged. ‘Maybe. We will see how generous his first offer is.’ He looked back at Clare, who slowly released her painful, indrawn breath. ‘You will have to be patient, signorina. We have decided to let your lover stew for a day or two before we make contact. I think when I talk to him, he will be glad to meet my terms.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ Clare said glacially, as he retied her wrists.

  She kept her head high until they left the room, then she collapsed on to the edge of the bed, her legs shaking.

  The thought that they’d been spied on as Guido brought her to the edge of surrender made her feel nauseous. Her skin crawled at the very idea. She would never convince Fabio that she wasn’t Guido’s mistress, she realised.

  But Marco might be a different matter. He was clearly uneasy about the situation, and that was what she would work on.

  She wondered how soon it would be before she was missed. In retrospect, leaving her clothes behind didn’t seem such a good idea after all.

  Wearily, she swung her legs on to the bed, and made herself as comfortable as possible. Whatever happened, going without sleep would solve nothing.

  Oh, Guido, she thought as she closed her eyes. Please come to me. Please find me. And, if you want, I’ll stay with you. I’ll do anything—be anything you ask.

  And for a brief, sweet moment, she imagined she could feel the brush of his lips against her skin, her hair, and her eyelids. And was comforted.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WHEN Clare woke, her watch, that she’d removed the previous night, told her it was morning.

  She slid awkwardly off the bed, and managed to make her way to the door, turning her back to knock at its panels.

  As she’d hoped, Marco appeared, looking no happier than he had the night before.

  ‘Buongiorno.’ Clare smiled calmly at him. ‘I’d like the bathroom, and then some coffee.’

  He hesitated, then nodded reluctantly.

  As she washed and cleaned her teeth, Clare heard him go downstairs. Scooping her toilet things back into their bag, she opened the door and peeped out.

  The passage was empty, and she was sorely tempted to make a dash for it. Except, she reminded herself, that she hadn’t a clue where ‘it’ might be.

  A familiar sound was coming from a room across the passage, and she trod softly across and pushed open the door, wrinkling her nose at the smell of grappa which assaulted her. Fabio was sprawled across the bed, an empty bottle on the floor beside him, snoring loudly.

  Out for the count, she thought. And the perfect opportunity to work on Marco.

  The shutters were open, and she tiptoed across and looked out of the window. As she’d feared, all she could see were fields and trees.

  The house, which she was certain belonged to Marco’s mother, was in total isolation.

  But directly below her was Fabio’s car, looking rustier than ever in the sunlight.

  If I could just get the keys, she thought. We can’t be that far from a main road.

  Fabio snorted, and turned on to his side. She crept back to the bathroom, closing the door quietly just as Marco came upstairs with her coffee. In addition, there was a plate, with a slice of ham, a piece of cheese, and a sad-looking peach.

  ‘Thank you.’ She sent him another smile. ‘How well you look after me. Your mother must be proud of you.’ She glanced round her. ‘How beautifully she keeps her house.’

  ‘Grazie, signorina.’ He looked faintly gratified.

  ‘And what a shame she won’t be able to stay here,’ Clare went on, watching him from under her lashes as she sipped her coffee.

  His brow creased. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, she won’t be able to look after her house when she’s in jail.’

  ‘Jail?’ He gave her a stony look. ‘My mother will not go to jail. And nor will I. There are many places I can hide—even from Bartaldi.’

  ‘But you’ve kept me in her house, which will make her an accomplice. At least that’s how the police will see it.’

  ‘But you know differently, signorina. You will speak for her. She is not young, and she has been sick.’

  ‘Maybe you should have thought about that before you let Fabio involve you in his get-rich schemes,’ Clare said contemptuously. She leaned forward, fixing his gaze with hers. She said urgently, ‘There is only one person who can speak for you—get you off the hook—and that’s the Marchese. And why should he? You betrayed his trust, and now you’ve stolen from him. You can run, Marco, but he’ll hunt you down. And your mother will suffer too.’

  ‘No, that cannot be. Fabio said nothing…’

  ‘Well, why should he? It won’t be his mother who’ll be arrested. And I’m sure he isn’t as caring a son as you, anyway.’ Clare shook her head. ‘There’s no help for it, I’m afraid. When the police trace you to this house, as they will, my fingerprints will be everywhere. And your mother will be involved, up to her neck.’

  Marco
looked as if he was going to burst into tears. ‘I cannot let this happen. What can I do, signorina?’

  ‘We-ell.’ Clare hesitated, then plunged recklessly. ‘You could always let me go.’

  ‘Let you go?’ He laughed hoarsely. ‘To bring the police down on me and put me in jail? I am not a fool.’

  ‘But it doesn’t have to be that way,’ Clare said intensely. ‘Listen to me, Marco. If you help me get away, I’ll tell the Marchese exactly what you did. How kind you’ve been. How you looked after me. What’s more, I’ll remind him how long your family have worked for him. I’ll even ask for your job back. And there might be a reward,’ she added, mentally crossing her fingers.

  ‘He’s a good man—a fair man,’ she went on quickly. ‘He’ll forgive you—take you back—if I ask him. If you help me now. And you’ll have saved yourself and your mother.’

  There was a long silence. Then, ‘But how do I know he will do these things?’

  Clare lifted her chin. ‘Because you have my promise,’ she said. ‘Because, as Fabio said, I am Bartaldi’s woman.’

  There was another tense silence. She saw him swallow. Then, ‘What do I have to do?’

  She couldn’t let him see how relieved she was. Instead she tried to sound brisk and matter-of-fact. ‘I’m going to need the car. Does Fabio have the keys?’

  He nodded. ‘He might wake…’

  ‘Only if there’s a missile attack.’

  ‘But I am not staying here. I am coming with you, signorina. When he does wake, he will be like a crazy man, and I do not want to be here.’

  She couldn’t blame him, but she needed him like a hole in the head. She supposed he wanted to be sure she would keep her word.

  She nodded. ‘Whatever you say, Marco. Get the keys and my bag, and we’re out of here.’

  She watched him go into the room where Fabio was still snoring. After a minute, he reappeared. ‘Signorina— I cannot find them. I am afraid to search his pockets.’

  Clare bit down on her impatience. ‘Don’t worry, Marco. I’ll look myself.’

  There was nothing in his pockets, Clare discovered, rigid with distaste. Then, as he turned his head restlessly, cursing and grumbling obscenities in his sleep, she heard a faint chink of metal and found the car keys under his pillow.

  ‘Avanti,’ she said quietly. ‘I think he’s coming out of it.’

  She waited in agony as Marco, who insisted on driving, fumbled with the ignition and clashed the gears. As they moved off, bouncing down the dusty track, she thought she heard a shout from behind them, and saw that Marco had registered it too, that he was looking in the mirror and braking.

  She said urgently, ‘Keep going. I told you I’d look after you, and I will. But if you let me down, I’ll throw you to the wolves.’

  He sent her a miserable look, his forehead beaded with sweat, then obediently put his foot on the gas.

  The track bordered fields of sunflowers for nearly a mile. The road, when they found it, was not much better, carving its way through scattered woodland and scrub. But Marco insisted they were going in the right direction.

  Clare sat forward suddenly with a gasp. ‘Oh, God. The Minerva. I—I forgot about it. Fabio still has it.’

  ‘No, signorina. It is still in the boot of this car. Last night he wished only to celebrate—to get drunk—so he left it there.’

  They were coming to a junction. Clare said cheerfully, ‘Oh, dear. It just isn’t his day…’ And stopped with a gasp as a police car swung off the major road towards them, effectively blocking their passage.

  ‘Dio.’ Under his tan, Marco was as white as a sheet, as a second police vehicle followed. ‘They are coming for me.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Clare soothed. ‘Stop the car, and leave all the talking to me.’

  But, with a sob of fright, he pulled the wheel over and swung the car off the road into the trees.

  ‘Marco, this is crazy.’ Clare tried to speak calmly. ‘You can’t drive in this. Now stop the car, and everything will be…’ The words choked in her throat as Marco misjudged the distance between two trees and the offside crumpled on impact with a scream of grinding metal.

  Clare was thrown forward, but her seat belt held. Marco, who wasn’t wearing his belt, hit himself on the steering wheel and sat back, blood pouring from his nose and a cut on his head.

  ‘Here.’ She grabbed a handful of tissues from her bag, and held them to his face as the police surrounded the car.

  She thought hysterically, This can’t be happening. It’s like some ghastly action replay…

  Her door was dragged open. She was aware of faces staring in at her. A babel of voices. Someone was asking her if she could move. She unfastened her seat belt and got out, steadying herself on the side of the car as the ground suddenly dipped and swayed.

  Then the crowd around her were falling back, making way, and she saw Guido striding towards her, eyes blazing, face grim.

  ‘You are hurt?’ he demanded as he reached her, and curtly, over his shoulder, ‘an ambulance—at once.’

  She realised there was blood on her hands, and on the linen jacket, and tried to laugh feebly. ‘Guido—it’s not mine. It’s poor Marco’s…’

  She got no further. He was looking past her to where Marco had just been pulled from the car, and there was an expression on his face Clare had never seen before—bleak—almost murderous.

  He reached him in three strides, lifting the younger man as if he’d been a rag doll. Shaking him, his hands gripping his throat.

  Clare moved then, pushing her way through, throwing herself at Guido, trying to drag him away.

  ‘Don’t—please don’t hurt him. He helped me. I promised I’d make it all right for him.’ She pummelled him with her fists. ‘Guido—darling—let him go.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ His voice was hoarse. ‘He collaborated with that piece of vermin. Why should I spare him?’

  ‘Because he’s your man.’ There were tears running down her face. ‘Because his father worked for you—and his grandfather before that. Because it’s your land—your estate—and you are Bartaldi.’

  Slowly Guido released his grip, and Marco slid to the ground at his feet, crimson-faced and choking.

  ‘Yes, he’s been a fool, and worse than a fool,’ she went on quickly. ‘But he’s sorry, and I would never have got away without him. I gave my word that I’d look after him. That I wouldn’t let him be arrested.’

  ‘And what gives you the right to make such a dangerous promise?’ His tone lashed her.

  She looked up at him, longing to kiss the rigidity from his mouth. To smooth away the lines of strain from his dark face.

  She said quietly, and very simply, ‘Because I’m Bartaldi’s woman. Now take me home—please.’

  The silence was electric as he looked into her eyes, then he took her hand and raised it to his lips, before turning to the nearest policeman. ‘Take the lady to my car, if you please, while I see what is to be done here.’

  By the time he joined her reaction had set in, and she was shaking like a leaf. He gave her a frowning glance. ‘I should take you to the hospital.’

  ‘I hate hospitals,’ she said. ‘And I’ll be fine.’ She paused. ‘Guido, you won’t let them put poor Marco in jail, will you? His mother’s sick, and he is one of your people…’

  ‘You’ve made out your case, mia cara.’ There was an odd note in his voice. ‘I can refuse you nothing.’

  She leaned back, closing her eyes, as the car moved smoothly forward. Well, the die was cast now. She’d offered herself, and he would take her. She supposed dully that he would buy her somewhere to live—an apartment in Rome, perhaps—and he would visit her there when he was able. She wasn’t altogether sure how these arrangements worked.

  But she did know that she could only ever occupy a small, separate part of his life, and she would have to make it enough.

  She said, ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  ‘Ever since you told T
onio about “Marco’s cousin” we have had Fabio watched. We thought Paola would be most in danger. I never once thought he would dare to touch you.

  ‘When you disappeared last night, I thought at first that you had simply—left me. Then we found Violetta’s car keys near the campanile, and realised the Minerva had gone too, and a sighting of Fabio’s vehicle was reported.’ He spoke quietly, without emotion. ‘Marco was merely going to be picked up for interrogation.’

  He paused. ‘I hope you did not make any rash promises about helping Fabio to evade justice?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I hope they lock him up for ever.’

  Then she remembered something completely different, and sat up. ‘Guido—I should have told you—the Minerva—she’s in the boot of that car.’

  ‘Someone will find her and return her.’

  ‘How can you be so casual about it?’ Clare demanded indignantly. ‘She’s your greatest treasure.’

  He said softly, ‘Not any longer.’ And, for one brief, tingling moment, his hand rested on her knee.

  Everyone was clustered on the steps at the villa to witness their return.

  Guido opened the passenger door and helped her out. Then, before she could move or protest, he picked her up in his arms and carried her up the steps.

  In the sea of faces, the one she saw was Paola’s, eyes wide with shock and lips parted. And it brought her to her reeling senses.

  ‘Guido—put me down,’ she whispered. ‘Are you crazy? What will people think?’

  ‘What they wish, as usual,’ he retorted without slackening his grasp, as he walked towards the stairs.

  He carried her into her bedroom and put her gently down on the bed, then turned, beckoning to the housekeeper who had followed them, giving swift instructions that Clare barely heard.

  A bath, deep and scented, was run for her, and Benedetta and Filumena were helping her to undress. She sank down into the water, boneless and weightless, and emerged to be wrapped in a warm bath sheet. Filumena dried her hair into a shining curtain, and Benedetta applied some sweet-smelling herbal ointment to the bump on her head.