“Why do you scowl so?” she asked after Arthur had run off. “Is it because you still cannot make up your mind about Arthur? I don’t know what more I can say to convince you. It should be obvious to you by now that he’s just a little boy—no different than any other.”
Dario blinked at her several times before answering, as though his mind had been very far away and needed time to come back to the present. “No,” he said at last. “It has nothing to do with that. I’ve already made my decision regarding Arthur.”
“I see.” Tension tightened Ophelia’s throat until she could barely get her next question out. “And…?”
“And…while there’s no way for me to be absolutely certain that what you say is true, I’ve decided to take you at your word in this case. I will accept him as my son and take full responsibility for him.”
Ophelia clutched her tankard. She was almost overcome with relief. “Oh, Dario… Thank you!”
“That being the case, I will of course expect him to make his home here with me.”
“Yes, of course,” she agreed readily. “I’m sure he’ll be most pleased to hear it.”
Dario nodded. “I hope so.” He paused for a moment and seemed to steel himself before continuing. “Now, as for you, I realize there’s no possibility of your returning to Pennsylvania and, under the circumstances, I would have to advise against it in any case. Your country’s government is far too precarious at present. So, I think it would be better if I were to set you up with a small establishment within my own country. Perhaps in California.”
Ophelia stared at him, confusion giving way to dismay. “California? But, I thought… You said…”
“I understand Arthur will want to see you from time to time, it’s unavoidable, I suppose. But I think it will be best to limit that contact as much as possible. The distance between here and the coast should allow for that, I think.”
“You wish to separate us? You can’t be serious.”
“I’m very serious. I think it best that he learn to do without you as soon as possible.”
“Do without me…? But I’m his mother!”
Dario’s jaw clenched. “Let’s not belabor that point, shall we? One could easily make the argument you were little more than an incubator.”
Ophelia’s hands shook. For a moment she was speechless. She clenched the tankard harder in an effort to regain some control over her voice. “What have I ever done to warrant this treatment, or to make you despise me so? Explain it to me, Dario. I’ve always tried to be the best wife to you that I could—even you cannot say otherwise.”
A bitter laugh broke from Dario’s lips. “Yes, and that was always exactly the problem, was it not? You gave me everything I wanted, all my heart desired—only none of it was real. If that’s not a betrayal, I don’t know what is.”
“Betrayal!” She almost spat the word out. “And…and…how was it not real, pray tell? In what way did I ever play you false?”
“It was not real because you are not real. And I beg you to cease these histrionics and lower your voice. I promise you it will not avail you to make a scene. I’ve already stated myself as being amenable to providing for you and seeing you established elsewhere. Is that not what you wanted when you came here? Why is that not sufficient? Why can you not leave it at that?”
“Because we’re talking about my son,” she insisted, her voice rising. “And I won’t let you take him away from me.”
Dario glanced around the pavilion, then leaned forward to repeat his warning, “Lower your voice!”
“No, I will not lower my voice. Who are you to tell me what I can or cannot do? I won’t stand for it. I’ll run away, if I have to. I’ll claim he’s not your child. Who would doubt me after all this time? You’ve no right to him—no right at all! You can’t possibly think to come in, at this late date, and issue decrees, deciding what is and isn’t best for him. Especially not after having had no contact with him for the entire course of his lifetime.”
“And whose fault was that?” Dario shrugged disinterestedly. “Did I ask to be left out of his life? But, what of it? I assure you I can and will do what’s best for my son. Even if anyone were to believe your stories, by claiming to have given birth to a bastard child you’d simply be undermining your own fitness as a parent. You’d lose him just the same. You’re in my country now—never forget that—and I will use whatever advantage that fact gives me. What judge would award custody to a married woman who’d displayed such poor judgment, not to mention loose morals, as to have a child with any man other than her husband?”
Despair clutched at Ophelia’s heart. He was right and they both knew it. He was wealthy, influential, powerful; it was why she’d come here, after all, foolishly hoping for his protection. It was over. Everything she’d hoped for, every dream she’d clung to—gone.
“I never imagined you could be so cruel,” she murmured, as she fumbled in her reticule in search of a handkerchief for the tears that filled her eyes. “I’m sorry I married you, sorry I ever met you. I hate you, Dario.”
Her vision might be obscured, but her hearing worked quite well, well enough to carry the sound of Dario’s harsh laughter to her ears. She cringed at the sound. “Do you really? Well, I’m sure I’d be devastated to hear it, were I not convinced your hatred for me is no more genuine than the love you always pretended to feel. And it is exactly for this reason that I don’t want you anywhere near my son. I’m trying to spare him some of the pain I’ve had to live with all these years, never mind the even greater disappointment he’s sure to feel upon learning that the woman he calls mother has no feelings at all for him—and never could have.”
Chapter Eight
The look of absolute devastation on Ophelia’s face caused Dario a small qualm. She appeared quite speechless. Her reaction…it seemed so flawless, so perfectly human, how could it be mere pretense? How?
A small, startled gasp caught his attention. He half turned in his seat, dismayed to find Arthur standing behind him, his face white with shock, his eyes locked on his mother’s face.
“Arthur.” Dario stared shamefaced at the boy.
“Arthur, no.” Ophelia’s chair scraped against the floor as she rose from her seat, but before she could reach him, before either of his parents could move one step, Arthur ran, zig-zagging between the tables, back toward the entrance and out through the door.
Dario threw some bills on the table to pay for their meal and followed after Ophelia, who’d already run outside. Arthur was nowhere in sight.
“If anything happens to him…” Ophelia murmured, seemingly unable to even complete the thought. A sob tore from her chest. She glanced frantically around. “I’ll never forgive you for this, Dario. Never.”
Dario didn’t blame her. He doubted he’d forgive himself.
They hurriedly made their way up the fiesta’s center aisle, searching the crowd for any sign of their son. Ophelia stumbled once on a loose rock and Dario put a hand out to steady her. She wrenched her arm away. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you ever dare touch me again.”
Her hands were clenched tightly into fists. If she were a man, Dario had no doubt she’d have punched him by now. If she had a weapon, she’d be well within her right to kill him. As it was, he supposed he should count himself lucky that she needed him—for the advantage his height gave him, if for nothing else—to help find their son. Otherwise…who knew what damage she might be tempted to inflict upon him. None of which he’d begrudge her.
The grounds were even more crowded now, the daylight almost gone. “How are we ever going to find him in the dark?” Ophelia asked, speaking more to herself than to him, when they’d reached the edge of the field, where the horses and carriages were tied, without a single sighting. “Where could he be?”
“You go that way.” Dario pointed toward the left. “I’ll go this way and we’ll work our way back toward the middle. He has to be here somewhere.”
“Maybe we should check inside the carriages, in case he’s h
iding in one of them,” she suggested. Before Dario could answer, a shrill cry rose above the buzz of the crowd. “Arthur!” Ophelia turned and scanned the crowd, seeking for the source of the disturbance.
“There!” Dario pointed again. One of the balloons had broken free of its moorings and was skimming just above the ground, lurching drunkenly in the direction of the river. The crowd scrambled to move out of its way. In the confusion, no one seemed to have noticed the small figure clutching the rim of the basket.
“Oh, dear Lord. He’ll be killed!” The abject fear in Ophelia’s voice hit Dario like a fist. Of course she cares. He stared at her, distracted by his own sense of shocked confusion. How was it possible? And how had he ever been stupid enough to doubt her?
“I’ll get the horse,” he said, struggling to keep his mind on the crisis at hand, but Ophelia paid him no heed. She hiked up her skirts and ran. Dario stared after her in alarm. “Ophelia, wait! Stop!” What could she be thinking? A runaway balloon was nothing to play around with. A lone woman, steel bones or no, was no match for it in terms of sheer weight. Rather than save Arthur, she was more likely to get them both killed…
Ophelia caught up with the slow-moving balloon when it was still several yards from the mesa’s edge. She leaped for the gondola, her fingers scrabbling for a hold on the slick edge of the wicker basket. Success! Giddy with triumph, she dug in her heels, determined to bring the balloon to a stop…but her joy was short-lived. Her strength was only sufficient to slow the balloon’s progress—and that only barely.
“Mama!” Arthur sobbed, his face white with fear. “Mama, help!”
“Hang on, Arthur,” she called encouragingly. “It will be all right. I’m here now. Just…whatever you do, don’t let go.” But it was her own hands that were in danger of losing their purchase. In a last ditch effort to keep her hold on the vehicle, she grabbed for one of the ropes hanging loose from the side of the basket, instantly regretting having left her gloves in the tea tent. The cord burned as it bit deep into her flesh and she choked back a scream. Heedless of the pain, she wrapped another loop of rope around her hand—anything to improve her grip, to keep from falling; anything to protect her only child.
“It’s all right, Arthur.” She smiled bracingly and chanced another quick look at her son, who was whimpering now in fear. But her moment of inattention cost her dearly. She stumbled over an unseen obstacle in her path, lost her footing and went down hard on her knees. Pain raced up her arm as she was jerked inexorably forward and dragged across the rocky ground.
“Mama!” Arthur called frantically. “Mama!”
Dario had jumped onto Leveche’s back and was bringing the horse wheeling around when Arthur’s renewed cries reached his ears. He paused, unable to draw breath. The heart-rending sound seemed to cause his very blood to freeze. Quickly, he scanned the crowded field. He picked out the errant balloon almost immediately, and cursed loudly at the sight of Ophelia bouncing along the rocky ground.
Lia! No!
The words lodged in his throat. For a moment he sat motionless, unable to react, heart breaking with the pain of watching the woman he loved being dragged to her death. For he did love her, he realized as he spurred his horse into a gallop, heedless of the people scurrying to get out of his way. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t human. It didn’t even matter that she might never be able to return his feelings. He loved her. He always had. He always would.
It was a fine time to realize it now, just as he was on the verge of losing her forever…
“Hang on, Arthur,” Ophelia cried again, though she had no idea whether or not he could even hear her. She clung to the rope with both hands, trying vainly to protect her face as she was dragged through the stubble of weed and gravel. She was thankful for the heavy wool of her garments—the only thing saving her from even greater injury. “Just hang on!”
The balloon, buffeted by the wind, had begun to pick up speed again. The cliff edge and the drop into the river drew closer. Panic rose within her like a choking mist. She had to stop it—she had to. She had no choice. Arthur’s life depended on it. But there seemed nothing more that she could do.
The strain on her arm had become agonizing. She grit her teeth against the pain, clawed desperately at the now-bloody rope, but it was useless. She needed help. She’d have given her life to save her son, but it seemed that even that would not suffice.
Through the ground beneath her, she could feel as well as hear the pounding thunder of approaching hoof-beats as they raced toward her. She closed her eyes, praying it was someone coming to their rescue, praying also that the rider, whoever he was, would see her in time to keep his horse from trampling her beneath its hooves.
But no, I don’t care what happens to me. Just save him. Save him.
“Arthur! Grab hold!” Dario’s voice sounded from somewhere above her head. If she could have taken a deep breath, she would have sighed in relief. As it was, she had to settle for closing her eyes tighter and willing her body to hold on just a little longer. Surely Dario would save her as well—wouldn’t he? Even given his apparent disdain, surely he would not just let her die. Not like this. Not with Arthur looking on…
Galloping alongside the balloon, Dario reached out for his son. “Jump Arthur,” he ordered, his fingers just barely closing on the boy’s sleeve. “Jump and I’ll catch you.”
Arthur, his eyes wide, his mouth pinched shut, did as he was told. Dario swung the boy up in front of him and held him close. Then he wheeled the horse around again in a tight circle until they once again faced the balloon.
“Mama!” Arthur cried again, his voice anguished.
“Don’t look,” Dario ordered as he reached for the rope coiled below the pommel. “Sit still and don’t move.”
Standing in the stirrups, Dario spun the rope above his head. Grateful for his early training, he eyed the balloon as he would a steer, trying to determine the course it would likely take. Freed of Arthur’s slight weight the balloon had begun to move at an even faster clip then before, drawing ever closer to the cliff’s edge. He would have only one chance to do this.
He let the rope fly, allowing himself only an instant to breathe a prayer of relief as the rope slid over the canopy. Then he yanked hard on the rope, pulling the loop tight, quickly anchoring it to his saddle. Leveche staggered as the rope pulled taut. Her eyes showed white and she neighed in protest, but her weight did the trick. The runaway vehicle at last bucked violently to a jerky stop. The basket however, robbed of its forward momentum, swung wildly, revolving in place, pivoting back and forth on its center. Too late, Dario saw the new danger. The spinning basket moved with enough force that Ophelia became momentarily airborne, sailing sideways through the air on a collision course with one of the fire barrels.
“No!” He could not keep from shouting in horror, even as he shielded Arthur’s eyes with his hand, preventing him from viewing the sight of his mother being smashed against the metal canister. Then the barrel went over in a shower of sparks. Flames leaped into the air. Ophelia screamed…
An instant later, her body hit the ground and slid. Dario forced his frozen muscles into motion and vaulted from his horse. Flames danced along the length of Ophelia’s skirt and licked cruelly at her face. Dario was already running toward the blaze, shrugging out of his coat as he went.
But it was too late. He knew it was too late. She lay immobile in the dirt, barely visible within the smoky pyre and he was certain he’d lost her.
Chapter Nine
I hate you, Dario. I’ll never forgive you…
Ophelia’s words repeated endlessly in Dario’s head as he paced furiously up and down the hall outside her bedroom. Visions of the night’s events flashed through his mind like a series of tintypes. The color leaching from her face as she sat across from him in the tea tent. The abject fear in her eyes when she realized Arthur’s plight. The determination with which she’d raced after the balloon. Her willingness to risk everything in an effort to save her s
on. It was as though the scales had fallen from Dario’s eyes and he could suddenly see what had been right in front of him all along. How could he ever have doubted her emotions were real? How could he have fooled himself into believing it even mattered to him if they weren’t?
He’d loved her even believing her indifferent to him—that was the truth. Though he’d tried hard to deny it, he’d loved her all the same. Now, after viewing her extreme courage, her self-sacrifice, after realizing the full extent of her capacity to love, to give unselfishly, it only made him love her even more.
And a fat lot of good that was ever going to do him now.
After having nearly caused her death, after nearly causing their son’s death, he wouldn’t be the least surprised if she expressed a desire never to see him again. Nor would he blame her.
She hadn’t regained consciousness when they loaded her into the carriage for the trip here. The doctor protested at first. He would have preferred she go to the hospital. He acquiesced only after Dario pointed out that the villa was miles closer and probably better staffed. In truth, he couldn’t bear the thought of turning her over to be cared for by strangers. What if her secret was discovered? What if they viewed her, as she’d apparently always feared the public would, as an oddity to be poked at and prodded and experimented upon. How could he protect her from exposure in so public a place? As it was, he was taking an enormous risk just in trusting the doctor, but what else could he do?
Reluctantly leaving her in the medic’s temporary care, Dario had ridden ahead with Arthur, to alert the household. “Go down to the kitchen and ask Cook for some supper,” he’d told Arthur, once they’d reached the house. “I’ll come and find you when there’s news. And, don’t worry. It will be all right.”
That was a lie, of course. He had no way of knowing the future, no means at all by which to even guess at what could happen. All he had was hope. But he still had that.
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