Bella Donna

by Margrett Dawson

  There was work to do, work that would dull the pain. He barked out orders to the men waiting behind him.

  “Capo,” Giovanni protested when he heard what Marco wanted. “We can catch her. There is no need to move all the people. Let them stay where they have food and shelter.”

  “My young friend,” Marco said curtly. “If we leave we may avoid a greater disaster. I need my lieutenants with me tonight. Then we will regroup back in our own homes in the village. There we can celebrate our victory.” He slapped Giovanni on the shoulder. “Come, boy, all is not lost. We’ll take the shipment tonight and even if the Blackshirts arrive here, they will find nothing. Nothing at all.”

  After the men dispersed to follow his orders, he remained tense and immobile. He let out his breath with a conscious effort, trying to relax his shoulders and unclench his fists, but his muscles tightened anew as he recalled Giovanni’s story. And imagined the details he hadn’t mentioned.

  She’d been wet. As she had been in Enrico’s house. With water droplets beading her arms. Her breasts heavy and lush, a small, dark mole on her upper back.

  He saw her as clearly as if she’d appeared in front of him. The way the bones of her pelvis stretched the soft, white skin, the magnificent curve of her waist, the arc of her belly to the dark triangle between her legs. Another mole the size of a small coin on her thigh, and an even smaller one on her left breast, just above her glorious nipple. Not blemishes. Adornments.

  No matter what Giovanni told him, lust still surged through him at the thought of her. Plus a wave of anger. Had he ever wanted a woman more? No. Never. And he still wanted her. He would go to his grave wanting her.

  He grabbed a broom leaning nearby and flung it away. It landed softly on the dirt floor. In all the activity no one noticed. He would give his other fingers to learn that Giovanni’s story was untrue, but he had no time to waste.

  Abruptly he swung back to the people in the cave, converting his shout of anger into an order to move more quickly.

  The horse must have thrown her taking the jump over the stream on the far side of the four-acre wood. This time she must have made a mistake lining up the narrow opening between the hedges to make sure the hunter could clear the stile. It was tricky, but she’d done it lots of times. She remembered flying through the air, then a great thud, rattling her bones and driving the air from her lungs as she hit the ground.

  A cold nose sniffed at her neck and she pushed it away. One of the hounds had stayed with her. The pack master would not be pleased at the breach of discipline.

  Frowning, she tried to remember which horse she’d taken out. Thinking made her head hurt and her leg was twisted painfully under her. She moved it cautiously, then froze as she felt skirts around her calves. Why wasn’t she wearing her jodhpurs and boots?

  She put a hand to her forehead to push back her hair and struggled on to one elbow, wincing as she put weight on a sore spot. Her mouth was full of coarse pine needles and bits of dried fern and she spat them out, wiping her lips with the hem of her tunic. She stared at the fabric as memory came flooding back.

  Giovanni. Marco. Treachery.

  No horse, no hunt in fresh English woods, but a stark Italian mountain and duplicity.

  She was lying under thick bushes, wedged against a boulder and a tree stump. Peering through the branches up to the top of the gully, she saw no one. Had he left her, thinking she was too injured to escape and would die before someone found her, or was he intending to come back for her?

  She scanned the slope where she had fallen. Not very high, but steep. No wonder her muscles and joints ached. She must have hit every stone as she bounced down.

  A movement caught her eye and she swung her head, giving a little cry as the sore muscles protested. A large dog sat sphinx-like a few yards away, its tongue lolling and ears pricked. It was grey and hairy, some kind of sheepdog by the look of it. She’d had an Old English sheepdog as a child and used to ride it like a pony. This must be some kind of relative of the breed.

  “Well, hello,” she whispered.

  Its tail thumped the ferns, sending a small branch quivering.

  “Shh, not too much noise.”

  The dog wriggled its rear end in pleasure at her voice and inched closer.

  “Okay, come on.” She held out her hand and after a moment’s hesitation, the animal stood and came near enough to sniff her fingers.

  She rubbed behind his ears and he hung his great head in ecstasy. “Now, how are we going to get out of here?” she murmured. Finding the animal had cheered her. She didn’t feel so alone and abandoned. The dog’s dirty fur was matted with needles and dried leaves and she combed her fingers through it around his chest. “Someone hasn’t been looking after you. We’re in the same boat, we two. What’s your name?”

  She held his head and considered. Her own dog had been called Mickey Wo-Wo in baby talk. She wasn’t a baby any more, but Mickey was still a good name. Besides, it gave her a smidgen of reassurance to make the connection with what she knew to be true and real.

  “Well, Mickey,” she said, “let’s both stand up and see how far we get.”

  The dog pressed against her as if he’d understood and she clambered to her feet, steadying herself on his strong back. His head easily reached her waist. Once on her feet she let go and tested her limbs. She’d twisted her ankle on the path down, before Giovanni’s attack, and it still pained her. But the swelling was slight. There didn’t seem to be anything broken, just cuts and bruises everywhere. Tomorrow she would be black and blue.

  “Let’s go, Mickey.”

  As soon as she left the vegetation at the bottom of the gully and started up the slope, she understood why Giovanni had left her. The scree slid under her feet and she soon struggled to prevent herself from slipping back faster than she climbed. Panting from the effort, she bent on all fours and began to inch her way up, trying to grasp at the stunted bushes.

  After a few minutes her hands were sore from the sharp stones, and her shoulder sockets screamed in protest.

  “This is hopeless,” she gasped. “It will take me all night.”

  All through the ordeal with Giovanni she had remained dry-eyed, but now tears threatened, brought on by a mixture of self-pity, frustration and fear for Marco.

  Mickey pushed past her, nearly throwing her off balance. “Hey, watch it, dog,” she said as she grabbed him to stop herself from toppling back. Her hands grasped the plume of his tail. Immediately he began to pull forward. “Go on, good boy,” she said as soon as she understood how he could help her.

  The dog’s big paws were made for this kind of terrain, and Emma quickly developed a rhythm, moving in tandem with his long strides, holding his tail for balance. At the top at last, Mickey stopped to shake himself and lick her hand. She settled her skirts and looked around, patting his massive head. The path was deserted.

  “We have to go to the caves,” she told the dog. “We have to let Marco know what’s going to happen. What that rat Giovanni has done.”

  If she hadn’t suddenly felt foolish talking to a dog, she could have added that she wasn’t doing it because she cared what happened to Marco, just that she hated underhandedness and betrayal, and was concerned about the women and children. Plus she’d like to see Giovanni come to a bad end. But Mickey didn’t need to know all that.

  Was it only two days ago she’d been complaining of boredom on the luxurious cruise ship? It felt like another lifetime.

  She walked quickly along the path, ignoring the sting of her wounds and the throb in her ankle. The dog padded beside her, so close that his flank brushed her leg.

  In a few minutes the flat area in front of the entrance came into sight. Emma halted the dog with a touch on his neck.

  The choice was still open. She could turn her back, find her way to Naples and forget all about these incomprehensible feuds in the Italian mountains. Or she could continue, return to the caves and the primitive life within. One would restore her to the li
fe she was used to. The other would enable her to prevent a disaster and bring her close to Marco.

  She closed her eyes. The image of Marco, never far from her mind, formed against the darkness. The devastating combination of dark hair, black eyes and hard muscled body was always irresistible and made her heart beat faster. She told herself that his sexual appeal was of no significance. If she chose to go on it would be for the sake of his followers. She tried not to think about how he felt pressed against her, how the muscles in his arms and shoulders rippled when he moved, how her heart beat a tattoo when he looked at her.

  The heat of desire surged through her.

  She wanted his body. His body, her body, inseparable. She wanted the full length of his nakedness against her, skin to skin, limb to limb.

  She wanted to feel his hands stroking, his hot mouth suckling her breasts until she lay helpless and quivering in his arms. Stop!

  She would never get what she wanted again.

  She shook off the wanton thoughts and brought her mind back to the all-too-real here and now. For the first time she took in how deathly quiet it was. She stood still, her hand on the dog’s neck, hardly daring to breathe. No sound of movement, no waft of simmering soup. Where were the guards? The muscles in her stomach tightened in a spasm of fear. Had Giovanni brought Marco’s enemies here already?

  She quickly dismissed the thought. There was no way he could have fetched the Blackshirts in such a short time. Unless she’d been unconscious for hours rather than minutes. Surely not. She glanced at the sun. It had already started its afternoon path down toward the sea, but there were hours of daylight yet.

  She crept up to the opening and stepped inside, peering into the gloom.

  The vast space was empty. People, children, cooking fires and lights were all gone.

  Her fingers rested on the dog’s head, and she felt as well as heard the low growl in his throat. A figure emerged from the back of the cave.

  “Teresa!” Emma darted forward, the dog hard on her heels.

  Teresa turned, still holding the cloth she’d been folding. Her face registered a look of surprise that would have been comical if the situation weren’t so serious.

  Emma hurried up to her, and grasped her arm. “Where is Marco?” she demanded. “I have important information for him.”

  Teresa shook her head. “He is not here. No one is here but for me and Irena.”

  “Alone?”

  Teresa smiled. “The ambush will take place elsewhere and our men will be successful. Besides, Irena and I know the mountains since our childhood. We can move fast if need be.”

  As if on cue Irena appeared in the entrance and immediately pointed an accusing finger, launching into a tirade of words.

  Teresa cut in with a sharp command and the younger girl fell silent. “Forgive her,” she said. “She is young and impressionable. And she imagines she’s in love with Giovanni.”

  Irena slumped against the wall and tears started down her cheeks. Emma had a good idea what had shattered Irena’s illusions, but there was no time to spend explaining that Giovanni was not worth a tinker’s cuss to any woman. She turned back to face Teresa. “Where has he gone?”

  Teresa shook her head again. “I cannot-”

  “Did Giovanni come back here?”

  “Yes, but-”

  “What did he say?”

  “I didn’t hear it all. But he said you-” she swallowed and a blush crept up her neck, “-had seduced him, then escaped again. He said you were on your way to report to the police.”

  “Of course. His word against mine.” She took a step or two back and forth, the dog following her movements by turning his head. “Did you believe him?”

  Teresa shot a glance at Irena. “No.”

  Emma breathed a sigh of relief. At least he hadn’t poisoned everyone’s mind. “Did Marco believe him?”

  Teresa looked down. “I cannot say.”

  Emma didn’t press. Whether he’d believed the part about the seduction or not, he’d not been willing to take a chance on her betrayal and he’d cleared out every vestige of his people.

  “How did they manage to leave so quickly?”

  Teresa shrugged. “We were always ready to move out at a moment’s notice. Besides there were plans-”

  Of course they hoped to leave permanently after they intercepted the shipment. “They’ve gone for the ambush, haven’t they?” Emma saw the look of indecision on Teresa’s face. “Don’t bother to answer if you promised not to. We have to warn Marco.”

  “Warn?” Poor Teresa looked totally confused.

  Emma drew her away from Irena and lowered her voice. “You have to believe me when I say the traitor here is Giovanni.” She raised a hand as Teresa drew a breath to speak. “Don’t ask me how I know. Marco is walking into a trap. I have to go after him.”

  Teresa gave her a quick, searching look, then obviously made up her mind. She turned on her heel and snapped short, sharp directions at Irena. The girl started to protest, but Teresa pushed her toward the entrance, making shooing motions with her hands.

  She turned back to Emma. “I have sent her to her aunt in another village. She is young and foolish about Giovanni. But she is loyal. She will say nothing.”

  She took a quick step toward Emma, and the dog stood, a low rumble coming from its throat.

  “Dio! The Hound of the Baskervilles!”

  Emma put a hand on the dog’s neck. “Quiet, Mickey. It’s all right.”

  He sat on his haunches, his head level with Emma’s ribs.

  “Where did he come from?” Teresa asked.

  “I have no idea. When all this is over, I’ll find his owner.” Emma looked around. “Is there anything left? Any bread? A shawl?”

  Teresa moved away and picked up a basket. “Bread and water in here,” she said. She tucked her arm through the handle. Maybe she meant to keep it for herself. She must have instructions on where to go to wait for news.

  Emma nodded. “Fine. I know the way to the ambush. I hope you can go back to the university soon. Goodbye.” She turned away.

  “Wait for me. I’m coming with you. What did you think I was going to do?”

  She paused and smiled at Teresa. She was surprised at the feeling of relief that swept through her. A few hours ago she had been alone. Now she had two companions to help her. The dog with strength and loyalty and the girl with the Italian language. The odds were improving.

  At the entrance they paused to look back as if with one accord. The walls of the houses were beginning to fade into the gloom. The floor was swept clean, only gray outlines tracing the site of the cooking fires.

  “It looks as it did fifty years ago,” Teresa said.

  “Has it been here that long?”

  The girl nodded. “It was built during some feud, used and then forgotten when it was no longer needed.”

  They set off in single file, the dog bounding ahead, then waiting for them to catch up, checking the rear and then outpacing them again.

  They came to the pool and Teresa stooped to pick up the remaining pieces of clothing, forgotten after the incident with Giovanni. “Here is a shawl for you. We’ll take it all. Marco said to leave no trace.”

  Emma nodded and absentmindedly folded the shawl over her shoulders, her thoughts on Giovanni’s story about Marco’s wife. She had believed it at the time, but Giovanni was a traitor. It was second nature for him to lie.

  “Tell me about your sister, Marco’s wife,” she said.

  Teresa gazed at her, her large dark eyes immediately brimming with tears. The look on her face was so grief-stricken that Emma at once felt a stab of guilt.

  She put her hand on the girl’s arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  Teresa shook her head. “It’s still hard to talk about,” she whispered and caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “But I will tell you as we walk.”

  Emma glanced at the sky. The mountains hovered above them, grim, hulking ma
sses of shadow as the sun sank farther toward the far peaks. They should hurry if they wanted to arrive before complete darkness fell.

  The path was wide enough to walk abreast and they stayed side by side, the dog still patrolling ahead and behind.

  “My sister Claudia married Marco when she was nineteen,” Teresa began. “The marriage was expected, they had known each other since they were children.”

  Emma moved at a measured pace, her eyes on the path ahead. She hardly dared breathe for fear of interrupting Teresa’s story.

  “Both our families opposed Mussolini,” Teresa continued. “Things grew very difficult as the newspapers were shut down and the Blackshirts arrested anyone who spoke out. Marco’s father was put in prison and badly beaten.” She paused.

  “What had he done?”

  “He started a small underground newspaper. Marco helped him. After his father was arrested, the Blackshirts came to the house. They wanted Marco. Claudia was there alone.”

  Teresa wiped her eyes with a corner of her shawl, but her steps didn’t falter. “She couldn’t tell them where Marco was, because she didn’t know.” Her voice grew steady, flat. “They raped her, then they tied her to a tree and poured castor oil down her throat. Then they stuffed a live toad in her mouth and made her chew it.”

  Emma’s legs trembled and her heart thudded like a wild thing as she imagined the poor girl surrounded by black uniformed louts. “My God!” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye with shaking fingers.

  Teresa kept her eyes firmly on the path, but her voice shook with emotion. “It is a common punishment for those who do not cooperate. Very unpleasant and painful. They laughed when she vomited, and then of course, the castor oil took effect. They thought it great entertainment. But Claudia had never been strong. She had a heart murmur since she was a child. It was all too much for her. She died.”