The Corsican Gambit

by Sandra Marton

  Was there a sudden heaviness in his voice? Francesca urged her horse forward until she was abreast of him.

  "Max? Is something wrong?"

  "No," he said quickly, "no, of course not." He gave her a quick smile. "I just don't enjoy being waylaid by a horde of tourists."

  Francesca laughed. "Two bewildered people aren't exactly a`horde,' Max. Surely you can see--" She broke off, stunned, her smile slipping from her face. Two people, she thought, two people who spoke English. English! All she'd had to do was cry out, tell them she'd been kidnapped, that she was being held against her will, that she needed help...

  "Francesca?"

  She blinked. They had reached the stables, and Max had already dismounted. He was holding on to her horse's bridle, looking up at her, a question in his eyes. He held his arms up to her, his smile tilting crookedly, when she seemed to hesitate.

  "Cara, " he said quietly. "Will you come to me?"

  What if I’d had simply asked you to come away with me? Would you have come?

  Her throat closed and it was in that one instant that she knew that she was, indeed, lost.

  "Yes," Francesca whispered, looking deep into his eyes, "yes." And she leaned down, put her hands on Max's shoulders, and went unreservedly into his arms.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  FRANCESCA was in a large, brightly lit room, without furniture and without shadows, standing midway be­tween Max and Charles.

  "Would you have come with me?" Max kept saying.

  Charles stood silent, motioning her toward him. But she couldn't respond to either of them. Her lips wouldn't move, her feet were rooted to the floor.

  "You must choose, Francesca," Charles said.

  "She has chosen," Max said, and she had. She had chosen him, but she couldn't tell him that, she couldn't get her throat to work...

  She came awake with a gasp, her body jerking as she escaped the suffocating illusion, disorientated as much by the unfamiliar room as by the dream. Her pulse raced; she forced herself to lie still and take shallow breaths until her heartbeat slowed, became a steady counterpart to the distant beat of the sea on the rocks.

  She was in Max's room. A flush rose along the length of her body. She was in Max's bed, and she'd spent the long, sweet night in his arms.

  Her eyes opened slowly; a smile curved across her mouth as she turned her head on the pillow, anticipating that first glimpse of his face. But she was alone: his pillow still bore the imprint of his head, but Max was gone.

  Francesca's gaze went to the closed door of the con­necting bath on the opposite side of the enormous room, and she let out her breath. He was in the shower, then. She could envisage him standing inside the smoky glass shower stall, his strong body naked under the spray, his face turned up to the water, daring it to beat him into submission.

  Her heart thudded foolishly. She knew how he must look, because they had showered together only yes­terday, after they'd stabled their horses and returned to the castle.

  "Where are you going?" Max had asked when she'd started toward her own bedroom.

  Suddenly, she'd felt unaccountably shy. "I have to shower," she'd said, and he'd smiled and told her that sounded like a perfectly fine idea. The next thing she'd known she'd been in his bedroom, trembling as he'd stripped away her clothing and carried her into the shower stall.

  "Let me bathe you, cara," he'd whispered, and he'd soaped her body slowly, then rinsed it with exquisite care, making love to her with each brush of his hands until finally her legs had trembled and she'd cried out his name and moved into his arms, her face pressed against his chest, her mouth open to the taste of his wet skin.

  "Beloved, " he'd whispered, kissing her and kissing her, and then he'd lifted her to him, entering her with a swift, deep thrust. A soft, sobbing cry had burst from her throat and she'd come almost immediately, waves of sensation pouring through her muscles and nerves while the water streamed down their joined bodies.

  I love you, Max, she'd thought, just as she had in the wildflower-filled meadow, but she'd kept silent, kept the words from spilling from her lips because even in that moment of ecstasy a treacherous voice inside her whis­pered that he had still not said the things that needed saying, that she didn't yet know what he felt for her or what his purpose had been in bringing her to Sarcene.

  To her horror, tears had risen in her eyes. You're not a child, she'd told herself firmly, you know that making love and being in love don't always go hand in hand. He wants you. He cares for you. Isn't that enough? Just because you've fallen in love with Max doesn't mean­—doesn't mean ...

  Max had put his hand under her chin and lifted her face to him. "Francesca? What is it?"

  "Nothing," she'd said. "I just-I have soap in my eyes.”

  He'd smiled then, saying that she needed someone to look after her, and he'd wrapped her in a huge towel and dried her slowly, from head to toe, and by the time he'd finished, his hands and mouth had replaced the towel and she was clinging to him again, whispering words as heated and intimate as his.

  Now, lying here with the morning sun streaming into the room, Francesca sighed and let herself relax into the softness of the silk sheeted bed. She thought of the dream that had awakened her. As fuzzy as it had been, there was no denying the end of it. She had chosen, and not just in the dream. She knew now that what Max had said about Charles must be the truth. She still didn't know all of it, but she knew that Max Donelli was not a man who would lie, cheat, or steal. He was a man of honor-and she loved him.

  Yesterday had changed everything, and last night had been a night of joy and wonder, a banishing forever of the bitterness and anger that had separated them. They'd dined by candlelight on the garden terrace and talked for hours, learning things about each other. Max had a passion for American football; she was certain the game was an excuse for legalized mayhem. He liked milk chocolate; she adored dark. Both of them loved classical music. Anything written after 1900, Max had an­nounced sternly, had to be decadent.

  Francesca told him how she'd felt when she was sent away to boarding school at the age of eight, just after her father's death.

  "But how could your mother have done such a thing?" Max had demanded, with such anger that it had warmed her heart.

  "I suppose I understand it now," she'd answered. "She needed to get her life together again."

  "And did she?"

  She had started to answer, to tell him that her mother had met Augustus Spencer a year later-and then she'd realized that mentioning her stepfather would only lead to Charles. Her stepbrother had no place in this con­versation. He had no place between them at all, any more. All that was done with.

  And so she'd simply smiled. "She did, eventually. What about your mother? Was she happy here, in Corsica?"

  "I think so, yes. She missed my father, but she had friends."

  And she had you, Francesca had thought, watching his face. What more could anyone ask than that?

  They'd talked for hours, laughing easily and often, touching each other on the flimsiest excuse, until the crescent moon had risen high in the dark sky, and then, suddenly, the laughter and the talk had stopped.

  "I want to make love to you, cara," Max had said in a husky whisper.

  Her answer had been in her eyes. He had kissed her and kissed her while the stars blazed overhead, and then he'd swung her up into his arms and carried her into Sarcene while she'd clung to him tightly, her face buried„ against his throat, his footsteps echoing down the quiet halls and up the ancient steps. He had brought her td this room, to this bed, and they had made love until the moon slipped into the sea.

  Francesca's lips tilted in a soft smile. Nothing that had happened had been what she'd expected. There was pain, some women said, but she'd felt only pleasure. There hadn't even been any blood, and yet she was sure Max knew he had taken her virginity. She'd been so shy, and yet so eager to learn-and finally, finally, Max had drawn her back tightly into the curving heat of his body, his hand splayed poss
essively across her belly, and she'd fallen into a deep sleep.

  She sat up in bed, stretching luxuriously, the sheet and soft cotton blanket falling to her waist, and looked toward the closed bathroom door. Max was still showering. A little smile tilted at the corners of her mouth and she pushed back the covers, got to her feet, and pulled on the robe that lay tossed across the foot of the massive bed.

  She would join him, under the water, she thought as she padded across the floor. She'd enter the room quietly, step free of the robe and into the stall. Her mouth felt dry as she opened the door. He'd be surprised when he felt the press of her breasts against his back...

  Francesca's brow furrowed. The bathroom and the shower stall were both empty. Max wasn't here.

  Where was he, then? Had he gone for coffee? He must have. He wouldn't have left her alone, not this morning, not after

  Her face cleared when she heard the bedroom door open. "Max," she whispered, and she turned and flew into the other room. "There you are," she said, with a radiant smile. "I wondered where you-"

  "Buon giorno, signorina."

  It wasn't Max, it was the maid, bearing a tray on which there stood a coffee service, trying, with no great success, not to look at the bed and its tangled sheets.

  Francesca felt a dark flush rise into her face, knowing how she. must look with her hair tumbled around her shoulders, her bare feet peeping out from beneath the hem of Max's robe, and the rumpled bed standing like a stage set behind her. But it didn't matter. She wasn't ashamed of being Max's lover.

  She smiled pleasantly. "Good morning."

  The girl hurried across the room to a small table beside the window. Francesca watched as she quickly set the table-for one, she suddenly realized, only for one. But where was Max? Where was he? "Signorina?"

  The girl said something in her soft, musical voice. Francesca understood enough of the language now to know she was asking if she wanted anything else. She did; she wanted to know where Max was, but even if she could have phrased the question, she wouldn't have. How could you ask such a thing of a stranger on the first morning in your lover's bedroom?

  "Signorina?"

  Francesca swallowed. "Thank you," she said. "That's-that's all."

  The maid smiled and stepped from the room, closing the door quietly after her. Francesca walked slowly to the table and poured a cup of coffee. She was making mountains out of molehills, that was what she was doing, looking for hidden meanings when there weren't any.

  She took a sip of the coffee. Still, as soon as she saw Max, she was going to ask him to tell her, finally, why he'd brought her to Corsica. She wasn't a fool-she knew it had to have been part of some larger plan he'd devised to get even with Charles. That was behind them now, but she still needed to know the reason.

  A tremor went through her. It was behind them, wasn't it?

  She turned and made her way to the window, then settled into the window seat and stared out at the sea battling the rocks below. How different the view from this room was, compared to what you could see from hers. Her windows looked out on a gentle, quiet Sarcene, while Max's gave on to a Sarcene that was dark and untamed.

  The cup trembled in her hand. She set it down care­fully on the sill and took a deep breath.

  Which was the real Sarcene, she thought suddenly, or were both illusions?

  The castle was very quiet. Francesca's footsteps echoed eerily as she made her way down the stairs, then to the library. Perhaps Max was there.

  But he wasn't. He wasn't anywhere, she knew that even before she'd finished searching for him. Giulia was in the kitchen; by now a mix of despair and anger had eroded her pride enough so that she felt no hesitancy in asking her the question she'd not asked the maid, but while she was working the words together in her head, trying to phrase it properly, the housekeeper said some­thing she couldn't understand and hurried down the hall that led to the servants' quarters.

  Francesca clamped her lips together. Damn you, Max, she thought. When I find you, I'm going to-I'm going to.

  Her head came up. The stables. Of course. That's where he was. She strode from the kitchen, her pace in­creasing as she made her way to the front door. She pulled it open. Here she was, feeling sorry for herself, and all the time Max was­—

  "Buon giorno, signorina."

  She blinked. As always, there was a polite, soft-spoken young man waiting for her just outside. It was either Paolo or Gianni or one of half a dozen other polite, soft-spoken young men, all of whom looked as if they were in training for body-building titles. Her irritation at being watched over constantly had kept her from separating one from another.

  Francesca smiled wryly. Apparently, Max had for­gotten to tell them that she was no longer under house arrest.

  She nodded and said good morning, then started down the steps. Paolo or whoever he was fell in beside her.

  "I'm going to the stables," she said pleasantly, mo­tioning toward the outbuildings with a wave of her hand.

  He smiled and kept stride with her.

  She stopped and turned to face him. "You don't have to accompany me," she said carefully. "Do you under­stand?" She fixed her eyes on his face and shook her head from side to side. "I-don't-want-company."

  She swung away and started walking; so did he.

  Francesca spun toward him. "I don't need you with me," she insisted. "Io—io no..." Damn! She had no idea how to tell him that his presence was unnecessary. "The signor will explain, when you see him. He'll tell you that you don't have to watch me any more."

  His smile never wavered. "I have already seen the signor this morning."

  She stared at him in amazement. "You-you speak English?"

  "I have seen him," he repeated, ignoring her question. "And he has instructed me to accompany you wherever you wish to go, signorina."

  "No. You must have misunderstood. Things have changed."

  Something flickered in the man's dark eyes. Pity, Francesca thought, it was pity.

  "No, signorina, nothing has changed. Don Maximillian assured me of that. He told me that you might say such a thing, but he said it was not so. I am to stay with you, as I have from the beginning."

  Everything seemed to stop. The early morning bird songs that had filled the air, the distant tinkle of bells, even the warm breeze that always swept up the slopes from the valley-all of it ceased while she looked into her guard's face, and then, stricken, she put her hand to her mouth and swung away from him.

  God, oh God, it wasn't Paolo who'd misunderstood, it was she! She knew it with soul-wrenching certainty.

  She had spent the night in Max's arms, but she was still the enemy. He had wanted her all along, he'd never made any pretense of it, and he'd finally done what he'd intended from the start, but with a technique so prac­ticed that she'd become a willing participant instead of a pathetic victim.

  What a fool she'd been. Everything-everything-that had happened was all part of an ugly scheme of revenge.

  For one fierce moment, Francesca flamed with a rage so white-hot it made her gasp for air-and then, all too swiftly, the flame consumed itself and died. She was left with an ache so deep and piercing that she staggered back a step.

  Paolo stepped forward and caught her elbow.

  "Signorina? Are you all right?"

  Francesca wrenched free of his hand. "Don't touch me," she breathed. "Don't any of you touch me again." She turned and ran for the house.

  She waited in Max's room for his return, turning away the maid when she came to make the bed. She had thought it would be difficult, sitting in that place where she had given away all that she was, but in the end it had turned out to be the best decision she could have made. There was a bitter comfort in sitting here, her eyes on the rumpled bed that was an unfailing reminder of how she had been used. It gave her strength and chased the last bit of desire for Maximillian Donelli from her heart forever.

  It was late by the time she heard his footsteps in the hall. She rose, switched on the ligh
ts, then peered into the mirror over the dresser. She looked fine, her hair sleekly drawn back from her face, her makeup perfect, her dress left carefully open from the hollow of her throat to the shadowed cleft between her breasts. Only her eyes, smudged with fatigue and pain, gave her away, but Max was hardly going to get the chance to gaze at her too closely.

  She glanced across the room, to the table set with flowers and Waterford crystal, to the bottle of wine standing open. Her heart thudded. She was as ready as she would ever be.

  The door swung open and Max entered the room. He looked worn and tired; for a breathless instant Francesca wanted to go to him and stroke the lines from his face. But then he shut the door and moved forward into the light. His eyes fastened on her, cold and hard, and she remembered that all that was left to her now was the swift victory of a first strike.

  "Well," she said. Her tone was brisk. "You certainly stayed away long enough. Did you have a pleasant day?"

  He leaned back against the closed door, arms crossed over his chest.

  "What are you doing here, Francesca?"

  She smiled brightly. "Waiting for you, naturally. What does it look like?"

  His gaze moved beyond her, to the carefully set table, to the unmade bed.

  "I am sorry I was not here when you awakened this morning. But I had to-"

  "It doesn't matter." She smiled again. "I needed a day's rest anyway, after last night."

  He stared at her, saying nothing, and then he headed away from the door and came slowly toward her.

  "Francesca. We must talk."

  "Talk?" She spun away from him toward where the opened bottle of wine waited, flashing a sultry smile over her shoulder. "Why would we talk, darling, when we do other things so much better?" She saw the look of surprise in his eyes and she turned her head away, pray­ing he would not see her mouth tremble. "Shall I pour the wine now, or do you want to shower first? I'd offer to join you, but I spent the afternoon fixing my hair-"