Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy)

by Henke, Shirl

  And fast women? He did not voice the question aloud, but somehow it hung in the air between them. “Tell me about your family and why you ran away.”

  “I didn't run away,” she said defensively, then sighed. “Well, perhaps I did, but not because I don't love them or they me. Everyone expected me to marry and settle down to raise babies, but I wanted so much more out of life.”

  He nodded. “I understand that. The prescribed life for a second son is either the Church or the military. I chose neither because I, too, wanted much more out of life.”

  “Then possibly we can understand each other,” she said tentatively, wondering if she dared ask what was on her mind. She plunged ahead. “I can understand why the life of a country curate might not appeal, but I would imagine the army to be just the sort of adventure you would thrive upon.” A haunted expression darkened his eyes for a flash, then vanished. Or had she simply imagined it? When he spoke, his dazzling smile was in place once more.

  “My father naturally assumed I'd buy a commission, especially considering the war on the Continent, but I'm really a worthless scoundrel, you see, enamored of sleeping late, dressing well and spending my time with beautiful women. The army would quite interfere.”

  “I imagine your father was not pleased. Is that why you left England again?”

  He shrugged rather carelessly. “Why remain on a damp cold island when one can bask in the warm sun of Italy? Especially when Naples draws the most beautiful women on earth.”

  “I think you are like Naples—drawing women to you, that is. Shall I allow myself to be the latest in a long list of conquests, I wonder?” The question was rhetorical, but she still struggled to keep the heat from staining her cheeks.

  “Shall you, Beth? I wonder, too. I find it difficult to imagine a young woman from good family turning her back on the conventional life as easily as a man might. A man naturally avoids leg-shackling, but women seem to thrive on it. Why would a beautiful, passionate woman reject the idea?”

  “Most men, certainly the male members of my family, share your opinions. I'll give you the same answer I've given them. My life's passion is to be an artist. I don't mean a lady of leìsure who dabbles at watercolors while her maid puts the children down for their nap. I mean a real painter who earns her own way by her talents. Men have been doing it for centuries. Why, if she has the talent, should not a woman have the same right?”

  He smiled again. “Perhaps she should, but are you certain you would not be happier in Paris than Naples? Such revolutionary ideas would suit better in France than Italy.”

  “I confess to being an admirer of French thought during the Enlightenment. A bit of it even rubbed off on the English.”

  He grinned. “Touché, mademoiselle. And so did a bit of it on our American kin, else there would have been no break with the mother country.”

  “Do you find my idea of independence unnatural?”

  “Nothing about you, my dear, is in the least bit unnatural.” His voice was a husky purr as he leaned closer. “You're an enigma, yes, but a most pleasant one, whose mysteries I fully intend to unveil.” With that, he stopped the already slowing curricle and leaned over, taking her in his arms.

  Chapter Four

  Their eyes met and held for a moment, measuring each other. Then she said, “Last night was rash...reckless.”

  “Yet you accepted my invitation to ride in the country and brought no chaperone,” he countered as his fingertips lightly caressed her cheek.

  He wore no gloves and she was surprised to feel slight calluses on his hands. She'd expect that of her father or brothers, but not of a self-confessed English dandy. Her thoughts spun crazily at his touch. His intense gaze mesmerized her until all she could think of was melting into him like wax in the Italian sun.

  Rather than make reply to his teasing retort, she raised her lips to his, initiating the kiss with a boldness that surprised her more than him. She had never done such a thing. A small voice warned, You're being drawn in too deeply, too quickly. He will hurt you. That voice was silenced when he deepened the kiss.

  One hand splayed across her back while the other slid around to the opening of her jacket, insinuating clever fingers through the clasp and stroking the peak of her breast through the sheer fabric of her bodice. Her nipples burned. When she emitted a small, sharp gasp of pleasure, he growled deeply into her mouth, working his firm sculpted lips over hers with such hunger, he left her breathless, dizzy. Clinging to his shoulders was not enough. She reached up, threading her fingers through his night-dark hair, pulling him closer...closer.

  She was a witch, an enchantress, knowing just what to do to drive him wild. He pressed her backward against the soft velvet of the curricle's seat, knowing full well they could not satisfy their desire in the small vehicle. He cursed the desperate impatience that led him to murmur against her mouth, “I want to touch every inch of you, caress...lick, taste...I can't get enough of you, Beth.”

  Beth moaned her assent as his knee moved between her legs and rubbed intimately against her thighs. The ache that throbbed wickedly in her blood now centered low in her belly and moved to that most secret place, which was untried but eager...so eager. His hands were swift, certainly practiced, as they unfastened hooks and clasps, sliding her jacket off and opening the front of her gown, baring her breasts to the wet heat of his mouth.

  Derrick was near to bursting, buttoned into fashionably tight doeskins, but just as he started to unfasten his fly, the sound of bleating goats and voluble Italian curses echoed in the distance. Distractedly he turned his head and saw an old man brandishing a shepherd's crook as he scrambled in a crab-legged gait after half a dozen runaway goats. The farmer was followed by two youths who appeared more interested in the fancy curricle ahead than in rounding up the recalcitrant livestock.

  Doing a bit of cursing himself, Derrick quickly covered Beth and seized the reins, slapping them so the bays took off at a smart clip.

  As they passed the old man and his helpers, Beth pressed herself against the velvet squabs of the curricle, turning her head away from their curious eyes. Good lord above, she was practically undressed—in broad daylight in the middle of a public road! Still, it was a very remote road, she rationalized to herself, trying to collect her scattered wits as Derrick concentrated on driving.

  “I apologize for what just happened,” he said as she rearranged her clothing.

  “For undressing me or for being interrupted?” some imp made her ask.

  “For your embarrassment and most definitely for the untimely interruption, but for wanting to make love to you—never.”

  A slow smile bowed her lips. “We do seem to lose all sense of decorum, not to mention practicality, when we come together.”

  His eyes blazed hungrily. “We have not come together...yet.”

  “Inevitable, I fear.” There was no question in her mind, but what of her heart? “It might be wise to spend a bit of time becoming better acquainted first...in some more public places.”

  Now a grin tugged at his mouth. “You mean places where probable interruptions would ensure my good behavior?”

  She nodded, also grinning. “Let me show you my Naples, the one proper English gentlemen never see.”

  “No one has ever accused me of being a proper English gentleman, but I accept your offer anyway. For now, the sun is sparkling on the waters of the bay and the scent of lemon trees wafts on the breeze. Let us enjoy the countryside this afternoon.”

  They laughed and talked, both striving to ignore the tension that sung between them with every glance and touch. Savoring what was to come only added to the delight for the novice Beth. Knowing full well what was to come, Derrick felt anticipation fraught with considerably more impatience and discomfort, but he found she was a witty and charming companion. Expecting her to be well versed in the arts, he was surprised that she had also received an education in philosophy, politics and the sciences the equal of any man of his acquaintance.

 
; There was much to recommend intelligence in a beautiful woman. As a callow youth, he'd had a few mistresses who were only marginally more intelligent than their lap-dogs. He had found such women tedious in the extreme, especially when it came time to part. An intelligent woman realized sulks and tears did not work on a man such as he. Would it be all that easy to say good-bye to Beth—or would she be the one to bid him adieu?

  * * * *

  “What do you make of the new Englishman Jamison?” the contessa asked, sipping the Conde di Ruvo's finest Madeira from a crystal goblet.

  The shrewd old man was a born gossip who knew all there was to know about the expatriot community in Naples. Derrick Jamison was probably just another indolent Englishman wanting only to enjoy warm weather and beautiful women. But she had taken his measure and seen how smitten Beth was with him. She needed to be certain he would not hurt her young friend.

  “Jamison, old Lynden's boy. He is the younger son. His elder brother Leighton inherited a year or two ago,” the conde said, rubbing his pointy chin and staring contemplatively at a DaVinci hanging on the wall of the sitting room. “Why do you ask about him—interested in some young meat, are you?” His swarthy complexion was whitened with arsenic powder, giving the impression of a lecherous corpse.

  “Not at the moment, Enrico,” she replied, brushing aside her distaste. “I merely observed him at her majesty's ball last evening and something about him seemed...” She searched for the proper words, then shrugged. “Something just told me that he is not what he appears to be.”

  “Woman's intuition?” the conde asked lightly.

  “Call it what you will. He is too charming by half for an Englishman.”

  Enrico cackled. “You might just be right. I've heard whispers about the court regarding exchanges between here and Elba. The British certainly wish to see that Napoleon remains in exile. It is logical to assume they would send an agent to Naples. I've heard rumors young Jamison came here from Vienna.”

  “That does put a disturbing complexion on it,” Vittoria mused, knowing the reactionary allies were convened in the Austrian capital to divide the spoils of Napoleon's empire. “I had thought the son of an earl above spying.”

  “Never underestimate the vulgarity of the British, dear one,” the conde replied.

  “Keep your ears open, will you not?” she asked. As if you ever did aught else.

  * * * *

  In the distance Mt. Vesuvius rose majestically, outlined in a sunrise of pink, aqua and orange. The rhythm of waves lapping against the shore gave an aura of tranquillity to the otherwise bustling commerce on the waterfront. The air resounded with the cries of gulls and songs of fishermen blending together, much as the pungency of sulfur from the mineral fountains blended with the briny smell of the fresh squid and mussels being unloaded from the men's nets onto the shore. In vociferous clusters, women of various classes haggled with fishermen and produce vendors, crowding around sailboats and crude wooden stalls. Here and there a group of old men gathered around the cheery glow of charcoal braziers set out to ward off the early morning chill.

  Beth took a deep breath and sighed in contentment, rising up on tiptoes to stretch like a cat. Standing beside her on the quay, Derrick admired the curves of her breasts outlined against her sheer white cotton peasant's blouse. He allowed his eyes to roam down her body, pausing at the indentation of her tiny waist, the gentle swell of her hips, then moving to the slender ankles revealed below the hem of her simple tan skirt.

  “You love this place, don't you?” he asked, noting the sparkle in her eyes and the glow of her cheeks, the way the wind lofted her curling hair, sending it flying wildly around her shoulders.

  “Always, but especially at dawn.”

  He shuddered. “I can't believe I actually agreed to arise at such an unholy hour.”

  “When do you normally arise, sir? Noon?”

  “The Beau and his fashionable crowd in London make their appearance around fourish. Of course,one must allow several hours to dress for any occasion.”

  “Of course,” she replied drolly, looking at his attire. She had explained that fine wool and linen would not do for the day she had planned for them. “I fear ‘the Beau’ would scarce approve of your present attire.”

  “As long as you do, what matter?” His tone was intimate, his eyes hot, dark.

  “Oh, I do.” She returned the smoldering look, allowing her eyes to roam boldly up and down his tall frame. He wore a pair of loose cotton pants with the legs rolled up, as was the custom among the working classes, revealing strong brown ankles and long narrow feet encased in a pair of leather-strapped open sandals. Both the shoes and pants were a bit too small for him, although purchased from the tallest fisherman on the bay, as was the gray cotton shirt, open to the waist where it was tied carelessly in a knot. His wide shoulders strained at the seams of the shirt and his darkly tanned chest with its mat of black hair invited her fingers to weave through it.

  “My man had the very devil of a time getting the aroma of cuttlefish out of the shirt and pants. He fair boiled them until I feared the cloth would dissolve,” he said with amusement, recalling how Drum had cursed and carried on about his partner's “cork-brained escapades.” “After all he suffered, it heartens me that you approve. He was aghast when I left on foot this morning, dressed like a common laborer.”

  She dimpled. “Nothing about you, Derrick Jamison, is common.”

  “I’ll take that for a compliment and not press the issue,” he replied as they began strolling down toward the gathering crowd.

  Jacomo, a boy in Vittoria's employ, followed with a large basket in which Beth would place her purchases. “I think we shall have mussels for dinner if they are large enough,” she murmured as they approached the fishing nets piled high with the morning's fresh catch. “Do you enjoy shellfish?”

  “Oysters and mussels are my particular favorites. The idea of teasing a sweet juicy morsel from deep inside its shell holds a strong appeal,” he replied suggestively.

  “Naughty fellow,” she scolded, marching ahead of him toward old Diomede Corenzio, whose sons brought in the finest catch of any fishermen on the bay.

  Derrick watched as she haggled and exchanged good-natured insults with the wizened old man whose face resembled a raisin. Once satisfied with the bargain, she moved on to a shy young woman so swollen with child, she looked ready to birth the baby at any moment. The girl sold her half a dozen fragrant fresh oranges. Next was a toothless hag whose stall was piled high with deep green stalks of brussel sprouts and red ripe tomatoes. Beth enjoyed the bargaining as much as did the merchants, who called her “Bella Signorina.”

  He struggled to follow the local dialect,in which she was so proficient, catching more of the idiom as they moved along. Having always prided himself on his linguistic skills, he asked, “You have a natural way with languages. What others do you speak so fluently?”

  She considered a moment. “Other than English and sundry Italian dialects, French, Spanish, Muskogee and some Cherokee.”

  Derrick was impressed. “The latter two I'm unfamiliar with—Indian tongues?”

  “Yes. My uncle Dev is a quarter Muskogee, or Creek, as outsiders call them. The Cherokee I picked up when I went on some trading expeditions into the Carolina mountains with him and my brothers and cousins when I was young. Alex was always my favorite cousin. I tagged along behind him and my brother Rob until they were ready to drown me in the Tallapoosa River. But I fooled them and learned to swim instead.”

  “You've certainly led a...colorful life, Beth. I'm surprised you wanted to leave it behind. There must be a deal more freedom for women in America than in my country.”

  Her expression turned sad for a moment. “Not always. But I do miss my homeland at times. I had no choice if I wished to pursue my career. Stand warned, Englishman, I have no intention of ever going to your country.” The words held a ring of finality.

  Derrick did not wish to spoil the fun of the day, so he fol
lowed without comment as she wended her way expertly down the twisting narrow streets. By this time Jacomo's basket was heavily laden with fresh food. “What else do you need to purchase?” Derrick asked.

  “You'll see,” she said with a saucy toss of her long, unbound hair, her good mood once more restored.

  He wanted to reach out and grab a fistful of the riotous russet curls, to bury his face in their fragrance, but instead he trudged dutifully along, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of the bustling seaport city. The cobblestone streets were twisting and narrow, enclosed on both sides by six-story buildings. Wash lines were strung across from window to window overhead, with wet clothing flapping in the breeze as it dried. Taking advantage of the beautiful autumn morn, craftsmen worked at their trades in front of their shops, right out in the midst of foot traffic.

  Finally they came to an open plaza, which the natives called a piazza, where he stepped gratefully into the sunlight once more. The dry dusty earth was sere and brown, with only a few sparse clumps of grass, owing to a small herd of tethered goats that munched contentedly. Most were nannies, with a few scattered kids either nursing or gamboling around unfettered. Several ancient-looking crones sat nearby hunched on stools. Two of them haggled with customers who brought their own pails, while the others filled the containers with foamy yellowish-white milk from the nanny's teats.

  While Beth was occupied paying one toothless old farm woman for her wares, Derrick wandered across the piazza, stopping to scratch the chin of a particularly winsome kid who nuzzled against his hand. “My, my, aren't you the affectionate one,” he said with a chuckle. Bending over to better reach the young goat, he murmured, “If only the bella signorina proves as accommodating.”

  From a distance Beth watched him with the kid, charmed by his way with animals. Just then the kid's nanny, protective of her young one, broke free of her tether and took off at a dead run, head lowered. Derrick's rump presented a splendid target as he patted and wrestled with the kid.