by Henke, Shirl
Beth started to call out a warning, but it was too late. Instead she raised her hand to her mouth to stifle a most unladylike guffaw when the nanny made contact, pitching him forward with enough force to tumble him over the kid and into the side of another nanny. The startled goat jumped sideways to avoid the human cannonball, giving a loud bleat as she kicked the filled pail of milk beneath her.
Derrick hit the hard-packed ground with enough force to jar his teeth just as a deluge of white liquid drenched his head and shoulders. He sat up, dripping milk, which mixed with the dirt to form a slippery mud. Shaking his head to clear it, he started to rise.
The kid trotted up once again, but before he could touch it, Beth's laughing voice called out, “I wouldn't do that. His mama is quite put out with you.”
“I am not exactly in charity with her either,” he said, combing his fingers through his hair, sending droplets of milk down his face and neck.
He started to climb to his knees just as Beth cried, “Look out!”
The nanny made another pass, this time butting him square in the center of his back. He lurched forward onto all fours in the mud. Beth approached, doubled up with laughter now. She exchanged a few coins with the old woman whose goat's milk had been spilled, then extended her hand to him to help him stand up. She was still laughing uncontrollably.
A grin split his face as he laced his mud-slicked fingers through hers, pulling her down alongside him. “Laugh at me, will you, wench?”
Beth started to sputter, but the humor of their situation got the better of her and she joined his rumbling bass chuckle. Then, suddenly, the amusement faded as they stared into each other's eyes. With his index finger he painted a yellow line from the tip of her nose around her lips, then down the column of her neck to the swell of her breasts.
“Mmm, I've never used mud for this...works as good as oil, I'd wager...” he murmured as he continued caressing her with his fingertips.
Beth closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the tingling sensations his clever fingers aroused, but the bleating of goats and the chiding voices of the farm women and their customers quickly broke the spell. “You're covered with milk and mud,” she said, realizing at once how idiotically obvious that was.
“And you?” he countered with a grin.
“Thanks to you. I was helping you and look what you did.”
“You were laughing at me and look what I did.” He got gingerly to his feet and pulled her up after him, ignoring the titters and smirks of the locals, who mouthed the word amore frequently as they watched the young foreign couple with amusement.
“We'd best wash this stuff off before we draw flies—or worse yet, harden like statuary. I have a large tub at my apartments,” he offered.
“I have a better idea. Our day's outing isn't over yet,” she replied. After sending Jacomo home with her morning's shopping, Beth took Derrick's hand and said, “Come with me.”
“I plan to,” he murmured under his breath.
She tried to ignore the frisson of heat deep in her belly as they walked back into the maze of narrow streets. At length they emerged near the waterfront again, in the district where fishermen made their homes. The smell of sulfur wafted on the warm morning air, blending with the ripe odors of the bay. A large plaza opened out on the quay, with a series of fountains spilling from one to another down the hill. Water gushed from the largest one at the top, giving off a smell that suggested it would be brown as sewage but was clear as crystal.
“What is that stink?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.
“Tis the mineral waters. They come from underground springs. People travel from all over Europe to partake of them, drink them and bathe in them for good health.”
“Drink and bathe in it? It reeks of rotten eggs...of sulfur.”
“Come, don't be such an Englishman,” she said, pulling him down the hill to the largest of the series of circular stone tanks holding the overflow of water from the fountain at the top of the hill.
“You make that sound as if all Englishmen are imbeciles.”
She shrugged as she sat on the low lip of the fountain and swung her legs over into the water. “Sometimes you are. Take the matter of the war you foisted on my coun-try.”
“I foisted nothing on your country. I'm a pacifist at heart.”
She gave him a measuring look. “Odd, but I find that difficult to believe. You look quite the warrior when you're angry,” she said.
“I'm a lover, not a warrior,” he replied, watching in fascination as she submerged herself beneath the lapping water. Her unbound hair floated on top, a deep ruby curtain. All around them men and women sat in the water, unconcerned with their drenched clothing. Children, wearing none, splashed and squealed in delight. But Derrick was oblivious to everyone else when Beth stood up. Her thin cotton skirt and blouse clung almost translucently to her body. “God, you're magnificent,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Plunge in, Derrick,” she invited.
“I intend to, m'dear, I intend to,” he murmured. He stepped into the cool water and knelt, dipping his head beneath the surface and scrubbing milk and mud from his hair. “Brrr, is it always so chilly?”
“They say it comes from deep underground,” Beth replied.
He could see the pointed tips of her nipples through the soft cloth clinging to her breasts and his mouth went dry. “There are ways I could warm you up,” he suggested.
“But, sir, I am not cold,” she replied, skimming her arm across the water and splashing him.
He blinked his eyes to clear them, then went after her with a growl. “I’ll teach you, minx—or is it otter?” he added as she slipped smoothly from his grasp and splashed him once more.
They laughed and played until they were breathless, tumbling around in the water until he finally subdued her, pinning her arms to her sides as they knelt, submerged almost to their shoulders. All laughter died. He lowered his mouth to hers as she tipped back her head, raising her face for his kiss. His thigh slid between her legs and hers clamped around it, clinging with strong, sleek muscles. He released her arms and ran his hands down to cup and lift her buttocks as her fingers dug into his back, urging him closer.
The tittering of a small boy finally interrupted them. Breathing hard, they broke apart, looking over at the urchin, who grinned and chattered at them in rapid Italian.
“What is he saying?” Derrick asked, the local idiom still impossible for him to completely decipher.
“He's asking if we would like a place to be alone. He has a very nice house just down the Via San Luca.”
“What is he charging?” Derrick asked with a rakish grin.
“Not nearly enough for it to be up to your standards, I'm certain,” she replied.
“Well, in that case, you can always consider my original offer and return with me to my apartments.”
“I'm hungry,” she announced suddenly, standing up.
“So am I and well you know it.” He watched as she wrung the water from her hair and her clothing, then attempted to straighten herself.
“I mean for food,” she replied impatiently.
Sighing, he followed her from the fountain to a stall where a pretty young woman was taking sizzling hot rounds of flat bread from an oven using a long wooden paddle. The bread was topped with chopped tomato, anchovy and cheese. “That does smell good,” he conceded.
They bought two of the scalding hot pizza pies, as they were called, transferring them from hand to hand to keep from burning themselves until the bread cooled enough to eat it. “This is one of my favorite things about Italy,” she said, wiping a string of cheese from her chin.
“Unusual,” he conceded, taking another hearty bite.
“Delicious. Admit it.”
“Not half as delicious as you,” he replied.
“But you haven't tasted me yet.”
“True, only an hors d'oeuvre or two,” he teased. “Just enough to whet my appetite.”
“And after you have h
ad the entree, then what, Derrick? Will I become table scraps?” Her tone was light, but her eyes were serious.
Chapter Five
Derrick stopped and looked directly into her eyes. “Table scraps? My fear is that I shall never have my fill of you, Beth.” He had not planned to say that, but now that he'd blurted it out, he realized that it was true. No, there was something about Beth Blackthorne that touched a part of him no one had reached before.
His expression was almost grave. He looks surprised. He did not expect to say what he said! She felt the most pleasurable rush of...of triumph surge through her. To cover her own reaction, Beth started strolling again. “Ah, easily enough said after less than two days' acquaintance.”
“Not true. We have been acquainted for over three years,” he corrected.
“I shudder to remember our first meetings,” she said with a nervous laugh.
“You do seem to have a remarkable propensity for wreaking mayhem on my person. Another day and you may well have me in my grave.”
“Do you wish to be a coward and cry off?” she asked, polishing off the last bite of her pie and licking a smear of tomato sauce from her fingers, all the while watching him from the corner of her eye.
“I'm willing to take a risk...and you, my Amazon warrior...?”
The lazy taunt in his low husky voice sent shivers down her spine. “Is that a challenge, sir?” she replied.
“ Twas you who issued the challenge, madam. I but answered it. My choice of ‘weapons' is dinner tonight.”
He was daring her and she wanted to take that dare, but she could not. Sighing with genuine regret, she replied, “Tonight I am committed to accompanying the contessa to a masquerade at the Duke di Arcovito's palace. She went to some little trouble obtaining an invitation for me.”
“I thought you disliked the social whirl of the nobility. Why would you importune her to get you an invitation to a gathering of court sycophants?” He was surprised at his sudden blaze of disappointment, and perversely angry with her for causing it.
“Because only last evening did I learn that your illustrious J. M. W. Turner will be present, and I'm dying to meet the finest landscape painter of our generation...even if he is an Englishman!”
He threw back his head and laughed, pulling her into his arms beneath the shade of a shopkeeper's canvas awning. “There's much to be said for we Englishmen! But I'm relieved to know the reason for your refusal has to do with your art,” he replied, bending down to kiss her, heedless of the press of people on the busy waterfront street.
* * * *
Derrick stood in an alcove partially hidden by a huge potted palm, observing the scene on the polished marble floor of the Duke di Arcovito's ballroom. Men and women dressed in costumes every color of the rainbow whirled around the floor to the lively strains of the Viennese rage, the waltz.
Everyone wore masks, from simple black silk dominoes such as his to incredibly elaborate sequined and feathered affairs that covered most of the wearer's face. He scanned the dance floor, searching for a tall russet-haired woman amid all the jeweled headdresses and turbans. Then he saw her, in a fantastical costume made of softly tanned white leather, elaborately worked with tiny shells and beads. Around her head she wore a matching beaded band, with her hair plaited into a fat gleaming braid that hung all the way down to her waist. Not a woman in the room could compare.
She stood in a far corner, deep in discussion with a slight, fair-haired man who must surely be English judging by his pallor. Turner, the painter. Their conversation was animated.
Derrick smiled faintly. Always so predictable, puss. Art before pleasure.
Of course, he also had a professional reason for wangling an invitation through the English charge d'affaires office. He had mixed and mingled, listening and convincing several of Queen Caroline's ladies-in-waiting to reveal with whom her majesty had been corresponding in recent weeks. If the exiled Napoleon planned to foment an uprising in Italy, Lord Liverpool's government in London would be advised of it well in advance.
That was how he'd justified his presence at the masquerade to his snappish “manservant.” Drum had fumed about Derrick being tricked out like a Bartholomew baby when he dressed all in black from domino and swirling cape to thigh-high leather boots.
The idea of masquerading as a highwayman had a certain ironic appeal for a spy, he'd told Drum, who merely scoffed, saying that Jamison's only reason for the costume was to appeal to his latest paramour. Although he vehemently denied it, Derrick was forced to admit that Beth Blackthorne had taken hold of his imagination...and more physical parts of his anatomy.
Was she right? Did he desire her because he had not yet had her? Or was this fascination something more complex? There was only one way to find out. He began wending his way across the room to her, but before he could get through the press, a man dressed as a Turkish sultan swept her onto the dance floor. The long fringes on her costume swayed in time with the music, parting enticingly to reveal flashes of sleek long arms and legs. His mouth was dry as he watched her laugh and banter with the “pasha.”
“Might I cut in, old chap? There's a good fellow,” he said to the elderly Neapolitan gentleman who was left standing flummoxed in the middle of the floor as Derrick whirled Beth away.
“I don't believe Signore Valpolicino understood a word you said, and it was rather rude of you to cut in that way,” she said with no apparent displeasure. The tiny white silk domino she wore shadowed her eyes, but her lips were tilted in a delighted smile.
“I doubt the relations between Naples and England can be set back much further than the Royal Navy has already done,” he replied, also smiling as they glided around the floor. “You are dressed as a red Indian. Tell me, do the women take scalps as well as the men?”
“No, but we're justly famed as skilled torturers.”
“Oh, I know well how skilled you are at torture, madam,” he whispered against her neck.
The heat of his breath sent a shiver racing through her body. “How did you gain admittance to the palace?” she asked, shifting the conversation to a safer topic.
“I had an invitation. Of course, it was issued to Sir Edmund Osgood, who works for the British charge d'affaires. I've known Eddie since school days.”
“How convenient. Did you come just to dance with me?” What made me ask that?
“What other reason could I have?” he murmured, holding her far closer than propriety allowed.
Her laugh was low and seductive. “I do believe I like the obvious reason very much.” What a dangerous game I play, she scolded herself, then stopped. No. I'm not the childishly rebellious young prude who arrived in Naples so long ago. I am a woman dedicated to my painting, but that need not mean that I cannot enjoy life's other pleasures as well.
Her fingers glided over the satin of his cape, which flew rakishly behind him as they danced. She could feel every muscle in his shoulder and her fingertips flexed, digging into the steely hardness. Her eyes were at a level with the broad column of his neck, but she could glance down at the crisp black hair peeking out of the black linen shirt he wore open halfway to his waist. She wanted to bury her face against the wall of flesh, inhale the maleness of his scent. “You make a most convincing highwayman, Derrick. I can imagine you thundering over the moors on a big black stallion, terrorizing the local gentry and making all the ladies swoon even as you rob them.”
“I've never owned a black stallion, but I thank you for the compliment nonetheless.” He could feel her heart beating in time with his as they whirled about the floor. The high color staining her cheeks and the delicate little pulse at her throat revealed that she was his for the taking. He would take her, yes, but he would not use her, he vowed.
This is the second time I’ve made exception for you, puss. What is it about you, hmm? He knew she was certainly not the virginal miss he'd met in America, but then again, what did he really know of Americans? Of her? Perhaps his assessment of her innocence had been wide of
the mark even then. She had been alone in the wilderness with only a dog for chaperon. If she had been an amoral free spirit from her childhood days, all the better for this evening's agenda, he assured himself.
When the music stopped, he took her hand, and they made their way across the floor to where the Contessa di Remaldi waited watchfully. Derrick knew the worldly older woman could see what was going on between him and her young charge. He could not imagine that a woman of her reputation would object to Beth’s dalliance with him—unless the cunning contessa suspected that he might be a spy using Beth.
I shall simply have to charm her mistrust away. A task easier vowed than accomplished, he knew. Her smile was wide and appeared genuine as she greeted them, offering a hand dripping with sapphires this night, the gems matching the heavy royal blue border on her elegant Grecian robe. She was dressed as the goddess Athena, a most appropriate choice, he thought with wry amusement.
“A notable turnout,” the contessa said, scanning all the important court officials around the room, then returning her penetrating black eyes to him as he raised his head after saluting her hand.
“ I understand the duke is one of the most ardent supporters of the king among the Neapolitan nobility. It would make sense that everyone of import would attend if invited,” he replied with a smile.
“Even though you are a gentleman of some import, how did you receive an invitation, having just arrived two days ago?”
“I went to Eton with a chap who's now working for the charge d'affaires here. He fell ill and gave me his invitation.”
“How convenient,” the contessa murmured.
“Precisely what Beth said,” he returned with another blinding smile. “Would you be shocked if I confessed that I put an emetic in his afternoon tea in order to be here to dance with Beth?”
