by Henke, Shirl
“Cara, cara,” he whispered, rocking her and stroking her hair. “This was not your doing. Beth came to the Mediterranean knowing full well the dangers, but do not despair. My country has dispatched a fleet to stop Algerine depredations and force the dey to return all American captives. Stephen Decatur is in charge. He is not a man to take no for an answer,” he said wryly.
She raised her eyes to his, daring to hope. “You know this Stephen Decatur?”
“Quite well, yes. He's a remarkable fellow who would not hesitate to march his marines right into the dey's seraglio with swords and muskets.”
“I must speak with the redemptionists about this,” she said as she slipped from the bed and reached for a robe.
“First we must break the news to Beth's father,” Piero replied grimly. “She is his only daughter and he's been on the verge of distraction ever since that letter reached him in Savannah.”
“Yes, I suppose we must,” Vittoria said sadly, knowing the anguish she already shared with Quintin Blackthorne...and the guilt she alone bore for allowing Beth to sail without her.
* * * *
Once he recovered from the devastating shock of the news, Quintin Blackthorne was a veritable tornado of energy, rousing all of Vittoria's household in the middle of the night, sending messages to the Neapolitan authorities, even to the British charge d'affaires and the commander of royal naval forces in Palermo. Then he set about arranging to purchase a ship to take him in search of Decatur's fleet.
By mid-afternoon of the following day, everything had been set in motion. An unshaven and utterly exhausted Quint sat on the contessa's portico, sipping a cup of the heavy black Turkish coffee so favored around the Mediterranean. He grimaced at the bitter undertaste of the sweet drink and stretched his long legs out in front of him, combing his fingers through his hair as he looked at Vittoria.
“Tell me about this English lordling my daughter has become involved with.”
“Derrick Jamison is the brother of the Earl of Lynden. And a British spy.”
“A spy!” Blackthorne sat bolt upright in his sgabello chair. “How the gods do mock us,Contessa. In the late war between his country and mine, I, too, was a spy. It does not endear him any the more to me. What was his mission here?”
Quint knew little of Italian politics beyond what Beth wrote in her letters, which were mostly filled with fluff to soothe her fretting parents. Vittoria explained what she had gleaned about Jamison's work.
“Then the wretch was using Beth,” he said in a quiet but deadly tone of voice.
Vittoria, like Piero, decided quickly that it would not be wise to cross Quintin Blackthorne. But prudence be damned; Beth's happiness came first. “He may have been at first,” she conceded. “He came here grievously wounded the last night Beth ever saw him. Murat's guardsmen were scouring the city for him.”
“I find it difficult to credit that you did not turn him over to the soldiers, cara,” Piero interjected softly, for he had always known her politics.
“I might have, but Beth was quite desperately in love with him. Even if I had known of his presence, I do not think I could have hurt her that way. She stitched up a terrible bullet slash on his ribs; then he stole my fastest racer and left before dawn.”
“You let her lose her innocence to him in the first place. That was the beginning of the hurt,” Quint accused.
Piero started to remonstrate, but Vittoria placed her hand over his and answered, “We do things differently here, signore. That is part of the reason Beth wished to come here—to be free to pursue her dreams, to—”
“To give away her virtue like some waterfront prostitute!” Blackthorne interrupted tightly.
“You are unfair, Quint,” Piero said evenly, trying to mediate what was becoming an ugly confrontation. “You are both too exhausted to think straight.”
“I can think well enough, Piero,” she replied, staring intently into Blackthorne's cold green eyes. “Her virtue, as you so quaintly put it, is Beth's alone to bestow, but that was not what brought her to Naples. She came to paint. To create a life for herself in a place where people would understand and appreciate her for what she is—a very gifted artist.”
“And you imply, madam, that her family did not understand or appreciate her.”
She ignored his deadly tone. “You love her—and she you, but that alone cannot make her happy.”
“And taking an English lover did?”
Before Vittoria could reply, Beth's maid Donita came scurrying from the main salon onto the open porch, breathless, her face flushed with joy. “Oh, Contessa, Contessa, she's alive—she's here! My mistress is here!”
Piero and Vittoria understood what the maid had blurted out in Italian and leaped to their feet as the contessa attempted to calm the hysterical young woman. Quint could only intuit that the news was good, but it was he who first saw his daughter walking down the hallway to the portico door.
“Beth!” He strode eagerly across the marble floor separating them.
“Papa!” Beth flew into his arms. “How wonderful to see you. What are you doing in Naples?”
“I've come to take you home, daughter.”
It was then that Quint noticed the tall Englishman. Mutual recognition flared instantly. A second later, Blackthorne's fist connected with the younger man's jaw, knocking him to the floor.
Derrick Jamison had spent years learning to sense danger and protect himself from it. He had seen Blackthorne's fist coming. Yet he made no attempt to avoid it. Had guilt and some perverse need to be punished turned him into a damned punching bag? What a coil, he thought as he rolled instantly, albeit a bit unsteadily, to his feet. His hands were still at his sides.
The explosive violence had been so completely unexpected that it took a moment for Beth to react. “Stop this at once!” she shrieked as she rushed to Derrick. Shielding him from her father, she daubed at the blood trickling from the corner of her lover's mouth.
Blackthorne did not fail to note his daughter's protec-tiveness. Then, glancing over her head, he met the steady, calm gaze of the dark-haired Englishman. Damn, this was not going to be easy.
Vittoria broke the tense silence. “As to what your father is doing in Naples, cara, he has heard some unfortunate rumors about your romantic involvement with Signore Jamison.” The contessa's eyes flicked to Derrick with a faint hint of amusement. Let him sweat.
“Rumors? From whom? Some Neapolitan busybody?” Derrick asked, noting for the first time the presence of a stranger standing beside the contessa.
“A countryman of yours, a chap named Drummond. He indicated that he's a friend of my nephew Alexander,” Blackthorne growled, daring the bastard to deny the allegations.
“Drum!” Derrick cursed silently, employing every epithet he knew to the devious dandy. “So that was what the scrawny little wretch meant when—” He stopped before he dug himself a deeper hole.
“And just exactly what did you hope to do when you found me with Derrick?” Beth interjected. These two arrogant males were not going to decide her fate or fight a duel or commit any other tomfoolery while she had a tongue in her head!
“Jamison, consider yourself fortunate that I’m more concerned with seeing my daughter returned safely home than I am with you,” Blackthorne replied, directing the answer to her question to his opponent.
“I'm relieved to hear that, sir, but perhaps your daughter does not wish to return ‘safely home.’ Will you drag her aboard ship?” Derrick asked with the lazy arrogance of an English toff.
“Kicking and screaming, if necessary, to save her from the likes of some damned bored lordling such as you.” Blackthorne's voice was colder than ever now.
Derrick stiffened at the insult. It was too close to the opinion shared by his family. “You have an ill way of repaying kindness, especially considering that I have risked my life to free your daughter in spite of the fact that it was her own impetuosity that landed her in danger in the first place,” he snarled.
“Just a moment!” Beth said loudly, forcing herself between the two bristling men and placing a palm on the chest of each one, shoving them farther apart so she could speak her piece. “How dare you both speak of me as if I were not even present!” Rounding first on Derrick, she said, “It was not some flight of impetuosity that sent me sailing, but the opportunity to paint in the Baleric Islands.”
She would have bitten off her tongue before she admitted that she'd taken the journey as a nostrum to forget him. Then she turned on her father. “And I will do a deal more than kick and scream if you even think of forcing me to return home!”
Vittoria placed her arms around Beth's shoulders and removed her from between the two glowering men. “As Piero suggested earlier, everyone is too exhausted and overwrought to make any rational decisions.”
“Piero?” Beth echoed, looking at the handsome older man who had said little during the exchange but remained steadfastly at Vittoria's side. “Not your Piero—the one who...”
He bowed gallantly to her, saying, “Yes, the very one. I accompanied your father to act as his interpreter, hoping to find the Vittoria of Mr. Drummond’s letter was the lady of my heart.”
“Enough of this,” the contessa interrupted, feeling almost giddy from Piero's words. The lady of his heart! “I'm going to see that Beth has a hot bath, a quiet meal and some rest. I would recommend the same for you, gentlemen. I'll have my servants see to your needs,” she said firmly, ushering her young friend from the room with a warning glare in Derrick's direction. As soon as she saw to Beth, she would dispatch a trusted servant with instructions to see that the Englishman did not once again slip away.·
After the women had departed, Piero looked from Blackthorne to Jamison and back. “Tis good advice.”
“Bugger it!” Derrick snapped, his patience at an end. “I'll not see Beth dragged back to some provincial wilderness. She chose her course and you have no right to change it at this late date.”
“Are you challenging me to a duel for exercising my fatherly duty?” Blackthorne asked in a deadly quiet voice.
Piero's patience was beginning to wear decidedly thin. Anglo-American propriety was oppressive in the extreme. “Perhaps I am not as Americanized as I thought. Italians possess infinitely more sense when it comes to matters of the heart. It would seem that Beth loves you both...although I cannot see any good reason for it,” he added beneath his breath. “I would imagine there is a very good chance that you would both acquit yourselves expertly on a field of honor. A dead father. A dead lover. Now there's a fine solution to everything.”
The antagonists were forced to see the logic in his words.“Perhaps a duel is not wise,” Blackthorne conceded.
Jamison nodded. “Yes, I agree.”
“But there are matters that must be settled,” Quint said, turning to Piero. “If we give our word not to go at each other with any lethal instruments, will you trust us alone to discuss the matter?”
Piero considered for a moment, then reluctantly agreed. “Only remember that the ladies will have a say in anything you might decide.” On that disquieting note, he went indoors in search of the bath and meal Vittoria had promised. Once rested, they, too, had much to discuss.
“Beth's reputation is in shreds because of you and because of her abduction. She cannot remain here in Naples. The only solution is for her to return home.”
“She won't go,” Derrick replied wearily, with a sigh of defeat. Ah, puss, what are we to do with you?
“What if she's pregnant?” Blackthorne's words hung on the air. ”I assume you...sailed together from Algiers?”
The implication was not lost on Derrick. “Yes,” he admitted. “I brought her safely back where she wished to go. After your friend Decatur secured her release, he urged her to return to America with his fleet.” He could not resist adding, “She refused.”
“That has nothing to do with the dilemma now. She is here. She has been compromised—by you. And it is your duty as a gentleman to wed her.” Exactly how he had leaped to this unpalatable conclusion completely on his own stunned Quint as soon as he had uttered the words, but before he could reconsider, Derrick surprised him by nodding in defeat.
The guilty realization that they had done nothing on the voyage to prevent conception had struck him the moment Blackthorne raised the question of possible pregnancy. Of course, there was every good chance that any child she might carry was not his but the corsair captain's or Kasseim's. Still, for all the willfully foolish risks she had taken, Beth did not deserve to be left without the protection of a husband's name. ”I will marry her…if she'll have me.”
* * * *
”I will not marry him!” Beth was so frustrated, she would have hurled the bust of Julius Caeser across the sitting room if she could have lifted the immense hunk of marble. She stood beside the chair she had just jumped out of, ready to bolt. If she could not make Vittoria understand, how would she convince her father?
After speaking with Quintin Blackthorne, Vittoria had convinced him that it might be best if she broke the news of Derrick's proposal. She had ordered a light repast for the two of them in her quarters and urged Beth to talk about what had befallen her during her captivity and rescue. Only then had she explained Derrick's offer. “Be reasonable, cara. You love him—”
“Ah, yes, I love him, no matter at all that he does not love me,” she interrupted Vittoria.
“How do you know that he does not? It seems to me he risked a great deal to save you in Algiers, then bring you back here instead of leaving you with the Americans.”
“You don't understand,” Beth said miserably.
“Then explain, cara,” the contessa replied gently. “We have all night. That is why I asked your father to leave us alone.”
“I'm amazed my father agreed. In fact, I'm amazed he even considered my marrying Derrick. And don't tell me that it was Derrick's idea.” She wanted desperately for Vittoria to reassure her but could see at once that her hope was vain.
“No, it was not, although apparently he did agree quite readily.”
“And my father did not even have to point a pistol at his head to extract the offer from him? I should feel thrilled by the romance of it!”
“It was not that way at all,” Vittoria remonstrated, not one bit certain what actually had transpired.
“Oh, then what way was it? Why couldn't Derrick come to me himself and propose?” Saying the words hurt.
“After the scene you witnessed between him and your father, he felt it best if I broached the subject to you first. He has been summoned to speak with the British charge
d'affaires. He is still in the employ of their Foreign Office, you know.”
“You are in great charity with him, considering how you felt when you first learned he was a spy. Then you wanted to cut out his heart and feed it to the gulls on the quay. What has changed your mind about him?”
“You, cara. After he was gone and you believed you'd never see him again, how you grieved and could not paint...I knew then that you loved him as I loved Piero.”
“You always told me that you didn't believe in that kind of forever love.”
Vittoria smiled sadly. “I lied...to protect you from the hurt I felt. Perhaps I lied to myself as well all these years. My life has been good, yes, but a part of me was always empty. I never knew how empty until I saw Piero standing in this very room yesterday evening.”
Beth felt her chest tighten with emotion—joy for her friend, but what for herself? “You think that I will always love Derrick that way—that I will never get over him?”
Vittoria took her hand, smiling. “You don't have to get over him—or pine away alone. He's here and he wants to marry you. I doubt even your formidable father could force him if he did not want to. All you have to do is say yes. Father Vivalde will perform the ceremony as soon as I speak with the bishop regarding waiving the banns.”
“This is all happening too swiftly. I must discuss this with Derrick before
I'll agree. We have many things to sort out first.”
Beth waited for Derrick to return that night, pacing nervously in her quarters. She was afraid to hope that they could build a life together. Would she be forced to spend the rest of her life as Vittoria had until Piero returned? Her friend, usually cool and aloof, now radiated the glow of a well loved woman, blissfully happy, almost girlishly giddy when she looked at or spoke with her lover.
Is that how I appear around Derrick? she wondered. If so, she had certainly been wearing her heart on her sleeve. Not so her spy. Physical desire for her was the only emotion he had ever revealed. Why had he agreed to leg-shackling? For that matter, why should she? Hearing the tall case clock down the hall strike midnight, she realized he was late. Still conferring with the officials from his government? Or had he repented his offer and fled Naples in the night once again?
Derrick stood in the outside doorway to her quarters, watching her while she was unaware of his presence. After the ordeal with Blackthorne, followed by a lengthy session with Sir Richard, he was past being exhausted. His mind felt as numb as his body—until he looked at her. Ever since that day when he'd first seen her in peasant's garb on the quay, she had entranced him to the point of obsession. As a mistress he had desired her beyond all reason...but as a wife? He was not certain how he would feel when the priest pronounced them bound together for life.
Dammit all, he had never intended to marry. That was Leighton's duty, not his. But when he gazed at the strong, vibrant planes of her face, the lush curves of her body...
She seemed to sense his presence like a doe sensing the approach of a predator. He watched as she turned and looked at him without saying a word.
“Hello, Beth. Sorry I’m so late.” Too stiff by half, Jamison. He strode into her sitting room and took her hands, raising them to his lips as he tried to read her expression.
“Vittoria told me you were with the charge d'affaires,” she replied, withdrawing her hands and turning to the table, where Donita had set out a cold collation and a bottle of claret. Her hands trembled as she poured two glasses of the ruby liquid. Forcing them to hold steady, she handed him a glass.
