by Henke, Shirl
“Your fun is over,” he said in Italian, standing his ground.
“What is it to you? We saw him first,” one youth said arrogantly.
“Do not interfere in what is none of your business, foreigner,” a second said with a menacing scowl, hefting a large sharp-edged rock in one grimy fist.
“He is a dog himself,” the first said, mocking Derrick by barking. That move emboldened several of the smaller lazzaroni to draw closer to their ringleaders.
Beth started to rise, but Derrick motioned for her to stay back. As he did so he slipped the knife from his boot, letting the bright noon sun glint evilly on its blade. “Now, who wants to cast the first stone at this foreign ‘dog’?” Derrick barked, advancing toward the larger of the two youths.
Indecision was written across his grimy face as he tensed, weighing his options. His instincts, sharpened by seventeen years of survival on the streets, told him that the tall fellow with his cold blue eyes was very dangerous, in fact, spoiling for a fight. He, too, had a stiletto in his belt, but going one-on-one with the older man unnerved him. If the others would back him...he let the thought slide away. No, they would vanish into the fondachi the moment he crossed blades with such a deadly adversary.
He spit on the ground with a guttural oath, saying, “The dog will die anyway. There's no sport in killing him...or you.”
As the bullies disappeared, Beth released the breath she'd been holding. She watched Derrick slip the knife back into its hiding place, as graceful and nonchalant as if he'd been cleaning fish instead of facing down a pack of dangerous ruffians. But she knew that none of them were half so dangerous as the Englishman. He walked over to her and knelt once more beside the dog, who raised his head and licked his former master's hand.
“Good boy, Percy,” Derrick said, scooping up the injured animal, heedless of the dog's filthy condition.
Beth's heart skipped a beat at the gesture. This kind man was nothing like the deadly stranger who had faced down a mob only a moment ago. “Thank you for rescuing Percy. I assumed Mr. Drummond took him along when you left Naples.”
“We sent him to his trainer with a message,” he said to Beth. ”I imagine Murat's men must have killed our man.”
Beth blinked. “His trainer? I thought he was your dog.” She quickly paid the nervous old woman for the milk, then turned back to Derrick with a puzzled expression on her face.
As they walked through the streets to where their carriage waited, Derrick explained about Sir Percival’s training as a courier for the Foreign Office. She took the dog after he assisted her into the small curricle.
“Tis incredible. A spy dog,” she said, crooning to Per-cival, trying not to think that everything she knew about Derrick Jamison had been a deception, right down to the animal she had believed to be his pet.
“His tail's wagging—or at least he's trying valiantly to wag it,” he said softly.
She watched his large tanned hand stroke the dog's ears gently. The simple tenderness brought tears to her eyes. I love you, Derrick. Papa is right. You're a man of honor and principle. “I shall have to cleanse and stitch those wounds,” she said, striving to be practical before she started blubbering.
“She's good at the task, old boy. I can vouch for it,” he said, his eyes meeting hers as his smile was replaced by a serious expression. ”I have never thanked you properly for saving my life that night, puss.”
There was a warm light in his eyes. She was not imagining it. “You also saved me and now poor Percy as well. We are well met, Derrick,” she said, meaning more than she was able to put into words.
“Perhaps we are at that, puss. Perhaps we are.” He studied her face, looking at her as if he could see into her soul. He had hurt her with his lies, his desertion, but he knew intuitively that she possessed the power to hurt him even more. I’m a fool to risk it. But honor demanded that he do so. “Have you considered my offer, Beth?”
She had known he would press her sooner or later that day. Everyone seemed to wish that they wed. Indeed, it seemed that only she and Derrick had misgivings, but still his blasted honor made him agree with the others. What was she to do? Her breath was shaky as she replied, “Yes, Derrick. I will marry you.”
* * * *
“Stop fidgeting so I can straighten the combs. You've pulled them loose,” Vittoria said, giving Beth's hair a final touch, then standing back to inspect Donita's handiwork. “You look enchanting, cara.”
The contessa had selected the fabric for the gown and engaged her own seamstress and several of her assistants to complete it in time. Made exactly to her specifications, it was palest peach silk shot through with glittery threads of gold. The color of the gown gave a rich glow to Beth's complexion and accented the lush burnished highlights in her russet hair. The low rounded neckline showed off the swell of her breasts, and the straight skirt emphasized the length of her legs. Gold-embroidered ribbon trimmed the sleeves and high waistline, and a train fanned gracefully from the back, light and airy as gossamer wings.
Beth's face was flushed with nervous excitement, but her eyes were haunted. Was she making a terrible mistake for which both she and Derrick would pay the rest of their lives? What if this was all for nothing and she was not with child? She'd had no real symptoms except for the cessation of her flux. Then again, what if she truly was carrying Derrick's baby? That could be even worse. He believed the child might be Quinn's or Kasseim's. If I am pregnant, I will tell him the truth. Pray God he will believe me!
That he might not believe her declaration had given her several bad nights since she'd accepted his proposal. She could only imagine what the passengers from the Sea Sprite had told him about her and Quinn, and apparently his “friend” Kasseim had lied about having her as well. Whose word would Derrick trust? After all, considering how they had met and become lovers in the first place, he had no reason for great confidence in her morals.
But I never lied to him as he did to me.
How could they build a marriage on such a beginning? “I don't think I can go through with this,” she blurted out to Vittoria as soon as Donita was out of earshot.
The contessa looked at her young friend's flushed, tense face. “You're not just having bridal nerves, are you, cara? Oh, I was afraid of this when the men came to me with their assurances that things would work out and this was the only solution. But you are so in love with him, and he has pursued you...even courted you. I've seen it with my own eyes.”
“Tis just his sense of duty, not love.”
“Oh, I'll grant you the young fool does not know he's in love with you yet,” Vittoria said dismissively.
“What do you mean, ‘yet’?” Beth asked, a faint flicker of hope rising.
“He's convinced himself that this is the honorable thing to do—and you know Englishmen and their honor,” she huffed. “But that is because he's afraid to admit anything more. After all, he's spent his life very unconventionally for an earl's son—a spy, an adventurer moving from country to country, flirting with danger and beautiful women,” she admitted. “But you are different. He is afraid. He does not know how to show love. You shall simply have to teach him.”
“Is this the same Vittoria who's always said marriage is a prison and love a myth? Piero has certainly changed your outlook,” Beth said wonderingly.
An expression of great tenderness suffused the contessa's face, making the sophisticated woman appear almost girlish. ”I confess,'tis true, but we had to wait half our lives to learn that truth. Do not waste half—or all—of yours to do the same. You have great courage, you Americans. You can win, Beth...if you wish it.”
“Oh, I do wish it.”
“Then I see little to stand in your way. After all, he's agreed to live here in Naples. Piero's already talking with him regarding the shipping business. You can continue your art career—what is to keep you from enjoying the same relationship you had before, now that he is no longer a spy who will vanish—poof!—in the night?”
; Vittoria's flamboyant Italian gestures made Beth smile. “No, I suppose if he gives that damnable English word of his, he will not vanish—'poof!'—in the night.”
“Then what are we waiting for? Your bridegroom has probably paced a hole in my best Turkish carpet by now. Come,” she said, taking Beth's arm.
When they reached the bottom of the long stairway, Beth could hear soft music floating on the warm summer breeze from the portico. Her father and Piero stood in the hallway, engaged in conversation with a small handful of people while the jolly little priest, Father Vìvalde, approached them, his round face beaming with smiles. The ceremony was to be simple with only a few guests, friends of hers and the contessa's from the art community.
“Ah, such a very beautiful bride!” Father Vivalde exclaimed with the inbred flirtatiousness that Beth had learned all Italian men possessed. He bowed over her hand, then greeted the contessa, who was a longtime friend as well as parishioner. But their conversation faded, as did everything else in Beth's sight when she saw Derrick step into the doorway. Everyone but her father began to file dutifully out onto the flower-decked portico as Quint led her toward her groom.
Derrick looked so splendid that she felt her chest squeeze tightly with joy. His wide shoulders filled out his dark blue cashmere coat, which was cut away to reveal an embroidered waistcoat of pale blue over a white lawn shirt and perfectly starched cravat. Fawn-colored breeches hugged his long powerful legs, and he wore Hessians polished to a high luster.
His piercing blue gaze locked with hers, transfixing her as she tried to read behind the set expression on his face. A faint smile touched those sculpted lips and seemed to warm his eyes—or was it a trick of the light? Did he welcome his bride? Or accept his duty?
As her thoughts pitched and tumbled about, the keen longing for his love became an ache down to the very core of her soul. Then her father leaned down and whispered in her ear, “If you truly do not wish to wed him, Beth, I will take you home straightaway. Only say the word.”
Chapter Seventeen
I will take you home...home. Where was that? Back in Georgia? The life she had worked so hard to create was here in Naples. Still, the comfort of her father's strong arm reminded her that she could once more be surrounded by loving family. All she need do was say the word. For an instant, Beth almost turned and fled the assembled guests—and her reluctant bridegroom.
But then she raised her eyes once more and fell under his mesmerizing spell. Derrick stood with his hands loosely at his sides, legs braced slightly apart as if they were still on the deck of the San Marcos. That single lock of hair fell across his brow as he tilted his head toward her, skewering her with his intense blue eyes. She felt like a sparrow stalked by a cat, powerless to fly away and escape its fate.
Her fingers tightened on her father's arm, but her voice was steady as she whispered, “No, Papa. I will wed him.” God help me, I can do nothing else!
Her father said no more as they approached the beaming priest, flanked by the bridegroom, whose expression gave away nothing. With a sudden jolt of recognition, Blackthorne realized that it must have been precisely the way he had looked as Madelyne approached him for their marriage ceremony.
Would Derrick treat Beth as unfairly as he had her mother? He prayed not. What have I done? he thought helplessly as his daughter glided from his arm to that of her soon-to-be husband. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with emotion. She was not the innocent that Madelyne had been, he reminded himself. Beth and the Englishman had been lovers for some months and there could well be a child. Quint had no illusions about how headstrong and self-sufficient his daughter could be, nor did he doubt that she loved this man. He put aside his misgivings.
The ceremony went smoothly, with both bride and groom making their vows in strong steady voices. Derrick surprised Beth and her worried father by placing an antique gold ring intricately set with emeralds on her finger. Everyone could see that it must be a family heirloom. After the final benediction, the wedding party was served a light repast and sparkling wine on the portico. Everyone gave their good wishes, but after a few moments, Derrick and Beth found themselves with a moment's privacy in the shade of the bougainvillea arbor.
“To my bride.” He raised his glass to hers in a salute, then took a sip. His eyes never left her face as he watched her drink. The ring sparkled delicately on her finger as she held the crystal champagne flute. “It fits quite perfectly.”
“Tis lovely, Derrick. And very old.” An heirloom intended for a blue-blooded Englishwoman, she thought disconsolately.
“It belonged to my maternal grandmother Celine. She was French, and ironically enough the only member of my family with whom I got on. She died when I was a lad at Eton. At least I did not hurt her as I did the rest.”
“And this was to be for your English bride?” The moment the words slipped out, she wanted to call them back. Of course it was not for an American adventuress with a tarnished reputation.
“It was simply a keepsake, Beth. A lucky charm, if you will, which I've always carried with me. It seemed appropriate to give it to you. The emeralds match the green flecks in your eyes.”
When he took her hand and raised it to his lips for a soft kiss, she wished desperately to believe that he wanted this marriage to work as much as she did. “My eyes are drab hazel brown,” was all she said in reply.
That called forth a flashing grin. “Not when you're angry...or excited.”
From across the wide sunny portico, Piero and Vittoria watched the bridal couple. Her troubled expression led him to say, “Do not fret, cara. All will be well. Look at them. Whether or not they realize it, they are as much in love as we were.”
“And that is supposed to soothe me?” she replied sharply. “Look what happened to us.”
“We were separated by circumstances—family matters over which we had no control. These young people have nothing of the sort to concern them. They shall build a good life here in Naples. Only wait and see.”
She smiled at him. “It was good of you to offer employment to the Englishman.”
“It was good business. With the threat of piracy ended, Mediterranean trade will prosper, and with it, so will my expanding shipping business.”
“Will you return to America once you've made all the arrangements here?” Her tone was watchful, guarded, even though she strove to make it sound casual and light.
Piero looked down at her with warmth sparkling in his bright blue eyes. “That would distress you, cara? To have me leave you once again?”
“I would not hold you from your new life,” she said neutrally.
“Ah, yes, that is the crux of the problem. My life has been in America and yours is here in Naples. Here you are a contessa, from an old, powerful family, still welcomed at court, arbiter in the highest circles of belle lettres. And in America you'd be but a Jewish merchant's wife.”
A small gasp of surprise escaped her lips, she who had trained herself never to reveal any weakness, any emotion, unless she chose to do so. “Are you asking me to marry you, Piero?”
“I've always wanted you for my wife, woman. Why do you think I never wed in all these years?” he replied, sounding almost angry.
“But we would have to live in America.” She nodded gravely, considering the implications.
“Only part of the time. I know your life here means a great deal to you—”
“I don't give a fig for being a contessa or being welcomed by those depraved Bourbons, but...”
“But you do care a very great deal about being a patron of the arts, living outside conventional social rules, don't you, cara?”
She could not deny it. “You cannot imagine what my life was like married to Niccolo and Umburto—”
“And you compare me to those dogs?” he asked, incensed even though he knew her fears.
“Of course not! Oh, Piero, I did not mean to hurt you that way. I know, I am going about this badly, but I’m afraid of losing myself. I have work
ed so hard to become who I am, to live as I please, to answer to no one. Here I may do that. But in America, Beth has told me a great deal about how things work. What if I did not fit in? What if your friends and family did not approve of me?”
“Or you of them? Do you honestly believe that after all we have endured I would choose anyone over you? I believe my family will welcome you—but even if they did not, it would not matter to me. You are the woman I have always loved and I would not change you.”
She took comfort in the words, the earnestness of his voice. “You said we could live in America only part of the time?” she asked hopefully.
“I have a business that requires that I be there at least part of each year, but we could return to Naples for frequent visits—extended visits. I am an American now, cara, and I would like for you to see my new home and judge for yourself its merits. I do not believe you would find it all that oppressive a place if you gave it a chance...if you give me a chance.”
She nodded slowly, her thoughts tumbling about in her head too rapidly to sort out all at once. “Yes, I—”
The sounds of good-natured revelry interrupted their conversation as Derrick scooped Beth up into his arms and carried her from the portico to the flower-bedecked carriage waiting for them at the entrance to the garden.
* * * *
Derrick had purchased the small phaeton to have reliable transportation now that he was going to reside here permanently with his wife. His wife. He looked over at Beth as he reined in the matched bays at the entrance of the modest villa he had let on the outskirts of the city.
They had spoken little on the ride. He jumped lithely from the rig and reached up to assist her down as the servants who came with the villa filed dutifully out to greet their new master and his bride. When he placed his hands about her slim waist, she seemed to float from the carriage, a vision in peach and gold, lush and tempting as summer fruit ripening on a tree.
