The Mediterranean Rebel’s Bride

by Lucy Gordon

  ‘Didn’t you think it strange that she wouldn’t tell you her full name?’

  ‘At the time it almost seemed irrelevant-something that could be sorted out later. What she gave me-I’m not good with words, I couldn’t describe it-but it made me a different man. Better.’

  There was something almost shocking in the quiet simplicity of the last word. Hesitantly, Polly asked, ‘How do you mean, better?’

  Slowly he laid his fingers over his heart.

  ‘What’s in here has always been just for me,’ he said. ‘I’ve kept it that way. A man’s safer that way.’

  ‘But why must he always be safe?’ she ventured to ask.

  ‘That’s what she made me ask myself. It was like becoming someone else-ready to take risks I couldn’t take before, glad of it. I even enjoyed her laughing at me. I’ve never found it easy to be laughed at, but she-well, I’d have accepted anything from her.’

  Against her will Polly heard Freda’s voice in her head, chuckling.

  ‘The tougher they are, the more fun it is when they become my slaves.’

  And this was the result-this bleak, desolate man holding onto his belief in her like a drowning man clinging to a raft. What would become of him in a few moments when that comfort was finally snatched away?

  ‘What happened after she left me?’ he asked.

  Polly took a deep breath.

  ‘She went back to George, and nine months later she had a baby.’

  He stared at her. ‘Are you saying-?’

  ‘Your baby.’

  He hauled himself up again, waving her away so that he could sit on the edge of the bed, his back to her.

  ‘How can you be sure it’s mine?’ he demanded harshly.

  ‘It isn’t George’s. It couldn’t be.’

  ‘But why didn’t she tell me? I never concealed where I lived. Why didn’t she come to me? She couldn’t have thought I’d turn my back on her. She knew how much I-She knew-’

  ‘She didn’t want you told.’

  ‘But-’

  ‘She wanted to stay married to George, so she had an affair hoping to get pregnant.’

  For a moment he was as still as if he’d been punched over the heart.

  ‘Shut up!’ he said at last in a fierce voice. ‘Do you know what you’re saying about her?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, with a touch of sadness. ‘I’m saying that she planned everything.’

  ‘You’re saying she was a calculating, cold-hearted bitch?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she insisted. ‘She could be warm and funny and generous. But when she came to London that time she wanted something, and it turned out to be you.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he snapped. ‘You don’t know how it was with us when we were together-how could you understand-?’

  She remembered George when he’d learned the truth, wailing pitiably, ‘I thought she really loved me.’

  The mood hadn’t lasted. He’d become vicious and vengeful, but she’d briefly glimpsed the devastation that Freda could cause. She’d been a genius at inspiring love by pretending love, and she’d obviously done it well with both men.

  ‘Did her husband think the child was his?’ Ruggiero asked.

  ‘At first, yes. Then he found out by chance that he had a very low sperm count, and he began to doubt. He demanded a test, and when he discovered that he wasn’t the father he threw Freda and the baby out of the house.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Almost a year ago.’

  ‘Why didn’t she come to me then?’

  Because she’d hoped to entice George back, was the truthful answer. But Polly couldn’t bring herself to hurt him more, so she softened it.

  ‘She was already growing thin from illness. She said she’d contact you when she got well. But she never did. She came to live with me. I nursed her as best I could, but it was hopeless. She made me promise to find you afterwards-to tell you that you have a son.’

  ‘She’s dead,’ he murmured. ‘Dead-and I wasn’t with her.’

  In the face of his pain there was nothing she could say.

  ‘Why didn’t I know?’ he demanded. ‘How come I didn’t sense it when we were so close?’

  Polly was silent, knowing that Freda had never felt close to him.

  ‘You should have found a way to contact me while she was alive,’ he insisted.

  ‘I couldn’t. She wouldn’t tell me where to find you. I didn’t even know that you lived in Naples. I found out that and the name of this villa in a letter she wrote me, to be opened when she was dead.’

  ‘I would have looked after her,’ he said in a daze.

  ‘She didn’t want you to see her. She hated not being beautiful any more.’

  ‘Do you think I’d have cared about that?’ he flashed, with a hint of ferocity. ‘I wouldn’t even have seen it. I lo-’

  He stopped himself with a sharp breath, like a man pulling back from the brink. His haggard eyes met hers.

  ‘It’s too late,’ he said, like a man facing the bleak truth for the first time. ‘Too late.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. She reached for him but he flinched away.

  ‘I want you to go,’ he said.

  ‘But-’

  ‘Get out, for pity’s sake!’ he said in agony.

  She rose, reaching out for her copy of the picture, but he took it, saying curtly, ‘Leave that.’

  At the door she glanced back at him. He was holding both pictures, looking from one to the other as though in this way he might discover a secret. He didn’t notice as she left.

  Polly understood his need to be alone. She shared it. The conversation had been even harder than she’d expected. She’d been fooled by Freda’s ‘love-’ em-and-leave-’em’ description of Ruggiero, thinking he might take the news in that spirit.

  Instead, his explosion of emotion had astonished her. Suddenly she saw the chasm yawning at her feet. From the first moment everything about Ruggiero had been a surprise-starting with the discovery that her cousin haunted him. She should have been prepared for tonight, but she’d sensed the danger almost too late.

  ‘You’re saying she was a calculating, cold-hearted bitch?’

  He’d spoken as though the mere thought was outrageous, but it was an exact description of Freda. In the great days of her beauty she would have taken it as a compliment.

  ‘It’s such fun to make them sit up and beg,’ she’d once trilled. ‘You can make a man do anything if you go about it the right way.’

  Later, talking about Ruggiero, with his baby in her arms, she’d said, ‘He was the best-know what I mean? Well, no-maybe you don’t.’

  ‘I certainly don’t have your wide experience for making comparisons,’ Polly had replied, trying to speak lightly.

  ‘Well, take my word for it. Ruggiero was really something in bed.’ She had given a luxurious gurgle. ‘Every woman should have an Italian lover. There are things about passion that only they understand.’

  There had been no affection in her voice. Freda had taken what she wanted from her lover, then dispensed with him. She’d appreciated his technical skills, but she’d never thought of him as a person.

  And in that she’d lost out, Polly realised. Clever as she was, Freda hadn’t discovered the things that made Ruggiero truly fascinating: the contrast between the contrived self that he showed to the world and the true self that he hid as though alarmed by it, the mulish stubbornness that collapsed into unexpected moments of self-deprecating humour. He was intriguing because everything about him contradicted everything else. A woman could spend years trying to understand him, enjoying every moment of the challenge, and Freda hadn’t suspected it.

  I’ve seen it, Polly thought suddenly. But I didn’t want to. Heaven help me, this is no time to be falling into that trap! I’m just here to do a job.

  She’d been clumsy tonight-hinting that his goddess had had feet of clay, which he hadn’t been ready to hear. He’d lov
ed Sapphire, perhaps without fully realising it until that moment. If so, it was a cruel discovery made in the cruellest possible way.

  She’d wanted to escape him before-but now she wanted to be with him, consoling him.

  She went out into the corridor, pausing outside his door, her hand raised to knock. But then she heard a soft, rhythmic sound coming from inside the room, as though a man was thumping the wall in rage and misery.

  She turned away.

  Polly spent the rest of the night sitting up by the window, thinking of him, alone in his suffering, because that was how he preferred it. The thought of that appalling bleakness made her shudder, and her heart reached out to him. But she wasn’t the one he wanted.

  At last, as dawn began to break, there was a soft knock at her door. He was standing there, a cotton robe over his pyjamas. The anger had gone from his face, leaving only weariness.

  ‘Come in,’ she said quietly.

  But he didn’t move, only looked at her with a kind of desperation.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Can’t I help you?’

  ‘I’m not sure-perhaps I should-’

  ‘Why don’t you come in and talk about it?’

  He looked at her, feeling himself paralysed by indecision. His self-confidence had drained away without warning, and now he hardly knew how to cope.

  He’d dismissed Polly from his sight, but even then he’d known that he must follow her. He resented her, almost hated her, but against his will he was drawn after her. Now he stood on her threshold, fighting an impulse to back off, knowing that if he yielded to it a deep need would make him return.

  ‘Let’s talk,’ she said gently, taking his arm and drawing him inside.

  He sat uneasily on the bed.

  ‘I seem to have a mountain of apologies to make.’

  ‘Never mind,’ she told him lightly. ‘You’ve had a big shock.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’

  ‘It’s over. Past. Forget it.’

  ‘Thank you. Polly, did I imagine that whole mad conversation? Did you tell me that Sapphire was dead and I have a son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re here? It wasn’t chance that we met?’

  ‘No, I knew you lived in Naples, and I knew about this villa. I’d have come here first, but there was something in the newspaper about your brother’s wedding. It mentioned your firm, so I went there and found out about the racetrack. Ruggiero, please believe me-I haven’t been spying on you. I stayed here because it gave me a chance to be near you and choose my moment. I wanted to explain before, but you were ill-how could I?’

  She made a helpless gesture, and he nodded.

  ‘OK, I understand that. Although it gives me an awkward feeling to remember the curious looks I’ve seen you giving me.’

  ‘I was a nurse, studying a patient for signs of trouble.’

  ‘And maybe you were also remembering things Sapphire said about me and thinking, Him?’

  He said the last word with a searing irony that took her breath away.

  ‘I was curious about little Matthew’s father,’ she said cautiously. ‘This last year I’ve got to love him very much. I can’t wait to show him to you.’

  His answer shattered her.

  ‘I don’t want to see him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want nothing to do with him,’ he growled. ‘Why didn’t you leave well alone?’

  ‘Because Matthew is your son, and he needs a family.’

  ‘He has you.’

  ‘I’m not his parent. You are. Don’t you even want to see him?’

  ‘Is there any reason why I should?’ he asked, almost brutally.

  ‘A few hours ago you were saying I should have come here sooner.’

  ‘Yes, when she was alive. I could have been with her. But this child is a stranger. I can’t feel it’s part of me.’

  ‘He was part of her,’ Polly said quietly. ‘Doesn’t that mean anything?’

  ‘It might have done if she’d wanted me to know about it.’

  ‘Will you stop talking about “it”?’ Polly demanded, becoming annoyed. ‘Matthew is a he. He’s a baby. He needs love and care-’

  ‘If he’s mine, I’ll support him.’

  ‘Money?’ she snapped. ‘Do you really think that’s all there is to being a father?’

  ‘I don’t feel like a father. This is the best I can do.’

  ‘Then it’s not good enough,’ she retorted.

  ‘Do you think a father’s love can be turned on and off at the press of a switch?’ he demanded, equally angry. ‘Or any other kind of love?’

  ‘No, of course it can’t. But you can turn the love you used to feel to account now. You can’t give your love to her, so give it to the child you share.’

  ‘Share? Did she share him with me? If she hadn’t died I’d have known nothing.’

  ‘But she did die, so why not be gentle with her memory? She can’t hurt you now.’

  ‘Can’t-?’ He stared at her in sheer outrage before saying, with soft vehemence, ‘The dead can hurt you more than the living, because things can’t be put right. You can’t go back and explain, or apologise, or say the healing words, and the wounds stay open for ever. How can I be gentle with her memory when what she did to me will never end?’

  ‘She gave you a child,’ Polly said. ‘Whatever she intended, that’s what happened. Matthew’s alive, and he carries part of you in him.’

  He didn’t answer for a while, but at last he said, ‘Who does he look like?’

  She took out a picture and handed it to him. It showed a toddler of eighteen months, with Ruggiero’s colouring, dark, sparkling eyes and a brilliant smile.

  How could anyone resist this little charmer? she thought. But after a glance he handed it back.

  ‘I can’t take him,’ he said. ‘But of course I’ll support him-and I’ll support you while you care for him.’

  ‘Excuse me-I’m not looking for a job as a hired nanny.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. It wouldn’t just be wages; it would be a generous income. You could live comfortably.’

  ‘Oh, really? So you think using cash to avoid your responsibilities is fine as long as the gesture is big enough?’

  ‘I didn’t mean-Look, he already knows you. He’d probably rather stay with you.’

  ‘And how about what I’d rather? I’m a trained nurse, and I’d like to starting working again.’

  She was making it up as she went along. She adored little Matthew, and part of her longed to keep him. If she hadn’t liked what she found in Naples she would have left without revealing his existence.

  But she did like it. The Rinuccis fitted her inner picture of the perfect family-riotous and colourful, with plenty of love and laughter to go around.

  Ruggiero himself would need a little work to improve him, she thought, but in the meantime she would entrust Matthew to Hope and Toni without a qualm. And with all those uncles, aunts and cousins life would be happier for the little boy than in the narrow existence he would find with her.

  ‘How can you reject him?’ she demanded, indicating the picture. ‘He’s your flesh and blood.’

  ‘For Pete’s sake,’ he snapped. ‘You spring this on me and expect me to press a button and have all the right reactions. Just what is the right reaction to a son I never knew I had from a woman who didn’t even tell me her real name?’

  ‘Don’t you feel anything for him?’

  ‘No,’ he said after a moment. ‘Nothing.’

  It wasn’t true, she guessed. He was in pain. In trying to numb that, he had numbed every other feeling.

  ‘I’d like you to think about keeping him,’ he said. ‘On the terms we discussed.’

  ‘We did not discuss anything,’ she said, her temper mounting again. ‘You laid down your requirements and expected me to fall into line.’

  ‘Just think about it.’

  ‘No!’

 
; ‘Why the hell not?’

  ‘Because my fiancé would never agree.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The man I’m engaged to marry doesn’t want a child that isn’t ours,’ she said deliberately.

  ‘You didn’t mention an engagement before.’

  ‘There was no need. It’s no concern of yours. I came here because little Matthew has a right to his family, but when I’ve seen him settled I’m returning to my own life.’

  He rose. ‘I’m going. I need to think about this.’

  He moved swiftly towards the door, but when he’d opened it he halted, transfixed.

  ‘Good morning,’ said a sweet voice.

  Hope was standing there in her dressing gown.

  ‘Mamma, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to see why you two are making so much noise. Normally, of course, I wouldn’t enquire. It would be indelicate-’

  ‘Mamma!’

  ‘Don’t be a prude, my son. It doesn’t suit you. Polly, please tell me what has happened.’

  ‘I think Ruggiero had better tell you.’

  ‘If one of you doesn’t tell me something soon I shall get cross.’

  Ruggiero handed her the picture of Matthew.

  ‘I knew his mother briefly a little more than two years ago in England,’ he said, in a flat voice, blank of emotion. ‘She never told me about him. Now she’s dead.’

  ‘She was my cousin,’ Polly supplied. ‘She wanted me to find Ruggiero after her death and tell him about his son.’

  To her relief, Hope asked no awkward questions. She was entranced by the picture.

  ‘This little man is my grandson?’ she asked, in tones of wonder.

  Polly gave the exact date of Matthew’s birth, and Ruggiero nodded.

  ‘Nine months,’ he said briefly.

  Hope’s eyes were alight with fondness, just as Polly had hoped.

  ‘Such a little darling,’ she murmured. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘In England,’ Polly told her. ‘Some friends of mine are caring for him while I’m here.’

  ‘How soon can we fetch him?’

  ‘Mamma!’

  ‘Your son no longer has a mother, but he has a father. Of course he belongs here.’