Prince's Arranged Bride

by Susan Stephens

  Emily tore her gaze away from the well-muscled thighs so tantalisingly defined in snug-fitting denim. ‘Nothing,’ she said dismissively, with a flip of her hand. ‘I’d like that very much. For you to take me to the grape-treading, I mean.’

  ‘Good.’

  That voice again, she realised, turning her face away so that he couldn’t see her reddening under his calculating and extremely disturbing gaze. ‘I had no idea that such archaic practices survived,’ she said, rustling up her most professional manner.

  ‘Just about everything is mechanised these days.’ Alessandro said, accommodating her approach. ‘But for the highest quality wines only an experienced eye can judge the grapes. So we keep our vines low and pick by hand. It is hard work, and must be completed quickly before the heat of the sun raises acidity levels.’

  She tensed as he prowled closer. ‘I see…’

  ‘Oh, do you?’ he murmured sardonically, somewhere very close to her ear.

  ‘But surely you can’t tread all those grapes out there?’ she said edgily, staring fixedly out of the window as she waited for her face to cool down.

  ‘Of course not, ‘ Alessandro said, standing right beside her. ‘The grape-treading is purely symbolic. It marks the start of the harvest.’

  He refused to take the hint as she moved away, and suddenly was right in front of her again.

  Glancing from side to side, Emily realised she was boxed into a corner between an old oak dresser and a bookcase. How on earth had that happened? she wondered, sagging with relief when he moved away.

  ‘Different varieties of grape ripen at different times,’ he continued evenly, as if their game of tag, at which he was clearly a master, had never taken place. ‘And when they are all safely gathered in we celebrate, with a proper Festa del Villaggio. The custom of treading some of the grapes the old way after the first picking is said to placate the forces of nature.’

  Emily began to relax. The history of the grape was surprisingly interesting…or perhaps it was more relief that, having distracted them both by explaining it, Alessandro was allowing the sexual tension between them to ease. She inclined her head to demonstrate her fascination with the subject, hoping her body would take the hint and calm down, too.

  ‘It is also carried out to ensure good weather,’ Alessandro went on, in the same soothing tone. Without any warning, he crossed the room, seized her arms, and held her close. ‘So, Emily,’ he demanded impatiently, ‘will you come?’

  ‘I’d love to.’ After all, she persuaded herself as his hands relaxed, the chance to get to know her husband a little better, to see him interacting with the villagers, was an opportunity that might never come again.

  ‘Great. You’ll have to get changed first.’

  ‘You mean it’s today—right now?’ She should have guessed! ‘Why can’t I go like this?’

  ‘Well, if you want to look like you’re heading for court—’

  ‘Without a jacket—?’As she pulled a face his lips tugged up in a half-smile. ‘You’re teasing me.’

  ‘Am I?’ he murmured provocatively.

  ‘OK, so now what? Point me in the direction of the nearest shops?’ Emily demanded, confronting Alessandro, hands on hips when he started laughing. ‘Please, Alessandro. Don’t be difficult. I want to go with you. Just tell me where the shops are and I’ll go and buy something suitable to wear.’

  ‘OK. I’ll take you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Emily said graciously.

  ‘We can walk there,’ he said, when she stopped at the passenger door of the four-wheel drive he’d told her he used to get about the estate.

  ‘Walk?’ Emily couldn’t imagine how she had missed a dress shop as they drove through.

  ‘Certainly,’ Alessandro said, striding away in the direction of the fields. ‘It will only take ten minutes or so to reach Maria Felsina’s cottage.

  ‘Cottage?’ Emily demanded, increasing to a trot to keep up.

  ‘You’ll see. Come on,’ he urged, speeding up again. ‘We haven’t got all day. You don’t want the grape-treading to start without us, do you?’ he called over his shoulder.

  A suspicion had taken root in Emily’s mind. ‘You mean we’ll actually be taking part?’

  Alessandro’s loafers slapped rhythmically against the hard-baked earth. ‘Of course,’ he called back. ‘Why else would we be going?’

  ‘I don’t know…I’m not—’

  ‘Not what?’ Alessandro demanded impatiently. He blazed a stare at her. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

  ‘Of course I do. But—’

  Taking her arm in a firm grip, Alessandro marched on in silence.

  As they stood in front of the modest dwelling, waiting for the door to open, Emily still felt bemused at the possibility of shopping for clothes inside such a tiny cottage.

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ Alessandro said as he turned to look down at her.’ Maria will find you something to wear.’

  Emily made a conscious effort to relax. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

  All the signs of a much loved home surrounded them. There wasn’t a single weed to be seen in the garden, and the colourful flowerbeds to either side of the newly swept path were crammed with blooms. The shuttered windows beside the front door were underscored with planters overflowing with blossom, while heavily scented climbers jostled for space around the doorframe.

  Closing her eyes, Emily tried to concentrate on the sounds of the bees buzzing and the birdsong; the mingled perfume of flowers, all so delightful and distinctive. Had she been alone, she might have succeeded. But Alessandro was standing very close, claiming every bit of her notice—and why was he making such a fuss about kitting her out for the grape-treading? Surely she would only need to roll up her trouser-legs and don some sort of overall—?

  She came to full attention as the door swung open. A short, generously proportioned woman, as creased and as brown as a walnut, slapped her hands together when she saw Alessandro and cried out with pleasure,’ Alessandro! Piccolino!’

  ‘My nanny,’ Alessandro explained, swinging the old lady off the ground with an answering shout.

  Emily watched as a frantic exchange of questions and answers ensued between them.

  ‘Maria apologises for being at the end of the garden tending her geese,’ Alessandro translated. ‘Her favourite, Carlotta, is to take part in the annual goose race and must have extra care. True,’ he assured Emily when he saw the look on her face. ‘One day I’ll take you to see the race. These birds are treated like favoured members of the family. And the winner…’ He gave a low whistle of appreciation.

  ‘Fed to the family?’ Emily guessed wryly.

  ‘Certainly not!’ Alessandro said with a grin. ‘There is a substantial cash prize at stake—to keep the winning goose in luxury for the rest of its life. It is up to the owner to ensure that this is the case. A matter of honour,’ he explained, pinning a serious expression on his face. ‘And now Maria invites us into her home.’

  ‘Si,’ Signora Felsina insisted, nodding her head enthusiastically as she beamed at Emily.

  Stepping over the stone threshold, Emily looked around curiously. The tiny cottage windows allowed in little natural light, but several old-fashioned oil lamps had been lit so that everything was softly illuminated. She could smell something delicious cooking on the old black range, and noticed that the best use had been made of the narrow window ledges, which housed an array of pungent green herbs flourishing in terracotta pots.

  Contentment was contagious, she discovered, hoping they could stay for a little while. Everything was ordered for comfort. Every object had been arranged to please the eye. And all of it gleamed with the unmistakable patina of regular attention. A bolt of desire pierced her heart as she glanced across at Alessandro—desire that went way beyond the physical to claw at her soul. Did he feel it, too? Did he long for a sanctuary like this to call his own? Could he feel the tug of a real home? The longing to create a similar haven was overwhelming h
er—

  ‘Sit, Principessa, sit—’

  The heavily accented voice of the older woman interrupted Emily’s reveries.

  ‘Here,’ she insisted, tossing rugs and cushions aside. ‘Sit here, Principessa.’

  ‘Emily. Please…call me Emily.’

  Something in Emily’s voice must have troubled the older woman. Her hand lingered on Emily’s arm as she turned to confront Alessandro.

  ‘Alessandro,’ she said, her voice mildly chastening. ‘Your bride is not happy. What is wrong, Alessandro?’

  Emily tensed at the bluntness of the remark, but Alessandro seemed not to have taken offence.

  At his non-committal grunt Maria shook her head, and took herself off to pour out three fizzing glasses of homemade ginger beer from a vast stone flagon. ‘You sit, too,’ she said, turning around to face Alessandro. ‘You take up too much space,’ she complained fondly as she transferred the squat glasses onto a wooden tray.

  ‘Here, let me,’ he said, ignoring her instruction and removing the tray from her hands. ‘Now, you go and sit down, tata.’

  Emily watched as the old lady hurried to obey his instruction, noticing her beam of delight when Alessandro used what surely must have been his childhood name for her.

  Settling herself down into a chair so plumped up with cushions her chubby sandal-clad feet barely touched the ground, Maria Felsina held her glass aloft as she made a smiling toast to Emily.

  ‘Emily,’ Alessandro echoed softly.

  Draining her glass with relish, Maria leaped to her feet and declared, ‘And now you must eat—’

  ‘Oh, no—’ Emily protested. She was still full from breakfast, but Alessandro’s glance warned her to stay silent. ‘Thank you,’ she said, seeing she might cause offence by refusing one of the sugar-frosted buns. ‘These look delicious.’ And they were, she realised, as the moist, feather-light sponge slipped down her throat.

  In spite of the warm late-summer weather, there was a low fire in the grate, and as she ate Emily longed to open some buttons at the neck of her tailored shirt. She went so far as to toy with the top one—but when Alessandro caught her glance for some reason, the innocent action suddenly struck her as irredeemably provocative. She looked away, but not before she saw one of his sweeping raven brows rise minutely in an expression that was both accusing and amused.

  ‘My wife has come to you for clothes, tata,’ he said, turning his attention back to his old nurse.

  ‘Will they fit?’ Emily murmured discreetly.

  Alessandro must have translated this, Emily thought, judging by their peals of laughter. Before she could feel embarrassed, Maria took her hand and stroked it gently, as if to atone for the outburst. Then, confirming Emily’s reading of the situation, she turned a face full of mock reproach on Alessandro and wagged a blunt-nailed finger at him.

  ‘Maria is the best dressmaker on the estate,’ Alessandro explained. ‘She’ll soon sort you out with something to wear.’

  ‘In time?’ Emily said anxiously.

  Her concern crossed the language barrier, and with a vigorous nod of her head Maria indicated that she should follow her into the next room. Taking her through a low door, Maria pointed to some bolts of cloth stacked in one corner of the room, and then at the old treadle sewing machine standing against the wall.

  There was a makeshift gown-rail—just a piece of rope suspended between two hooks on a low joist—and crammed onto this were cotton skirts in a startling profusion of colour and pattern, together with white puff-sleeved tops, all with the same scooped necks and tie fronts.

  ‘Ecco, Principessa!’ Maria exclaimed. And then, after viewing her thoughtfully for few moments, Maria swooped on the rail and unhooked an armful of clothing.

  ‘Oh, no! I couldn’t possibly!’ Emily protested, seeing the top was so low her belly button would get an airing, never mind anything else. When Maria pressed it into her hands she bundled it behind her back, hoping Alessandro, who had just appeared at the door, hadn’t noticed.

  His eyes sparkled dangerously in the dim light. ‘Well? Go and try them on,’ he urged softly.

  ‘Will you—?’

  ‘I’ll come back when you’re changed,’ he said reassuringly.

  Next, Maria held out a selection of skirts for her to choose from, and Emily surprised herself by selecting the gaudiest one.

  Maria smiled, nodding approval of her choice, shaking out the fabric equivalent of a sunset.

  The prospect of wearing something so showy…so decadent…was exciting. Pulling on the skirt, Emily began to do battle with the blouse, managing at last to adjust the front into something approaching respectability.

  ‘No, no,’ Maria protested, waggling her finger. ‘Like this, Principessa,’ she said, with a broad grin on her face.

  Before Emily could stop her Maria had tugged the elasticated top below her shoulders until there was more cleavage on show than ever. But the older woman still wasn’t satisfied, and, plucking at Emily’s bra strap, she shook her head in disapproval.

  With a rueful laugh Emily finally capitulated and, reaching behind her back, freed the catches on her bra. As the last restraint was removed even she had to admit the result was impressive.

  Indicating there was one last thing to be changed, Maria darted down to reach beneath an old wooden chest. Pulling out a pair of simple brown leather sandals, scarcely more than a thong to stick between the toes on strips of toughened leather, she pushed them across the stone-flagged floor towards Emily.

  ‘Grazie,’ Emily said, flashing up a smile as she slipped them on. They were surprisingly comfortable, she found, wiggling her toes and relishing the freedom. As she straightened up, Maria reached for the pins that were already finding it a struggle to contain Emily’s heavy mane of shiny black hair. They were cast aside, and with a final flourish Maria carefully drew her fingers through the resulting cascade, arranging it like a gleaming cloak around her protégée’s shoulders.

  Standing back, she beamed with satisfaction and, taking hold of Emily’s arm, turned her around to view her reflection in the mirror.

  Even the short time she had been in the hot climate had warmed Emily’s skin-tone to gold, and the brazen hussy staring back at her bore no resemblance whatever to the tight-laced professional she was accustomed to seeing. Instead, a full-breasted woman, with wild, untamed hair streaming across her shoulders, gazed back proudly. Toned legs, full lips, and dark up-tilted eyes suggested endless possibilities…endless fantasies…

  As Maria gusted with approval Emily started to move towards the door. At the last moment she hesitated; dressing up, play-acting, was one thing, but her husband was all too real—and she didn’t know him well enough to be able to predict how he would react when he saw his wife parading about like some fugitive from a bawdy etching. There was a distinct possibility she might unleash a whole lot more than she could cope with.

  At the sound of a low, appreciative whistle she froze.

  ‘That’s quite an improvement.’

  Leaning up against the doorframe, his arms loosely folded, Alessandro made no attempt to hide his interest in her newly adopted persona. ‘You really look the part,’ he murmured, giving Maria a wry nod of approval.

  Raising her head defiantly, Emily stared him square in the eyes. What part was that? she wondered suspiciously.

  ‘Leave the rest of your clothes here,’ he said, straightening up. ‘We’ll pick them up later. Come on,’ he pressed, ‘everyone will be waiting for us.’

  And, before she could refuse, he stretched out, caught hold of her, and swept her out of the door.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THEY were in a huge barn filled with the young men and women of the village. The contrast to the dappled light of the afternoon was apparent the moment Alessandro slid shut the huge wooden door behind them. Inside the barn Emily was conscious of a heady, sensuous quality to the heavy golden air that was lacking on the outside.

  Ribbons of sunlight slanted across a sea
of smiling faces, while the scent of young, clean bodies merged with the more pungent aroma of ripe fruit. There was an air of expectancy, and even sound seemed in thrall to the mellow mood, Emily discovered, when a murmur of welcome rose like a wave, subsided first to a whisper, and then to silence as Alessandro raised his hands.

  She saw that here there was no protocol; her husband was greeted as warmly and as naturally as if he was just another man from the village, come to show off his new bride. His loud greeting was matched by the shouts of the other men present and then, turning to Emily, he urged her forward.

  There was complete silence as everyone waited to see what she would do.

  She felt her cheeks grow hot, and for a moment she held back. But the firm touch of Alessandro’s hand on her arm gave her no choice and, stepping forward, she executed a smiling curtsey to the assembled crowd.

  ‘Thank you,’ Alessandro rasped, very close to her ear.

  Emily turned and smiled back at him, the cheers resounding in her ears. She felt a warm rush of happiness to know that her action had pleased him.

  She watched as he tugged his shirt over his head, and then saw that she wasn’t the only woman looking at him with naked appreciation.

  And some of the village girls weren’t afraid to move closer. Instinctively, Emily moved onto the offensive. Almost before she knew what she was doing she had placed herself between Alessandro and his admirers.

  As he toed off his shoes he saw what she was doing, and threw her a half-smile that rippled through her body with startling consequences.

  Was it a challenge? Emily wondered, conscious that the other women had backed off. Keeping her eyes locked on Alessandro’s, she kicked off her own sandals.

  Matching her stare for stare, he leaned forward and rolled up the legs of his jeans.

  Holding his gaze, Emily tossed back her hair, then, emulating all the other women, she picked up the hem of her skirt and secured it into her underwear. She had never been consciously proud of her legs before, but now she was—especially when Alessandro’s eyes broke their hold on her own to lavish a lingering and frankly appreciative gaze on them.