Bella Donna

Margrett Dawson Bella Donna

© 2004 MARGRETT DAWSON

Chapter One

South of Naples, Italy. May, 1930.

“We put her in the stable. This way, dottore.”

Enrico spat into the heap of dung by the door and picked up the lantern to light the way, holding it low to shine on the old stones under their feet. The muzzle loader hung from his shoulder, casting a grotesque, hunchbacked shadow. He managed to shuffle fast for a man with a stiff knee, and Marco had to lengthen his stride to keep up.

“Who is she, Enrico?” he said as low as he could. Using the lantern was bad enough. No need to advertise his presence by being overheard.

“God only knows. That’s your job to find out. Just take her off my hands. Wild cat, she is. Bit me, she did.” He waved his free hand to show a grubby bandage.

“What did you do to her?’

“Nothing, signore, nothing at all. We found her on the beach and held her for you.” The old man used the dialect Marco remembered from his youth. Remarkable how easy it was to slip back into the old rhythms.

“Hmm. No one touched her?”

Enrico spat again. “We had to touch her to bring her inside, didn’t we? Maybe the boys took their time holding her. Young men, you know how they are.”

A couple of ducks squawked their displeasure at being disturbed so late at night.

Marco sighed. Holding her. If they hadn’t raped her, it wouldn’t have been because they had any misplaced scruples. Enrico’s sons had a reputation for skewering anything and anyone, whether with their knives or with their cocks.

Enrico handed Marco the lantern and lifted the bar to the stable door with both hands. Marco peered into the gloom, raising the light to send the rays into the far corners.

At first he could see nothing. “Where?”

“Over in the last cow stall, dottore.”

He moved closer and the lantern swung, now illuminating a stall, then sending it into deep shadow. There had been no cows in the barn for more than a year, but the aroma of dung and hay still hung in the air.

He stopped when he saw the woman. “Dear God.”

She rose from the filthy straw, roused by the light and the sound of their approach. Ropes looped to the wooden slats at each side of the stall, holding her arms at the wrists. Another thick tether was wound around a slim waist and disappeared somewhere in the dimness behind her legs. She dropped her head, shielding her eyes from the sudden light. Her black hair hung long and matted around her face. Dried blood smeared her cheek.

She wore a shift that finished at the knee and had once been white. Now it was stained and torn, barely covering her thighs, but it shimmered in the half-light. Satin or silk. The bodice had ripped and one piece fell toward her waist as she moved, baring her breast to a spot just above her nipple. The breast was round and firm, a perfect mound, just the size for a man’s hand. He glimpsed the soft pink of her areola. To his surprise he felt himself respond, a movement between his legs where there had been little sign of life in recent months.

She pushed her hair back from her face and glared at him defiantly, her hands in fists on her hips, seemingly oblivious to her nakedness. “Seen enough? Or do you want to put your filthy paws all over me too?” She spoke in English.

“Signorina-”

She tossed her head. “Don’t signorina me. Get me out of this godforsaken hole. Do you hear me? Untie me.” She shook the ropes that held her like a cow ready for milking. Her voice sounded hoarse, either from the seawater she’d swallowed or from screaming when Enrico’s sons grabbed her. Probably both.

He took a step closer and she lunged at him. He leapt back, almost dropping the lantern, and answered in her language.

“Take care unless you wish the whole structure to go up in flames.”

“Take care, my arse. Who cares if it burns?” She peered at him in the gloom. “So you speak English. At least that’s something. Who are you? Where am I? And why am I tied up here like a yearling?” She shook her hands again, swishing the ropes through the straw.

She’d lost her shoes somewhere and black mud encased her feet. Blood had trickled down her leg and dried. He hoped to God it was from a wound. He felt a stab of pity.

“They are ignorant men but they believed they were acting in my interests. I am glad they did not hurt you. Do you have a name, signorina?” he asked.

She took in a deep breath and the tatters across her chest moved apart, revealing the deep valley between her breasts. Again that faint stirring below his waist.

“Untie me first,” she said. She lifted both wrists toward him. He saw the tightness of her jaw and the gleam of moisture in her eyes. “Please.”

“Watch her, dottore.” Enrico seized his arm, but he shook him off impatiently.

“Loosen the ropes.”

Enrico muttered below his breath, but moved to do as he was told.

“The wrists first.” Marco had no desire to give the peasant a reason to touch her waist.

Ill-pleased, Enrico seized her arm and cut the tether with a slash of his knife. She quivered when he touched her, but held steady. Only the quick rise and fall of her chest betrayed her dislike. Enrico yanked on the other rope and cut her free. She massaged her wrists where the cable had chafed.

Enrico took hold of the leash tied to her waist and weighed the strands in his calloused hand, as if contemplating whether or not to set her loose.

“Do it. Now.” Marco’s voice carried the authority of countless generations of feudal lords.

Without a word, Enrico wound the rope around his arm and sliced it close to the floor.

He stepped toward Marco, compelling the woman to follow him, leading her like a colt. He held out the cut end of the rope, and Marco took it as if in a dream. The woman stood in front of him, her breast exposed, her thighs almost completely bare. He held her as surely as he might hold a horse he meant to tame.

He handed the lantern back to Enrico, placed the coil of rope on the ground and shrugged out of his jacket. “Put this around you.”

For a moment he thought she would run. He saw the movement as she shifted her weight to the balls of her feet, but Enrico took a step to block the opening to the stall and she fell back.

Without a word, she took his coat and slipped her arms in the sleeves. It barely covered her generous breasts, but at least that delicious nipple was out of sight of the peasant’s eyes.

Enrico snickered. “She’ll need more than that to cover her like a decent woman. With respect, dottore,” he added as Marco fixed him with a glare.

“Of course.” Marco turned to the woman again. She stood unwavering now on her two feet, her chin up and her mouth firm. “Please follow me, signorina.”

Praying she would follow and not give Enrico the excuse to manhandle her again, Marco turned and led the way from the cow stall. At the door to the shed he stood aside for her to pass. She had gathered the trailing rope over her arm and carried it like the train of a ball gown. She brushed past him like a duchess and waited for him