Bella Donna

seemed to bear a great respect for him.

“My God,” she said in amazement. “What is this place?”

“This is my village,” Marco said in a low voice. “The shelters were built years ago and we adapted them to our use. In another cave not far away, the people built a church. Here, circumstances dictated that we had to be more practical.”

Emma shook her head in wonder. For all the activity, a pall of silence hung over the whole place. Even the children who had run by had not uttered a sound. Every community in Italy she had ever visited had been full of noise, of quarrels at full volume, of song.

“Why is it so quiet?”

“Voices carry great distances in the mountains. There are villages in the valleys and on the hillsides. Each a long way on foot, but close in a direct line. If we are to maintain our security we cannot risk arousing the curiosity of anyone below. The children know not to shout in their play.”

Marco’s touch had set her heart to hammering, but now apprehension made it beat even faster. “Aren’t you afraid that I will give your hiding place away when I return to Naples?”

He smiled at her, a smile that never reached his eyes. “If our mission is successful, we will no longer have need of it. Even if you could find your way here again.”

“But-” Before she could continue, a man of about thirty came up to them and threw his arms around Marco. The two men embraced and exchanged a few words.

Marco turned to her. “This is Giovanni,” he said.

She gave the man a friendly smile, but met a hostile glare. His dark eyes swept her from head to toe.

Seemingly unaware of Giovanni’s silence, Marco continued, “He has news for me and I must talk to him. You can sit here.” He led her to a bench carved out of the rock. She sank into it and wriggled her behind against the smooth surface. Giovanni stood waiting for Marco and she caught his eye. His face remained expressionless, then he frowned and looked away. For everyone, including Marco, she was the enemy, tolerated for their own protection. Face up to it, girl. You’re the only one here who really cares what happens to Emma Houndsdale.

An overwhelming longing to be home swept through her. Just about now, Daddy would be pouring a glass of sherry and asking her about her day, sharing comments and insights about the people they had come across. The hour before dinner in the evening was their special time. It had been pointed out to her often enough that her father overindulged her, but no one really understood the bond that existed between them. No one but she could make him laugh after a long day in the City. No one else shared his love of the countryside around the estate. When she married, as marry she must to ensure the continuation of the line, she would choose someone who would respect her father and all he stood for.

She leaned back and watched the scene before her. Men and women moved around the open space, all obviously intent on business. The few children sat in a group, huddled over some kind of a game. From time to time a peal of laughter rang out, quickly hushed by a nearby adult.

Her gaze drifted back to the two men, their heads close together, deep in discussion. Marco held a paper in his hand, folding the creases with sharp movements. He seemed upset by what Giovanni was telling him. Once he waved the paper in the air.

A profound weariness stole over her. Fatigue and the bizarre surroundings could easily convince her this was all a dream.

Her mind wandered back to what he had said about betrayal. How far could she trust him? How far was he willing to trust her? There was an edge of danger to all this that made her pulse quicken even as she still considered how she could get away.

Marco refused to give her information about the name of the place. Maybe his name was false too. Although there was little danger of her encouraging the authorities to look for one Marco out of several million in Italy. Even if she did tell anyone, she could only talk of Marco, who has a friend called Giovanni. Of course at once, we will find them, signorina. She smiled to herself as she imagined the shrug of the shoulders and the poorly concealed sidelong glances from any Italian policeman who might deign to spare her a few minutes.

Through half-closed eyes she continued to watch Marco. He was taller than the other men, handsome in an Arab sheik kind of way. She knew how firm and toned his body felt. If he climbed up here on a regular basis, his thighs would be like steel traps.

A sudden image of being held between his thighs sent warmth down low in her belly and she squirmed, crossing her legs as if that would banish her desires.

It seemed that the longer she stayed in his company, the more her thoughts dwelt on lying naked with him. Her nerve endings quivered as she imagined his body pressed hard against her, the texture of his skin under her exploring fingers, the feel of his hand on her breast. Her breath came faster and her heart rate quickened. He wanted her and that gave her power over him if she chose to use it. Not too many men, with the exception of Johnny Westmarland, had ever resisted her for long when she set her cap at them. But granting Marco sexual favors in return for freedom would certainly recoil on her, ensnaring the hunter together with the prey. If he held her, kissed her again as he had on the way up to his hiding place she would be lost. She dared not linger if she was to remain resolute. Besides, prisoners had a duty to escape.

She shifted her shoulders against the rock wall of the cave. Despite the cool mountain air, the stiff climb had left her feeling hot and dirty. Hoping to catch a cooler breeze, she lifted her hair from the nape of her neck. It hung limp and lifeless against her hand, still heavy with salt and the remains of the crude soap. A movement close by drew her attention and she looked up, catching the stare of a young woman about her own age. The girl blushed and looked away.

“Don’t go,” Emma called softly. “Do you have something I could use on my hair?” She mimed combing the tangled mess.

The girl bobbed in a curtsey and sped away. Had she even understood? Thank God Marco spoke good English, although it made her much more dependant on him than she liked.

The girl hurried back to her side, holding out a tortoiseshell comb and a small hand mirror.

“Grazie.” At least she’d learned to say a few words in Italian from her holiday in Rome. She began to work the comb through her hair, frowning as she tried to recall a few more phrases. She wasn’t likely to be ordering from a menu, so she could forget anything but words for basic food.

The comb stuck on a knot of hair and she cried out in pain. The young woman watched her, wide-eyed.

“Bugger this for a lark,” Emma said. Here was one frustration she could do something about. “Do you have scissors?” She made a cutting gesture with her fingers. Again the girl nodded and sped away.

Emma looked at herself in the mirror. Her face already looked thinner and her nose and forehead had turned pink from the sun. She ran her fingertip around her lips, feeling the tingling response. Despite her weariness, despite the danger and the circumstances around her, her body sparked with an inner energy that had nothing to do with the hours spent in the water or the long climb up the mountain, but had everything to do with the mysterious Marco.

The girl came back and thrust long-handled shears into her hand. She said something incomprehensible. Emma smiled her thanks and grasped a hank of hair. Despite their obvious age, the scissors were sharp and she snipped off a handful of hair just below her ear. She paused for a moment and looked again in the mirror. A glimmer of the old Emma with the fashionable bob was beginning to reappear.

“Tally ho,” she whispered and sawed off another clump.

She heard a gasp from behind her and felt the girl’s fingers on her hands. “Signora,” she said, “signora, no.”

“Oh yes. Oh most definitely si, si.”

“Auito. Momento, signora.” The young woman tugged at the scissors and Emma understood she wanted to help. She let go of the blades and watched in the hand mirror as the girl snipped off the rest of the long tresses and evened the ends. A year of her life disappeared with the hair. A year of the new reformed Emma, who no longer went to titillating parties, who had nothing to do with politics. A year’s penance that had finished by putting her on a boat to Cairo and then washed her up at the mercy of an Italian brigand who set her pulses racing and her blood on fire.