Marco shook his head. “Believe me, bella donna, I would do so if I could. I understand that this will cause your family grief. But I have things to do before I can set you free. Tomorrow is impossible.”
She formed no coherent thought. In an instant she was on her feet. “Fine. Good luck to you.”
She spun on her heel and ran toward the entrance to the cave. Marco’s shout echoed behind her as she flew on her sore feet, clutching her shawl. She reached a couple of women hovering over the cooking pots and slid around a spot where a group of children had been playing. The women paused in their cooking to stare at her as she flashed past, but because there were fewer people moving around than earlier, she sped unhindered in a direct line to the narrow entrance.
In a few seconds she was outside in the cool evening air. She hardly paused to take her bearings but set her feet toward the path that led back to the valley, back to roads and policemen and telephones. They had crossed a wide track where the police vehicle had passed. Then she’d been gagged and tied, but she was sure she could find it again. It must lead to a town of some kind.
The path dipped sharply away from the grotto and she paused to catch her breath. Behind her she heard a sharp command, footsteps, and then silence. Was Marco even going to pursue her? Maybe he thought she’d be afraid of the night and the steep descent and would return of her own free will. He’d have another think coming. She hurried on.
At the entrance to the cave Marco hesitated. For a frozen moment he had stared after her as she fled from him, unable to believe what she was doing. He had lunged at her too late, only feeling the movement of the air as her shawl whipped past him. Then Giovanni had sprung to his feet, ready to give chase.
“Stay,” he’d barked.
“She’s dangerous, dottore. I’ll catch her.”
Marco held on to his lieutenant’s arm. “We cannot both leave, amico. I brought her here, she is my responsibility. I will bring her back.”
Where in the names of all the saints did she think she could go? It would soon be dark and she could easily break her neck. He grabbed a blanket in case she hurt herself and he had to cover her, then left the settlement.
She was out of sight when he reached the edge of the cliff. He began to pick his way cautiously down the slope, not wanting the sound of pursuit to spur her to greater speed, increasing the risk of a bad fall.
Who was she? Was she truly Lady Emma Houndsdale or was she a saucy maidservant impersonating her mistress? No matter. Giovanni was right. She was a danger to them until after they had seized the money, the documents and the guns. There had been whispers of the convoy for weeks and at last it had set off from Naples bound for Bari on the east coast. Tomorrow night it would pass over the mountains close to San Matteo.
They had planned this operation for weeks and he didn’t need the distraction of this woman taking his mind off his work, keeping his cock hard and his balls in perpetual torment. He’d had no choice but to bring her with him, even though he knew how he would struggle not to fuck her senseless. He was sure his men believed lust was one reason why he’d insisted she come with them, but he maintained strict discipline amongst them and had to show the example. In truth it had not been difficult for him to live like a monk. Until now. Leadership had its responsibilities and he would never let his people down.
He remembered the feel of her against him, hot and pliant in his arms. When he kissed her on the mountain path she’d responded, letting him ravage her mouth with tongue and lips, molding her body to his, holding his head with both hands to increase the pressure on his mouth.
He’d fantasized about her hair, how it would look and feel when it was clean and shiny. It would spread in a dark curtain over her shoulders, fall around her face as she knelt over him, giving him her breasts to taste and play with. Or how it would look spread on his lap as her hot mouth sent waves of pleasure from his cock into his balls, into his belly.
It had been a shock when she cut it off. Now she looked different, more modern, more foreign. His anger sprang from disappointment at losing his erotic dream, not because she would be harder to disguise.
He forced himself to concentrate on following the path. After a few minutes he heard an exclamation ahead of him, and stones cascaded over the edge of the cliff, bouncing off the rock face until the sound carried no longer. He froze, listening, dreading the sound of her falling. When all was quiet again, he felt for the next foothold and continued his pursuit.
Chapter Four
Emma glanced once more behind her. She could still make out the rock face that hid the entrance to the caves. As she watched, a stream of flying creatures rose into the air, dark shapes against the violet tinged sky. Bats! Leaving now for their nightly hunt.
They were a frequent sight on summer evenings at home, and the glimpse of them flitting against the Italian sky was strangely comforting, bringing a link of familiarity to this foreign world.
The air was now much cooler and she wrapped the shawl over her head. Thank goodness she still had that and her wooden shoes, although they hurt like blazes. She’d keep them on until she found grass and could walk barefoot.
She scrambled down the path, clutching at bushes as she passed, sending small stones scattering under her feet as she slid a few yards at a time.
After what seemed a long time she landed on a flat outcrop and took stock. No sound of pursuit. Maybe Marco and his followers had decided not to come after her. Either that or they felt sure she wouldn’t get far and they would easily find her in the morning. The sun had dipped behind the hills and the last vestige of light was fading fast. The bats were no longer visible. She steeled herself against a flash of doubt about the wisdom of running just before nightfall.
Telling herself that she was well ahead of any followers, she looked for the continuation of the track. The sooner she could negotiate the steep slope the better. Then she could lie low for a couple of hours and rest until dawn.
When she could barely see her hand in front of her, she found a space big enough to lie down under a scrubby tree in a shallow hollow a few feet off the track. She thrust aside the biggest stones, making enough room for her body, and wrapped herself tightly in her shawl. The chill in the mountain air without the warmth of the sun made her shiver as she curled into a ball.
Sleep would be impossible, but she closed her eyes, knowing she needed rest. Somewhere on this path down to the valley she would find some kind of habitation and be able to contact the authorities to send a message home. The image of Marco filled her mind, of the possibility of him stalking her through the night. If she escaped, she would never see him again.
She had bedded many men, but none had called to her like the man who had kidnapped her. By rights she should be angry, should detest him, should be thankful she had escaped his imprisonment. But there was a lingering regret that she had to leave him to gain her freedom.
She was still not sure what it was he feared, what drove him to such secrecy. He’d mentioned Blackshirts. She had a vague recollection of newsreel film of men marching in dark uniforms. Arms uplifted in salute, polished boots moving in cadence, cheering crowds.
Other shots showed graves, police violently repulsing rioters. She wished she’d paid more attention. It had all seemed so far away. When she’d found out that Johnny Westmarland was working for MI5 he’d enlightened her about what was going on in Germany. He hadn’t mentioned Italy. Was it the same?