There was work to do, work that would dull the pain. He barked out orders to the men waiting behind him.
“Capo,” Giovanni protested when he heard what Marco wanted. “We can catch her. There is no need to move all the people. Let them stay where they have food and shelter.”
“My young friend,” Marco said curtly. “If we leave we may avoid a greater disaster. I need my lieutenants with me tonight. Then we will regroup back in our own homes in the village. There we can celebrate our victory.” He slapped Giovanni on the shoulder. “Come, boy, all is not lost. We’ll take the shipment tonight and even if the Blackshirts arrive here, they will find nothing. Nothing at all.”
After the men dispersed to follow his orders, he remained tense and immobile. He let out his breath with a conscious effort, trying to relax his shoulders and unclench his fists, but his muscles tightened anew as he recalled Giovanni’s story. And imagined the details he hadn’t mentioned.
She’d been wet. As she had been in Enrico’s house. With water droplets beading her arms. Her breasts heavy and lush, a small, dark mole on her upper back.
He saw her as clearly as if she’d appeared in front of him. The way the bones of her pelvis stretched the soft, white skin, the magnificent curve of her waist, the arc of her belly to the dark triangle between her legs. Another mole the size of a small coin on her thigh, and an even smaller one on her left breast, just above her glorious nipple. Not blemishes. Adornments.
No matter what Giovanni told him, lust still surged through him at the thought of her. Plus a wave of anger. Had he ever wanted a woman more? No. Never. And he still wanted her. He would go to his grave wanting her.
He grabbed a broom leaning nearby and flung it away. It landed softly on the dirt floor. In all the activity no one noticed. He would give his other fingers to learn that Giovanni’s story was untrue, but he had no time to waste.
Abruptly he swung back to the people in the cave, converting his shout of anger into an order to move more quickly.
The horse must have thrown her taking the jump over the stream on the far side of the four-acre wood. This time she must have made a mistake lining up the narrow opening between the hedges to make sure the hunter could clear the stile. It was tricky, but she’d done it lots of times. She remembered flying through the air, then a great thud, rattling her bones and driving the air from her lungs as she hit the ground.
A cold nose sniffed at her neck and she pushed it away. One of the hounds had stayed with her. The pack master would not be pleased at the breach of discipline.
Frowning, she tried to remember which horse she’d taken out. Thinking made her head hurt and her leg was twisted painfully under her. She moved it cautiously, then froze as she felt skirts around her calves. Why wasn’t she wearing her jodhpurs and boots?
She put a hand to her forehead to push back her hair and struggled on to one elbow, wincing as she put weight on a sore spot. Her mouth was full of coarse pine needles and bits of dried fern and she spat them out, wiping her lips with the hem of her tunic. She stared at the fabric as memory came flooding back.
Giovanni. Marco. Treachery.
No horse, no hunt in fresh English woods, but a stark Italian mountain and duplicity.
She was lying under thick bushes, wedged against a boulder and a tree stump. Peering through the branches up to the top of the gully, she saw no one. Had he left her, thinking she was too injured to escape and would die before someone found her, or was he intending to come back for her?
She scanned the slope where she had fallen. Not very high, but steep. No wonder her muscles and joints ached. She must have hit every stone as she bounced down.
A movement caught her eye and she swung her head, giving a little cry as the sore muscles protested. A large dog sat sphinx-like a few yards away, its tongue lolling and ears pricked. It was grey and hairy, some kind of sheepdog by the look of it. She’d had an Old English sheepdog as a child and used to ride it like a pony. This must be some kind of relative of the breed.
“Well, hello,” she whispered.
Its tail thumped the ferns, sending a small branch quivering.
“Shh, not too much noise.”
The dog wriggled its rear end in pleasure at her voice and inched closer.
“Okay, come on.” She held out her hand and after a moment’s hesitation, the animal stood and came near enough to sniff her fingers.
She rubbed behind his ears and he hung his great head in ecstasy. “Now, how are we going to get out of here?” she murmured. Finding the animal had cheered her. She didn’t feel so alone and abandoned. The dog’s dirty fur was matted with needles and dried leaves and she combed her fingers through it around his chest. “Someone hasn’t been looking after you. We’re in the same boat, we two. What’s your name?”
She held his head and considered. Her own dog had been called Mickey Wo-Wo in baby talk. She wasn’t a baby any more, but Mickey was still a good name. Besides, it gave her a smidgen of reassurance to make the connection with what she knew to be true and real.
“Well, Mickey,” she said, “let’s both stand up and see how far we get.”
The dog pressed against her as if he’d understood and she clambered to her feet, steadying herself on his strong back. His head easily reached her waist. Once on her feet she let go and tested her limbs. She’d twisted her ankle on the path down, before Giovanni’s attack, and it still pained her. But the swelling was slight. There didn’t seem to be anything broken, just cuts and bruises everywhere. Tomorrow she would be black and blue.
“Let’s go, Mickey.”
As soon as she left the vegetation at the bottom of the gully and started up the slope, she understood why Giovanni had left her. The scree slid under her feet and she soon struggled to prevent herself from slipping back faster than she climbed. Panting from the effort, she bent on all fours and began to inch her way up, trying to grasp at the stunted bushes.
After a few minutes her hands were sore from the sharp stones, and her shoulder sockets screamed in protest.
“This is hopeless,” she gasped. “It will take me all night.”
All through the ordeal with Giovanni she had remained dry-eyed, but now tears threatened, brought on by a mixture of self-pity, frustration and fear for Marco.
Mickey pushed past her, nearly throwing her off balance. “Hey, watch it, dog,” she said as she grabbed him to stop herself from toppling back. Her hands grasped the plume of his tail. Immediately he began to pull forward. “Go on, good boy,” she said as soon as she understood how he could help her.
The dog’s big paws were made for this kind of terrain, and Emma quickly developed a rhythm, moving in tandem with his long strides, holding his tail for balance. At the top at last, Mickey stopped to shake himself and lick her hand. She settled her skirts and looked around, patting his massive head. The path was deserted.
“We have to go to the caves,” she told the dog. “We have to let Marco know what’s going to happen. What that rat Giovanni has done.”
If she hadn’t suddenly felt foolish talking to a dog, she could have added that she wasn’t doing it because she cared what happened to Marco, just that she hated underhandedness and betrayal, and was concerned about the women and children. Plus she’d like to see Giovanni come to a bad end. But Mickey didn’t need to know all that.
Was it only two days ago she’d been complaining of boredom on the luxurious cruise ship? It felt like another lifetime.
She walked quickly along the path, ignoring the sting of her wounds and the throb in her ankle. The dog padded beside her, so close that his flank brushed her leg.