In the cold light she searched for her clothes and pulled them on, leaning against the wall to spare her injured ankle.
Mickey’s ears flattened and his growl deepened. She thanked heaven that he had roused her, but how much good was this kind of dog as a protector? She hoped that the Italian variety was bred for more aggression than the Old English sheepdog that he resembled.
A faint movement came from outside, then the sound of heavy breathing. She sank to the floor and placed her hand on the dog’s neck, more for her own reassurance than to restrain him. Marco had said he would return for her. She hoped against hope that it was her lover approaching. Nevertheless, one of the discarded pieces of wood lay under her hand, and she took hold of it, waiting with bated breath.
A man appeared against the grey sky. He was as tall as Marco and her heart leaped in her chest, giving thanks that he had returned safely to her.
The figure leaned against the entrance as if tired or wounded. “Bella donna,” he said thickly. “Thank you for waiting for me.”
She scuttled backward at the sound of his voice, a cold terror in the pit of her stomach.
Giovanni raised a pistol in his right hand and pointed it at her. At the same moment, Mickey lurched forward with a loud bark and flew across the tiny space. Without hesitation Giovanni fired. The explosion was ear-shattering within the stone walls and Emma flinched instinctively, cowering against the wall, covering her head with her hands.
Mickey’s body thudded to the floor as the sound faded, and a well of despair opened in her heart. She scrambled toward the dog, unmindful of the threat of another shot. Big and arrogant, Giovanni took a step over the animal and placed a contemptuous foot on her shoulder, pushing her away. As she fell back she glimpsed a bloodstained bandage circling his thigh.
She landed on her side and struggled quickly to her knees. To her relief, Mickey lifted his head and whined. A dark stain oozed from his shoulder. Not dead, but hurt. How badly?
“Let me see him, you swine,” she spat. “You can shoot me if you want. Much good it will do you.”
“No, that is not my intention. I would rather shoot the dog.” He trained his gun on Mickey again. “You are worth much more to me as a hostage. The dog has no value.”
Suddenly it was all too much. She was tired of being a prisoner, tired of men who placed so little value on life and human dignity. Anger swelled inside her, stronger than she had ever known, clutching her throat, clouding her vision. Heedless of her swollen ankle, she launched herself from her crouching position, fingers crooked like claws. She would gouge his heart out with her bare hands if she had to.
Giovanni’s wounded leg worked in her favor because without it, he would have spun quickly and shot her in mid-flight. Instead, he stumbled slightly and Emma landed on him with all her force. She had seen enough rugby matches to know that you first knock the wind from an opponent, then you bring him down. She heard his head crack against the stone floor as he fell. He lay still, but she sat on him for good measure. Mickey thumped his tail on the ground and she bowed in his direction.
“Thank you for your recognition, kind sir,” she panted. “Very much appreciated. And now, for my next magical trick, I will truss our victim like a Christmas goose.”
First she tucked the pistol into the waistband of her skirt and then began methodically to tear strips from the pieces of fabric that had made her bed. When she had tied his arms and legs, she crawled over to Mickey to check his wound. A thin trickle of blood still oozed, but the serious bleeding had stopped. He had sustained a deep gouge in the fleshy part of his shoulder, but with no damage to the bone.
She scratched him behind his ears. “You are a brave dog,” she said. “Who do you belong to, I wonder?”
Her ankle was aflame and she sat to stretch it in front of her.
“Now what, Mickey?” She massaged her calf. “What do we do with him now he’s our prisoner? I suppose we just have to hope it’s not the Blackshirts who come for him.”
The dog panted loudly in her ear. What the hell was she doing here, wrestling outlaws, dirty and far from home? Two days ago, all she had wanted was to find her way back to Naples and then to England. Instead she’d wandered into some fantasy like the adventure stories that appeal to twelve-year-old boys. The thought of taking tea with the proper ladies of the county society was like thinking of going to the moon.
“Well, of course, Lady Utterley, it was almost impossible to take a bath, since there always seemed to be some lusting Italian lurking nearby. But I do find that sex-starved Italians give a really good fuck, don’t you?”
She spluttered with laughter. She was getting lightheaded.
The dog’s ears pricked and he stared at the gaping hole in the wall that had once been a doorway. Sure enough, there were more noises from outside. This time it sounded like more than one person. Blackshirts? Marco’s men? At least she had a weapon, even if she was unable to stand.
She cocked the gun and held it steady.
In the half-light of dawn, Marco paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. During the ambush he’d received a saber gash on the head, and someone had wound a cloth around it to stop the bleeding. It was only a scalp wound, but like all such, it had gushed a fountain of blood. He rubbed the crust that had dried on his jaw.
He dismissed the last of the stretcher-bearers and wiped his hands for the hundredth time on a bloodstained towel. His people had acquitted themselves well. With the advantage of surprise and the warning Emma had brought, they had been ready for the force that had meant to fall on them unawares. Then they had overwhelmed the small convoy with no problem. The Blackshirts had been overconfident, believing they had terrorized the whole area into submission. Like all bullies, they were cowards at heart, and those who were not wounded had fled. The others would be cared for and a decision made what to do with them.
Marco removed his foot from the strongbox where it had rested ever since he had begun to tend the wounded. His thigh protested at the sudden relaxation, and he rubbed the muscles to send the blood coursing through his upper leg again. He had not dared let the box out of his sight or touch after the skirmish. For hours he had treated the wounds of his own men and some of the Blackshirts, but the Comandante had not passed through his hands.
He called to Pietro as he passed. “Are there any more?”
“No, dottore.”
“What happened to the Comandante after he was taken?”
Pietro shrugged and a grin spread over his smoke-blackened features. “Who knows? The last I saw, some of the men from the village had him. He was wounded in the chest.”
Marco knew he was not the only one with a score to settle with the commandant.
“Where-?”
“Best not to ask, dottore. They had the castor oil hidden close by.”
Marco sighed. He was bone weary and knew that in any case he would not find out what happened to the man. God forgive him, but he hoped the sadist died, because otherwise he and his people would never rest easy. If they killed the tyrant, the men would be sure to hide the body where it would never be found. Desperate measures for desperate times.
Pietro turned away, but Marco called to him again. “And Signor Giovanni?”