Pietro shook his head. “No sign of him, dottore.”
Marco swore under his breath. It was a bitter pill to swallow to accept that his cousin had been working against him all the time. He knew how many men had been tempted by the easy pickings and the facile political rhetoric of the government. There were those who too easily lost sight of what was right.
Before the convoy had appeared he had warned all his people of Giovanni’s treachery and every one had vowed not to help him. No one had reported sighting him. Marco hoped he had fled the area and would not be heard of again.
Marco sat on a log, pulled the strongbox toward him, and aimed his pistol at the lock, imagining it was the head of his enemy, the commandant. He had always thought of himself as a peaceful man, dedicated to healing, but in the last few years he had found a depth of righteous anger in his soul that made him deal coldly and harshly with those who oppressed and murdered for gain or sheer pleasure. There had been too many good men maimed, too many women raped, too many children left orphans.
The box was full to the brim with official documents, each with two numbered copies. In his arrogance, the commandant had not even left a duplicate in safe hands. A guilty conscience gave you very few trusted companions, and the commandant had been amongst the guiltiest. He was a man who liked having influence over people’s lives, because he made them fear him or because they wanted the largesse he could bestow. Either way, he owned them heart and soul. He loved having favor seekers pandering to him, loved seeing once-powerful landowners cringe at his vengeance.
Marco sorted through the pile. There were deeds to property, orders for arrests, outlines of charges to be brought. With all these papers restored to their rightful owners or destroyed, the community could sleep peacefully in their own beds for a while. Unfortunately, Marco suspected the reprieve might be short-lived. Another would step forward to take the Comandante’s place, but this time the people would not be so easily intimidated and scattered. The captured consignment of weapons would help strengthen the resistance.
As he looked through the documents, Marco cocked an eye to the trail leading up the hillside. It seemed he had spent most of the last few days watching for Emma, yearning to catch a glimpse of her. He had sent Teresa and a reliable man, Matteo, to fetch her. The small procession should appear soon.
No woman had ever filled his mind and soul as she did, not even his sweet, childlike wife. The thought of Emma tormented him and the memory of her haunted him. It had begun as overwhelming lust, but after two short days he knew lust alone was not the reason why he wanted to lose himself in her, to melt into her, with a yearning so powerful it produced a physical pain. He wanted her by his side with her beauty, her courage and her indomitable spirit. Years ago his desires had been powerful, but they were pale candle flames compared to the burst of incandescence that consumed him now. He not only wanted her, but he needed her. And he needed her because he loved her. He had to know if she felt the same about him.
He longed to take her to his house, to make love to her in the sunlight and under the moon. He wanted to bathe her lovely body in sweet scented water and dry her with soft towels.
A few paces away he saw the flicker of a small fire where the men had boiled water to cleanse the wounds of their comrades. Restless, he gathered together all the indictments, the lists of accusations, the statements of false witnesses and fed them to the flame.
He had almost finished when Pietro returned. “The Comandante did not survive his wounds,” he announced solemnly. “We shall say prayers for his black soul.”
Marco nodded gravely. “Bene.”
Pietro shuffled his feet. Marco looked at him sharply. “What is it?”
“Signor Giovanni was seen during the fight. “
Marco swore under his breath. “And?”
“He fled, dottore. He was seen climbing in that direction.” Pietro waved a grimy hand toward the slope leading to the shepherd’s hut where Emma waited.
Suddenly Marco’s weariness vanished as a surge of fear-produced adrenaline surged through him. She had not been able to walk, so he could not have brought her with him and he had prayed she would be safe with the big dog. What if Giovanni had come across her? If she had been harmed or taken, he would get her back, no matter what it cost him. Money. Blood. His life.
He entrusted the remaining contents of the strongbox to Pietro, gave a few more orders and set off up the trail leading to Emma.
The ambush site was still within view when he saw some figures on the track ahead. He peered intently into the gray light of dawn. Gradually he made out the shape of a dog and two people, one apparently carrying a burden. He waved and shouted and the smaller figure signaled back. Teresa! Deo gratia.
A half-hour before he would not have thought he could place one foot in front of the other, but now he leapt forward to meet the straggling procession.
As he drew closer he could see that Teresa walked beside Matteo. On Matteo’s broad back, Emma was draped like a cloak, her arms dangling limply over his neck, her head resting on his shoulder. He held her legs around his waist. Her head remained immobile and with a sickening dread Marco willed her to move.
Matteo halted as Marco drew level and hitched her more securely around him. She looked up at the sudden movement, blinking her eyes.
“One of the most comfortable rides I’ve had since I arrived,” she said with a sleepy smile when she saw Marco. “I am so very glad to see you.”
Marco seized her around the hips and took her weight as Matteo let her go. He held her in his arms and gazed at her, drinking in the fact that she was unharmed, that she had smiled at him.
“Emma,” he said. “Bella donna.” His voice broke, and he suddenly felt a tightness in his chest. He had not dared to think of her in Giovanni’s hands again, but now she was safe, the relief overwhelmed him. He laughed, a release of pure delight at all the events of the night.
“By the way,” she said. “There’s a package waiting for you at the hut, all nicely tied up.”
“Giovanni?”
“None other.”
He bent his head to kiss her and she wound her arms around his neck. “This is a lovely welcome,” she murmured against his mouth, “and I’d love to continue, but my ankle is giving me billy-o. If someone doesn’t pick me up, I’ll fall down.”
With newfound strength he swept her up into his arms, gave orders to Matteo to bring Giovanni and started back down the path.
As they bumped their way down a long avenue of tall poplars Emma had to say the means of transportation had deteriorated over the past couple of hours. First, there was Matteo’s broad back, where she’d ridden like a sack of potatoes, then Marco’s arms for the last stretch down the hill, and lastly a wooden farm cart that lurched its way over the rutted path, drawn by a very big and slow carthorse.
Still, she said to herself, she shouldn’t complain. According to Marco, his house was around the next bend and he’d promised her hot water, clean sheets and cooked food. It sounded like heaven.
Not only that, but he’d whispered to her that tonight he would feed her figs and honey and sweet wine. Then he would take her to his bed and make wild, abandoned love to her until she drifted into sleep. In the morning he would be there, waiting, ready to pleasure her once more… When he’d found her on the way back from the shepherd’s hut his voice had grown husky and he’d lost the air of cool detachment that he liked to wear. She knew that underneath he was far from cool and detached. The muscles deep inside her tightened at the prospect.