The cart passed vineyards and orchards, interspersed with the silvery leaves of olive trees, then lumbered through a pair of iron gates. There were signs of neglect everywhere. Fences in disrepair, hedges overgrown with binding weeds, the roof of a shed that had fallen in. Nothing that couldn’t be repaired with some hard work. Mickey lay beside her, somnolent in the heat. Marco had dusted some powder into his wound after cleaning it, and the dog had jumped into the cart to ride beside Emma in style.
She reclined with her head on Marco’s coat and watched the play of muscles in his shoulders as he walked beside the cart. Every so often he stretched out a hand to touch her, as if still not quite believing she was there. Between the long shadows of the trees, the sunlight flickered over her legs, making dappled patterns. The scents of thyme and wild sage that marked their passing in the hills had transformed into wafts of lemon and ripening fruit, of fragrant blossoms and warm dust.
Now the crisis was over. Marco and his people had come down from the hills and were returning home. Every time they passed by a habitation, men came up to Marco in a continuous stream, slapping him on the back, laughing, swigging at bottles of wine and brandy that seemed to have appeared out of thin air. Their laughter grew louder, their words more hurried, their gestures wilder.
Home. All going home, save her.
She turned her head a couple of inches and buried her cheek in Marco’s coat. The same coat he’d given her when Enrico’s sons had fished her out of the water. Only three days ago. Together they had lived through emotional highs and lows she would never have believed possible. They had forged bonds like soldiers in a battle.
Marco called a command to the horse, and the cart creaked to a halt in front of a large white building. Mickey struggled to his feet beside her. Marco reached into the cart and took her hand.
“Benvenuto a la casa Antonioni,” he said with a flourish of his free arm. “My house is yours.”
She sat up. On both sides of a massive wooden door, thick shutters covered two rows of windows and a wide overhang cast deep shadows on the walls. Rows of red tiles formed the roof. A flowering vine with bright yellow blossoms crept up the side of the door and hung over the entrance. She inhaled aromas of heat, green growing things-and baking bread.
Her stomach growled. “It’s wonderful,” she said.
Marco laughed. She suddenly realized that she had never seen him laugh before today. It transformed his face, lighting his dark eyes, lifting the corners of his mobile mouth. She longed to kiss the tiny scar on his lip that sprang into prominence with his grin. Impulsively she pulled him toward her and placed her lips on the small, white mark. His arms came round her and he lifted her from the cart, his mouth still on hers, pressing, demanding, taking.
Lost in the depth of the kiss, she felt him begin to walk toward the great door. “Close your eyes,” he said, and she did so, letting him take her where he wanted, knowing his destination would be a bedroom.
She knew when they passed into the cool dimness of the interior by the lessening of the light perceived through her eyelids. Marco’s lips left hers, but he still held her close to his body and his footsteps echoed on stone or tile. She felt him begin to climb some stairs. Her arm brushed a wooden balustrade.
She hid her face against his shoulder and counted twenty steps up until he walked again along a flat surface. She played the game of remaining blind, not wanting to see her surroundings until she opened her eyes to find him beside her in bed.
He thrust open a door with his shoulder and the light grew brighter again. She smelled lavender and wax polish. Five paces into the room, he stopped and lowered her. She sank into a nest of coolness and starched linen.
“Open your eyes, bella donna,” he whispered. “Here is our room.”
She looked around and gasped in delight. It was a beautiful room. It was the room she would have described if she’d been asked to dream of it. White walls, lace curtains stirring in the breeze, dark furniture and gleaming silver. The wood shone with deep luster, nothing was out of place. Quite different from the approach to the house.
“How…what?” she asked.
Marco sat on the bed, sending a small wave through the soft pillows. “I sent Pietro on ahead,” he said. “I told them to make this one room fit for a queen.”
She looked toward the window. High clouds floated across the blue of the sky. She gave a deep sigh. “It’s magic. Which is real, the caves or this?”
“Both.” He took her hand and kissed the fingers. “Both are reality in this world.” For a moment a shadow flitted across his face, but then he smiled at her again. “A bath, food, bed,” he said. “I think the doctor prescribes them in that order.”
“I can’t walk,” she reminded him unnecessarily.
“I know.” His grin was wicked. “You are at my mercy.”
He poured her a crystal goblet of white wine from the carafe by the bed, handing it to her by the stem. She leaned on one elbow and inhaled the aroma of apricots and peaches.
“It is wine from our own grapes,” Marco said, pouring another glass. “We call it Bel Amore, beautiful love.” He touched her glass with his own. “We need a toast. Shall we drink to justice and love?”
She nodded. “And to home. May everyone reach there safely.” She raised her glass and placed her lips to the cool liquid. The first sip slid down her dusty throat like nectar. It tasted of honey and spice.
He nodded as he watched her savor the wine. “My father spent years perfecting it. Now we sell all over Italy and abroad. This wine was one reason the Comandante coveted our property.”
She drained her glass. “I can understand why. It’s like heaven. Is that all it took to get it back? Finding the documents?”
Marco took her empty goblet. “Maybe a little more than that, but the deeds are nine-tenths of the law. I know what I have to do. I am back in possession and the Comandante is gone.”
A dark expression she couldn’t quite read flickered across his face as he said the last words. He set the glasses down on the little table and turned to her again. The wine had sent tendrils of awareness coiling through her, and she felt at once drowsy and yet completely alive.
Her lethargy forbade her to move, but her nerve endings were alert, expecting his touch. She lay still, watching and waiting, anticipating the feel of his hand on her bare skin.
He ran his hand up her leg, under her skirt, and despite her anticipation, she jumped. Immediately she felt the wetness between her legs and her nipples began to ache.
“Bella donna.” His voice deepened as he stroked her thigh. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
The melting sensation in the pit of her stomach made it difficult to catch her breath. She had a flash of memory of her fears of pregnancy, but that was all it was-a flash that came and went in an instant. Right now she ached for him, yearned to pull him inside her.
He placed one hand flat on her breast. The nipple stood to attention, and the dart of fire streaked down between her legs. “Just thinking about your body excites me,” he murmured. “I want us to make love again. I want it very badly, right now. Anywhere and anyhow. Up against the wall, on the floor, in the bed-” The other hand rose higher on her leg, and he touched the dampness on her inner thighs. He gave a deep sigh. “I promised myself I would wait-”
“There is no need to wait.”
She hitched her skirts up around her waist, exposing herself to him. Whether it was the wine, the relief of tension, the sensual feel of the room, or a combination of all three, she wanted it as much as he did. Wanted it hard and fast this time.
He nodded. They understood each other perfectly. Her fingers found the damp folds of her cunt and she pulled them apart, giving him a glimpse of the petals waiting for him. She stroked her clitoris with one exploring finger, encouraging it to swell, relishing the sensations that pulsed through her.