Margrett Dawson: Bella Donna

The rattle of the door latch brought her to her feet, ready to do battle if one of Enrico’s sons appeared. Marco edged into the room with an armful of clothing. She remained wary, still not too sure how much she could trust him. So far he seemed well disposed towards her, and she meant to keep him that way.

A hunk of bread sat balanced on top of the pile in his arms, and wobbled as he closed the door with his foot. Under his arm he carried a flagon of wine.

He dumped everything on the table, grabbing the bread as it rolled off the heap.

“Here.” He thrust it out to her and pulled a knife from his belt. Instinctively she flinched, but he ignored her. In two paces he reached one of the hams hanging from the rafters and sliced off a chunk of meat. “Eat while you can. Time grows short.”

Emma took the oily ham from his fingers. The rich, smoky aroma set the juices flowing in her stomach. Suddenly she realized she was ravenous and brought the meat to her mouth, holding the bread in her other hand and tearing bites from each as she filled her belly. The primitive meal tasted wonderful.

Marco smiled as her teeth ripped into the ham. “Hunger is a great equalizer,” he said, cutting a slice of ham for himself. He passed her the flagon, and she brought it to her lips, slick with the juices of the rich meat. The wine was thick and rough and made her cough as she swallowed. Marco took the bottle from her and placed his lips where her mouth had been, his eyes holding hers. She sensed the pull in her abdomen as he touched the bottle, just as if he had placed a kiss on her sensitive flesh. Her breasts tingled, and she felt a delicious quiver between her legs.

She swallowed a wad of bread and passed the loaf to him. He tore off a chunk and began to eat. After a few bites, she slowed her fierce attack on the food and watched him, taking in the firm line of his jaw, shadowed by dark stubble. She followed the movement of his throat as he swallowed, the play of his fingers as he broke off pieces of bread and ham. His hair was long and dark, caught at his nape with a leather thong. He wore trousers in a coarse, dark fabric, fastened at his waist with a wide leather belt. His shirt was open at the throat, allowing a glimpse of more dark hair.

Her eyes wandered down across his shoulders to his hands again. She was fascinated by his hands. The feel of them on her body lingered in her memory, sending a thrill along her nerves. His fingers were slender and brown. She caught sight of tiny, light-colored scars scattered over his skin.

She brought the last of the ham to her mouth then froze, horrified, as he turned his hand to brush crumbs from his shirt.

The thumb on his right hand finished at the knuckle.

She sucked in her breath and he looked up, realizing what she had seen. “Ah, you noticed the handiwork of our friends, the Blackshirts,” he said with a shrug. “It was a warning to show me what they could do. Of course a surgeon cannot work without fingers.”

Emma felt weak at the knees and reached for the chair to sit. It was the second time he’d mentioned the Blackshirts. “Someone did that to you?” she whispered. There was a lot more danger here than she had imagined. “Why?”

“I’ll tell you about it sometime,” he said. “We must leave.” He finished the last of his bread and took another draft of the wine. “Drink. We have a long trek.”

Emma shook her head. The greasy ham threatened to rise in her throat and she fought the nausea. “Enough,” she whispered.

Marco brushed his hands together and picked up a piece of clothing. “Enrico’s wife assures me this is all freshly laundered,” he said. “I told her that she would be paid in good time.” He thrust a long, black skirt at her. “Put this on.”

Emma took the skirt with a trembling hand and stepped into it. It tied around the waist with a frayed drawstring and she pulled the folds of material into some semblance of evenness around her hips. Next she picked up a brown tunic. She turned her back, untying the towel knotted around her breasts, letting the cloth drop to the floor. The loose garment fell from her shoulders, almost reaching her knees.

Marco handed her the last piece. “This is a shawl. Take it,” he said impatiently as she hesitated. “It will be cold in the mountains. And it will cover your hair.”

Emma stared uncomprehending. “Mountains? Where are you taking me?”

“I have a rendezvous I cannot miss. When that is done, I’ll take you to the Naples road.”

“You have no reason to take me with you.”

“Would you prefer I left you with Enrico’s sons?”

Her heart lurched at the mere thought. “Of course not. Leave me close to a village where I can find some lodging and send a message.”

“I can’t risk it, Lady Emma. You would betray me.”

“And if I gave you my word?”

He shook his head. “Believe me, I am not anxious to take extra baggage. But even if I could trust you, I don’t trust the police.”

“This is outrageous.”

“They would get information from you, one way or another.” He handed her a pair of shoes with a wooden sole and leather straps. “For your feet.”

Before she could protest further, the door flew open and the taller of Enrico’s sons rushed into the room, letting out a stream of words. Marco uttered a short, sharp expletive in response and ran through the doorway. Hoping that whatever the man had told Marco was important enough to distract him for few moments, she thrust her feet into the wooden clogs and hurried after him. Stay with Enrico’s sons indeed! Despite what he said, she was sure she could slip away and find someone in authority.

She edged quietly through the doorway, and quickly stepped out of the beam of light from the room behind her, but her movement drew the attention of one of four men standing in a ring, talking with Marco. He raised his voice in sharp warning and the others turned to look at her, muttering ominously. Her heart sank. There was no hope of flight. Two horses and two mules stood waiting, great bulging sacks strapped to their backs. She could sense the hostility in the air and hesitated on the rough cobbles of the yard.

Marco glanced at her, then spoke to them in dialect, a note of authority in his voice. Three of the men nodded, but one spoke up, obviously protesting.

“ Noè vero .” Marco brandished a piece of rope and a cloth and turned to Emma. He covered the distance between them in three swift strides.

Before she could react, his arms went around her and she struggled in his powerful grip. “What the hell are they saying? What are you doing?” she hissed.

“We received a warning. The garrison is on the move. They will be here at daybreak. The men don’t want to take you with us.”

“Then let me go. I can deal with a few country policemen.”

“This is not your peaceful English countryside, Lady Emma. I cannot leave you, nor let you put us at risk. My men think you will betray us by making a noise, or trying to run if you are free to do so.”

“Bloody right I would.”

“Exactly. I had to agree to this-” As he spoke, he wound the rope around her waist and attached the free end to his belt. “Forgive me, bella donna ,” he said, and bound the cloth around her mouth.

The men watched and nodded their heads. “ Va bene ,” she heard.

Gagged and tied to Marco, seething with inward fury, she had to follow as the small procession left the yard in the gray light of dawn and took the steep, stony path leading up into the hills. Marco led a mule and three of the men and animals went ahead, one followed. She supposed he was a lookout, covering their rear.

The pack animals picked their path around the scrub and cairns of stones. The sun was not yet over the horizon and the air was cool, making her glad of the shawl. Her instinct was to tear the gag from her mouth since Marco had left her hands free. But what was the point? She would never be able to untie the rope around her waist before they grabbed her again and maybe bound her hands too.