Margrett Dawson: Bella Donna

She wrapped the shawl more tightly around her and concentrated on keeping her footing. Everything shimmered in shades of silver and black. The sun behind the ridge of hills tinted the peaks with a line of pale light, but only made the western side darker. The shapes of the animals were a deeper gray against the slate color of the rocks, and she heard the faint gasps of the men as they climbed alongside them. It was hard to believe this was the same coastline with its bright greens and reds she had seen in full daylight.

In less than five minutes she glimpsed a smooth path leading off to the right. It followed the contour of the slope, winding upward in easy stages. She turned her feet toward it, only to be brought up short as Marco continued in a straight line. She stumbled as the rope jerked her toward him and he caught her in his arms. When she felt his body against hers, the same thing happened as when he’d touched her naked back. Her heart almost stopped, her breath seized up, and her knees felt weak. She stiffened in resistance, unwilling to recognize the sudden increase in the rhythm of her breathing, refusing to give in to the urge to mold her body to his, to feel again the strength of his chest.

He spoke against her ear, brushing her cheek with his lips, setting her pulse to racing. “That path leads us to certain discovery. Stay close to me.”

It seemed to her that he hesitated a moment as she leaned against him before he steadied her and continued behind the pack train. She had no choice but to follow, seething with anger at her helplessness, at his stubbornness and at the undeniable sexual pull he had over her. That bothered her the most. She’d known he wanted her from the moment he’d set eyes on her, and she’d planned to use that desire to her advantage. But her own reactions were causing her a problem. This was not the way she did it. Even when she’d played the weekend games at the elegant country homes back in England, she was the one who set the pace, she decided when to kiss, how to seduce. She was used to playing a man like a fish, leaving her deepest emotions untouched. For once, she might have met her match.

There seemed to be no discernable path, and they climbed in a direct line. The men strode ahead at a steady gait, obviously accustomed to negotiating the ascent, but soon she found herself scrambling on all fours as the scree slipped and rolled beneath her feet. Her leg muscles screamed in protest at the strain. Marco took her arm to help a couple of times, but she shook him off impatiently. The less touching the better for now.

They climbed in silence until the man in the lead raised a hand and they halted. The sound of an engine came from the left. Quickly the men led the animals deep into a clump of bushes and Marco grabbed her arm. He pulled her hard against him and clamped his other hand over her mouth. Instinctively she stiffened and resisted until she lifted her eyes and saw the grim expression on his face. The mute appeal in his gaze spoke more than words. He desperately needed her to cooperate and he feared the outcome if she drew attention to them. The fate of these men and their leader rested in her hands.

Her eyes locked on his, she relaxed and nodded, allowing him to lead her after the men. In the thicket they listened, not daring to breathe as the vehicle grew closer. They peered through the network of branches until a few minutes later an open lorry lumbered past, armed soldiers standing in the back.

As the rumble of the engine faded to their right, the men relaxed their hold on the muzzles of the animals and Marco let her go. She stood for a moment close against him, the fleeting moment of empathy soon over. With a quiet word to the men, Marco took up his position in the procession and they set off across the wide track where the lorry had passed, to resume the climb.

Unable to speak, she forced her thoughts into some kind of order. Marco and his band were in hiding, wanted by the police. Ergo, they were criminals. She could easily believe that Enrico and his sons might find themselves on the wrong side of the law. And the men with them now were rough-looking and surly. But Marco was apparently a doctor. She hadn’t had much to do with doctors back in London. A broken arm after riding too hard in a point to point, the usual childhood things like measles. The doctors she’d seen were cool and clinical or gruff and grandfatherly. She couldn’t imagine any of them leading a band of brigands. So what had he done that made him a wanted man?

He didn’t seem violent or cruel. He’d brought her clothes and food and looked at her with those hot eyes that made her stomach clench in response. She feared the attack on her senses much more than any threat to her body.

He’d mentioned the Blackshirts. She knew who they were, thanks to two or three lectures from Johnny Westmarland and some other smooth-talking man from MI5 a year ago. It had been useless to protest that she had no political opinions whatsoever, that she’d only been in Lady Ellersby’s circle simply because she liked going to bed with different men. To hear them go on about it all, anyone would have thought she’d been ready to sell the Crown jewels. But the attack on Johnny and his fiancée Gillian and the subsequent fuss and bother had given her a good fright and she’d had to swear off men and casual couplings. One day she supposed she’d get married when Daddy insisted. So here she was, as chaste as a nun for the last few months, and contemplating bedding this very unsuitable man who’d tied her up, ravished her with his gaze and was bearing her off to God knows where.

One thing she knew-if Marco was fighting the Blackshirts and Mussolini’s government, the less she knew about it the better. And the less Marco knew about her accidental involvement with the Fascist sympathizers in Britain, the better too.

Gradually the sun rose above the hills, bringing color and life to the surroundings. At first they had passed through ancient terraces on the dry hills, where men had cultivated vines and fruits for centuries, but Emma was in no mood to appreciate the stark beauty around her. Scuttling and panting, she fought her way beside Marco. Twice he stopped at the top of a particularly steep rise and offered his hand. The first time she refused and slid back several feet in payment for her stubborn independence. The second time she gave her hand and he pulled her up until she topped the slope, landing hard against him. The aromas of thyme and flowering bushes rose around them and she caught the scent of him, of male sweat and leather, as he took hold of her. His arms gripped her, his face inches from her mouth.

She looked up into his eyes and locked her gaze with his. Keeping her still clamped against him with one hard arm, he pulled the gag from her mouth and instinctively she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. After a long moment, he took the bandana from around his neck and brushed the drops of moisture from her brow. Her breath caught in her throat and she closed her eyes. The pack animals and their drivers had disappeared behind a wall of rock. She and Marco were alone in the world, under the warmth of the morning sun. A faint breeze ruffled her skirt, pressing the fabric against her legs. He held her so tightly she felt his erection against her mound. She had no underwear. Marco knew that. At the thought, moisture oozed between her legs. Her breath came in gasps, and her heart thundered in her chest.

Oh, God , she thought. This might be where I lose control.

She met his eyes again and a warm wave rippled through her at the heat in his gaze. What was it about this man that made her want to do things she had vowed never to do again? She swallowed hard, unable to move away, struggling against the urge to bury her hands in his hair and drag his lips down to meet hers.