Margrett Dawson - Bella Donna

At last they reached a flat area, walled in by a sheer rock face on two sides. The third side rimmed a steep drop down to the beginning of the terraces through which they’d labored. Far in the distance, where the sun still shone, the deep blue sea sparkled, and she could make out tiny boats moving like toys on the water.

But she had no interest in admiring the landscape. The muscles of her calves and thighs burned as if knives had sliced into them. Her dry throat made it difficult to swallow. And she was hungry. When Marco let go of the rope that led her, she sank down upon a rock and put her head in her hands, thinking of the food and drink that had gone to the bottom of the Mediterranean with the Lady Rose . Succulent steaks, delicious soups, ices and sparkling water-

Why hadn’t she made a run for it while they were still in the farmyard? Her uncle had fought in the Boer war and always spoke well of the enemy soldiers who never gave up looking for an escape route, even when it seemed hopeless. If she’d tried, she might have made it, and even if she’d been caught, she couldn’t have been worse off than she was now. A prisoner.

Marco squatted beside her and she looked up. He took her hand in his. “ Va bene, bella donna . We have arrived. Now you can rest.”

She straightened her shoulders. “Thank God for that.” She looked around at the men unloading the sacks from the animals. “I suppose you can’t tell me where we are.”

“No. It is still best that you don’t know. Behind us,” he waved his damaged hand toward the rock face, “is the grotto where we can shelter.”

Emma pushed her hair back to peer more closely at the stone walls. The grottos she knew about were elaborate fantasies constructed in lush gardens by wealthy men who had run out of things to do with their money. “I don’t see a grotto.”

Marco smiled. “That is the idea, my lady.”

“Oh for God’s sake.” Emma stood up. “Just call me Emma. Under the circumstances I don’t think we need stand on ceremony.”

He rose to his feet, still holding her fingers, and gave a little bow. “Whatever you wish.” He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. The caress sent a quiver straight to her heart. She looked at the lines of fatigue etched more deeply around his mouth and longed to smooth them, to rest her fingertips against his lips.

“Come,” he said, “I will show you my domain.”

Still holding her hand, he drew her toward a long vertical crack in the rock. As they approached she saw that the slit was, in fact, a deep opening that faced away from the path, making it almost invisible to anyone venturing to climb this far.

Marco led her through the opening. The narrow aperture rose steeply for a few yards, then widened into a vast cave that soared overhead, too high for her to distinguish the roof. On her right ran a manmade wall of chiseled stones in which she saw windows, some in darkness, some with flickering lights behind them. Several people moved around at ground level as if sauntering in a village square. Torches flamed in sockets on the cave walls and a fire burned in one corner. A woman leaned over it, stirring something in a cooking pot. A child scampered by, pursued by an older boy.

The women gave a little bob and the men touched a finger to their head in a salute as Marco passed. All seemed to bear a great respect for him.

“My God,” she said in amazement. “What is this place?”

“This is my village,” Marco said in a low voice. “The shelters were built years ago and we adapted them to our use. In another cave not far away, the people built a church. Here, circumstances dictated that we had to be more practical.”

Emma shook her head in wonder. For all the activity, a pall of silence hung over the whole place. Even the children who had run by had not uttered a sound. Every community in Italy she had ever visited had been full of noise, of quarrels at full volume, of song.

“Why is it so quiet?”

“Voices carry great distances in the mountains. There are villages in the valleys and on the hillsides. Each a long way on foot, but close in a direct line. If we are to maintain our security we cannot risk arousing the curiosity of anyone below. The children know not to shout in their play.”

Marco’s touch had set her heart to hammering, but now apprehension made it beat even faster. “Aren’t you afraid that I will give your hiding place away when I return to Naples?”

He smiled at her, a smile that never reached his eyes. “If our mission is successful, we will no longer have need of it. Even if you could find your way here again.”

“But-” Before she could continue, a man of about thirty came up to them and threw his arms around Marco. The two men embraced and exchanged a few words.

Marco turned to her. “This is Giovanni,” he said.

She gave the man a friendly smile, but met a hostile glare. His dark eyes swept her from head to toe.

Seemingly unaware of Giovanni’s silence, Marco continued, “He has news for me and I must talk to him. You can sit here.” He led her to a bench carved out of the rock. She sank into it and wriggled her behind against the smooth surface. Giovanni stood waiting for Marco and she caught his eye. His face remained expressionless, then he frowned and looked away. For everyone, including Marco, she was the enemy, tolerated for their own protection. Face up to it, girl. You’re the only one here who really cares what happens to Emma Houndsdale .

An overwhelming longing to be home swept through her. Just about now, Daddy would be pouring a glass of sherry and asking her about her day, sharing comments and insights about the people they had come across. The hour before dinner in the evening was their special time. It had been pointed out to her often enough that her father overindulged her, but no one really understood the bond that existed between them. No one but she could make him laugh after a long day in the City. No one else shared his love of the countryside around the estate. When she married, as marry she must to ensure the continuation of the line, she would choose someone who would respect her father and all he stood for.

She leaned back and watched the scene before her. Men and women moved around the open space, all obviously intent on business. The few children sat in a group, huddled over some kind of a game. From time to time a peal of laughter rang out, quickly hushed by a nearby adult.

Her gaze drifted back to the two men, their heads close together, deep in discussion. Marco held a paper in his hand, folding the creases with sharp movements. He seemed upset by what Giovanni was telling him. Once he waved the paper in the air.

A profound weariness stole over her. Fatigue and the bizarre surroundings could easily convince her this was all a dream.

Her mind wandered back to what he had said about betrayal. How far could she trust him? How far was he willing to trust her? There was an edge of danger to all this that made her pulse quicken even as she still considered how she could get away.

Marco refused to give her information about the name of the place. Maybe his name was false too. Although there was little danger of her encouraging the authorities to look for one Marco out of several million in Italy. Even if she did tell anyone, she could only talk of Marco, who has a friend called Giovanni. Of course at once, we will find them, signorina. She smiled to herself as she imagined the shrug of the shoulders and the poorly concealed sidelong glances from any Italian policeman who might deign to spare her a few minutes.

Through half-closed eyes she continued to watch Marco. He was taller than the other men, handsome in an Arab sheik kind of way. She knew how firm and toned his body felt. If he climbed up here on a regular basis, his thighs would be like steel traps.