Bronwyn Scott - Pleasured by the English Spy

That bit of surprise was nothing compared to the surprise he experienced now. The villa at the end of the drive was majestic enough with its columned main building and the single-story wings that flanked it, but there was no mistaking this for a socialite’s retreat. This was a working villa like his grandparents’ home.

Andrew dismounted and led his horse toward what looked to be a stable-block. A lone groom was on duty, polishing tack.

“Where is everyone?” Andrew asked in flawless Italian, although there was no disguising the accent that lurked underneath his perfect words.

The groom gestured vaguely past the house. “They’re picking the grapes.”

Andrew took that as an invitation to join whomever he found there. He strode forward, rounding the corner of the house. Nature brought him to a full stop. The lands of this house weren’t given to pretty-but-useless expanses of green lawn. They were given to the growing of crops. Groves with their straight rows of olive trees, vineyards with their terraces of vines laden with grapes rose on the gentle slopes. There were weathered buildings too, probably an olive mill of sorts, Andrew guessed, and a workspace for wine making. The hillside was full of people picking grapes; snatches of song floated to him.

He had not expected this. Andrew made his way towards the people, asking the closest one where the contessa was. He was half expecting to hear that she was back at the house. The first person he asked gestured for another to join them. The newcomer was a tall, well-formed young man in his early twenties, a few years younger than Andrew. He shook Andrew’s hand in the English custom and steered him away from the bustling vineyard, wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

“You’re looking for Olivia, then?” the man asked in decent English.

Ah, the contessa had a name. Olivia. A rather ironic name given the surroundings. Fortunately, the young man was affable and didn’t ask him to state his business.

“She’s in the shed.” His guide nodded towards one of the weathered buildings Andrew had noticed earlier. “Is she expecting you?”

“Not particularly. I was unable to send a precise date of my arrival.” Andrew said vaguely. The young man nodded with careless acceptance of his answer. Andrew was silently grateful there hadn’t been any further questions about his business.

Happy voices shouting in tones of amusement filtered out of the shed through the half-opened door. Andrew pushed the door open wider. His eyes adjusted to the dim interior and he smiled at the once-familiar scene. Women crushing grapes in the giant vat, skirts kilted up high, ready for the ancient Tuscan dance. He hadn’t seen anything like it since he’d left his grandparents.

Glad memories swamped him, and he was content to stand there for the moment, letting the sweet smell of grapes wash over him in a pungent wave, remembering the thrill of the grape harvest, watching the women work. One woman in particular garnered his attention. In the center of the enormous vat was a goddess of nature come to life; black hair, held loosely by a ribbon, spilled in waves down her back. Her legs were long and shapely, tanned where her skirts were drawn up. Watching those legs work to squash the grapes conjured up a hundred hot fantasies. But it was her face that captivated Andrew the most.

Although much of her face was hidden from view in the dimness of the shed, Andrew could see the woman’s smile; warm and lovely, this smile came from the core of her. There was no mistaking that she was lit up with joy from the inside out. Such unadulterated happiness was a rare commodity in his hard-bitten world, where everything was just another move on a chessboard and agendas as well as emotions were meant to be veiled.

The primal man in him surged unexpectedly to the fore. He wanted her with a clarity that precluded all else. He wanted this woman with the honest smile for his own. Never before had Andrew felt such a raw, instantaneous attraction. This was entirely new to him. The force of his desire to claim her was shockingly strong. He was used to playing the tiger, stalking his prey, studying it before he ran it to ground.

“Livvy!” His guide called out beside him. “There’s someone here to see you.”

Confusion paralyzed Andrew’s thoughts for a moment. The contessa was crushing grapes? No one in the big vat had looked old enough to be the contessa of his imaginings. Then his earth goddess nimbly climbed out of the vat and came towards them. She was the contessa? His goddess was the contessa? In no way did she resemble the aging woman he’d pictured in his head, and his body thrummed with the knowledge of it.

Chapter II

Up close, her face was as lovely as the shadows had promised. Almond-shaped eyes tilted slightly upwards at their tips. The soft curve of cheek and jaw gave her face a classic feminine look. This was a face that drove men to protect, to claim. This was a face men would want to come home to. It conjured up visions of uncomplicated pleasures: a simple meal at a rough-hewn table, a rope-strung mattress and a well-worn quilt. Dressed as she was in the cotton skirt and blouse of a peasant, it was not hard to imagine claiming her on that rope bed. The neck of her loose blouse had come open, offering a tantalizing peek of her breasts beneath the fabric. It was proving difficult indeed to reconcile this peasant princess with the contessa he was seeking.

She was all smiles when she spoke. “Who have you found now, Piero?”

Her Italian was easy, natural; to many, it would sound like a native tongue but Andrew heard the difference because it was the same difference he possessed. The Italian widow described in St. Just’s letter was no more Italian than he was. The contessa was English. Had St. Just known?

“It’s the other way around this time, Livvy. He’s found us. He’s looking for you.” Piero said. Only then did Andrew realize he’d failed to give his name.

Andrew stepped forward. “I’m Andrew Truesdale. Are you Contessa di Montebaldi? I’m a friend of Viscount St. Just,” Andrew explained as blandly as he could. He was already reaching inside his coat for his papers and the letter of introduction St. Just had written.

Her smile disappeared, and she speared him with sharp brown eyes the color of earth and agates. “I’m the contessa, and you can put those papers away. If you’re St. Just’s friend I know everything I need to know. I know you’re dangerous.”

Olivia held the stranger’s gaze for a long moment, as if in that span of time she could take his entire measure. Here was another handsome Englishman. He was the second in five months. She’d told Piero this would happen. She’d begged Piero after St. Just’s departure to be more careful. She’d told him he could not bring his “business,” such as it was, to her home any longer. He’d been more circumspect the last few months, but apparently her warning had come too late.

This man was older than St. Just. That had been a mistake she wouldn’t make again. She’d seen St. Just’s youthfulness. The viscount couldn’t have been more than twenty-three, and she’d assumed he hadn’t had the sharp skill to divine what was going on around him. This man was closer to thirty.

This newcomer, this Andrew Truesdale, wore his intelligence in his eyes. He was making no effort to conceal the sharp mind that lay behind those forget-me-not-blue English eyes of his. There was something else in those eyes too, when he looked at her: unambiguous desire. He wanted her. That made him doubly dangerous. She could imagine wanting him too if things were different. He was handsome and golden with his thick hair and tanned face. He carried with him none of the brooding darkness that had accompanied St. Just.