No catcalls harassed them, no demands for a “turn.” Rafaelle lead her through the simply sensual elegance of the waltz. Chiara no longer wondered why the doyennes of English society had, for so many years, frowned on the waltz. This dance was pure seduction in front of the entire crew.
A small smile flitted across Rafaelle’s mouth. He knew exactly what he was doing, she thought!
His eyes, though, told a somewhat different story. His gaze never left hers. The look told her clearly that he tortured himself with the same delightful torment he inflicted on her.
He led her through the intricate steps with ease. Each turn would draw her close. Then he loosened his hold until the next whirl. Touch and withdraw, touch and withdraw. Every touch sent a shiver of delight—and something more—down her spine to blossoming through the core of her womanhood. She would be a candidate for the mad house, or the bawdyhouse, if he kept this up!
Just when she thought she might either melt into his arms or drag him off to the nearest bed, the musicians ended the waltz with the greatest flourish their three instruments could manage. Rafaelle released her with obvious reluctance. His bow would have done honor to the Prince Regent. She curtseyed, and the audience burst into applause and cheers.
Chiara had to escape. Every inch of skin felt like a static electricity generator just before it gave off a spark of electricity. She wanted to jump or yell or scream or turn cartwheels. She didn’t know what she wanted to do! What she did know was that she had to get away from all these eyes. And she had to get away from Rafaelle! If she stayed near him, the incipient spark would burn her to a cinder.
Sleep proved elusive. She tossed and turned, got up and read. Finally exhaustion claimed its due, and she slept.
Her shift billowed around her as she ran through the fog-enshrouded forest. At least, she thought it was a forest.
It followed her. It pursued her, now stealthfully, now at a dead run. The beast would tear her apart with its sharp claws and vicious teeth. It was a wild beast, untamed and answerable only to its own ungoverned lusts.
Nails clicking on rock told her it was right behind her. Claws slashed at her, ripping her shift. She could feel the cold through the tear. So cold. She knew it would try again and not miss. So cold. So cold.
She woke to find her night rail twisted around her hips and her blankets falling onto the floor. It was freezing in the cabin. She straightened her clothes and pulled up her blanket.
Shivering as much from the cold as from the nightmare, she burrowed under the covers and went back to sleep.
The restless night did nothing to refresh her. She stood on the port rail, trying to flush the cobwebs out of her brain with the sea breeze. The technique usually worked. Shaking off the effects of a restless night like that might be more than a brisk breeze could deal with though.
Right now, Chiara tried her hardest to see the Italian coast. Even with Harley’s telescope, it remained invisible. The captain maintained a course well out of sight of it for their journey north. Now, they waited for nightfall and tried to be inconspicuous in the Adriatic Sea until the time to move into shore.
All their supplies were checked, everything was packed. There was only one thing left to do before she changed her clothes and boarded the jolly boat. Strangely, she felt loathe to do it. It wasn’t like it would be the first time. But maybe that’s why she hesitated. The last time, it felt so alien, like losing her identity or being in someone else’s skin. But, it had to be.
She went back to her cabin and concocted what she thought of as her witch’s brew. The walnut tea—raw, whole walnuts crushed and steeped—had been dried to a powder to be reconstituted as needed. She had several packets of it tucked in her bag.
Then, she stripped down to her shift. Dipping a brush in the obnoxious stuff, she began stroking the stain through her hair from root to tip. Slowly, blonde turned into brown. She checked the coverage with a pair of mirrors and covered any yellow showing through. Satisfied, she started on her skin. Ears, nape, hairline all got careful attention because they were the easiest to miss. Her face and throat came next. Her blouse had a drawstring neck so her entire chest, shoulders, arms, and most of her back required dying. That presented a small problem, one she hadn’t really anticipated. Streaking her back would be amusing and fatal. Well, she’d call on Mr. Pearce again for the last bit. He’d proved discrete and efficient.
One arm done. Since she had to pull her arm out of the shift sleeve to reach efficiently, she thought she’d let the first one dry and do her feet. Folding her chemise up over her thighs, she dyed up to her knees. One never knew when you had to cross a stream or show a little ankle as a diversion. Her arm dry, she slipped the sleeve back on and pulled the other off.
A preemptory knock sounded at the door and it opened. She gasped as she saw FitzHenry standing there. For a moment, he just stood there, eyes narrowed, saying nothing.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Quickly, he came in and shut the door. Then he threw the bolt.
“I would have left, but the horse is already out of the barn, don’t you agree? She glared. “Besides, I wanted to discuss a contingency plan if your friends aren’t in Cesena.”
He moved closer to study her hair and exposed skin. She knew her chagrin showed on her face. Her hand grabbed the sliding neck of her chemise.
“Don’t dither. Ball gowns show about as much.”
“Sir, you are no gentleman!” She pulled the hem of her chemise over her legs.
“Can’t blame a man for trying.”
“Would you like to place a small wager on that?”
“I never bet against a sure thing.” He inspected her efforts. “What is this?”
“Walnut stain. It has to be replaced every few days on the high wear areas but it generally works well.”
She looked pointedly at the door. “Now, if you will be so kind as to leave, I’ll finish the job.”
Instead of leaving, he walked around her back. “You missed a spot,” he touched a place on the back of her dyed shoulder, “here.”
Chiara felt the small touch race all the way down to her belly. It was last night all over again. Except worse! Last night the desire, yes, she finally admitted to it, merely blossomed through her being. Now it exploded. Fireworks bursting in the sky burned with less violence.
He’d held her hand during the waltz, but his single finger on her shoulder pulsed with more heat than an Italian summer’s day. The sensations were exciting and frightening at the same time. Never had she felt such a pull towards a man. She turned to look at him. He stared at her shoulder. She saw muscles in his throat tighten. He looked at her with compelling intensity. It was the look of a man who would brook no refusal.
A sickeningly familiar panic flooded her. The hand holding her chemise up tightened until her nails dug into her palms.
She lurched forward, but his hand followed her. “My lord, I shall attend to this matter myself!” She heard the emaciated whisper of her voice. She stood faster than a flushed quail. Gripping her chemise to her chest, she whirled on him. “Be so kind…,” gratitude to all the heavenly powers flooded her. Her words sounded stronger, “…as to leave immediately.” She put every ounce of command available to her into the order. It still weighed less than a down feather. “This is completely unacceptable if you have any hope of our completing this mission together.”
“On the contrary, if we are going to be working together, we should get to know each other so that we can anticipate the other’s actions.”
“Perhaps,” she looked around wildly, “but this is not the time or the place.”
“Why not? You will very probably have to reapply the skin dye before we leave Italy, and it would be helpful to have someone to do it for you.” He took a step towards her.
“Get out now! One more step and I will begin screaming. Then you and M. Thibaut can compare notes on how you got thrown in the brig.”
He retreated a pace and studied her. After a moment, he
nodded, bowed, and left.
Chiara slumped onto the chair. With her elbows on her knees, she rested her head in her hands.
Oh my God, she thought, oh my God.
Chapter 8
The bos’n spoke seven bells rather than rang them because the Swiftsure had pulled in close to shore. It was time to go. Dressed and ready, Chiara had, none-the-less, spent the last few hours alternately telling herself the whole thing was impossible or that she should go alone.
After that scene in her cabin, Chiara seriously wondered if she could endure the next few weeks of his harassment. Despite the sensuous look in his eyes, she knew he made the same effort to force her to withdraw from the mission that he’d tried before. When she stopped to think about it, it infuriated her. Unfortunately, during the attempt itself, she had the most unnerving impulse, no desire, to melt into his arms. That frightened her, even more than Napoleon and all his armies combined.
A knock sounded at the door. “Come in.”
FitzHenry entered and closed the door. The yellow vest of his Italian clothes burned against the cabin’s wood paneling.
Her throat tightened, and she reached for her sleeve knife.
He watched her hands. When he looked up, his eyes were sober. “Chiara, I swear to you on my honor that nothing will happen between us without your full consent.”
She swallowed.
“Can we work together under those conditions?”
She stared at him and then came to a decision. She nodded.
“Very well, we need to go. The tide is high, but will soon fall.”
She gathered her cloth sack and shawl and headed out.
The three-quarters moon gave Harley enough light to make out the mouth of the Savio River. He ordered the boat made ready. Chiara offered both her hands to him. “Thank you for everything. I would be pleased to continue the acquaintance when you get back to England.”
“It would be my pleasure, Lady Chiara. May fortune smile upon you and bring you success. We’ll be off Savona in 10 days, awaiting your signal.”
Lt. Topp stepped forward. He swept off his hat and bowed. “Fair weather, my lady. It has been my honor and pleasure to serve with you.”
Rafaelle clasped Harley’s hand in a grip that spoke volumes of their friendship. Nothing had to be said between them. Harley slapped his back, and FitzHenry moved to the boat. Chiara followed, and Topp clambered down last.
Soon the Swiftsure lay astern, and the boat bottomed on the shore. Two sailors hauled it up. Topp climbed out with Chiara and Rafaelle. “Good bye, my lord, my lady. I…ahem…Prepare to shove off, men.”
The two agents shouldered their bundles and trudged up the shingle. As the boat pulled out, Chiara turned to wave.
“You’re deserting both your conquests.”
“What?”
“Topp and Thibaut, you had them both playing the fool for you.”
“You are a lunatic!”
“No, I’m male. I can recognize infatuation when I see it, and I certainly saw it in Mr. Topp.”
“He’s just a young man, little more than a child.”
“Old enough.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, enough about foolish young men. We have work to do.” She turned to look sharply at him. “Do men have nothing else on their minds?”
He looked sideways at her but said nothing.
They met up with the road, a worn strip in the grass paralleling the river.
“Umm. I’d like to get a mile or two inland before we stop for the night. You said Cesena’s about nine miles from the coast?”
“Yes.”
“That’s about a three hour walk, if we can keep up a brisk pace. Given the circumstances, we can’t. Keep an eye out for a deserted building or some other kind of shelter we can use.”
She didn’t mention that it was almost impossible to see anything in the dark. As they walked, she desperately wanted to think about the enigmatic man beside her. He acted the autocrat with her and the patient teacher with the midshipmen. He laughed with her then snapped her head off. A branch brushed her face and she flinched.
Her attention on her head, she kicked a rock sticking up in the road. For a minute, all her thoughts converged on the pain in her left toe.
Her thoughts regrouped, but it took several steps. One moment he played the protector, the next, the seducer. She stepped into a wheel rut, and the whole idea vanished. She concentrated on the black road.
Chiara wondered how far they had gone when Rafaelle spoke softly. “There’s an old barn over there. Looks like half the roof’s gone. It’s likely abandoned. Let’s try it.”
“Be careful. People here don’t abandon buildings with any shade of usefulness in them.”
“Good point. Get off the road here,” he pointed to a tree, “and let me check it first.” After a few minutes, he signaled her over. “It’s clear. We can bed down here.”
Chiara walked nonchalantly over to the far corner of the barn and dropped her bundle on the straw that covered the floor. “I’ll sleep here.”
“No.” She looked up at him. “You’re in no danger from me, but I want you close at hand. If we have company, I don’t want to have to yell across the barn at you.”
His logic was impeccable. She moved her things and lay down with her cloak wrapped snugly around her. He did likewise.
Clutching her cloak tightly, she tried not to fidget, so much so that she lay rigid on the straw.
“Relax and go to sleep,” he growled. “You’re going to need it.”
Surprisingly, she did.
Shortly after sunrise, they resumed their journey. After a while, she could see the Apennines in the distance. Cesena lay at their foot. The gentle elevation gain meant they made good time.
Without the darkness to hem her in, Chiara felt calmer. After all, this place was home.
At the first farm they reached, she approached the lady of the house to purchase some food. The woman happily parted with some bread, butter, and fresh-out of-the-cow milk in exchange for a coin.
As they walked out of earshot, Rafaelle asked, “That place looks like a small fortress, it’s completely walled.”
“Yes, they call them cascinas. All farmsteads are walled like that. Italy has never been a particularly peaceful place. All sorts of malefactors, from conquerors to condottieres to just plain bandits, are common.”
“Hum, give me the English countryside any day.”
“You think England’s been peaceful? How long ago did we have a war on British soil? The Stuart rebellion was only fifty years ago, remember?”
“True. But our farms still don’t look like miniature castles.”
At the next farm they reached, Chiara approached a man herding pigs. “Scusi, signore, is this the road to Cesena? “ The man nodded. He looked suspiciously at Rafaelle who had stayed by the road. “Grazia.”
Rafaelle looked askance at her. “I just wanted to check.” He grunted acknowledgement, and they continued. Grapes became the major crop they passed.
“These people you are contacting, I just realized you never told me anything about them. Are you sure they’re trustworthy?”
“Oh, I’m sure they’re trustworthy. Sergio Chiaramonte is the pope’s younger brother. I’ve known him and his wife Graziella almost as long as I’ve known His Holiness. You know Pope Pius is my godfather.” He glanced over at her with one eyebrow raised. “That makes me family in Italian eyes.”
“That will hold even now?”
“That will hold especially now.”
“All right. Go on.”
“Well, they have a son and a daughter. Maria’s my age, so I guess she’s married by now. Paolo is older and he’s...he’s a love. A lot of their relatives work in the house and on their various properties.”
As discretely as he could, Rafaelle watched her walking beside him. They’d been on the road for over an hour. Not once had she complained or flagged or even asked for a rest. She’s a trooper, he thought. No, she??
?s more than that. She’s a true lady.
Most ladies of his acquaintance, and he knew a great many, would have begun moaning and whining after the first few minutes. The pampered beauties would have plopped down on their pretty little arses and refused to move long ago. They would require a carriage, a handsome, well-sprung carriage, and a maid. The maid wouldn’t be there to protect the lady’s virtue. No, most of the women of his acquaintance, both married and single, were only too happy to compromise their virtue with him. The married ones looked for an antidote to their unending ennui. The unmarried ones sought to end that state and enter into the state of boredom.
Like his mother.
As a lady, Chiara should be back in London flirting with the spineless male counterparts of the society ladies. Instead, she was here. Walking. Beside him.
Fields gave way to city outskirts, and people joined them on the road. Chiara stopped talking. Then the city wall loomed before them. Behind it, Chiara pointed out the hill of the Rocca Malatestiana with its castle.
People moved in and out through the gate, on foot, by horse, in vehicles of all types. Guards looked over the travelers. Rafaelle ducked his head and muttered, “French.”
Chiara hummed a response. She began to chatter at him in Italian. “When we arrive, clean the tables and take out the garbage.”
They passed through the gate unmolested. He leaned close, his eyes narrow. “What did you just say?”
She told him. “I figured you might as well get used to being henpecked.”
He snorted. “Good luck.”
“You are while we’re here. The first thing you need to do is hush. There are too many unfriendly ears around. Besides, I have to figure out where I am. It’s been a long time since I was here.”
The streets quickly contracted to what looked like large alleys, hemmed in by the stone walls of houses. The cobblestones made walking difficult. Sometimes balconies or bridges between the homes blocked the sunlight. Vendors paraded the street, hawking their wares.