“Damnation,” he growled. At her start of surprise, he added quickly, “we will continue this conversation, Cassandra.”
A moment later, the door opened and Scargill walked into the cabin.
The earl was very much aware of the bulge under the light cover and concentrated his wits on turning his desire to ashes.
“What be it that ye’re doing, madonna?” Scargill looked at her questioningly.
“I was but seeing that his lordship is all right.”
“She tells the truth, Scargill. She is an excellent nurse, and in truth, your presence is not at all necessary.”
Scargill frowned. He peered down at his master’s smiling face and shook his head. “Ye need sleep, my lord, not conversation with the madonna. Besides, the two of ye canna be together without cutting at each other. I do not want ye angered or excited.”
The smile on the earl’s face widened into a grin. He saw Cassie flinch, her face turning red. “Very well, you old preacher, I’ll do as you bid.”
“Do ye wish more laudanum?”
“No, just peace and quiet.”
Aware that Cassie was moving restlessly behind him, Scargill said softly, “Would ye mind if I took the madonna on deck? The fresh sea air cannot but do her good.”
“Yes, please, my lord, I would like it much.”
At the earl’s continued silence, Scargill said, “Ye need not worry that she’ll escape ye, my lord. ’Tis a close watch I’ll keep on her.”
“You are a coward, cara,” the earl said, and closed his eyes.
Chapter 12
“There she is, Cassandra, Genoa—La Superba—the queen of the Mediterranean. Is she not beautiful?”
Cassie had the impression that she was shrouded in white; even the air was white. As the yacht drew into the harbor, she leaned over the railing just behind the bow and shaded her eyes to better see the city, bathed in dazzling afternoon sunlight.
“Yes, but so very different from any city I have ever seen or imagined.” It seemed to her that the tall, narrow buildings, many of them as white as the stark sunlight, were pressed so closely together that it was difficult to tell where one began and another left off.
The earl smiled down at her, guessing her thoughts. He had himself experienced the same feeling many times before. “As you can see, the city has had no choice but to press itself together. The hills behind the city are the Apennines. And farther back are the Maritime Alps. Genoa is compressed like a lady in her corset, the mountains at her back and the sea pressing at her—” He grinned. “I grow fanciful and see from your lips that you do not approve my simile.”
He pointed westward. “You see the lighthouse on the point of land? That is La Lanterna. My home lies slightly northward, in the hills. You will find the view of Genoa and the sea most striking, particularly from the gardens. They are deeply terraced and so laden with trees and flowers that you will think that you have wandered into some impossible, exotic novel. Beyond the Parese vineyards, to the east, is a small lake, also called Parese. I trust you will find enjoyment sailing there.”
Cassie thought of her small sailboat, crushed at his order against the rocks. “I don’t think I shall,” she said.
“We shall see,” he said. He turned and flexed his shoulder. She saw a frown of pain briefly narrow his eyes.
It had been but four days since she shot him. Yet, if it were not for the white sling under his left arm that crossed his chest to tie behind his neck, she doubted that anyone would guess that he experienced any discomfort at all, for he made no reference to it. She recalled touching him, curiously exploring his man’s body. A flush tinted her cheeks and she quickly looked away from him. She wondered in confusion if she were not his prisoner in her own mind and by her own volition. She drew back when he gently brushed tendrils of hair from her cheek.
The earl said, “You see the dock starboard? That is where The Cassandra will berth.”
Cassie wrinkled her nose at the overwhelming smell of fish and sweat. Shoremen dressed in little more than heavy homespun trousers formed a human chain from the gang-planks of the ships to the dock, heaving huge crates and bales of foodstuffs. She saw men upon the decks of the ships, dressed in various uniforms, shouting orders that sent other men scurrying about to obey them. The din of men’s voices was almost overwhelming, and she wondered how anyone could be understood, particularly since so many languages were being spoken.
The earl made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Every country, I believe, is represented here. Normally, as I told you, either a ship pays tribute to the pirates or she travels with a sister ship to protect her cargo.”
Cassie did not reply, for her attention was caught by a British cargo ship. “A Union Jack.”
“Ah yes, the English are great traders and their ships dot the harbor. They sail from Genoa to the American colonies, even to such exotic places as the West Indies and Mexico.” A hint of distaste entered his voice. “ Unfortunately, their cargo is many times human.”
She looked at him, cocking her head inquiringly.
“Human beings, Cassandra, black men and women captured on the coast of Africa to be sold as slaves.”
“How fortunate for you, my lord,” she said in a voice deep with sarcasm, “that you had to pay nothing for me.”
He grinned at her. “You are really quite mistaken, cara, my payments will be endless.”
“I will see that they are.”
He laughed and said in an amused drawl, “Don’t look so hopefully at the British ships, Cassandra. For the most part, the men who captain them are scoundrels. Traders in general have few scruples. If you offered your striking person aboard one of those ships, you would likely find yourself in a harem in Constantinople.”
“We are, however, back to civilization, my lord.” Her voice was clipped, inviting no response.
He gazed at her and shrugged, wincing as the untoward movement brought pain to his shoulder. He said easily, “We will ride in an open carriage through the city. I trust it will give you enjoyment to see Genoa. Scargill will follow with our luggage to my home—the Villa Parese.”
She nodded, her attention drawn to the filth that floated in the harbor, refuse, she supposed, from the many ships. She saw a dead sea bird, and swallowed convulsively.
“Excuse me, Cassandra, but I must see Mr. Donnetti.”
She watched him make his way to the quarterdeck to where Mr. Donnetti stood, legs apart, like a hovering lean eagle, shouting orders to the men.
Those sailors who were not securing the rigging and pulling the lines tight stood at the railing waving to people on the dock. True to the earl’s word, The Cassandra moved sleekly into her berth, her masts, like those on other ships surrounding her, standing tall and bright in the sunlight.
Men climbed nimbly down the port ladders to the long wooden dock and moved easily to catch the lines tossed down from the deck. She heard the heavy anchor drop overboard and made a note to herself to ask the earl the depth of the water in the harbor. The runged gangplank was lowered and Cassie walked quickly to port. She looked up to see the earl striding toward her, a knit shawl in his hand.
“My lady,” he said in a lazy voice, “I see that I must take care of you.”
He handed her the shawl and with a great show of ceremony escorted her down the wooden gangplank. All she heard now was Italian, and she imagined, from some of the curious looks darted at her from assorted men at work along the harbor, that she was the subject. She frowned, for there were many phrases she did not understand.
The earl guided her past scores of bare-chested fishermen, yelling at each other amiably as they mended their nets, to an old barouche harnessed to a slope-shouldered bay mare who looked as ancient as the open carriage.
“Yours, my lord?” she asked, an eyebrow arched as she ran her hand over the cracked black leather seats.
“Do not be uppity, Cassandra. I am guaranteed that the wheels will not fall off.”
As the barouche mov
ed ponderously from dockside to the Via Gramsci, the earl said, “This street is one to be avoided unless one is accompanied by several hardy protectors. It is every bit as notorious for its villains and cut-throats as the wharf areas in London.” They turned onto the Via San Lorenzo, and Cassie sucked in her breath. The cobblestone street was narrow, dangerously so. Pressing against the street and against each other were tall, narrow houses and enormous mansions, sumptuously appointed, and to Cassie’s eyes, outlandishly out of place. The barouche climbed steadily, avoiding streets that were so narrow that three people could scarce walk side by side. When they turned onto the Via Balbi, the earl said, “The famous Genoese architect Bartolomeo Bianco designed this street. The palaces are renowned throughout Europe, particularly Number 10, the Palazzo Reale. The Balbi family commissioned this palace as well as the street in the last century.” He would have continued, but he saw that Cassie, enthralled by the exotic sights, was not heeding him. He smiled and leaned back in the carriage, content to watch her and to see Genoa through her eyes.
The air had cooled perceptibly when the barouche finally rolled off the narrow cobblestone street just outside the western gate of the city. La Lanterna, the earl had called it. The road veered sharply northward and quickly became a rutted path, with wheel tracks so deep in the hardened dirt that the barouche lurched constantly from one side to the other. Cassie’s attention was drawn to the wild profusion of colorful flowers that grew among the bushes along the roadside. She drew a deep breath, savoring the fragrance.
She had always thought of the English countryside as being as neat as a well-made bed, with its lovingly tended verdant fields surrounded by well-trimmed hedges. It seemed to her that nature was allowed to express itself more freely here, without man’s interfering hand. There were so many odd trees and flowers the like of which she had not seen even in books. If her companion had been anyone but the earl, she would have been full of questions.
They were high into the hills when Scargill pulled the bay mare to a halt in front of a weathered wrought-iron gate. Carved at the top of the arch were the words, Villa Parese. A young black-haired boy, his face a deep swarthy hue, suddenly appeared at the side of the barouche. His dark eyes assessed the occupants but an instant before he pulled off his leather hat and bowed deeply.
“Buon giorno, Sordello,” the earl said, leaning toward the boy. “You have grown. It’s nearly a man you’ve become.”
“Si, signore,” the boy said proudly, his lips parting into a wide smile. “Welcome home.” He turned quickly to Cassie and bowed again. “Welcome, signora.”
It was on the tip of Cassie’s tongue to correct him. Signora indeed. But he had moved away to open the huge gates.
“Sordello is the son of my head gardener. He is a bright lad who has already the lust for the sea. In a year or so, I will turn him over to Mr. Donnetti, who will teach him the skills of a cabin boy. How very polite he is, too. Did he not greet my wife with all due deference?”
“I hope your tongue may rot off,” Cassie said through her teeth.
“Ah, but my tongue gives you such pleasure, cara.”
The carriage moved through the gates and onto a graveled drive. A lush green lawn stretched beyond either side of the bordering trees and hedges, more in the English style, Cassie thought, unconsciously nodding her approval. Set toward the middle of the lawn to her left stood a fountain carved of the purest white marble. About its circular basin were carved statues of sea gods, Neptune and his minions, Cassie supposed. The drive curved slightly, and when the barouche emerged from the thick foliage of tree branches, Cassie saw before her the Villa Parese, a great white stone edifice, built in a square and rising two stories. For an instant, she was aware only of the severity of the white in contrast to the incredible array of surrounding color. Blood-red roses climbed trellises to the second-floor balconies, where they wrapped about black iron railings. Full-blossomed hibiscus, geraniums, and other flowers she couldn’t identify, colored bright yellow, purple, and pink, lined the top of the railings in low wooden window boxes. On the front of the façade was a heavy cornice supported by solid corbels, giving the whole, to Cassie’s reluctant eyes, a dignified simplicity. Two huge columns rose from the marble front steps, and the brilliance of the sun made the myriad windows appear as sparkling prisms. It was so very different from the weathered gray stone of Hemphill Hall, where few but the hardiest flowers survived the battering wind from the Channel, and the heavy salt air was so pervasive that one had to lean close to a blossom to smell its fragrance.
“Does the villa please you, Cassandra?” As she remained silent, he added with a smile, “No, you needn’t say it. I know that it is very different from England. As you can see, the villa is set into the side of the hill, and the gardens are terraced into many levels, both up the hill and down.” He drew a deep breath. “The smell is so sweet, unlike any place I have visited.”
Cassie nodded silently, and allowed Scargill to assist her from the carriage.
A man and a woman, both dressed in rather somber black, emerged through the large gothic-arched portal. The man was quite short, and nearly as wide as he was tall. The woman was tall and gaunt, her complexion swarthy. Her full lips were drawn into a thin line. She had the look of a Puritan woman whose portrait Cassie had seen in a neigh-boring house in Essex. Even as the earl greeted them in his soft, musical Italian, Cassie was aware that she was being scrutinized to the tips of her sandals. She shifted her weight to her other foot and tried to avoid the woman’s darting gaze.
“My dear,” the earl continued in Italian, drawing her forward, “I would like you to meet Marrina and Paolo, who keep the Villa Parese running smoothly with or without my presence. Signorina Brougham,” he added smoothly, acknowledging her maiden state.
Cassie mumbled her heavily accented buon giorno, aware that a flush rose to her cheeks at the widening of the woman’s dark eyes. She wondered crazily if Marrina’s scalp did not hurt, so tightly was her hair pulled back into a severe black knot at the nape of her neck.
“Welcome, signorina,” Marrina said stiffly, lowering her eyes from Cassie’s face.
Cassie wanted to yell at her that her being unmarried was of her own choosing, that their master had forced her here against her will. She thought bitterly that she would likely have to suffer the condemnation even of his servants.
The earl led her into an imposing entrance hall, rectangular in shape, whose floor was made of black and white marble set in a triangular design. At the rear of the entrance hall a monumental staircase of intricately carved oak rose gracefully, bending sharply at the landing on the second floor. The heavy sweet fragrance of flowers hung in the cool air from ornate vases, filled with fresh-cut blossom, set at intervals upon delicate gilded tables along the walls. She turned her attention to the earl.
“These are my prized Brussels tapestries of the history of Alexander the Great,” he said, pointing to the colorful thick hangings that stretched from floor to ceiling along an entire side of the entrance hall.
“And these are your Italian ancestors?” she asked, nodding at the dozens of paintings, some life-size, that covered the other wall.
“Yes. The Pareses trace their history back many hundreds of years. You will find their likenesses all over the villa. That gentleman, however, is not Italian. That is my father, the third Earl of Clare, painted when I was very young.”
She heard a softening in his voice and studied the heavyset man whose dark brown eyes seemed to mirror some secret amusement. He appeared a confident man, radiating masculine vitality, just as did his son. How many times she had seen the same arrogant tilt of the head, the same autocratic set of the jaw.
“There are many similarities between the two of you,” she said. “And your mother?”
“She is there,” he said, pointing a dismissing finger toward a portrait whose subject was a woman in her late twenties. Creamy white shoulders rose above a gown of severe black. She was beautiful, yet she seemed to Cass
ie rather cold and haughty.
“You have her eyes,” Cassie said, wondering at the curtness in his voice.
“I trust that the eyes are the only trait I inherited from her.”
She cocked her head at him questioningly.
He shrugged and said only, “She was far from a loving woman. She did not care much for my father, or for me, his son. She wasted no time remarrying after his death. Indeed, she had not the taste to last out her widow’s year. Her son, my half-brother, will doubtless come to visit us soon. He is a likable enough fellow, charming and gallant with the ladies, and with an incurable penchant for extravagant finery.”
Cassie started, for he had not told her of a half-brother.
Before she could ask him more about this hitherto unknown relation, he said, “Come, let us go upstairs, and I will show you our room.”
She flinched at this reminder of their intimacy. She walked stiffly beside him up the wide staircase, while he told her the classical themes of the colorful frescoes upon the white stucco walls and pointed out more Parese ancestors, who were displayed in what seemed an endless procession from the earliest century. The brightly polished oak stairs made not a sound as they ascended. She smiled, remembering the groaning of the stairs at Hemphill Hall when the slightest weight was on them.
The earl turned at the top of the stairs and addressed Scargill, who stood in quiet conversation with Marrina and Paolo in the entrance hall. “Bring up the luggage when it arrives, Scargill.”
“Aye, my lord.” Scargill nodded and turned again to the woman. Cassie heard a sudden sharp tone in his voice but could not make out his words.
The earl chuckled. “If I am not mistaken, Scargill is likely upbraiding Marrina for her overt disapproval of you. No doubt he is telling her that you are to be treated as a valued guest in the villa and not as a mistress brought here for my dissolute pleasures.” He patted her stiff shoulder. “I daresay, cara, if you consented to wed me, she would unbend toward you immediately.”