Читать книгу Sara Craven Tribute Collection - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 17

‘DEAR child.’ Violetta’s voice was full of concern. ‘You look ill. What has happened?’

Clare forced a travesty of a smile. ‘I have this splitting headache. There must be a storm coming. Thunder always affects me like this.’ She hesitated. ‘I was wondering if you had your painkillers with you.’

‘But of course.’ Violetta produced her leather vanity case. ‘They are in here, cara. Also tissues, and a bottle of my special cologne. Take whatever you need.’ She paused. ‘Is there anything else I can get you? Matteo says you are not coming down to dinner. May he bring you a light supper on a tray, perhaps? Some soup and fruit?’

‘No—no, thank you.’ Clare bit her lip. ‘I’m really not hungry.’

‘Such a shame.’ Violetta patted her cheek gently. ‘When there is to be a celebration. And you look so beautiful in that dress, although pale. Paola has told you her news, of course? Such happiness.’

‘Yes,’ Clare said steadily. ‘Such happiness.’

I meant to be brave, she thought, as she stood at the window in her room, staring rigidly and sightlessly down at the garden, held in the heavy hush of evening. But that was before I saw them together. Before I saw her in his arms. And knew I couldn’t bear it.

She’d exaggerated her headache, of course, to avoid having to present herself downstairs, but there was a dull throb above her eyes, and a bitter, shaking emptiness inside her just the same.

She had promised Violetta she would take the capsules and go straight to bed, but she didn’t seem capable even of that small amount of effort.

When the door behind her suddenly opened, she presumed her godmother was coming to check on her.

She said, wearily, ‘Please don’t bully me, Violetta. I’m going to bed right now.

‘It is not the Signora.’ Guido’s voice was harsh, almost inimical.

She spun round with a gasp, watching in shock as he kicked the door shut behind him.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I am being a good host,’ he said coldly. ‘Asking after the health of one of my guests. A guest, it seems, who prefers sheltering behind minor illnesses to confronting life.’

Angry colour flooded her face. ‘That’s not fair. And I’ve had more than my share of confrontation since we met, Marchese.’

‘You sought me out earlier,’ he said. ‘What did you want?’

‘To give you formal notice.’ Her heart was hammering, her breath rasping in her chest. ‘To tell you that I was leaving.’

‘It is more usual to put such a communication in writing,’ Guido said curtly. ‘In any event, you are wasting your time. I shall not accept your notice.’

‘My job here has finished,’ she said huskily. ‘You have no reason—no right to detain me any longer.’

‘Do not speak to me of rights.’ He flung back his head. His eyes blazed at her. ‘This is my house, Chiara. This is my land. And I am Bartaldi. I exercise what rights I choose. As for reasons—you know as well as I do why I wish you to remain.’

‘You wish—you wish.’ She threw the words at him. ‘And what about my wishes—my feelings? What if I say I can’t bear to stay under the same roof with you a moment longer?’

‘Tell what lie you please. It makes no difference. There is no escape.’ Hands on hips he regarded her, his mouth twisting sardonically. ‘I have seen your eyes follow me these last three weeks, as mine have followed you. The shadows in your face tell me you have shared my sleepless nights. Until you share my bed, Chiara, I doubt I shall ever sleep again.’

‘Then enjoy your insomnia,’ she said fiercely. ‘For God’s sake, signore, how many women do you want in your life?’

‘I need only one, Chiara. I need you.’ He took a step towards her. His voice deepened, gentled. ‘You are tearing me in pieces, mia bella.’

She said hoarsely, ‘Don’t come near me. Don’t say these things. You’re cruel, signore. Cruel.’

‘Then let us be kind to each other, carissima.’ A small laugh forced itself from his throat. ‘Let us comfort each other for the misery of the last three weeks.’

‘And what about the wretchedness of the rest of our lives? How do we deal with that?’ She lifted her chin. ‘Oh, I forgot. You have your lady in Siena.’

His mouth tightened. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And no doubt she would give me kindness, if I asked her. Only I shall not do so. I cannot, and one day you will understand why.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think I’ll ever understand anything that’s happened in these past weeks. All I know is that I wish I was a thousand miles away—and that I’d never set eyes on you.’ Her voice broke on a little wail of pure misery.

‘Go away, Guido, please. Go back where you belong—to the people you belong to. And leave me in peace.’

‘Peace.’ He laughed harshly. ‘I doubt, mia bella if you and I will ever know peace again. And, unlike you, if I could stretch out this moment when you fill my eyes through all eternity, I would do it. I—do not think you know how beautiful you are.’

Clare saw a muscle move convulsively in his throat.

‘But if you hate the sight of me so much, there is an easy remedy,’ he went on, his voice low and bitter. ‘Just close your eyes, and I will be gone from you. Do it, Chiara. Do it now.’

Almost helplessly, she obeyed. As the blank darkness surrounded her, she was suddenly, poignantly aware of his nearness, then the touch of his lips on her hair, her forehead, and her closed lids.

‘Adio,’ he whispered. ‘My sweet one. My beloved.’

Then there was nothing, and she knew that she was alone.

And more lonely than she had ever been in her life.

When she could think coherently again, and make her paralysed muscles obey her, she found herself reaching for Violetta’s vanity case, fumbling through its contents for the promised painkillers. As if there was any panacea for the agony that was tearing her apart.

I shouldn’t feel like this, she told herself desperately. Because he isn’t worth it. He’s just another love cheat, going into marriage for cynical commercial reasons with no intention of being faithful. I ought to hate him. I want to hate him. But I can’t, and I despise myself for it.

Oh, where were those capsules? Her unshed tears were like an iron band tightening behind her eyes. She up-ended the case on the bed, and Violetta’s car keys fell with a clunk on to the floor at her feet.

She bent, slowly, and retrieved them. Held them in her hand.

Guido had said there was no escape. But here was Fate intervening, and showing her a way out.

And she had to take it. Because the simple truth was she did not trust herself to stay another hour where Guido was. And certainly not another night.

She shivered, her fingers closing round the keys, digging them into her soft palm.

She would drive to the nearest station, she thought feverishly. Catch a train to—anywhere. Cover her tracks so well that even Guido’s power could not follow her.

Do what she should have done weeks ago. He’d thwarted her then. Now he would not get the chance.

She couldn’t risk taking all her things. Her leather shoulder bag was capacious enough to accommodate a change of underwear and a few essential toiletries, as well as her passport and money. So that would have to do.

Besides, if—anyone came searching for her, clothes left hanging in the wardrobe would give the impression that her absence was a temporary one. That she’d gone out for an evening stroll, perhaps. Which would give her some precious leeway.

She needed to change now, of course. She rifled along the hanging rail and dragged out a chocolate-coloured shift, and a hip-length cream jacket. She couldn’t afford to look too casual.

As she turned away to unzip her dress, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and saw what he had seen. A girl, her blonde hair dishevelled, her dark eyes wide and brilliant, and faint colour emphasising her cheekbones. The black dress hinted discreetly at the slender curves it concealed, down to the deep slash in the skirt, which showed off one slim, black-stockinged leg.

‘Beautiful,’ she whispered, as tears stung her eyes and the image suddenly blurred. ‘He said I looked beautiful.’

She shook her head impatiently. There would be time enough to cry. Now she had to concentrate on her getaway.

She was half afraid Guido might have forestalled her by appointing one of the servants to wait outside her door, but the gallery and stairs were deserted. Judging by the hum of voices, they were all now in the dining room. And her quickest route to where Violetta’s car was parked would take her straight past the windows.

I can’t risk it, she told herself. I’ll go the long way round. Circle the house.

She made herself walk steadily, looking appreciatively around her at the twilit garden. Just as if she was taking an evening stroll.

Her steps slowed when she reached the chapel. There was scaffolding round it, and the damaged window had already been replaced.

An artist in stained glass from Florence had done the work, and it was magnificent, Violetta had enthused to her.

‘You must go to look at it, mia cara.’

She’d nodded, and smiled, and known she would do no such thing. She didn’t want to see the place where Guido and Paola would be married restored to its former glory. Unless, of course, the wedding took place in Rome after all.

The campanile was still out of bounds, however, while its damage was being assessed, but there was real doubt over whether or not it could be saved.

It had been a graceful, pretty building before the earthquake. Now its bell had fallen, and its top stones lay in rubble around the base.

It was securely boarded up, and as Clare went past she was surprised to see that some of the planks had been torn down, and were propped against the wall.

She was even more astonished to see a car parked at the side of it.

Maybe the architect had returned for another survey, she thought. But surely he wouldn’t choose to do so in the half-light. Unless, of course, Guido had invited him up to the villa for dinner.

But the car didn’t look as if it belonged to a successful professional man. It was too elderly and battered.

Frowning, Clare walked over for a closer look. As she reached the driver’s side and looked through the window she heard the sound of voices, and instinctively ducked down, peeping across the bonnet.

Two men came out of the campanile, carrying something between them. Something heavy, trussed up in sacking and rope.

For a moment she thought it was a body, and clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent a scream.

‘Careful, you fool.’ Although Clare had only met the speaker once, his voice was instantly familiar.

My God, she thought. It’s Fabio.

‘If you break it, you’ve lost us a fortune,’ he went on impatiently.

They opened the boot and lowered their burden into it, muttering and cursing.

Clare stayed where she was. She’d no idea what they were doing, but she’d no wish to be caught watching them do it.

After a whispered interchange, they went back into the campanile and Clare straightened. They were clearly up to no good, and she knew she should report them. But going back to the house would give herself away too. And besides, her priority was reaching Violetta’s car.

I’ll stop at the first public phone, she promised herself, treading carefully to the back of the car and bracing herself for a swift sprint round the corner of the villa to safety.

The boot was open, and she was unable to resist a swift sideways glance. And froze. Some of the sacking had fallen away to reveal the calm stone face of the Minerva.

The statue, she thought, suddenly frantic. They’re stealing the statue.

‘Good evening, signorina.’ Fabio’s voice spoke behind her, and she whirled round with a cry. ‘I thought it was you, scrabbling in the dust. Not very dignified for Bartaldi’s woman.’

She said, ‘Don’t you dare to speak to me like that. And what are you doing with the Minerva?’

‘Oh, we’re just going to keep it safe while your Marchese decides how much it is worth to him. Paola showed me where it was, and told me the legend. If the statue falls, the house of Bartaldi falls with it.’ He smiled unpleasantly. ‘I wonder just how superstitious the Marchese will prove to be?’

‘I thought you’d already learned that he doesn’t respond to ransom demands.’ Clare’s tone was terse.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘But a piece of stone doesn’t talk too much, or leave letters lying about that it shouldn’t. Paola’s more trouble than she’s worth, but I should end up making more money than I ever dreamed of.’

‘You’ll never get away with it.’

‘No?’ His smile widened. ‘And who’s going to tell on us. You, signorina? I don’t think so. Because you’re going to be the icing on a very large cake. I think Bartaldi will pay handsomely to get you back, raggazza.’

He looked past her and nodded, and Clare found herself suddenly enveloped in a blanket, thrown over her from the rear. She kicked and struggled and tried to scream, but the cloth, old and musty, muffled the sound. Meanwhile a cord was being wound round her, pinning her wrists to her body. Still kicking, she was picked up bodily and thrown into the car.

For a moment she was winded, and lay gasping.

‘Not as soft as Bartaldi’s bed, eh, pretty one?’ Fabio’s voice was gloating and hateful. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll soon be back in it, once your lover hands over the money.’

She tried to cry out, to tell them they were crazy, that Guido wouldn’t pay one solitary lira for her, but the car engine started with a sullen roar, drowning her words.

It was a bumpy, jolting ride, and it seemed to last an eternity. Clare lay still, trying to gulp air through the holes in the blanket and avoid being thrown off the seat at the same time. She was also trying to work out in time and distance how far they travelled, but it was impossible. Being cocooned like this made her totally disoriented.

To her own surprise, she felt angry rather than scared. She remembered Guido had not considered Fabio dangerous, just lazy and greedy. On the look-out for easy money.

But, by stealing the Minerva, he might have bitten off more than he could chew.

She remembered hearing somewhere that if you flexed and relaxed your muscles when you were tied up, the rope became looser, but she’d been tied up like a parcel. The rope bit into her arms and body. She was just becoming seriously uncomfortable when, at last, the car stopped with a squeal of brakes. Wherever they were, Fabio obviously wasn’t concerned about being heard.

She heard the car door open, behind her, then she was being tugged out ignominiously.

‘Stand, raggazza,’ she was ordered. ‘Now walk forward.’

They were on each side of her. She gauged their proximity, then kicked out as hard as she could, screaming loudly at the same time.

She connected with them both, gasps of pain rewarding her, and for a moment the hands holding her slackened their grip. She tried to run, then something struck her on the head, and the darkness inside the blanket became swirling and dense, and she fell forward into it.

Her eyelids seemed to have been glued down, and opening them was a lengthy and burdensome chore.

When she managed it, she found herself looking up at the dim light coming from a low-watt bulb guarded by a fluted floral shade.

Not a cellar, then, she thought, lifting her aching head and looking round. Nor her idea of a kidnappers’ den—if she’d ever had one.

In fact, her prison screamed suburban bedroom. She was lying on a single bed on a thickly woven white bedspread, and she saw that her sandals had been removed, presumably to protect the pristine surface.

I’m glad my captors remembered their manners, she thought ironically.

But she was still very much a prisoner. Her feet were free, but her hands were tightly secured behind her back.

She went on looking round. The floor was polished wood, with a few rugs scattered about, and there were one or two pieces of old-fashioned, highly-polished furniture.

Behind the floral curtains were heavy shutters, which common sense told her would be securely locked.

So now what? She wondered, relapsing gingerly back on to her pillow. She didn’t even know what time it was, and, even if she twisted herself in half, she couldn’t see her wristwatch.

So, all she could do was wait.

But she didn’t have to wait long. She heard the sound of a key in the lock, and a young man, presumably her other assailant, came in. He was shorter than Fabio, and stockily built, with a broad face which, she thought, would usually have been good-humoured, but now looked sullenly apprehensive.

‘So you are awake.’ There was a note of relief in his voice which didn’t escape her. Clearly they’d worked out that causing her physical damage was not to their advantage. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Never better,’ Clare returned with heavy irony. She looked at the strong hands with their callused palms and made a deduction. ‘You must be Marco.’

He flushed, giving her a scared, resentful look. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Because you look as if you spend your life out of doors—unlike your friend.’ She paused. ‘Will you untie me, please?’

‘No, that I cannot do, signorina.’

‘Well, you’ll have to do so eventually,’ Clare said crisply. ‘I need the bathroom.’

He went out, muttering, and returned with Fabio. Together they manoeuvred Clare off the bed, and stood her upright. She was taken out of the room, along a narrow passage, again dimly lit, and decorated with a series of highly coloured holy pictures, to a tiny bathroom, which was really a tiled shower cubicle with extra appointments, including a bidet.

And someone’s pride and joy, Clare thought, seeing how it all gleamed with cleanliness.

‘No tricks,’ Fabio warned as he untied her wrists, and pushed her forward, thrusting a thin, rather hard linen towel at her.

There was one tiny window, high up, so, unless she was Houdini, it was difficult to see what tricks she could get up to, Clare thought ruefully.

She made herself comfortable, then bathed her face and hands with cold water. She looked like hell, she thought, viewing herself critically in the small mirror. She was as pale as death, and there was a bruise on her forehead that was developing into a lump.

But common sense told her she’d probably got off lightly.

‘Hurry up.’ Fabio banged on the door.

‘I need my bag,’ she called back. ‘What have you done with it?’

‘We have it. And we are keeping it. Do you take us for fools?’

‘I’d better not answer that,’ Clare returned with assumed coolness. ‘Just let me have my cosmetic purse, then, and my comb. I’m hardly going to tunnel my way out with my lipstick.’

There was some more muttering, then the door opened and the required items were pushed at her.

Combing her hair, renewing powder and lipstick and spraying herself swiftly with scent wasn’t any real help with her problems, but it gave her a psychological boost, which was invaluable.

When she emerged into the passage, she gave them an icy glance. ‘And before you tie me up again, I want a glass of water, and something to eat.’

To her surprise, she got both. Marco brought her a bottle of mineral water and a bowl of savoury bean soup. The tray, she saw, had been clumsily laid with a cloth, and there was an elderly starched napkin too.

He stood, shoulders propped against the door, as she ate and drank.

‘That was delicious.’ She smiled at him when she had finished. He reddened, and muttered something defensive.

‘Tell me.’ Clare put the napkin on the tray. ‘Is Fabio really your cousin?’

He shook his head vehemently. ‘No, we met in a bar. He told me he was in love with Signorina Paola, and that the Marchese was keeping them apart.’

‘Like Romeo and Juliet?’ Clare suggested.

He nodded. ‘Si, signorina. My mother is from Verona, and she has told me that story many times. I felt sorry for Fabio, and he said he would pay me when he and the signorina were married. I got him a job on the estate, so that they could meet.’

He hunched his shoulders. ‘Only Signor Lerucci sent for me, and told me that he knew I had no cousin, and I have lost my job.’ He sent her a sullen look. ‘My father worked for the Bartaldi, and his father before him, so this is a great shame for me. When she returns from my sister’s house, my mother will be very angry.’

He paused. ‘And then Signorina Paola told Fabio that she would not run away with him, so it was all for nothing.’ He sighed heavily.

‘But Fabio came up with an alternative plan for making money by stealing the Minerva statue?’ Clare suggested.

‘Si. We all know that the Marchese sets great store by the statue. It is an ancient treasure, and very valuable. And Fabio swore to me he would not damage it.’

‘And that makes everything all right?’ Clare asked. ‘I don’t think so, Marco.’

‘Fabio promised me money,’ he insisted. ‘Now I have no job, and my mother is not well. And who will employ me when they know I have been dismissed by the Bartaldi? No one.’ He sounded very young, suddenly.

A germ of an idea came to Clare. Her lips were parting to speak when the door opened, and Fabio came in carrying the cord for her wrists.

‘Is that really necessary?’ she asked with distaste.

He grinned at her. ‘I think so. You are a valuable property, signorina, and you have the advantage that you are made of flesh and blood, not stone. I need to keep you here.’

‘Perhaps I’m not worth as much as you think.’ Clare lifted her chin. ‘The Marchese Bartaldi doesn’t respond to blackmail. And he certainly won’t be interested in buying me back. I mean nothing to him.’

Fabio’s smile widened unpleasantly. ‘Good try, signorina. Unfortunately, I know differently. Because I saw you together, near the Minerva shrine one afternoon when I had been meeting Paola. And it looked to me as if you meant a great deal.’

He looked her over, making her feel as if she was coated with slime. ‘You are very pretty under your clothes, signorina. Maybe I should get a camera, and persuade you to undress for me—just to remind the noble Bartaldi what he is missing.’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ Marco broke in, his voice alarmed. ‘Dio, do not make him angrier than he is already by shaming his woman. You do not know him. You do not know what he might do.’

Fabio shrugged. ‘Maybe. We will see how generous his first offer is.’ He looked back at Clare, who slowly released her painful, indrawn breath. ‘You will have to be patient, signorina. We have decided to let your lover stew for a day or two before we make contact. I think when I talk to him, he will be glad to meet my terms.’

‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ Clare said glacially, as he retied her wrists.

She kept her head high until they left the room, then she collapsed on to the edge of the bed, her legs shaking.

The thought that they’d been spied on as Guido brought her to the edge of surrender made her feel nauseous. Her skin crawled at the very idea. She would never convince Fabio that she wasn’t Guido’s mistress, she realised.

But Marco might be a different matter. He was clearly uneasy about the situation, and that was what she would work on.

She wondered how soon it would be before she was missed. In retrospect, leaving her clothes behind didn’t seem such a good idea after all.

Wearily, she swung her legs on to the bed, and made herself as comfortable as possible. Whatever happened, going without sleep would solve nothing.

Oh, Guido, she thought as she closed her eyes. Please come to me. Please find me. And, if you want, I’ll stay with you. I’ll do anything—be anything you ask.

And for a brief, sweet moment, she imagined she could feel the brush of his lips against her skin, her hair, and her eyelids. And was comforted.