The Sicilian's Wife (12 page)

But Gary had never made her feel like this. He had never even come close. Compared with this, Gary's selfish, inconsiderate taking of her body paled as strongly as the flickering light of a candle was reduced to nothing in the full force of the glow of the sun. What she had known with him could never have been called lovemaking, never had come within light-years of being anything remotely like the sort of ecstasy that Cesare had shown her not just once but each and every time he had possessed her body.

And, just as she was sure that she could never feel this with anyone else, she was convinced at some deepest, most instinctual level of thought, that Cesare could never have made love to her as he had without feeling something similar for her. Perhaps he wouldn't yet call it love. Maybe he didn't even recognise it as that right now—but it was there, and given time and nurturing it could only develop, grow stronger, until it took possession of his soul as it had of hers.

And when that time came then she knew that he would finally admit the truth. That he would finally recognise what was in his heart and tell her that he loved her.

And, with the prospect of more nights like this ahead of her, with more physical expressions of his love to keep her going until her husband could bring himself to say the word, she knew she would have the strength to wait. She could even let him take his time. Deep in her soul, she knew that the moment would be worth it when it finally arrived.

And so, with her body fulfilled and satisfied, her mind a glow of happy anticipation, and a smile of pure happiness softly curving her lips, she nestled even closer to the man she adored and drifted deeply asleep.

It was many, many hours later when she finally struggled back to the surface of consciousness, forcing open sleep-sealed lids to the brilliance of a mid-morning sun that made her wince and fling her arm up to protect her eyes.

‘So you're awake at last.'

It was Cesare's voice, low and husky. The most wonderful, most welcome sound in all the world.

‘I thought you were going to sleep the day away.'

‘And if I had done, then whose fault would that be?'

Peering through her fingers, she squinted up at his dark, handsome face, silhouetted against the fine voile curtains at the windows.

‘You wore me out last night—drained me of all the energy I possessed.'

‘And how do you feel now?'

‘Wonderful,' Megan assured him, stretching luxuriously. ‘Absolutely wonderful. In fact, I'd like to stay feeling that way all day long. So why don't you come back into bed?'

His silence was unexpected. Shockingly so. It had her opening her eyes wide and looking into his face in a rush of concern.

‘Cesare?'

‘Can't be done.'

The answer came smoothly enough, but not quite quickly enough to erase the sudden feeling of chilling unease that crept over her skin, draining the blissful warmth from it.

‘You need to get up and get dressed. We have a plane waiting for us at the airport.'

‘We do? Where are we going?'

‘To Sicily. Remember that honeymoon we were supposed to have—well, we're starting it now. My parents want to meet you and I want to show you my country. After all you're a Sicilian's wife now. It's time you got to know the island.'

‘A Sicilian's wife,' Megan echoed, not quite sure how to take the words.

‘My wife,' she would have understood of course. It would have meant so much to hear herself described that way. But ‘a Sicilian's wife' had a very different sort of sound to it, one that was harshly possessive and yet impersonal, with strands of something ominous running through it, dark notes that she couldn't even begin to interpret. It came uncomfortably close to the arrogant declaration Cesare had made the night before, just before he had performed that amazing striptease that had led to them making love for the first time.

Things would have to change, he had declared. ‘No Sicilian would put up with a marriage in name only. No Sicilian would let it even be
thought
that he had never made love to his wife.'

In spite of the heat of the day and the soft, summer-weight quilt covering her, Megan suddenly felt her blood run icy in her veins, chilling her whole body. While she had lain here last night, lost in the happy delusion that Cesare could not have made love to her as he had without some deeper, more emotional feeling than just plain sex, had he in fact been thinking—and feeling—something else entirely?

‘So—we're staying married?' she ventured uncertainly.

‘Of course we're staying married!' Cesare declared, arrogantly dismissing any doubts she might have had. Doubts he clearly didn't even recognise could possibly exist. ‘Surely after last night you've forgotten all that nonsense about separating? Because if you haven't, it's about time you did. One thing's for sure,
cara
, you certainly won't have a hope in hell of asking for an annulment.'

‘I'
VE
fallen in love with your island—with Sicily…' Megan told Cesare. ‘And with your family.'

Her husband stirred slightly on the hot sand of the tiny bay and looked up at her through eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun.

‘And they have fallen in love with you,' he murmured lazily. ‘So much so that they've forgiven us for having a rushed, almost secret, English wedding instead of the traditional big family event here on the island. Mama always expected that she would get to invite all her friends and their families when I married.'

‘She's still managed to do that, all the same.'

Megan smiled, thinking of the huge party Isabella Santorino had held in their honour during their first week on the island. It had been incredible, with huge trestle tables laid out under the fig trees in the open air, covered in starched white linen cloths and piled high with food. It had seemed as if every member of the Sicilian community from Palermo to Siracusa had converged on the huge old, white-painted farmhouse to celebrate that day.

‘Each time I thought that surely everyone was here, someone else turned up—another uncle, or a cousin.'

‘Oh, we couldn't miss anyone out, right down to the second cousins six times removed.' Cesare grinned. ‘We would never hear the end of it if we did. It's the only way we can make up for not doing things properly according to tradition.'

‘A big white wedding?'

‘Huge.'

Cesare manoeuvred himself upright and sat, arms wrapped round his knees, staring out at the softly lapping, deep-blue sea.

‘With all the formalities observed. The engagement shouldn't even have been announced until our parents had met and been formally introduced
in casa.
In my mother's eyes, what we did was only a little more embarrassing than if we had indulged in the
fuitina.
'

‘
Fuitina
…' Megan echoed curiously. ‘What's that?'

‘It means lovers' flight.'

Cesare scooped up a fistful of sand then opened his fingers and watched as it slowly trickled away, back onto the beach.

‘It's part of Sicilian history, but it's still a reality in some parts of the island today. If a young couple—teenagers—fell in love but they couldn't sleep together, then they ran away instead. Their flight showed their serious intentions to their family, and they would be given a room in a relative's house in which to consummate their “marriage”. When they were older and self-supporting then their union would be legalised.'

‘That's surprisingly liberated,' Megan commented. Even her short time on the island had taught her that young Sicilian women in particular were subject to parental controls that she and her friends would have considered downright archaic.

‘It's pragmatic,' Cesare contradicted. ‘It was also a way of saving the girl's honour. If she were to sleep with her boyfriend without family sanction, she would be considered as little better than a
puttana
—a prostitute.'

‘Has it ever happened in your family?'

‘No—though I remember that Gio threatened to run away with Lucia if their respective parents didn't sanction
their marriage. They were both only sixteen when they met, and he never looked at anyone else after that.'

‘He must have loved her very much.'

‘She was his life; his whole reason for existing. That's why it hit him so very badly when she died.'

‘I'm not surprised.'

In spite of the heat of the day, Megan shivered and goosebumps pricked at the skin of her arms exposed by the sleeveless, V-necked sundress she wore in much the same sort of deep-turquoise colour as the sunlit sea out in the bay.

‘It must be terrible to lose someone you love so very much, and so young too.'

Lucia Cardella had been barely thirty when she had died. Just the same age as Cesare now. Megan didn't know how she could bear to live if she lost her husband as Gio had lost his wife.

‘At least Gio has started to come back to life since you arrived. You've helped him see that life does go on.'

‘Time has done that for him,' Megan chose her words carefully. ‘He can't mourn his wife for ever, no matter how much he loved her.'

‘But you and he have got on so very well together. It's clear he can talk to you about Lucia and how much he misses her.'

Was he jealous? Megan wondered. Was there even the faintest touch of annoyance or disapproval in his tone? She would have welcomed it. Would have welcomed any trace of any emotion that would give her some indication of just how this husband of hers felt about her.

They had been in Sicily for four weeks now. Four weeks in which the pretence of a honeymoon, the pretence of having a real marriage, had been played out under the burning Italian sun. She knew that Cesare's parents were deceived.
That every friend or business acquaintance they saw believed that she was truly Signora Santorino, in the fullest sense of the title. No one even suspected that their marriage was not the whirlwind love-match they claimed it to be, their wedding as much the impulsive action of two people who couldn't bear to be apart as the
fuitina
Cesare had just described to her.

But Gio had been different. Perhaps because he had known a true, deep, once in a lifetime sort of love with Lucia, he had recognised the same when he saw it in Megan's eyes. He had known from the start the way she felt about his half-brother and, unlike anyone else, he had also guessed at something of the unhappiness and emptiness deep at the centre of their relationship.

So she could talk to Gio in a way she couldn't talk to his half-brother. And because Gio was so similar to Cesare with his jet-black hair and ebony-dark eyes, she sometimes allowed herself to dream that she was in fact talking to her husband in a way that her fears would never allow her to.

Which was why she would have welcomed any show of jealousy. She wouldn't even have cared if Cesare had become angry at her relationship with his brother. Because at least it would have shown that he cared.

‘I like Gio,' she said now. ‘I wish he could find someone to make his life whole again.'

‘I don't think that's possible. Lucia was the one for him, and I doubt if he will ever find anyone to replace her.'

‘But Paolo needs a mother.'

Cesare had got to his feet and was brushing the sand off his jeans, his dark head bent and the strands of the gleaming black hair falling forward over his face as he concentrated on the simple task.

‘Paolo has his father. And Gio won't marry just any woman purely to provide his son with a mother. The men
in our family fall heavily when they fall in love. It's been that way for generations, my father knew in the moment he first saw her that Mama was the one for him, even if she was married to Gio's father at the time. And his father was the same before that.'

‘But Gio's a Cardella…'

‘It works for his side of the family too.'

He straightened up, brown eyes clashing with green for a second.

‘For all of us.'

All of us. He was talking about himself as well. Telling her that he too had known the moment he had set eyes on the woman he wanted, that she was the one for him. That like his father and grandfather he had known that blinding flash of sensation that had told him this was the love of his life.

From the back of her mind came the memory of the day in the library, the day he had asked her to marry him.

‘Like you, I fell in love with the wrong person,' he had said. ‘Years ago. I was little more than a child. Same age as you if you must know.'

And clearly that unknown woman, whoever she was, had not returned his feelings. Perhaps she had spurned his love, married someone else.

Suddenly it was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud, taking all the warmth out of the day and destroying the more relaxed, easy mood they had shared earlier.

It was no wonder that Cesare didn't care how long she spent talking to his brother. Hardly surprising that the show of any emotion that she hoped for never came. He didn't love her, didn't care
enough
for it to matter. His heart had been given to someone else, long ago and, like Gio, there would never be anyone to replace her.

That was why he had been able to propose marriage in
the coolly indifferent, businesslike way he had done when he had believed she was pregnant. He couldn't have the woman he wanted, but she would do as a substitute. A second-rate substitute, she told herself, wincing at the way the thought twisted a cruel knife in her already desolated heart. He
wanted
her; he desired her sexually. But his love she would never have.

‘It's time we were heading back…'

Cesare held out a hand to help her up from the soft sand.

‘Are you ready?'

No, Megan wanted to say. No, she wasn't ready to leave. She didn't want to go home at all. She had loved every moment of the time they had spent in this beautiful little cove just around the coast from the busy, sophisticated and tourist-crowded beaches of Mondello and overlooked by the high slopes of Mount Pellegrino.

They had brought a picnic with them and, after they had swum in the warm blue sea, they had eaten it lazily lying on the soft sand, chatting desultorily, talking about nothing important. But even that had been magical to Megan because Cesare had admitted that this was a special place to him. He had wanted to show her one of his favourite spots from when he had been a boy.

‘Megan?'

‘Oh, yes, I suppose so.'

She wished she didn't have to take his hand, but it would look too pointed if she didn't. It would make him angry, and these days she would do anything to avoid making him angry. She could cope with life as long as it jogged along at the pace they'd kept to since they'd arrived in Sicily. On the island, Cesare was a different man; more relaxed, mellower, easier to get along with—as long a she didn't do anything to rock the boat. And she was determined not to rock the boat.

Each day that they managed to keep the peace between them was one more that went into building up some sense of a real relationship together. Like bricks in a wall, the hours combined, creating a foundation on which she hoped—prayed—they could establish a stable marriage, one that maybe, just maybe, would turn into the proper thing.

If they could talk, spend time together, relax together as they had done on this beach today then slowly she might come to mean more to him than simply the woman he had been pushed into marrying because of her one stupid mistake. Someone he felt more for than just a burning sexual desire.

‘Come on then.'

Folding his hand around hers, Cesare hoisted her to her feet. And that desire was there like an electrical current as it was every time they touched. It was the reason she had hesitated over taking his hand because it seared across her skin like a blazing brand, frankly terrifying in its intensity. It made her feel out of control and adrift on a storm-tossed sea. She wasn't the person she had thought she was. She didn't recognise the person she became when Cesare touched her.

And clearly Cesare felt it too. It was there in the darkness of his eyes when he looked at her. In the sudden tension of his long body, the swift inhalation of breath that spoke of a swift, shaken reaction to her closeness.

‘Cesare…!'

His name was wrenched from her and she put out an unsteady hand, clutching at his arm for support as the world suddenly swung round her, the horizon seeming to tilt once, sharply, then straighten up again. Megan closed her eyes hastily and concentrated on getting her balance back.

‘Are you okay? What is it?'

‘I'm fine.'

The moment, whatever it had been, had passed, the dizziness receding and everything was back to normal again.

‘What happened?'

Was she deceiving herself or was that real concern in Cesare's deep eyes?

‘I just felt a bit fuzzy there for a minute. I must have stood up too quickly.'

‘Or had too much sun,' Cesare growled disapprovingly. ‘With your colouring you really should take more care.'

‘I'm fine—honest!'

Megan shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another under the fierce scrutiny he subjected her to. She was painfully aware of the way that the one small awkwardness in what had otherwise been a contented, peaceful sort of day, had changed the mood dramatically.

‘Cesare, please don't bother about it!'

But he didn't release her hand even though she was upright and standing at his side. Instead, he drew her close, slid his fingers up along the smooth line of her arm and neck and under her chin, lifting her face to meet his.

‘You look a little flushed,' he said, touching a gentle hand to her cheek. ‘I should have known better than to keep you out here so long.'

But he hadn't even noticed the time passing, he admitted to himself. The hours had passed in a blink, like so many seconds. There had been a special magic in seeing his old boyhood haunt through her eyes, making him look at it afresh. They had gone swimming as he had always done when he had come here, explored the secret hiding places in the caves where he had often gone to be alone and think when things got on top of him.

‘It's no wonder you were dizzy. We'd better get you home so you can get out of the sun and rest.'

He had come here when her father had forced that promise out of him, he remembered as they made their way up the steep cliff path away from the beach. When Tom had insisted that he waited, not saying a word, until Megan had grown up. He hadn't wanted to wait. He'd wanted to tell her how he felt straight away; couldn't bear the thought of waiting another five, six years until he could even kiss her. But at the same time, he'd understood just what was going through Tom's mind.

Tom had wanted freedom for his daughter. He'd wanted her to have a chance to grow up and mature, to know her own mind, before she was asked to commit herself to the possibility of marriage to anyone. But in the end, if he only knew it, exactly what Megan's father had feared had come true. Her so-called freedom had resulted in the painful affair with Rowell, the mistaken suspicion that she was pregnant. Which in turn had pushed them both into a hurried wedding that she would never have wanted had circumstances been different.