Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (27 page)

      
Quint studied the man he now called friend. “You've become quite Americanized, yet Dev worries that you might decide to remain here in Naples. Do you still have family here?”

      
“No. They all died many years ago. As to whether I might remain here...that depends...on many things,” Piero replied with a faraway look in his eyes.

      
When they debarked, Quint oversaw the unloading of their luggage while Piero made arrangements with a driver to transport them to one of the city's finest inns, a place that a Jewish jeweler's son had never been allowed to enter. But that had changed now. He had become a wealthy American merchant. What had Vittoria become?

      
When they reached their lodgings, Piero obtained directions to the villa of the Contessa di Remaldi. “Perhaps it might be best if I went first to speak with the contessa, to see how Beth will react to your coming to fetch her,” he suggested to Quint when they were at last alone in their spacious fourth-story apartment.

      
“I've not known a moment's peace since receiving Drummond's letter. No, my friend, I must see my daughter at once.”

      
“I was afraid you would say that,” Piero replied wryly. “I feel there is something I should tell you before you go storming off to the contessa’s villa.”

      
“You've been quite preoccupied ever since we came in sight of the city. What is it?” Blackthorne asked warily.

      
“I may know the contessa. I've told no one in America the reason I left Naples as a youth...” He outlined the story of young love thwarted by class and religious differences and the hope that the wealthy widow might indeed be his long-lost lady.

      
“Incredible,” Quint said when Piero finished his tale. “If she is who you think she is, will she attempt to stop me from taking Beth home?” The one matter that had worried Blackthorne was running afoul of the Neapolitan authorities if the contessa tried to stop her young protegee from leaving.

      
“If she is the same romantic she was then, she might see you as she did her own father.”

      
“And that would not be to my benefit at all, would it, hmmm?” Blackthorne replied, thoughtfully. “You would suggest I remain here while you scout out the enemy...if she is indeed the enemy, eh?”

      
And so, Piero Torres took a carriage to the elegant villa alone. It was full dark when he arrived, but he could see that it was a splendid home.
She has done well for herself.
But then, so had he, he reminded himself as he grew increasingly nervous. Ignoring the churning deep in his gut, he walked up the stairs of the entry and knocked.

      
He was greeted by a grim-faced servant who ushered him down a wide marble hallway into a large sitting room with glass-paned doors opening onto the portico that encircled three sides of the mansion. The contessa might or might not be available to a stranger at such a late hour, the sour old man had said. The name of Piero Torres had meant nothing to him. What would it mean to her?

      
Piero studied the room's decor, trying to see her hand in it, but the sophisticated furnishings, almost spartan with their clean lines and cool, pale colors, spoke nothing of the passionate girl who had loved bright pink and deep violet. Then he sensed her presence. Holding his breath, he turned and gazed into the fathomless dark eyes of his lover.

      
He could see a few silver strands in her lustrous raven hair,faint crinkles from laughter around her eyes and mouth. Her body, once girlishly slender and coltish, had fulfilled its early promise. Now it was voluptuous yet sleek as she stood frozen in the doorway, her figure outlined by the sheer mull of her gown, which was raspberry pink.

      
“You are even more lovely than I remembered.” He whispered, but the sound carried across the silence stretching between them, echoing in the big room.

      
“And you are an incredible flatterer,” she managed, although her voice was breathless. ”I cannot believe it. Piero.”

      
She inspected him as he did her, their eyes mutually devouring. He was still whipcord lean and sinewy, swarthy dark with those same unbelievably blue Torres eyes, eyes that had haunted her dreams for too many years to count. “I heard you went to America. It must be true that talent and industry are richly rewarded there.” She could see by the cut of his clothing, the gold watch chain suspended at his waist, the very way he carried himself, that he was a man of consequence now. Her knees felt weak and she was forced to clutch the doorframe to steady her trembling.

      
“America is a remarkable country. I'm accounted a success, yes.” He tore his eyes from her for a moment and looked around the room. “The same might be said of you. There was a second husband after Nicolo?”

      
She shuddered, remembering the vile old man her family had forced her to wed. “Nicolo died within a year of the marriage, but I was still underage. My brother Luciano made the arrangement with the Conde di Remaldi, a boon companion of his university days.”

      
“And you did not love him either.” It was not quite a question, more like a secret wish that he could not keep from voicing aloud any more than he could keep from moving slowly across the room to where she stood in the doorway.

      
Vittoria realized that they could not continue this very private conversation with servants eavesdropping. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “No, I did not love him. He was not a depraved brute like Nicolo, but neither was he what one might exactly call a devoted husband. He went his way and I was allowed to go mine.”

      
“And then he died, leaving you a wealthy widow.”
You do not mourn him. Did you mourn me?

      
When he reached out and took her hands, she knew he must be able to feel her pulse racing madly. “He gave a good account of himself trying to bankrupt my estates as well as his own, but fortunately his profligacy caused his death before we became destitute. Since I was of age by then, I learned to manage my own affairs.”

      
“And what of your parents, your brothers, the rest of your family?” As he spoke, he continued to hold her hands, massaging the fine bones of her wrists with the pads of his thumbs.

      
“My parents are dead...the rest are dead to me.”
But never you, Piero. You have always lived in the deepest part of my soul.
“I have told you much of my life. What of yours? I knew your parents were gone, but surely in America you have married, had children.”

      
His eyes met and locked with hers as he brought her hands up to his mouth. “No, my beloved, I have never wed,” he said as he pressed his lips to her sensitive open palms, then to her wrists, where he could feel the blood beat. “You see, I have never found a woman to match you,” he murmured, raising his head once again.

      
The look in his eyes took her breath away. “Piero, my darling,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she melted against him, feeling the hardness of his body, inhaling the scent of him, still the same and yet not the same. The boy had become a man. All thoughts were swept aside as his mouth covered hers and she opened to him, cupping his face between her hands to meet the onslaught of his hungry kiss.

      
When he swept her into his arms and demanded, “Which way to your bedchamber?” she did not hesitate.

      
“Up the stairs and to the right,the first door,” she replied between kisses.

Chapter Fifteen

      
They lay in her big soft bed, entwined, satiated. Piero's body had not felt so at peace since the last time he had been with Vittoria. They had been little more than children then, she even younger than he, although both had been virgins. “Amazing, that after all this time we should be brought together once more,” he whispered, stroking her cheek as he leaned over her.

      
She reached up and placed one palm against the hairy wall of his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “After so many years...why did you return? Why did you wait so long?”

      
He took her hand and pressed kisses on the sensitive pads of her fingertips. “Fate brought us together, I suppose...no, that is not an honest answer. I was afraid—afraid to find you still wed and surrounded by children, or worse, dead. I was a coward, wanting to hold my memories of you inviolate.”

      
She smiled sadly, yet a bit of mischief lit her dark eyes. “Perhaps it was a fear that you would find me fat and wrinkled and shrewish, not at all the smiling slim girl of your dreams.”

      
“You will always be the girl of my dreams.”

      
“But you built a life, made a fortune, became an American. That must have taken a great deal of time and energy.” When he did not deny it, she felt her heart go cold. He was no longer Neapolitan. His life was in the New World now. Where did that leave them?

      
Piero was too preoccupied to sense her disquiet. How could he tell her about Quintin Blackthorne? He had not intended to seduce her this way, for them to move so quickly to their old intimacy, but once he had seen her standing in that doorway, there had been no way to stop. Now he realized that it might have been a mistake.
 

      
Gently, he withdrew from her embrace, kissing her hands. Then he sat up and said, “You asked why I came back after so many years and I replied fate. In a strange way, fate did force my hand. My business partner in the shipping trade is Devon Blackthorne.”

      
Vittoria felt as if icy water had splashed over her. “Beth's uncle,” she said flatly.

      
“Yes. Quintin came to him with a letter that accused an earl's son of dishonoring Beth.”

      
“And you were sent to investigate?” She willed herself to remain calm, sensing his anguish as he searched for the words with which to explain.

      
“No. When Dev sent for me, I was asked to accompany her father to Naples as an interpreter. Then they told me Beth was being chaperoned by a countess named Vittoria who was a widow...I could not be certain it was you, but I dared to hope.”

      
“And what does Quintin Blackthorne intend to do about his daughter?” she asked with growing dread.

      
“He is intent on taking her home, but I'm not sure that is the best course,” he said carefully. “We were torn apart by our families. Perhaps the wiser course would be to follow the advice of the author of the letter and see that they are wed.”

      
She swallowed the tears. “Oh, Piero, if only that could be.”

      
“You mean the cad would refuse—or that Beth herself would not wish to marry him?”

      
“I mean that Beth is not here to wed anyone. She was captured by Algerine corsairs two months ago. All the other captives from the ship on which she was sailing have been ransomed, but she has vanished. The rumors are that she was taken to the dey's seraglio.” She blinked back useless tears. She had wept and prayed and spent a small fortune sending redemptionists to Algiers.

      
Piero took her in his arms and she drew strength from him, telling him of the hellish nights and days since word of the
Sea Sprite's
capture reached Naples, of everything she had done to find Beth and the guilt she felt for agreeing to the trip, then being unable to accompany her young charge.

      
“
Cara, cara,
” he whispered, rocking her and stroking her hair. “This was not your doing. Beth came to the Mediterranean knowing full well the dangers, but do not despair. My country has dispatched a fleet to stop Algerine depredations and force the dey to return all American captives. Stephen Decatur is in charge. He is not a man to take no for an answer,” he said wryly.

      
She raised her eyes to his, daring to hope. “You know this Stephen Decatur?”

      
“Quite well, yes. He's a remarkable fellow who would not hesitate to march his marines right into the dey's seraglio with swords and muskets.”

      
“I must speak with the redemptionists about this,” she said as she slipped from the bed and reached for a robe.

      
“First we must break the news to Beth's father,” Piero replied grimly. “She is his only daughter and he's been on the verge of distraction ever since that letter reached him in Savannah.”

      
“Yes, I suppose we must,” Vittoria said sadly, knowing the anguish she already shared with Quintin Blackthorne...and the guilt she alone bore for allowing Beth to sail without her.

* * * *

      
Once he recovered from the devastating shock of the news, Quintin Blackthorne was a veritable tornado of energy, rousing all of Vittoria's household in the middle of the night, sending messages to the Neapolitan authorities, even to the British charge d'affaires and the commander of royal naval forces in Palermo. Then he set about arranging to purchase a ship to take him in search of Decatur's fleet.

      
By mid-afternoon of the following day, everything had been set in motion. An unshaven and utterly exhausted Quint sat on the contessa's portico, sipping a cup of the heavy black Turkish coffee so favored around the Mediterranean. He grimaced at the bitter undertaste of the sweet drink and stretched his long legs out in front of him, combing his fingers through his hair as he looked at Vittoria.