Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (8 page)

      
Finally they came to an open plaza, which the natives called a piazza, where he stepped gratefully into the sunlight once more. The dry dusty earth was sere and brown, with only a few sparse clumps of grass, owing to a small herd of tethered goats that munched contentedly. Most were nannies, with a few scattered kids either nursing or gamboling around unfettered. Several ancient-looking crones sat nearby hunched on stools. Two of them haggled with customers who brought their own pails, while the others filled the containers with foamy yellowish-white milk from the nanny's teats.

      
While Beth was occupied paying one toothless old farm woman for her wares, Derrick wandered across the piazza, stopping to scratch the chin of a particularly winsome kid who nuzzled against his hand. “My, my, aren't you the affectionate one,” he said with a chuckle. Bending over to better reach the young goat, he murmured, “If only the bella signorina proves as accommodating.”

      
From a distance Beth watched him with the kid, charmed by his way with animals. Just then the kid's nanny, protective of her young one, broke free of her tether and took off at a dead run, head lowered. Derrick's rump presented a splendid target as he patted and wrestled with the kid.
 

      
Beth started to call out a warning, but it was too late. Instead she raised her hand to her mouth to stifle a most unladylike guffaw when the nanny made contact, pitching him forward with enough force to tumble him over the kid and into the side of another nanny. The startled goat jumped sideways to avoid the human cannonball, giving a loud bleat as she kicked the filled pail of milk beneath her.

      
Derrick hit the hard-packed ground with enough force to jar his teeth just as a deluge of white liquid drenched his head and shoulders. He sat up, dripping milk, which mixed with the dirt to form a slippery mud. Shaking his head to clear it, he started to rise.
 

      
The kid trotted up once again, but before he could touch it, Beth's laughing voice called out, “I wouldn't do that. His mama is quite put out with you.”

      
“I am not exactly in charity with her either,” he said, combing his fingers through his hair, sending droplets of milk down his face and neck.

      
He started to climb to his knees just as Beth cried, “Look out!”

      
The nanny made another pass, this time butting him square in the center of his back. He lurched forward onto all fours in the mud. Beth approached, doubled up with laughter now. She exchanged a few coins with the old woman whose goat's milk had been spilled, then extended her hand to him to help him stand up. She was still laughing uncontrollably.

      
A grin split his face as he laced his mud-slicked fingers through hers, pulling her down alongside him. “Laugh at me, will you, wench?”

      
Beth started to sputter, but the humor of their situation got the better of her and she joined his rumbling bass chuckle. Then, suddenly, the amusement faded as they stared into each other's eyes. With his index finger he painted a yellow line from the tip of her nose around her lips, then down the column of her neck to the swell of her breasts.

      
“Mmm, I've never used mud for this...works as good as oil, I'd wager...” he murmured as he continued caressing her with his fingertips.

      
Beth closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the tingling sensations his clever fingers aroused, but the bleating of goats and the chiding voices of the farm women and their customers quickly broke the spell. “You're covered with milk and mud,” she said, realizing at once how idiotically obvious that was.

      
“And you?” he countered with a grin.

      
“Thanks to you. I was helping you and look what you did.”

      
“You were laughing at me and look what I did.” He got gingerly to his feet and pulled her up after him, ignoring the titters and smirks of the locals, who mouthed the word amore frequently as they watched the young foreign couple with amusement.

      
“We'd best wash this stuff off before we draw flies—or worse yet, harden like statuary. I have a large tub at my apartments,” he offered.

      
“I have a better idea. Our day's outing isn't over yet,” she replied. After sending Jacomo home with her morning's shopping, Beth took Derrick's hand and said, “Come with me.”

      
“I plan to,” he murmured under his breath.

      
She tried to ignore the frisson of heat deep in her belly as they walked back into the maze of narrow streets. At length they emerged near the waterfront again, in the district where fishermen made their homes. The smell of sulfur wafted on the warm morning air, blending with the ripe odors of the bay. A large plaza opened out on the quay, with a series of fountains spilling from one to another down the hill. Water gushed from the largest one at the top, giving off a smell that suggested it would be brown as sewage but was clear as crystal.

      
“What is that stink?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.

      
“Tis the mineral waters. They come from underground springs. People travel from all over Europe to partake of them, drink them and bathe in them for good health.”

      
“Drink and bathe in it? It reeks of rotten eggs...of sulfur.”

      
“Come, don't be such an Englishman,” she said, pulling him down the hill to the largest of the series of circular stone tanks holding the overflow of water from the fountain at the top of the hill.

      
“You make that sound as if all Englishmen are imbeciles.”

      
She shrugged as she sat on the low lip of the fountain and swung her legs over into the water. “Sometimes you are. Take the matter of the war you foisted on my coun-try.”

      
“I foisted nothing on your country. I'm a pacifist at heart.”

      
She gave him a measuring look. “Odd, but I find that difficult to believe. You look quite the warrior when you're angry,” she said.

      
“I'm a lover, not a warrior,” he replied, watching in fascination as she submerged herself beneath the lapping water. Her unbound hair floated on top, a deep ruby curtain. All around them men and women sat in the water, unconcerned with their drenched clothing. Children, wearing none, splashed and squealed in delight. But Derrick was oblivious to everyone else when Beth stood up. Her thin cotton skirt and blouse clung almost translucently to her body. “God, you're magnificent,” he whispered hoarsely.

      
“Plunge in, Derrick,” she invited.

      
“I intend to, m'dear, I intend to,” he murmured. He stepped into the cool water and knelt, dipping his head beneath the surface and scrubbing milk and mud from his hair. “Brrr, is it always so chilly?”

      
“They say it comes from deep underground,” Beth replied.

      
He could see the pointed tips of her nipples through the soft cloth clinging to her breasts and his mouth went dry. “There are ways I could warm you up,” he suggested.

      
“But, sir, I am not cold,” she replied, skimming her arm across the water and splashing him.

      
He blinked his eyes to clear them, then went after her with a growl. “I’ll teach you, minx—or is it otter?” he added as she slipped smoothly from his grasp and splashed him once more.

      
They laughed and played until they were breathless, tumbling around in the water until he finally subdued her, pinning her arms to her sides as they knelt, submerged almost to their shoulders. All laughter died. He lowered his mouth to hers as she tipped back her head, raising her face for his kiss. His thigh slid between her legs and hers clamped around it, clinging with strong, sleek muscles. He released her arms and ran his hands down to cup and lift her buttocks as her fingers dug into his back, urging him closer.

      
The tittering of a small boy finally interrupted them. Breathing hard, they broke apart, looking over at the urchin, who grinned and chattered at them in rapid Italian.

      
“What is he saying?” Derrick asked, the local idiom still impossible for him to completely decipher.

      
“He's asking if we would like a place to be alone. He has a very nice house just down the Via San Luca.”

      
“What is he charging?” Derrick asked with a rakish grin.

      
“Not nearly enough for it to be up to your standards, I'm certain,” she replied.

      
“Well, in that case, you can always consider my original offer and return with me to my apartments.”

      
“I'm hungry,” she announced suddenly, standing up.

      
“So am I and well you know it.” He watched as she wrung the water from her hair and her clothing, then attempted to straighten herself.

      
“I mean for food,” she replied impatiently.

      
Sighing, he followed her from the fountain to a stall where a pretty young woman was taking sizzling hot rounds of flat bread from an oven using a long wooden paddle. The bread was topped with chopped tomato, anchovy and cheese. “That does smell good,” he conceded.

      
They bought two of the scalding hot pizza pies, as they were called, transferring them from hand to hand to keep from burning themselves until the bread cooled enough to eat it. “This is one of my favorite things about Italy,” she said, wiping a string of cheese from her chin.

      
“Unusual,” he conceded, taking another hearty bite.

      
“Delicious. Admit it.”

      
“Not half as delicious as you,” he replied.

      
“But you haven't tasted me yet.”

      
“True, only an hors d'oeuvre or two,” he teased. “Just enough to whet my appetite.”

      
“And after you have had the entree, then what, Derrick? Will I become table scraps?” Her tone was light, but her eyes were serious.

Chapter Five

      
Derrick stopped and looked directly into her eyes. “Table scraps? My fear is that I shall never have my fill of you, Beth.” He had not planned to say that, but now that he'd blurted it out, he realized that it was true. No, there was something about Beth Blackthorne that touched a part of him no one had reached before.

      
His expression was almost grave.
He looks surprised. He did not expect to say what he said!
She felt the most pleasurable rush of...of triumph surge through her. To cover her own reaction, Beth started strolling again. “Ah, easily enough said after less than two days' acquaintance.”

      
“Not true. We have been acquainted for over three years,” he corrected.

      
“I shudder to remember our first meetings,” she said with a nervous laugh.

      
“You do seem to have a remarkable propensity for wreaking mayhem on my person. Another day and you may well have me in my grave.”

      
“Do you wish to be a coward and cry off?” she asked, polishing off the last bite of her pie and licking a smear of tomato sauce from her fingers, all the while watching him from the corner of her eye.

      
“I'm willing to take a risk...and you, my Amazon warrior...?”

      
The lazy taunt in his low husky voice sent shivers down her spine. “Is that a challenge, sir?” she replied.

      
“ Twas you who issued the challenge, madam. I but answered it. My choice of ‘weapons' is dinner tonight.”

      
He was daring her and she wanted to take that dare, but she could not. Sighing with genuine regret, she replied, “Tonight I am committed to accompanying the contessa to a masquerade at the Duke di Arcovito's palace. She went to some little trouble obtaining an invitation for me.”

      
“I thought you disliked the social whirl of the nobility. Why would you importune her to get you an invitation to a gathering of court sycophants?” He was surprised at his sudden blaze of disappointment, and perversely angry with her for causing it.

      
“Because only last evening did I learn that your illustrious J. M. W. Turner will be present, and I'm dying to meet the finest landscape painter of our generation...even if he is an Englishman!”

      
He threw back his head and laughed, pulling her into his arms beneath the shade of a shopkeeper's canvas awning. “There's much to be said for we Englishmen! But I'm relieved to know the reason for your refusal has to do with your art,” he replied, bending down to kiss her, heedless of the press of people on the busy waterfront street.

* * * *

      
Derrick stood in an alcove partially hidden by a huge potted palm, observing the scene on the polished marble floor of the Duke di Arcovito's ballroom. Men and women dressed in costumes every color of the rainbow whirled around the floor to the lively strains of the Viennese rage, the waltz.

      
Everyone wore masks, from simple black silk dominoes such as his to incredibly elaborate sequined and feathered affairs that covered most of the wearer's face. He scanned the dance floor, searching for a tall russet-haired woman amid all the jeweled headdresses and turbans. Then he saw her, in a fantastical costume made of softly tanned white leather, elaborately worked with tiny shells and beads. Around her head she wore a matching beaded band, with her hair plaited into a fat gleaming braid that hung all the way down to her waist. Not a woman in the room could compare.