To Surrender to a Rogue (18 page)

He whirled around to see Frederico and the little girl up in the bow of the yacht The Italian had her in his arms and was dangling her legs out over the side. Both of them were laughing as the wind snatched at her skirts, turning the muslin and lace into a wild, flapping tangle of cloth.

"Bella! Bella!"
Leaning lower, Frederico swung her up and down, dodging the waves of foaming spray by mere inches.

A look of panic spasming over her face, Alessandra pushed past him and started to run.

Jack darted quickly over the hatchway and around the mainmast, reaching the bow a step before she did.

"It's dangerous to be so cavalier on a boat, Signor Bellazoni," he said calmly. "Please pass Miss Isabella to me."

The Italian ignored him, and took an even more precarious perch by the ratlines. "We are just having a little fun."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Alessandra, her face white as death, clutch at the jib halyard to keep herself upright.

He shot out his hand, seizing Frederico's wrist During the war, he had learned a number of useful holds for controlling unruly prisoners. A squeeze of pressure, a subtle twist...

His smirk pinching in pain, the Italian went momentarily limp.

In the same smooth motion, Jack released Frederico's arm and freed Isabella from his hold. "Apparently you are unfamiliar with boats, Signor Bellazoni." Pressing the girl to his chest, Jack was struck by how small and fragile she was. "What with the slapping sails and unstable footing, it is far too easy for accidents to happen."

"Ah,
scuzie"
Frederico quickly assumed a contrite face. "How careless of me. You are right, of course— accidents do happen, especially to children." He reached out and patted Isabella's tangled curls.
"Ciao, bambino.
I shall cede my place to your noble protector for now." A glint of gold flashed as he winked at the little girl. "We'll play again sometime soon."

"Ciao, Freddi," she cried.

Seeing the Italian smile, Jack wanted to knock the pearly teeth right down his gullet Instead he merely murmured, "Just make sure the game is not a dangerous one."

Alessandra shrank back against the capstan to let Frederico pass, and then held out her arms for her daughter. "Oh, Isa," she whispered, sounding perilously close to tears.

"There is no reason to be upset, Lady Giamatti," he said, handing her over. "Miss Isabella was in no real danger of falling overboard. And even if she had fallen into the water, I would have had her back on board in a trice. Like Hadley, I'm an excellent swimmer."

Rather than look reassured, Alessandra turned a greenish shade of white.

Jack gave himself a mental kick for reminding her that Isabella's best friend had nearly drowned in the ocean not long ago. "Shall we go see what treats have been packed in the picnic hampers?" he added quickly. "I'm famished."

"I hope there are strawberry tarts," piped up Isabella.

Her mother still looked queasy.

Jack knew that Alessandra della Giamatti was one of the least likely ladies on earth to fall into a fit of unprovoked hysterics. Yet her nerves were clearly stretched to the point of snapping.

Again, he asked himself why.

Alessandra accepted a mug of mulled wine, hoping it might relax her nerves.

All around, the others were enjoying the rich selection of refreshments provided by the yacht's crew. Orrichetti, Da Riffini, and Frederico were by the railing, sipping rum punch as they amiably argued over the merits of Michelangelo's love sonnets. Dwight-Davis and Eustace were downing a platter of freshly shucked oysters while the captain explained the workings of a sextant

Only Mariello appeared to be enjoying the outing as little as she was. He excused himself and went below to lie down.

She sighed, watching him crab away to the main hatchway. If only she, too, might bury herself under a ship's blanket. Or in a deep hole. Preferably one that dropped all the way down to China.

Perhaps she could become an expert in Ming dynasty pottery or carved jade. As far as she was concerned, the Roman Empire was crumbling down around her ears.

"May I have another tart, Mama?"

"Very well, but just one," said Alessandra, forcing a smile. "I don't want you to make yourself sick."

"Perry got sick just riding in a rowboat on the Thames." Isabella sniggered. "He pu—"

"Language, Isa," she warned.

Her daughter frowned. "You mean 'puke' is a bad word? Perry says it all the time."

"It's not precisely a bad word, but it's not considered.. ." Jack crouched down beside her and lowered his voice to a murmur "... ladylike."

Isabella's mouth scrunched. "Nothing fun is ladylike," she groused.

"Drawing is fun, isn't it?" asked Jack. "And painting. Both of which are considered exceedingly ladylike."

"Oh. Right" Her daughter's expression brightened in an instant

Jack produced a pencil and small sketchbook from the folds of his coat "Shall we take turns drawing a scene from the shore?" Indicating two teak chairs by the stern rail, he added to Alessandra, "I shall see that she doesn't stray from her seat"

"Oh yes, please!" Isabella wiped her sticky hands on her skirts. "May I draw a picture of the mast first, so I may show Perry just how high I went?"

"That sounds like a splendid idea." His long, wind-tangled hair fell over his collar, and with the belcher kerchief knotted at his throat Jack looked a little like a storybook pirate.

Dark and dangerous.
In contrast to the man who spoke so calmly about conforming to the rules. So much about him seemed a contradiction. Hard and soft. Soldier and scholar. Aristocrat and painter. Yet he always seemed remarkably comfortable within his own skin.

Lover and...

Alessandra felt a lump form in her throat as Isabella placed her little hand in his. Those long, lithe fingers looked so very strong and capable as he led her to the chairs. Lud, she knew only too well the feel of their touch.

Don't think about his artist hands. Don't think about his hero smile.

Looking a little bored, Frederico left the conte and strolled over to Jack and Isabella. "Tell me, Lord James, is there a reason your
Inglieze
friends call you Black Jack?'

Jack continued sharpening the pencil with his penknife. "I should think that would be rather obvious, Signor Bellazoni"

"I thought perhaps that you were...how do you say it... a
malateste.
Someone prone to dark moods. Someone whom others fear to anger."

At that, Jack looked up. "Have you done something bad?"

Frederico's smile faded for an instant, then he laughed. "Good heavens, no. I have had little chance to get into any mischief in England,
si.

"Then you have nothing to fear from me."

It was Frederico who broke eye contact first.

"You do look a little like a Caribbean pirate," observed Isabella, with unabashed candor. "At least that is the way they are described in Perry's book—very dark and very scary."

Jack chuckled, softening the planes of his face. "Family legend does say that I have a bit of Spanish marauder's blood in my veins."

"Really?"
Isabella looked impressed.

"Yes, it is said that one of my ancestors was an admiral in the Spanish Armada. When his ship was sunk in the battle with Queen Elizabeth's fleet, he washed ashore in Cornwall, where he was nursed back to health by the daughter of a local nobleman. They fell in love and married." Jack brushed the tangle of raven-dark hair back from his brow. "And so every once in a while, a black sheep appears among the bevy of blond Norse warriors who bear the Pierson name."

"Fascinating," remarked Dwight-Davis. "By Jove, you are a living piece of English history, Lord James."

"How
very
romantic," said Frederico.

"Yes, actually it is," blurted out Alessandra, unable to keep silent in the face of his sarcasm.

"Well, well, I see that your story has won the admiration of the ladies present, Lord James," drawled Frederico, after shooting her a malevolent glance. "But then, females have a great weakness for tales of love conquering all. Somehow they all seem to yearn for a hero with whom to live happily ever after."

Jack shrugged. "You must have far more experience with the feminine mind than I do. I wouldn't dare make sweeping presumptions about what women want"

The other men laughed.

"A wise philosophy, sir," said Orrichetti. "Bellazoni, perhaps you ought to temper your judgment"

"Perhaps." Frederico gave a sulky smile. "But in my experience, I have yet to be proved wrong." Brushing a lock of hair from his brow, he called for Da Riffini, the expert in ancient stonework, to take a stroll around the deck and identify the ruins atop the coastal cliffs.

"You must forgive my colleague," apologized Orrichetti, once the two had moved away. "Like many Italians, Signor Bellazoni has a passionate nature and sometimes gets carried away in voicing his opinions. I hope you will take no offense."

"Actions speak louder than words. As long as Signor Bellazoni performs his excavation duties to the best of his ability, I have no quarrel with him." Jack shut his knife. "I take it you are satisfied with his work so far, Lady Giamatti?"

"Yes," replied Alessandra, trying to muster some force to her voice.

"Indeed, indeed," chimed in Dwight-Davis. "It is marvelous to see everyone working together for a lofty common goal
Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno
—one for all, all for one." He lifted his glass in a toast. "There is no greater treasure than knowledge."

"Speaking of which," said Eustace. "I have a technical question concerning the winches we are setting up by the grotto..."

The scholars all circled together at the railing to discuss the query, but Alessandra remained where she was, preferring to be alone with her thoughts.

After a moment, however, Orrichetti drifted off from the others and took a seat on the hatchway combing. Turning up the collar of his coat, he fussed a bit longer with the silk muffler wound around his neck before asking, "May I fetch you a blanket, my dear? You must be chilled."

Alessandra quirked a rueful smile. "I don't need to be wrapped in cotton wool, Pietro. I am not quite so fragile as every one seems to think."

"I did not mean to imply you were." He cleared his throat with a cough. "Indeed, I see a strength in you now that was not there when you were in Italy."

"I went from being my father's daughter to Stefano's wife," she said softly. "Neither of which required me to bear much responsibility. But once I was on my own, I had to make a choice." She glanced out to sea, where shimmering, silvery pattern of light rippled across the surface. "Sink or swim."

Orrichetti reached and took her hand, twining his fingers with hers. The buttery soft Florentine leather of his gloves—the exact same shade favored by her husband— brought back a flood of memories.

"Am I upsetting you, my dear?"

She shook her head. "I was just thinking of Como, and how the scent of Stefano's cigars would drift out from his study to the terraces overlooking the lake. It was very soothing, you know. I would sit there in late afternoon and watch the sun set behind the mountains, the pinks and golds gradually fading to the deep, smoky gray of twilight"

As the wind shifted, the captain called the order to tack, and with a thunderous crack, the mainsail swung around to the opposite side of the boat

"It's strange," she continued. "I have trouble picturing the palazzo now." A drizzle of sea spray fell from the canvas. "Perhaps because I have changed beyond recognition."

"Non, non,
my dear. I see the same lovely young girl." A smile played at the corners of his mouth. "But there is a,..how shall I say it..." He cocked his head and

subjected her to a searching look. "A new firmness to you."

"Lud, you make me sound like a loaf of bread that has gone slightly stale," she murmured.

Orrichetti chuckled. "You don't need an old man like me to tell you that your beauty has only grown more refined with each year." A flicker of regret shaded his soft gray eyes. "Stefano would be very proud of you."

Alessandra drew in a long, painful breath, and then let it out with a shuddering sigh. "Thank you, Retro. What lovely words." A lock of hair fell across her cheek and she pushed it aside, slowly twirling the dark strand around her fingertip. Fearful of allowing the moment to become too maudlin, she quickly added, "Does Frederico know he has a rival in oratorical skills?"

As she hoped, he chuckled again, yet as the sound died away his expression turned very serious. "Frederico," he repeated. "I had thought you would not mind the company of an old friend. However, I fear I might have been mistaken."

Alessandra shied away from meeting his gaze. "We did not part on the best of terms, but pray, do not upset yourself over your decision. It's nothing to be concerned about We have agreed that there is no reason we cannot have a cordial working relationship."

The conte inched a touch closer. "Has this bad blood anything to do with Frederico's political activities in Milan?"

For his own protection, the less her friend knew of the truth, the better. “Please, Retro, I would rather not dredge up the past"

He gave her hand a squeeze, and the warmth of his palm through the thin layer of leather was comforting. "Then I shall speak no more of it, my dear." All around them was the rhythmic creaking of wood as the hull rolled with the ocean swells. "Save to say that if you ever feel the need to confide in someone, you know I am here."

In the glint of the gleaming brasswork, the conte's silvery head took on a more muted, mellow glow. Strands of his pale hair fluttered in the gusty breeze, the curling ends coming close to caressing the marchesa's cheek.

Jack shifted his gaze back to the page of his sketchbook, fighting back a twinge of irritation. It was only natural that Alessandra would choose to confide in an old Mend rather than a near stranger. Orrichetti's air of courtly calm would no doubt be reassuring to a damsel in distress.

Clenching his teeth, he quickly added another few pencil strokes to the fanciful drawing of a pirate that he was doing for Isabella, much to her delight

"Oh, that's a
corking
good snarl," she exclaimed, then clapped a hand over her own pursed lips. "I forgot, Fm not supposed to say 'corking.'"

"Your secret is safe with me," he whispered back.

The little girl giggled. "I think he needs a scar on his cheek, and an earring. And a bloody big cutlass."

"Don't push your luck, imp," he warned. "I could have the captain clap you in irons." He sketched in a parrot on his paper pirate's shoulder and then passed the sketchbook to Isabella. "Here, why don't you finish him."

As Isabella set to work, Jack stretched his legs and propped an elbow on the back of her chair. "Conte Orrichetti and your mama appear to be well acquainted," he murmured.

"Oh yes, he came very often to our villa on the lake. Mama says he was my papa's closest friend."

"Ah." Jack felt a twinge of guilt at seeking to pry information out of a child. But war was a dirty business, and until he discovered just what he was fighting, he would use whatever tactics he could. "And Signor Bellazoni? I take it he was a frequent visitor as well?"

"Freddi?" Isabella chewed thoughtfully on the end of the pencil. "He was very nice to me and Mama after Papa passed away. He brought me toys, and... he made Mama laugh." A tiny furrow formed between her brows. "But I once heard our butler telling Mama's maid that he was a fork-tongued demi...demo..." She trailed off with a small shrug. "Whatever
that
means."

Demagogue,
thought Jack. He, too, wondered what the marchesa's butler had been implying, and made a mental note to make a few discreet inquiries about the fair-haired Italian's background.

"I haven't a clue," he said aloud. "But people often say silly things, so if I were you, I wouldn't fret about it"

Isabella drew in a pair of high-top boots and began to color in the outlines. "I miss Italy," she said softly. "But Mama says we can never go back."

Jack's ears pricked up. "Oh? And why is that?"

The little girl's shoulders lifted in another shrug that nearly touched her ears. "She won't say. Whenever I ask, I get the same answer." Pursing her lips, Isabella lowered her voice to a frighteningly accurate imitation of her mother's most solemn tone. "We must look to the future,
tesorv,
not to the past."