Tallie's Knight (31 page)

The look of blank
shock on his face told her he had not even considered such a thing. But now he
was, if the black frown was any indicator.

Tallie hid a smile.

“And you could not
possibly be lonely, with dear Father Astuto visiting you so often. I wonder if
he could visit more frequently while I am away?”

A low growl erupted
from the bed.

“Saddle me with any
more of that blasted priest, madam, and you will rue the day you wed me.”

“Will I? And are you
so sure I do not do so already?” she said lightly, and, planting a quick kiss
on his mouth, she hurried from the room, leaving Magnus frustrated and uneasy.

Curse it, but there
was a vast deal of decision about his wife these days. What the devil had
happened to the dependent little creature he had married? He missed her. She
was fast turning into an impertinent baggage. He swung his legs out of bed and
tried to rise. Blast —he was still as weak as a kitten. He had to get his
strength back quickly, or the way things were going his wife would consider it
was she who wore the pantaloons in this family. She was already wearing the
drawers.

He felt his body stir
as he recalled the sight of her in those damned alluring pink drawers. He
settled back into bed, prepared to indulge himself in a fantasy where his wife
was standing over him, clad in nothing but her pink drawers, her hair tumbled
around her pert, naked breasts. “Ah, Signor d’Arenville, you are awake, I see.”

“Father Astuto,”
groaned Magnus.

“Repose yourself, my
son, and I will tell you of the
Holy
City
and my audience with
His Eminence,” said the priest with a gentle, reminiscent smile. “It was a
cold, wet day…”

Magnus closed his
eyes and tried to recapture his fantasy about his wife in the pink drawers with
their very erotic slit.

“I was wearing a new
cassock —that is the correct term, yes?— which I had purchased especially for
the audience…”

It was no good. It
was simply not possible to indulge oneself with an erotic fantasy when one was
entrapped by an elderly, unworldly, celibate, stupefyingly dull priest.

Magnus closed his
eyes and prayed that sleep would come soon.

“And of course I had
prepared a small speech to make to the Holy Father. To this day, I still
remember —it went like this…”

Magnus hunched down
in his bed, trying to block out the priest’s rambling. But sleep eluded him. He
was kept awake by his wife’s last comment.

Did she rue the day
she had wed him? It was an unsettling thought. She seemed to him to be quite
happy. but you never could tell with women.

Women were natural
actresses, in his experience. They never said what they meant. Although his
wife was not like most women. She was different. But how different? Could she
feign happiness so consistently? He pondered the notion. Now he thought about
it, there were times he had caught her looking at him as if. Damn it, what was that
look she got sometimes? Sad? Wistful? Pensive?

This wretched
weakness of his —he hated the idea of her heading off to Turin alone, with none
but John Black and a gaggle of Carlotta’s nephews to protect her. What if there
were more banditti on the road?

They would not be so
gallant as that blasted Irishman. Magnus snorted. A bandit who kissed women’s
hands! And who did that fellow think he was —rot him— to compliment Magnus on
his wife? None of his business what sort of wife Magnus had. Shouldn’t even be
looking at another fellow’s wife, blasted bandit. Blasted green-eyed bandit.

Magnus closed his
eyes, reliving the moment when he had realised that the bandit was taking
Tallie up into the mountains to hold her hostage.

It still haunted him.
He had never in his life felt so furious… or so terrified —or so helpless.

If he lived to be a
hundred years old he would never forget that brave little smile she’d given him
as she kissed him goodbye. I love you, Magnus. And then she’d hugged him as if
he was the most precious thing in the world.

She’d offered to go.
To take his place as hostage. Like a heroine in a Greek drama. Because she’d
thought if they took him he would die of his fever in the mountains. And she
would have gone, too, quite happily if that maid of hers hadn’t said what she’d
said.

Pregnant. Every time
he thought of it, he felt. He didn’t know what he felt. Breathless? Joyful?
Proud? Obviously. Then why did it feel so much like terror? Lord, what was the
matter with him these days? He should be over the moon-after all, a child of
his own was the reason he’d decided to take a wife. He tried to envisage a
child, a child of Tallie’s. A little girl with glossy honey-coloured curls and big
amber eyes. A miniature tip-tilted nose and teeth like tiny pearls, one of them
endearingly crooked. But all he could think of was that women died in
childbirth all the time. He broke out in a cold sweat just thinking about it.
Pregnant. Oh, Lord.

He thought of her
playful threat to abandon him. After the first shock, he hadn’t actually
believed it for a moment. Of course she wouldn’t leave him. He knew it as well
as he knew himself. She’d do exactly what she’d said she would —go straight to
Turin
, get the money and
return to him immediately. With a start, it occurred to Magnus that he trusted
her; he actually trusted a woman.

No —he didn’t just
trust a woman— he trusted Tallie.

Good God! When had
that happened? When she had offered to take his place? No. He thought back. He
couldn’t pin a time on it, but it had started well before then. He trusted her.
The realisation was shattering. His heart thudded faster in his chest and he
shivered, feeling suddenly exposed and vulnerable. What if she…? —No, he wouldn’t
think about that. There was no point in dredging up the past —she was
different; his wife was different. Somehow, by some incredible, wonderful
stroke of luck, he’d got himself a wife who was different from any other woman
he had known. And he was overwhelmingly grateful for it.

He trusted his wife.

And she was
increasing. But, oh, Lord. What if he lost her?

The priest’s voice
droned on in the background. Magnus wrestled with his demons, plunging from
exhilaration, to doubt, to despair, then back to exhilaration, until at last,
in the middle of a description of the vestments worn by a bishop at a mass
Father Astuto had attended forty years before, Magnus finally dozed off.

“What the devil do
you mean, the mistress isn’t with you? Where the hell is she, then? Don’t tell
me you left her on her own in
Turin
—you know better than that, John!” Magnus stared at his coachman, baffled and
not a little worried. Of course he didn’t believe for a moment that his wife
had gone off and left him. But where the hell was she?

John Black shifted
uncomfortably. For the first time in twelve years he failed to look his master
in the eye. Magnus felt a cold hand steal around his heart. She couldn’t
possibly have left him. She couldn’t.

She wouldn’t. But
where was she? He braced himself.

“Out with it, man,
where is she?”

“The mistress never
went to
Turin
,”
said John Black at last.

“Never went to
Turin
? What do you mean?
I saw her leave.”

John Black nodded.

“Went with me a dozen
miles or so, then turned up into the mountains.”

Magnus felt as if he’d
been hit in the chest with a hammer. That damned green-eyed, hand-kissing
bastard!

“And you just let her
go? By herself?” It was more than a week ago. He’d never be able to catch her
now. His insides felt hollow.

“No, my lord, of
course not,” said John Black indignantly. “I hope I know better than that. She
had that French wench with her, and a half-dozen of the Italian widow woman’s
relatives, including one old woman.”

“What?” Magnus stared
at his-coachman. Something eased slightly in his chest. It was one thing to
suspect his wife had run off with some damned good-looking bandit, but quite
another to imagine her taking her maid, an old Italian lady and half a dozen
relatives of the eminently respectable Carlotta with her. It was not the usual
way of elopements.

But then his wife was
not the usual sort of wife.

“If she was escorted
by the widow’s relatives, the widow will no doubt be able to cast some light on
the matter.” Magnus strode to the door and flung it open.

“Carlotta,” he
roared.

She came immediately.

“What the devil have
you done with my wife?”

Carlotta looked at
him for a moment and smiled.

“Do not worry Signor
d’Arenville, your wife is perfectly safe. She has gone on a visit with the wife
of my husband’s oldest brother. She wished to visit her uncle, you understand.”

“Her uncle?” Magnus
was dumbfounded.

“She never told me
she had an uncle living in
Italy
.”

Carlotta laughed.

“Not your wife’s
uncle, Signor. The uncle of my husband’s sister-in-law.”

“The uncle of your
sister-in-law’s husband? But why on earth—?”

Carlotta laughed
again.

“No, not the uncle of
my sister-in-law’s husband —he lives in Chiomonte— he is the stonemason, you
understand? No, your wife has gone to visit the uncle of my husband’s sister-in-law.
The uncle of my sister-in-law’s husband is a very unpleasant man. The uncle of
my husband’s sister-in-law is—”

“I don’t give a hell’s
bloody damn about your blasted relatives, madam. I want my wife.”

Carlotta drew herself
up and gave him a look of magnificent Italian scorn.

“I do not care for
cursing in my house, Signor. No matter if you are a great lord in
England
.” She
sniffed, turned her back, and with immense dignity began to depart.

Magnus groaned.

“Carlotta.” He laid a
hand on her shoulder. It remained stiff and averted. Magnus took a deep breath
and counted to ten.

“Signora —Carlotta.”
He forced himself to use a much softer voice. “I apologise for cursing in your
house.”

The shoulder twitched
huffily.

“And I apologise for
any offence I may have made concerning your relatives. I am sure they are very
worthy and respectable people.” He would have them all hanged if harm came to—

The shoulder twitched
again.

“Please forgive me. I
did not mean to upset you, signora, but I am extremely worried about my wife.”

Carlotta turned and
said stiffly, “She is with my relatives, signor. No harm will come to her, I
assure you.”

Blast the woman’s
touchy Italian soul. He should give up this soft-soaping and just choke the
truth out of her. Magnus made one more effort.

“I know,” he said. “It
is just that I am very anxious about her. She… she is increasing, you know.”

Carlotta frowned in
puzzlement.

“Increasing?” Then
her face lit up. “You mean a baby?”

Magnus nodded,
wishing he knew whether he was telling the truth or not.

“Oh, signor, that is
wonderful. No wonder you are anxious about the signora. But how happy you must
be. A baby.”

Magnus nodded, and managed
what he hoped looked like a joyful smile. But he was too damned worried to
waste much more time grinning at some woman whose blasted relatives had carted
Tallie off into some godforsaken mountain village.

“So, would you tell
me now, please, where is my wife?” He managed a reasonably polite tone.

“But I told you,
signor, she is in the village of my sister-in—”

Magnus held up his
hand.

“No more relatives, I
beg of you.”

Carlotta sighed and
said simply, “She has gone to find the place where her mother died.”

The breath left
Magnus in a great gush. So that green-eyed scoundrel hadn’t got her after all.
He closed his eyes in relief. The place where her mother died. Of course. She’d
mentioned it before. It was very important to her, he remembered. The main reason
she’d wanted to come to
Italy
.

But why had she not
waited until he was well enough to escort her? He would have gone with her. No
question about it. In fact, now he came to think of it, he damn well wanted to
go with her. She needed him —not just as an escort, but to support her in her
grief. She would need support; his wife was a very emotional little creature.

So why the deuce had
she not waited? And why sneak off as she had, pretending she was going to
Turin
? As if there was
something havey-cavey about visiting her mother’s grave. There was no need for secrecy
and deception for such a visit. So what was she about, creeping off behind his
back? He frowned. Carlotta shifted uncomfortably under his stare. She averted
her eyes and gazed with sudden interest at the ornately carved settee beneath
the window.

His suspicion
deepened. There was funny business going on, or Magnus was a Dutchman. And he
wasn’t. He was English to the core, as far back as the Conqueror. And beyond.

So what was his wife
up to, the deceitful little baggage?

Tallie stood and
stared desolated at the tumbledown cottage. The whitewash was ancient, dirty,
and falling off in great flakes. The uneven shingled roof had holes visible
from the narrow track below. A door swung drunkenly on one leather hinge and
the wind rattled broken-slatted shutters and whipped at tattered remnants of
oilcloth.

It was a ruin. Nobody
could possibly live here.

Her heart sank. She
turned to their guide.

“I thought you said a
man and woman lived here. With a little boy.”