An Innocent Abroad: A Jazz Age Romance (6 page)

The
fresh, fruity red wine dissipated Isobel’s tension. She even smiled as she
drank. Her parents would be horrified to know the quantity of alcohol she’d
consumed during this Italian holiday – or how much she enjoyed it.

As
if the commotion on the promenade had never happened, the music picked up where
it had left off and people began to dance again.

“How
can they act as if nothing happened?” Frances asked.

Tom
shrugged. “That’s Italians for you.”

He
made it sound like a bad thing, but secretly Isobel thought they had it right.
There was enough misery in life; one had to take joy wherever it could be
found.

The
sky deepened to a magical shade of blue as the sun slipped downwards, turning
into a ball of flame on the horizon. The music that floated in the heavy twilight
faded away, replaced by a stirring drum roll. Isobel sensed the crowd’s
heightening expectation as a quiver on the sea breeze. It exhilarated her, and
the last lingering traces of the violent scene she’d witnessed dissipated.

“Let’s
get a good vantage spot,” said Adam, rising from his seat. “We don’t want to
miss the show.”

They
joined the crowds now lining the shore front. In the distance, spreading along
the edges of the bay, the flare of bonfires leapt up.

“Every
year, Positano celebrates its victory over Saracen invaders by re-enacting the
event which took place right here on this beach hundreds of years ago,” Adam
whispered in her ear. “The bonfires warn that the invaders have been sighted,
so the women and children can escape to safety in the hills.”

Against the spectacular backdrop of the setting sun, a
flotilla of small boats sailed into the mouth of the bay. At sight of them, a
cry rose up in the watching crowd, a cheer that echoed back from the
surrounding cliffs.

The
air trembled with the tension of rolling drums as the boats slid into the bay,
their shapes growing more distinct as they drew nearer. These were the same
fishing boats she’d seen drawn up on this same beach barely a week ago, but now
they were decorated for the occasion, bright with flaming lanterns. The sailors
on their decks wore costumes, dressed up as fierce Saracen pirates.

“Where
did they come from?” she asked Adam.

“From
the beach at Fornillo, past that headland.” He pointed towards the treed
peninsula jutting out into the sea, where a squat watchtower stood shadowed
against the darkening sky. She shivered.

“The
whole village joins in preparing the boats. People come from miles around to be
a part of this.”

The
sun dipped beneath the horizon, stripping the scene of colour as it
disappeared. The boats drifted in towards the shore, sails furling, and the
drum roll became a thunderous roar. Another shout rose up from the audience, a
battle cry.

Beneath
her on the beach, a band of men separated from the crowd and strode forward to
meet the incoming boats. Isobel gasped. At their head was a commanding figure,
the tall, athletic frame of a man dressed all in black she could not fail to
recognise.

Stefano.

No
longer a simple fisherman. Silhouetted against the setting sun, his presence
drew every eye. His stance was that of the warrior, seemingly at ease but ready
to strike, and he held in his hands a long, gleaming sword, not a fake sword,
but the real thing, heavy and ancient and deadly.

A
hush fell over the watching crowd. The drums stilled. As the boats crunched
onto the black sandy beach, the defenders surged forward to meet the invaders.
The Saracens descended from the boats, curved blades glinting against the
darkening sky. Stefano wielded his sword with practised ease and rushed to meet
the first of them.

Isobel’s
heart pounded. She watched in fearful fascination as the mock battle began.
Weapons clashed, the sound of metal against metal rang out. The melee seemed
all too real.

The
crowd shifted and sighed, now booing, now applauding, even more caught up in
this drama than they’d been in the real life one not an hour since.

A
small band of invaders tore away from the fighting, heading for the church. The
audience parted, clearly expecting them. Soon the band returned, carrying
between them an icon taller than themselves, a life-size image of the Madonna,
its gilded edges glinting in the light of the lamps and the torches held high
above the crowd. Stefano’s men surrounded them, and the scuffle seemed so real
that Isobel’s heart caught in her throat. Though she knew that the skirmish was
rehearsed, an irrational fear that Stefano might get hurt assailed her. In the
commotion, she lost sight of him.

Many
of the pirates fell, playing at being wounded or dead, while the local men
pushed forward, gaining the beach, and taking back control of their sacred
icon. An exultant cheer erupted from the onlookers. Even Frances clapped her
hands, caught up in the action.

Isobel
hunted through the figures remaining standing on the beach, unable to breathe
until she found what she was looking for. Who she was looking for. The knot of
tension in her stomach dissipated.

As
the last of the Saracen pirates retreated to their boats, Stefano stood tall
and proud at the vanguard of the defenders, every inch the victorious
commander, his sword turned to molten silver in the light of the lanterns.

Who
was this man?

Definitely
no ordinary villager. He fraternised with fishermen, yet tonight he was as
noble as any General. He dressed with style, though his hands were
work-roughened.

He
had tried to tell her, and she had not listened.

Stefano
waited until the local priest had clambered down the rough stairs to join them
on the beach, then stood back, slipping into the shadows as the priest took
centre stage. Stefano’s men hoisted the icon to their shoulders, and followed
the priest as he headed back towards the church, swinging his incensor and
singing.

“That
was so much fun!” Frances turned bright eyes on her. For once, she had lost the
cool glaze of sophistication she wore like a shield. “He was gorgeous, wasn’t
he?”

Isobel
didn’t need to ask who ‘he’ was. She searched the dispersing crowd, but there
was no sign of Stefano.

A
burst of noise and colour exploded in the sky and with a gasp all heads turned
upwards. Fireworks lit up the sky, falling in a rain of fire, cascade after
cascade. Rockets and spinning wheels flew up into the night sky, launched from
a barge in the bay that Isobel could barely make out. The sound deafened,
drowning all else out.

As
the final shower of dying sparks descended to the beach, the crowd finally
broke up, spreading out across the promenade once again. Isobel looked back to
the beach, but the performers had dispersed and there was no sign of Stefano.
Music filled the air once more, beckoning.

It
had been an incredible night. She had ridden wave after wave of emotion with
these people. Joy and pain side by side. Laughter and tears. And for once, she
had not felt alone in a crowd. Amongst these impulsive, expressive Italian
villagers she felt more at home than she ever had in any drawing room.

Here
she could feel the possibilities of a life in which she no longer needed to
restrain her thoughts and her feelings. Just as these people should have the
right to express their opinions, did she not have the right to voice her own
wants and desires? To live the life
she
wanted to live?

It
was a daring thought, a dangerous thought. But she was ready now to embrace it.
Stefano had seen that passionate spirit in her before she’d even dared let it
free. And now she was ready to let it soar, ready to ride the waves of feeling.

“Well,
that’s it,” said Adam. “Now we have that long climb back up the hill.”

“Please
can we stay for a while longer?” Isobel begged, but he shook his head.

“From
now on the carousing will get rough.” He laughed. “And Christopher will have my
blood if anything happens to you.”

As
they climbed the narrow, winding alleyways, the sounds of revelry fading behind
them, Isobel grabbed at Adam’s arm. “You won’t tell Christopher what happened
tonight, will you?”

He
patted her hand in a brotherly gesture. “No. I’ll make sure none of the others
mention it either.”

“Thank
you.”

She
trailed behind as they climbed the arduous stairs through the winding,
flower-bedecked alleys. Her feet grew heavier with every step she took. An
unseen force seemed to pull her backwards.

Somewhere
among that throng on the shore front Stefano might be dancing, his arms wrapped
around a pliant village
signorina
, seducing her with his dimpling smile
and entrancing eyes.

They
reached the high road through the village, and she cast a last glance
backwards. In spite of everything, in spite of the drama and violence and
hardship she’d encountered in Italy, she still wanted to be a part of that
celebration.

She
sighed. But no matter how much kinship she felt to them, the Italians were
strangers, and she did not belong in their world. She had to return to her own
people. And somehow she would have to find that balance in herself between
emotion and restraint, between love and duty.

Isobel
hovered in the doorway of the drawing room, daunted by the multitude of people.
Her aunt must have invited every expatriate within fifty miles to meet the
Conte. How she’d managed to put together such a party in so short a time,
Isobel couldn’t imagine.

She’d
timed her arrival so that the drawing room was already full, in the hope that
everyone would be too absorbed in conversation to pay her any attention. She’d
hoped in vain.

“Isobel,
I’ve been searching everywhere for you!” Her aunt’s voice rose above the hum of
voices as Isobel stepped over the threshold.

She
forced a smile and faced her aunt. Her heart faltered. It couldn’t be.

Aunt
Alice looked like the proverbial cat. “This is the Conte di Cilento.”

“Stefano,”
he corrected, reaching forward to take her limp hand and raise it to his mouth.
Except at the last minute he flipped her hand over and brushed his lips across
her palm. That made three times he’d kissed her hand. The gesture still made
her legs weak.

But
the man who stood before her, urbane and sophisticated, wasn’t the Stefano she
knew. He moved with the easy grace she so admired, as comfortable in formal
attire as he’d been in fisherman’s garb. But this was not the man who had
introduced her to limoncello or walked with her through the woods.

This
man, impeccably dressed in a tailored black dinner jacket, and a crisp white
shirt with a white bow tie, was a stranger,  his eyes cool and distant, his
expression stark without its usual interest and admiration.

“Pleased
to meet you.” She choked out the ritual words.

He
did not release her hand, even as the floor began to tilt beneath her feet.

She
finally remembered to breathe.

Her
erratic heartbeat pulsed between them, through the connection of their fingers.
She yanked her hand back, severing the contact.

So
this is what you wanted to tell me!
Except
in this room full of people she couldn’t say any of the things that suddenly
sprang into her mind. Things like
what does this mean?
or
who are you?

“Dinner
is served,” Edwards’ voice boomed behind her.

With
so many guests, dinner this evening was a formal occasion with strict protocol
and orders of precedence. Stefano stepped away to take the arm of his hostess
to escort her in to dinner.

“You
are seated beside me tonight,” Christopher said in her ear. The satisfaction in
his voice wasn’t quite enough to drive away her self-doubt, but it warmed her
to know with some certainty that she had at least one man’s interest.

All
was not lost, so why did she feel as if she’d lost something precious.

She
allowed Christopher to steer her towards the dining room. A quick glance down
the table and her heart sank. She was at least half a table away from Stefano.
Close enough to see him and hear him. Though even the entire length of the room
would not have been enough space to prevent her from being aware of his every
move.

In
full evening dress Stefano was magnificent, easily the most arresting man in
the room, with his rugged features and his dark eyes. He bent to exchange a
word with the young lady on his left, and jealousy clawed at Isobel’s gut.

This
was a man who belonged very much in a world of drawing rooms and dinner parties
and small talk. Had the man who’d kissed her even existed? Perhaps she had only
seen what she wanted to see.

Not
once did he look her way. In this glittering company, with so many more
beautiful, sophisticated women, she could not compete for his attention.

What
do I mean to you?

But
the answer was before her. He did not care for her. Not enough to send her even
the slightest reassurance of his regard. Not a glance, nor a smile.

Course
after course was set before them. Isobel sampled every dish, enough to allay
Christopher’s concerns, though afterwards she could not remember what she had
tasted.

Christopher,
seated on her right, eventually gave up the attempt to draw her into
conversation. On her left, the bearded Russian writer whose name she no longer
remembered maintained a lively philosophical debate with his neighbour.

“You
were part of the battle re-enactment.” Frances’ flirtatious voice floated down
the table to Isobel. Tonight she was as vivacious as ever, eyes sparkling,
roses in her cheeks.  Shamelessly ignoring convention, she leaned across the
table to address their honoured guest, conveniently exposing the smooth white
skin between her breasts.

He’s
mine
, Isobel wanted to shout down the
table. Except he wasn’t.

He
was even less hers now than he had been a scant hour ago, when she’d believed
him to be a common fisherman and completely ineligible.

“My
ancestor led the villagers who fought off the Saracens,” said Stefano. “It has
become tradition for the head of our house to play the same role.”

Mortification
stung colour to her cheeks. She had been so naïve. She should have realised
what he was, who he was. And she should have known that a man like Stefano, so
full of life, so sure of himself, would see nothing more than a schoolgirl in
the throes of her first crush. She had been nothing more to him that a pleasant
diversion for an idle summer’s day.

“Is
it too hot in here for you?” Christopher asked, his tone low and solicitous.

“No.”
She pressed her cold hands to her flaming cheeks, but nothing could cool the
sting of the truth. “Yes.”

The
excruciating meal drew to an end, and in time-worn custom the men remained in
the dining room to drink their brandies, while the ladies returned to the
drawing room to gossip. Isobel could not bear to go with them. She knew exactly
what all the women would be talking about. Who. And she didn’t want to hear it.

She
slipped out a side door and into the cool night air of the terraced gardens. On
the level below the main terrace, out of sight of the long windows of the
drawing room, she perched on a stone balustrade, still warm from the day’s sun,
and struggled against a tidal wave of new and unexplored emotions.

She
began to breathe again. She gazed out across the endless sea, streaked silver
by the full moon. Far below, specks against the velvet sea, she distinguished
the flashes of light of the night-time fishing boats, the lanterns in their
bows winking as the boats dipped and rolled on the waves.

“It
is beautiful, is it not?”

She
didn’t turn to see who it was. She would know his voice anywhere.

She
straightened her back and lifted her chin. She would act like a woman, even if
she didn’t feel like one. She was not a schoolgirl any more.

“Yes,”
she said. “It is.”

Silence
stretched taut between them. Then he sat beside her on the warmed stone, close
enough that she could feel the heat emanating from him, that sensual heat that
caressed her like sunlight.

No
longer able to avoid him, she turned to face him. “So that is what you wanted
to tell me – that you are a nobleman?”

He
nodded. “Does this change how you regard me? Am I more acceptable to you now?”

Was
he laughing at her? His dark scrutiny burned her, but she could decipher
nothing from his gaze.

She
shook her head and looked out again at the cool stripe of moonlight
illuminating the sea. “It changes nothing. You are Italian. I am English. We
belong in different worlds.”

“Unlike
the young man who sat beside you tonight. Is he the type of man of whom your parents
will approve?”

He
had seen more than she’d given him credit for.

She
ignored the foolish hope burgeoning in her breast. That would be too much the
behaviour of a naïve child. Stefano’s title changed nothing. The fact that he’d
already won her heart changed nothing. Her mother would not accept him.

“Yes,”
she said, turning her face away so he would not see how much she wished she
could be brave enough to cast aside everything she’d ever known, and her
reputation, the security of her family’s future, to give in to her desire for
him?

Stefano’s
fingers slid beneath her chin, and he tilted her face so she could no longer
avoid his gaze. The moonlight fell straight onto her, revealing everything,
while he remained in shadow.

“Have
you discovered yet what it is you want for yourself?” His voice was a husky
whisper.

“Yes.”

“What
is it you want?”

“I
want you.”

She
didn’t need to see his face to know the satisfied smile that curved his lips
and lit his dark eyes.

“As
I want you.”

It
wasn’t a proposal. He offered no promise for the future, no declaration of
love. His words did not mean that he felt anything for her but desire. Even so,
a skitter of excitement brushed over her skin.

It
was enough.

She
wasn’t brave. She was foolish.

He
no longer smiled. The intensity of his gaze scorched her skin. His face was so
close she could barely breathe. Hungry anticipation fogged her thoughts.

This
time his lips were not gentle. His kiss was hungry, demanding, and she
surrendered to it, sliding her arm about him as if she could hold him close, as
if he were hers to hold onto. He tasted as smooth and dark and seductive as the
red wine they’d drunk at dinner, intoxicating her senses. His mouth possessed
hers, taking everything she gave.

Every
principle, every barrier, came crashing down, and she no longer cared.

She
would give him anything he asked for.

When
at last he pulled away, slowly, reluctantly, she loosed her hold on him.

“Will
you meet me again?” he asked.

“She
nodded.

 “Friday.
Meet me at the beach in Arienzo at nine o’clock.”

“They
will want to know where I am going.”

His
dimple flashed as he rose. “Leave that to me.”

She
sat on the stone balustrade until the chill night air raised goose-bumps on her
arms, then she followed the paved pathway back towards the house and the
drawing room where light and voices spilled out the long French windows.

The
crowd had thinned a little, the guests who lived furthest away having already
taken their leave. Stefano held court in the centre of the room, Frances and Beatrice
on either side of him on the long sofa, as he held an animated conversation
with her cousin Adam.

Though
he did not turn and look at her, Isobel knew Stefano was aware of her arrival.
Electricity arced between them, even across the distance.

“Where
have you been?” Christopher appeared at her elbow.

“I
was in the garden.”

“The
fresh air has done you good. You look much better.”

“I
feel much better.”

A
sharp thrill lit her body from inside, setting fire to her, as Stefano turned
his head and met her eyes. He flashed her a smile meant only for her, gone so
quickly that even Christopher standing beside her could make nothing of it.

It
no longer mattered that he was not prepared to acknowledge her publicly, or
that she was nothing more to him than an illicit rendezvous. Even if he offered
nothing more than this madness, she would take it.

“I’d
love to see the excavations underway at Pompeii,” Adam continued their
conversation, that he had lost his guest’s attention for even a moment.

Stefano’s
deep, modulated reply carried across the room to her. “I know Vittorio
Spinazzola, and will ask him to show you around the diggings. Are you free on
Friday?”

Adam’s
eyes lit up. “We could make a day’s excursion of it. Will you join us?”

Stefano
shook his head. “I already have plans.”

Adam
began to lay out a plan for the outing, including the whole group in his
scheme.

“You
also expressed an interest in the diggings,” Christopher said to Isobel. “Shall
we go?”

She
wanted to, but Friday… “I’d love for a quiet day to do some painting. I have a
new idea I want to work on.” Her words fell into a sudden lull in the
conversation, louder than she intended. All heads turned her way.

“My
cousin Izzy is an artist,” Frances explained to Stefano.

“Is
she?” For the first time he let his attention linger on her. Heat spread
through her, sending a traitorous flush up her cheeks.

“Then
I shall remain behind to escort you,” Christopher said, returning her to
reality with a resounding thump.

She
shrugged, hoping she achieved a credible indifference. “There’s no need for
that. I’m very unsociable when I’m working. I’ll get so absorbed in what I’m
doing that I’ll forget you’re even there.”

“I’ll
keep Izzy company,” Frances offered. “I can’t imagine anything duller than
tramping around a bunch of rubble in the heat and dust. I can sit and read
while Izzy paints.”