Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (26 page)

      
They talked about everything...and nothing. By tacit agreement, neither raised the subject of what would become of them once his assignment in Naples was complete. He told her that the restoration of the Spanish Bourbons had been smoothly facilitated by the Royal Navy. Joaquim Murat had been placed before a firing squad by his own Neapolitan troops and Queen Caroline and their children had fled to France. There would be no reason for Derrick to remain in Naples after he made his initial report. But he never spoke a word about his plans and Beth did not ask.

      
Instead they talked about Naples and what she would paint when she resumed her place in art circles there. With lavish spenders such as the Bourbons at court again, commissions would be plentiful. Her future was assured. And bleak. But she revealed nothing of her feelings to him, only going along with his glowing predictions about her brilliant career.

      
There was an air of uncertainty and desperation beneath their laughter, even in their loving. They came together nightly, even in the afternoons, slipping into the privacy of their cabin during the heat of the day to make love. The hot, sultry day they arrived in the beautiful Sicilian port of Palermo, Derrick stood staring out at the harbor, ringed with British warships of all sizes, gazing past their masts to the enchanting town set amid jewel-like green hills. The houses, great and small, were painted soft pastel blues, greens, pinks and yellows. Flowers abounded everywhere.

      
“Tis lovely,” she said as she walked up to join him.

      
“Calvara says it will take the rest of the day to unload his cargo. We don't sail until morning, so we could find a local inn and wash the itch of saltwater from our skin.” He turned to her with heavy-lidded slumberous eyes.

      
“I would like that very much,” she replied, already feeling the fire lick through her veins.

      
They found a small inn on a hillside overlooking the waterfront. The elderly man who owned it smilingly ushered them past a splashing fountain in the courtyard and up a narrow outside staircase leading to a second-story room that was airy and spacious, with floor-to-ceiling glass-paned doors that opened onto a balcony with a view of the bay.

      
Derrick made arrangements for them to stay the night and ordered a large wooden tub filled with scented water to be delivered immediately. They sat out on the balcony and ate a light repast of fresh melon and rich goat cheese washed down with crisp white wine as the servants scurried up and down the stairs bringing pails of water.

      
“Tis so peaceful here,” Beth said dreamily, looking over the verdant hills surrounding the city.

      
“Appearances can deceive. Only look to the British flotilla in the harbor. This has been the Royal Navy's major outpost in the Mediterranean since the war began. All of Sicily is rife with political intrigues.”

      
“What a perfect place for a spy,” she replied lightly. “Will you keep at it now that Napoleon is no longer a threat?” She had not asked until now. Perhaps it was unwise, but she longed to know what he would do after they reached Naples tomorrow.

      
He stared out at the distant sky, billowing with fluffy white clouds, saying nothing for a moment. “I honestly don't know. I would probably not have ended up in this life if not for Bellingham.”

      
“The peer you killed in a duel—or was that just a Ban-bury tale made up for me?”

      
“I was in bad loaf over the duel, true, but Bellingham was just a baron of little consequence with greedy relatives who felt a deal more warmly about my father's money than they did him. My father summoned me to Lynden Hall after that incident...”
 

      
He paused for a moment, as if the memory were too painful to speak of, then sighed and went on, “He was furious with me for besmirching the family name and demanded that I purchase a commission. I had been a wastrel, bored with my aimless life. Killing a man changes one. I agreed to do so, thinking the army would be a way to redeem myself, but Colonel Sir Wilton James introduced me to two senior members of the Foreign Office instead. It seemed they'd heard of my difficulties—and my facility with foreign languages and, er, other things.” They'd heard of his reputation wheedling his way into the beds of noblewomen, a useful skill in their line of work, but Derrick did not choose to mention that.

      
“And you were allowed to tell no one what you were doing—not even your father. I can only imagine how terrible that must have been.”

      
“When he became ill several years later, I intended to return to the Hall and explain. But then there were rumors that Bonaparte might invade Russia and I was sent to Paris. By the time my assignment was completed the earl had died and my brother succeeded him. I believe I told you that he gave me the cut direct the one time I attempted a rapprochement in London. I never tried again.”

      
“You should return and try once more,” she said, her conscience forcing her to suggest it, even as her heart broke at the thought of losing him.

      
“Lee and I were never close. No, I will continue working for the government. Tis an atonement of sorts, serving my country to make up for disgracing my family.” He shook his head sadly, breaking the melancholy spell, then smiled and took her hand. “Enough of brown studies. I believe our bath awaits, puss.”

      
They undressed each other slowly in front of the huge wooden tub, inhaling the fragrance of sandalwood blended with the musky essence of their own arousal. She was dressed in a loose peasant blouse and skirt much like those she had worn in Naples. Derrick had purchased the items on the waterfront while she waited aboard the ship, clad in an oversized sailor's shirt and trousers, which were much like what he wore now. The simple clothing dropped to the floor, piece by piece.

      
He unfastened the drawstring of her blouse, easing it off her shoulders, then suckled her breasts while he worked the ties at the waist of her skirt. Her busy fingers pulled his shirt free and tugged it over his head, then began to unbutton his fly. When he kicked away the pants, she knelt before him on the soft pile of clothes and took his pulsing phallus in her mouth, teasing at it with her tongue until he growled and dug his fingers into her hair.

      
“Stop, before it's too late!”

      
She looked up at him with a wicked smile. “As if you cannot recover quickly enough under my ministrations.”

      
“At least let me bathe the salt away,” he said, picking her up and holding her over the rim of the big tub until she squealed.

      
“Derrick, don't you dare drop me!”

      
The splash was resounding. She came up from beneath the water sputtering as he stood leaning over the rim, doubled up with laughter. Until she wrapped her arms around him, toppling him into the tub. They splashed and laughed as they settled into the bath, but when their eyes met, their expressions turned serious.

      
He cupped her face with his hands, studying it. “You are a rare work of art, far better than any master could ever paint or sculpt.” As his fingers traced the contours of her cheekbones, eyebrows, lips and chin, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back, luxuriating in his soft caresses. She let her entire body go lax, leaning against the wall of the tub with her arms stretched out on the rim. She felt a faint ripple in the water when he moved. His fingertips glided down the slender column of her throat and over her breasts, holding the buoyant globes ever so slightly while he suckled them.

      
Then his hands slid over her waist and down to her hips, holding them firmly as his head vanished beneath the water. She felt his mouth, far hotter than the bathwater, pressing the most intimate caress on her. A gasp of ecstasy tore from her lips as he worked magic with his lips and tongue. Beth writhed with pleasure, then fiery need when his head broke the surface and he gulped a breath of air.

      
“I’ve discovered a more precious underwater treasure than pearls,” Derrick rasped wickedly. He then returned to pleasuring her, coming up to breathe several more times as she held on to the rim of the tub with white-knuckled little fists.

      
Feeling the ever-deepening frissons of delight radiate from the core of her body, she undulated beneath the water's gentle lapping—and his. When the contractions began, she stiffened and cried out his name. In an instant he rose up like Poseidon and thrust into her. Her sheath tightened around the steely hardness of his staff, enveloping it as she bucked and swayed in the water, holding on to the edge of the tub, letting him carry her away into another world of such bliss that it was oblivion.

      
As the sweetness gradually subsided, she reached out to him, unclasping her hips from his as she gently pushed him back to the other side of the tub. “My turn,” she whispered hoarsely, reaching beneath the water to grasp his still unsatiated phallus with one hand while cupping him with the other.

      
“Aaaah!” His strangled gasp of pleasure echoed in the afternoon stillness when her head dipped beneath the water. He held on to the rim, watching her hair float across the surface, glimmering like drowning flame. Drowning, just as he was, lost in the almost unbearable ecstasy. He had taught her to give and receive physical love this way, and Beth proved the most exquisitely skilled pupil he had ever tutored. He could never last long with her. When he felt his body swelling for that final release, he pulled her up into his arms and thrust inside her.

      
He refused to consider his need to be completely joined with her, to have her come with him as he climaxed. She trembled in his arms, brought to a second shattering completion as she felt him hold himself back, teetering on the brink until she could do nothing but helplessly go along. Afterward, they sat in the cool water, holding each other, saying nothing as the sun dipped low on the western horizon, bathing the room in a soft golden haze.

* * * *

      
That same warm sunset reflected off the bay at Naples to the north as the
Lady Barbara
sailed into the harbor bearing two passengers, both nervous but for very different reasons. Quintin Blackthorne was desperate to see if the corruption of the European nobility had done irreparable harm to his beloved only daughter. Beth simply must return home with him. He would allow nothing else. He would, in fact, drag her from that accursed villa and tie her to the masthead if necessary!

      
His companion, an old friend and long-time business associate of his foster brother Devon, had a far different agenda. While arranging Quint's passage, Dev had mentioned their mutual friend from Charleston, who happened to be a native of Naples. When Dev wrote to the Neapolitan, he had quickly volunteered to accompany Quint. Although born in Naples, he had moved as a youth to Savannah, where his cousin Solomon was engaged in a highly successful dry goods business.

      
Their family had been eager to expand up and down the coast of the new nation. When the newcomer had exhibited such industry and initiative that the store he managed in Charleston flourished, they brought him into full partnership. Within a decade he owned stores and warehouses stretching all the way to Baltimore. That was when he formed a partnership with the Blackthorne family and entered the shipping business as well. At the age of forty-six, Piero Torres was a rich man.

      
He had never married, although his striking good looks and smooth Neapolitan charm had won him many lovers over the years. The bright blue eyes of his Sephardic ancestry had combined with the deep olive skin and curly black hair from a mysterious Hungarian Gypsy rumored to be a ways back on the family tree. À succession of mistresses and ill-fated affairs had convinced him that he would never be able to forget the love of his youth.

      
Blackthorne had described the life his daughter was living and the remarkable woman who was acting as her sponsor in the art circles of the city. Vittoria di Remaldi. Piero did not recognize the surname and Vittoria was a common enough Christian name, but the description of Beth's mentor struck a chord. Could it be?
 

      
If so, Vittoria was twice widowed and lived in independent wealth, at last free of her scheming family. Free to rediscover the passions of youth? Piero feared to hope for too much. After all, their love affair had been so many years ago. She would be a woman in her prime now, no longer the innocent girl with whom he had first tasted love. Would she still desire him? His troubling yet hopeful ruminations were interrupted as Quint strode across the deck to where he stood alone, watching the city washed with the softness of twilight.

      
A tall commanding man with hawkish features and streaks of gray at the temples of his black hair, Blackthorne looked every inch the owner of a vast plantation, an American patrician who oversaw his agricultural empire and other business enterprises with meticulous care. The same way he safeguarded his family. Torres remembered his cousin Solomon's tales about Blackthorne's heroism during the American War of Independence. He had ridden with the legendary Swamp Fox, General Francis Marion, whose guerrilla campaign cost the British dearly in the southern theater of the war. Piero decided he would not want Quintin Blackthorne for an enemy.

      
“Has Naples changed since last you saw it?” Black-thorne asked.

      
Piero shrugged. “More ships in the harbor, here and there a new building along the outskirts, but no, the city remains the same. It is very ancient, you know, nothing like the growth and newness of America.”