Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (30 page)

      
“Ours was an arranged marriage. Madelyne's father and mine had been compatriots in the war against the French. I did not wish to wed...but my duty to produce heirs for Blackthorne Hall made me consent to the match. Your mother was not...what I expected. I had wanted a plain, biddable wife.”

      
“Mama—plain! Biddable!”

      
Quint smiled sadly. ”I was mistaken about those matters...among many thing,” he said, seeming to grope for words as his expression became haunted and grim. Beth sat spellbound as her father's tale of love and betrayal unfolded, stunned that what she had always assumed to be the most perfect love match ever made had in fact been a forced arrangement in which her father had treated her mother abominably. Almost too late he had realized how much he had come to love her.

      
“So you see,” he finished at length, “women as remarkable as you and your mother have only to outlast and outwit male blindness and stupidity. I made it my business last night after Jamison and I had our discussion to make inquiries about him from some sources that Piero and the contessa have here in Naples. He is a man of honor and rare courage, in spite of the fact he's a bloody earl's son. And there is that unfortunate spy business,” he added with a wry grin.

      
“And you believe I can outlast and outwit him just by loving him?” she asked, afraid to believe it.

      
“Just by loving him, yes,” her father replied simply.

* * * *

      
Did she love Derrick enough for both of them? The thought tormented and tantalized her as she worked through the morning, filling in the background on his portrait. “Twould make a fine wedding gift,” she murmured to herself, remembering the day she had made the first sketches for it, when they had made love in the water. At least that part of the marriage would work out splendidly. But passion alone was not nearly enough, as her parents had found out.

      
Sighing, she put aside her brushes and stood back to look at the finished work. His arresting blue eyes stared back at her, cool and distant, with just the faintest hint of mockery in them. Was it for the world around him...or for himself that his beautifully sculpted lips turned up in a melancholy smile? Beth concluded that she had captured a fleeting bit of the enigma that was Derrick Lance Jamison.

      
Thank heavens he was the earl's second son. What if he had been the heir? She shuddered at the thought, remembering her father's comments regarding Derrick's decidedly overdeveloped sense of duty. An American wife whom he believed had given herself to renegades and Algerines would scarce make a fit countess. Nor would a woman who dressed like a peasant and haggled with street vendors, posed in the nude for artists and, perhaps worst of all, sold her own paintings for money.

      
Her troubling reverie was interrupted when she heard Derrick's voice from down the hall. Hurriedly, she draped a cover over the portrait and walked to the door of her studio. He stood in the center of her small sitting room, seeming to overwhelm the dainty space with his masculine presence. He wore tan doeskins that clung to his long legs like a second skin, polished high boots and a white lawn shirt open at the collar, revealing a patch of the crisp black hair that furred his muscular chest. His skin had darkened even more under the hot North African sun, and she felt the heat of him leap across the room and scorch her.

      
“Vittoria said you had not been to the markets in a while. I thought we might go this morning. 'Tis one of my fondest memories of our first days together. That is, if you've finished your work for the day.”

      
“Oh, yes; that is, I will have to change my dress,” she replied, feeling foolish when he bowed formally.

      
“I shall await you downstairs,” he replied and left her standing alone in her quarters.

      
When had they become so stiff and uncomfortable around each other? How she longed for the early days, when there had been no thought of permanence, no pressure from family—just two lovers laughing and enjoying life in each other's company. “I want that old Derrick back,” she whispered to herself as she slipped into a pale yellow peasant's blouse and a dark green skirt.

      
Of course, the “old Derrick” had been a sham, a British agent on a mission, only posing as a charming wastrel pensioned off by his family. Still, there had been real magic between them when first they met. She would not deny it. Neither could he.

      
It was late in the morning for the choicest fish on the quay, but since the summer harvests were bountiful, they bought ripe juicy melons and succulent peaches after appropriate haggling with the vendors. As in times of old, Jacomo followed behind to carry the bounty. She made a splendid bargain on a leg of spring lamb for the dinner table and would have felt inordinately pleased with herself if not for a hint of restraint on Derrick's part as he accompanied her.

      
This time when they reached the piazza where the goat milk vendors worked, he seemed to regain some of his old sense of humor, saying with a teasing light in his eyes, ”I vow not to touch a hair on the head of even the most winsome kid.” He eyed the tethered nannies warily as she chuckled.

      
Derrick watched her animated exchange in Italian with the old woman who owned the goats. Her artless American charm and free Neapolitan way of savoring life had delighted him when she had been his mistress. But everything had changed since his confrontation with Quintin Blackthorne. What kind of wife, and possibly mother, would she make? His own qualifications for being a husband and father were equally questionable; perhaps more so, he admitted to himself.

      
Yet here he was attempting to convince her that they should wed.
We will simply have to make the best of it.
More easily vowed than done, he realized, but there was no turning back now. He had given his word. They would remain in Naples, of course. The idea of returning to England was unthinkable. Beth would rebel against the social strictures of the ton and be wounded by the rejection of his family. Yes, here she could continue to paint and live the unconventional life she loved.

      
As to what he would do...therein lay the rub. The only life he knew was that of spying. Not exactly the sort of career compatible with wedded bliss. Blackthorne had indicated that Beth was an heiress and a sizable dowry would sweeten the marriage bargain, but the idea of living off a woman was more repugnant to him than accepting Leighton's offer to support him in exchange for his continued exile.

      
That left few choices. Piero had mentioned an intriguing possibility early that morning. He was considering expanding his shipping operations to the lucrative Mediterranean trade now that the Barbary pirates were being forced to stop their depredations. If Derrick was not averse to entering the world of business, he might become a factor for the warehouse here in the city.

      
The old earl would roll over in his grave at the very thought of it. Leighton would be apoplectic. However, the employment would yield a decent income. But he was loath to give up his work for the Foreign Office. He would miss the chase, the adventure of his old life. There was something addictive in the danger, an almost sexual thrill to outwitting his most cunning enemies in the game of intrigue.

      
The baa of a kid interrupted his tumbling thoughts, and without thinking he reached down absently and gave its head a pat, then jerked back his hand with a startled oath, stepping away before he could raise the ire of an over-protective mama again. He heard the old crone's tittering laughter. She remembered him from that last ignominious encounter. As he looked over at her, she raised a walking stick as gnarled as the fist that shook it, cursing as only the
lazzaroni
could. Her eyes were fixed on a ragged filthy mongrel who was lapping from an unattended pail of milk.

      
As the old woman scuttled toward the hapless dog, raising her cudgel, Beth suddenly darted to the rescue. Leave it to his softhearted love to save every starveling she encountered, he thought as she cried, “No! I will pay for the milk, please, Graciella.” Beth knelt in front of the cowering dog who lay flattened on the hard-packed earth, seeming almost too weak to run. His long shaggy fur was so matted with filth that his color was not readily discernable, his ribs practically protruded from his emaciated sides and there were raw sores all over his body, no doubt inflicted by irate merchants and
lazzaroni
children throwing rocks.

      
“Come, boy. It's going to be all right. No one will harm you. There's a love,” she crooned as the dog bellied closer and she reached down to stroke his head. “Oh my lord, Percival, what evil has befallen you?”

      
“Percival?” Derrick echoed in stark amazement. Now that he looked at the poor creature, he could see that it was a spaniel—Sir Percival of Inverness! At the sound of Derrick's voice, the dog looked up with pain-glazed eyes, and Derrick recognized him.

      
Just then a half-dozen street urchins came darting furtively from one of the narrow alleyways leading to the piazza. Sticks and stones in hand, they caught sight of the quarry that had eluded them and took aim. Derrick jumped in front of the hail of fire, shielding Beth and the dog. Since he was not dressed as a gentleman,he was fair game for the young toughs, several of whom were as tall as he.

      
“Your fun is over,” he said in Italian, standing his ground.

      
“What is it to you? We saw him first,” one youth said arrogantly.

      
“Do not interfere in what is none of your business, foreigner,” a second said with a menacing scowl, hefting a large sharp-edged rock in one grimy fist.

      
“He is a dog himself,” the first said, mocking Derrick by barking. That move emboldened several of the smaller
lazzaroni
to draw closer to their ringleaders.

      
Beth started to rise, but Derrick motioned for her to stay back. As he did so he slipped the knife from his boot, letting the bright noon sun glint evilly on its blade. “Now, who wants to cast the first stone at this foreign ‘dog’?” Derrick barked, advancing toward the larger of the two youths.

      
Indecision was written across his grimy face as he tensed, weighing his options. His instincts, sharpened by seventeen years of survival on the streets, told him that the tall fellow with his cold blue eyes was very dangerous, in fact, spoiling for a fight. He, too, had a stiletto in his belt, but going one-on-one with the older man unnerved him. If the others would back him...he let the thought slide away. No, they would vanish into the
fondachi
the moment he crossed blades with such a deadly adversary.

      
He spit on the ground with a guttural oath, saying, “The dog will die anyway. There's no sport in killing him...or you.”

      
As the bullies disappeared, Beth released the breath she'd been holding. She watched Derrick slip the knife back into its hiding place, as graceful and nonchalant as if he'd been cleaning fish instead of facing down a pack of dangerous ruffians. But she knew that none of them were half so dangerous as the Englishman. He walked over to her and knelt once more beside the dog, who raised his head and licked his former master's hand.

      
“Good boy, Percy,” Derrick said, scooping up the injured animal, heedless of the dog's filthy condition.

      
Beth's heart skipped a beat at the gesture. This kind man was nothing like the deadly stranger who had faced down a mob only a moment ago. “Thank you for rescuing Percy. I assumed Mr. Drummond took him along when you left Naples.”

      
“We sent him to his trainer with a message,” he said to Beth. ”I imagine Murat's men must have killed our man.”

      
Beth blinked. “His trainer? I thought he was your dog.” She quickly paid the nervous old woman for the milk, then turned back to Derrick with a puzzled expression on her face.

      
As they walked through the streets to where their carriage waited, Derrick explained about Sir Percival’s training as a courier for the Foreign Office. She took the dog after he assisted her into the small curricle.

      
“Tis incredible. A spy dog,” she said, crooning to Per-cival, trying not to think that everything she knew about Derrick Jamison had been a deception, right down to the animal she had believed to be his pet.

      
“His tail's wagging—or at least he's trying valiantly to wag it,” he said softly.

      
She watched his large tanned hand stroke the dog's ears gently. The simple tenderness brought tears to her eyes.
I love you, Derrick. Papa is right. You're a man of honor and principle.
“I shall have to cleanse and stitch those wounds,” she said, striving to be practical before she started blubbering.

      
“She's good at the task, old boy. I can vouch for it,” he said, his eyes meeting hers as his smile was replaced by a serious expression. ”I have never thanked you properly for saving my life that night, puss.”

      
There was a warm light in his eyes. She was not imagining it. “You also saved me and now poor Percy as well. We are well met, Derrick,” she said, meaning more than she was able to put into words.

      
“Perhaps we are at that, puss. Perhaps we are.” He studied her face, looking at her as if he could see into her soul. He had hurt her with his lies, his desertion, but he knew intuitively that she possessed the power to hurt him even more.
I’m a fool to risk it.
But honor demanded that he do so. “Have you considered my offer, Beth?”