To Kiss a Count Page 16

  ‘But Domenico de Lucca does not agree on how important it is?’ she asked quietly, hugging her knees against her as she listened to his story.

  Marco shook his head, overcome by the emotion of his quest. Of sharing it with Thalia. ‘He and his old army friends in Naples are planning an armed uprising. They feel that force of arms is the only thing that will be heard. They don’t understand that bloodshed will turn our valuable allies, like your own family, against us. It should be only a final resort, and we are not yet at that point. If I could find the silver, show everyone what it means…’

  She suddenly kissed him, holding on to him fiercely. ‘Oh, Marco! Let me help you. Please.’

  ‘Thalia…’

  ‘No. I know I am not Clio. I’m not clever like her. But I’m a good actress, I can discover people’s secrets before they even realise they have revealed them. Before they realise I am not really a fluffy bonbon. I can help you, I am sure of it! I want to help you.’

  He took her hands tightly in his, bending his head to kiss them. To hold her close, his precious, passionate Muse. ‘I know you can give invaluable help, cara. Woe betide anyone who ever thinks you a—what? Bonbon? But I could not let you be hurt.’

  ‘I won’t be. Not with you to protect me. If finding this silver will bring you new allies, will help to save lives and prevent violence—I want to do what I can.’ She settled back against the headboard, a thoughtful frown on her face. ‘Now. What about Lady Riverton and those caves?’

  And Marco knew she was his new ally. Whether he wished her so or not.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Thalia was uncharacteristically beginning to have some doubts about this midnight venture.

  She usually welcomed anything at all out of the ordinary way, and planning to meet Marco to explore the dark hills and search out Lady Riverton’s hiding place was assuredly not ordinary. It was better than any play or opera for sheer drama and excitement! She had found a partner, a place, at last.

  But now, holding tight to Marco’s waist as he guided their horse along a twisting lane, she began to wonder if she was indeed entirely sane. Anything could happen out here, with who knew what lurking around every corner.

  Then she tilted back her head, her gaze taking in the silvery swath of stars in the clear black sky. She hugged close to Marco, to his warm strength, and suddenly those fears vanished like a puff of smoke. Drifting away into that magical sky as if they had never been.

  This was truly where she was meant to be. What she had been waiting for all her life.

  ‘Va bene?’ Marco asked, turning his head for an instant to smile at her.

  ‘Oh, yes, quite well,’ she said, resting her chin on his shoulder. ‘Are we almost there?’

  ‘We’ll have to leave the horse just up ahead and walk the rest of the way,’ he answered. ‘The path gets narrow and rocky.’

  ‘You’ve reconnoitered, then?’

  ‘In my work, cara, it pays to be prepared. As prepared as one can be, anyway, where everything is so unpredictable.’

  Thalia turned her cheek against his shoulder, the rough wool of his sleeve. ‘I do like unpredictable.’

  He laughed. ‘So I have noticed.’

  He drew up the horse near a ramshackle little cottage, nestled in a craggy valley below the limestone outcroppings. He leaped down from the horse, reaching up to help her alight. His hands lingered at her waist, his expression serious, half-shadowed in the moonlight.

  ‘You can wait here for me, if you prefer,’ he said.

  Thalia gazed around at the darkened cottage, the smoky bits of clouds drifting across the sky. Listened to the distant howls of night creatures. ‘I would be far more frightened alone here, wondering what was happening,’ she said. ‘Please, Marco. You did say you would let me help you.’

  For an instant, he looked so very solemn she was sure he would refuse, would break the fragile, shining bond of their new-found partnership. She braced herself to argue, but he just nodded brusquely.

  ‘Stay close to me,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  Marco lit a lantern, its faint, golden circle their only light as the clouds grew thicker, hiding the moon and stars. He took her gloved hand in his tightly, leading her into the limestone hills.

  As they hurried on, the path growing narrower, steeper, their boots grinding on the loose pebbles and dirt, Thalia remembered all she had read about this place. The steeps and valleys were littered with Iron Age barrows and old Roman mines. Full of ghosts and legends.

  ‘I heard there was a witch living in one of these caves,’ she whispered.

  ‘A witch?’

  ‘Yes. She used her wicked spells to lure unsuspecting mortals into her rocky lair.’

  ‘Ah, yes?’ Marco said softly. ‘And then what did she do with them?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure. Ate them, perhaps. Until she was turned into a pillar of stone for her misdeeds. They say you can still see her there.’

  He smiled back at her. ‘If she is stone, bella, then we need not fear being eaten.’

  ‘Oh, but I think there is some spell that can release her from her terrible state. Then she will be the servant of whoever frees her, bound to do as they command. Until she kills them and takes her final revenge.’ Thalia realised she was probably babbling on, but thinking of witches and spells kept her mind away from the rocky shadows looming around them. ‘Such a creature seems quite appropriate for wicked smugglers, doesn’t she? Someone to guard their treasure, until they fall under her wicked spell.’

  ‘Believe me, Thalia mia, witches and smugglers are never any match for a Muse.’

  Thalia laughed. ‘Have I just been complimented—or insulted?’

  ‘Complimented, I assure you.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I have never met a woman as formidable as you, Thalia Chase.’

  Absurdly pleased, Thalia followed him into a narrow crevice between two tall stone walls. Their lantern light took on an eerie halo-glow, their footsteps echoing.

  ‘Where did you hear such a tale, the one of the witch?’ he asked quietly. ‘Is it in your new play?’

  ‘My new play is about an ancient haunted castle, and a man who is not what he seems,’ Thalia said. ‘But a witch in the story would not come amiss. I must add one.’

  Her words trailed away as they emerged into a vast cavern-chamber. The walls, an undulating pale silvery colour, rippled up to a sharp peak.

  ‘Oh,’ she breathed, taking in the strange luminescent glow. From somewhere far away she could hear the steady, slow flow of water. ‘Is this it?’

  ‘I think so. Look.’ Marco held the lantern higher, taking in wall sconces attached to the stone for torches, along with stacks of crates draped in oilcloth.

  Excitement built in a warm bubble inside Thalia, and she pressed her hand to her stomach. ‘The silver?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said darkly. ‘But whatever it is, I am certain it has no business being here.’

  He dropped his knapsack on to the pitted stone floor, kneeling down to draw out a lock pick and a crowbar.

  ‘Hold this,’ he said, handing her the lantern. She held it aloft for him as he took one of the crates from atop the tall stacks and slid the bar under the edge of its nail-studded lid.

  The wood splintered and broke as he pried it off, and Thalia peered eagerly over his shoulder.

  But the light caught not the sheen of silver, but the dull glow of a black krater. Nestled in sawdust, the ancient vessel once used to mix water and wine at fine banquets looked lonely, the red figures caught at some Dionysian revel forlorn.

  ‘It is so lovely,’ Thalia murmured, reaching out to reverently touch one of the twisted handles. ‘And remarkably intact. It looks as if it was made only days ago!’

  ‘The Italian soil has preserved it,’ Marco said fiercely. ‘Until it was snatched away.’

  She laid her hand on his shoulder, feeling the coiled tension of his muscles. ‘What is in the next box?’

  Tog
ether, they opened up several more crates, finding coins, sculptured marble heads and hands, and one half-broken funeral stele of a young girl. Thalia knelt down beside the flat stone, gazing solemnly at the beautiful, long-dead child with her downcast eyes and elaborate curls and draperies.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. Somehow, that stark beauty made her see, really see, what Marco meant when he spoke of the importance of these objects. What tonight meant, beyond any lark or adventure.

  It meant what her parents had always tried to teach her, to teach all their daughters from the time they were in leading strings. The past mattered; it had power and value. It had irreplaceable lessons to teach, and those who would steal it for their own gain had to be stopped.

  That was what it meant, really, to be a Chase Muse. And her whole life had led her to this one place. To Marco, and all they could do and be together.

  She traced the raised pattern of the girl’s profile, feeling a sudden deep kinship to her. They were connected, even over thousands of years, and Thalia had to help her.

  ‘Thalia!’ Marco suddenly said, his voice deep and urgent. ‘Look.’

  She turned away from the stele to see that he had opened a crate on the other side of the cavern. He stared down at it, perfectly still.

  She rushed over to his side. There, packed in sawdust and crumpled newsprint, was what they sought. The silver altar set from the temple of Demeter in Santa Lucia. A welter of libation bowls, ladles, an elaborate incense burner carved with a relief of Demeter, an offering plate depicting sheaves of wheat. Even slightly tarnished from their long journey, they glowed with an unearthly light.

  Thalia carefully lifted one of the small libation cups, turning it on her gloved palm. Reliefs of acorns and beechnuts entwined with a profile of Demeter. Scrawled on the bottom, in scratches of ancient Greek graffiti, were the words ‘This Belongs to the Gods’.

  ‘Marco,’ she whispered, hardly daring to speak, or even to breathe. Not daring to break the enchantment of the silver. Marco was right—this was a potent symbol indeed. A symbol of sublime beauty, snatched from the terrors of war. ‘We have found it!’

  He gave an exultant laugh, reaching out to take her hand, pressing her fingers over the little bowl. ‘Yes, cara mia, we have found it!’

  He kissed her, a hard, swift, deep kiss that tasted of victory. Of the wondrous thing they had accomplished, together.

  But their triumphant embrace was shattered by the sudden skitter of rocks outside the cave’s entrance. The clank of steel and the mutter of low, rough voices.

  In one swift motion, Marco kicked over their lantern, extinguishing the light. In the darkness, he slid the lid back over the silver’s crate and pulled Thalia behind the stacks of boxes.

  They crouched there, pressed tightly together. A bolt of ice seemed to slide down Thalia’s spine, holding her immobilised. The quick spin from exultation to panic was terrifying. She clutched the bowl, holding it against her pounding heart as she sucked in her breath.

  Marco slid his body in front of hers, pressing her back to the hard stone wall and shielding her from whatever was coming.

  The voices grew louder as they approached the cave, the words more distinct until Thalia could hear that two men were speaking—and one of them had a pronounced northern accent.

  ‘Why do we have to move them now?’ the man said. Surely he had to be the lusty pharaoh from the party.

  ‘You said next week,’ the other man said sulkily. ‘All the arrangements were made. Why tear me out of my cosy bed tonight?’

  ‘Quit moaning like a pair of scullery maids,’ a woman said. ‘I told you there has been a change of plans. You’re being well paid, so I don’t want to hear another complaint from either of you. Understand?’

  Lady Riverton. Thalia clutched the bowl even tighter. Of course. She would be here tonight. This was all her own plan, after all.

  Thalia pressed her forehead to Marco’s taut shoulder, listening for whatever would happen next.

  Her chest ached with holding her breath, with the unbearable tension. In front of her, Marco was as still and steady as a rock. They sat there, listening as Lady Riverton and her two henchmen argued and shifted crates about.

  Every scuff of wood on stone, every clank of precious marble and pottery, made Thalia long to scream. To fly out from her hiding place and beat them senseless for all their careless greed.

  But even as her fingers curled into tight fists, she knew she had to stay put. To rely on Marco. If the villains killed her, what good would that do the artworks? What would her sisters say?

  What have I done? she thought.

  ‘Don’t be so careless!’ Lady Riverton snapped. ‘Just look at the haphazard way your hirelings piled up these crates. Lax! You will not be paid if a single piece is broken, I can promise you that.’

  ‘Listen here,’ the pharaoh said, ‘I’ve had about all I’m going to take from you!’

  ‘A truer word was never spoken,’ Lady Riverton answered. ‘You’ll get no more coin if—let go of me!’

  There were the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle. Boot soles sliding on stone, cloth tearing, a ringing slap. Then another one, a crack of palm on skin, echoing off the walls. Thalia had the terrible urge to laugh hysterically at the whole melodramatic scene, and she bit down on the tip of her glove to stifle the guffaws.

  But her elbow nudged the crate she was wedged against. The merest whisper of wool against wood, yet suddenly the cave went very, very still.

  ‘Here, pipe down, you two,’ the non-pharaoh man said. ‘Did you hear that?’

  Marco’s back tensed, the air around them crackling.

  ‘Probably a bat,’ the pharaoh said, a quaver of—was it fear in his voice? Who knew someone like that could fear bats? ‘I hate bats!’

  ‘Hush,’ Lady Riverton commanded. There was the ring of footsteps, the hollow clatter of something tapping on a crate. First one, then another, edging ever closer to their hiding place.

  In a flash, Marco spun around and caught Thalia in his arms, bearing her down to the floor. ‘Close your eyes,’ he whispered.

  Unable to think, to breathe, Thalia did as he said, squeezing her eyes shut as she clutched at his shoulders. He wrenched open her coat and shirt, baring the top slopes of her breasts as he buried his face between them, wedging his body between her legs.

  It hardly seemed the moment to be amorous, but she just had to go along. She slid the tiny bowl beneath her before driving her fingers into his hair, pushing him closer.

  There was a sudden rush of cool air and torch light as Lady Riverton pushed aside the crates forming their impromptu hiding place.

  If this was to be her last moment, Thalia thought wildly, at least it was a good one. With Marco’s lips on her skin, his silken black hair falling over her hands, she could die satisfied.

  Almost.

  ‘Well, well, boys,’ Lady Riverton said, her voice laced with an unmistakable strain of amusement. ‘It looks as if our hiding spot has become a cosy little love nest. How charming.’

  Marco leaped to his feet, dragging Thalia with him and swiftly covering her bare skin with the loose folds of her shirt. His quick movements also hid the glint of the knife that slid from his sleeve into his palm.

  The two burly men crowded in behind Lady Riverton, their torchlit faces avid and very, very scary.

  Thalia did not have to pretend ashamed bewilderment as she blinked at the sudden light, holding her coat tightly closed with one hand and sliding the bowl into her pocket with the other. It washed over her in cold, abundant waves.

  ‘Laura, what are you doing here?’ Marco said hoarsely, his accent heavy.

  Lady Riverton arched her brow, tapping her riding crop against the skirt of her habit. Unlike Thalia, she looked cool and elegant despite being in a dirty limestone cave in the middle of the night. Skullduggery became her.

  ‘I could ask you the same thing, Count di Fabrizzi,’ she said. ‘But I can clearly see what you are up to.
Good evening, Miss Chase.’

  Thalia stared at her in silence for a long moment before muttering, ‘And good evening to you, Lady Riverton. Such a surprise to see you here.’

  ‘That is most apparent,’ Lady Riverton said.

  ‘Here, you said no one knows about this place! That it was safe,’ the non-pharaoh man said menacingly.

  ‘And that is exactly what I was told,’ Marco said, somehow managing to sound icily indignant. The offended aristocrat. ‘This cave seemed the perfect place to celebrate my betrothal to Signorina Chase. Notwithstanding these dusty old crates of smuggled French brandy, it is quiet and isolated…’

  ‘And ever so romantic,’ Thalia cooed, latching onto Marco’s sleeve and gazing up at him in what she hoped was a vacant, adoring manner. ‘My sister watches me so closely, I hardly have a moment alone with my handsome fiancé. Convention is such a nuisance, don’t you agree? Of course you do, or you would not be here with your own coterie. Would you, Lady Riverton?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I agree. Convention is a nuisance, to be done away with whenever possible,’ Lady Riverton said with a sly smile. ‘I am just surprised to find you a devotee of rebellion, Miss Chase. Or perhaps not. You were rather—spirited in Santa Lucia. You and your sister. How is the Duchess, by the way?’

  ‘So, are we going to kill them now?’ the pharaoh said impatiently. Without his fancy headdress, his scarred face was even more frightening.

  ‘I’d like to see you try, knave,’ Marco growled. ‘I will flatten you like Attila did Rome.’

  ‘Oh, will you now, Italian pig?’ The pharaoh lunged forward, drawing a wicked-looking dagger from the sheath at his waist. The non-pharaoh cackled with glee.

  Before Thalia could scream, Lady Riverton stopped him with a hand to his chest. ‘Now, Jack, none of that. Bloodshed would be so messy with all this—brandy about. We have a betrothal to celebrate! I do love an engagement. Let me be the first to wish you both happy.’