Men In Uniform: Captivated By The Prince

His glance flashed across at precisely that moment, filling Emily with a very different kind of excitement from the rest of the spectators. And as she dropped the flag he gave a slight smile that seemed to promise her a contest no less involving than the one he was embarking upon.

Emily watched the denim mould around his impressive thighs as he dug his heels into the ground, gravel spitting up either side of his feet as he heaved. Each muscle and sinew was clearly defined as he threw every bit of his strength behind the rope, working to drag the other side closer to the line.

It was all over very suddenly. A groan from the losing side and a triumphant shout from Alessandro’s who, brandishing the rope, punched the air with their fists. Then there was a noisy round of back-slapping and congratulations, as well as good-natured banter before Alessandro came back to reclaim his top.

‘I’ll just take a shower, then I’ll be right with you,’ he promised, wheeling away to accompany Federico. ‘Then we’ll go,’ he called back to her over his shoulder. ‘Be ready.’

The villagers wanted Alessandro to share in their celebrations, and were disappointed when he told them he had to leave. But, having exacted a promise from him to return the following year, they accepted his decision and fell back.

‘If we are to reach Monte Volere before bedtime, I must go now,’ he explained, provoking another round of nudges and tempting Emily to disillusion everyone on the spot. Her husband’s hair might have been still wet from the shower, and his top clinging damply to the water droplets around his neck—giving the impression that he was in such a hurry to get back to her he hadn’t troubled to dry himself properly—but she knew he only wanted to get to his country estate before dark.

Beyond the narrow streets and close-clustered village houses the countryside opened into a vast, sprawling plain. As the tawny volcanic soil paled to blonde they sped on through the pale, freshly tilled earth on an arrow-straight road, until another range of hills, even higher than those they had left behind, loomed in front of them.

‘Not long now,’ Alessandro promised as he began to negotiate a series of tortuous hairpin bends. ‘I’m going to stop when we get to the top,’ he informed her. ‘Then you’ll see one of the most spectacular vistas in all of Ferara.’

Emily formed a sound of appreciation in her throat. But the last thing on her mind after the events in the village was a sightseeing trip. And even if Alessandro’s suggestion of an affair between them had been his idea of a joke, she had believed this trip to his country estate signalled his intention to bring them closer—if only for the sake of appearances. Now she knew the visit was nothing more than proof he intended to keep his word and show her around. And, keen as she was to learn more about Ferara, she was keener still to learn more about her husband.

‘Save it,’ she muttered ungraciously.

As Alessandro shot her a curious glance Emily regretted the outburst. He was only doing what he thought was right—what he thought she would enjoy.

‘No. I insist,’ he said firmly.

She had to admit he was right about the view. As she climbed out of the car Emily felt like an eagle staring down at the lake, tiny below them, shimmering in the heat haze like a panel of jewel-encrusted silk.

‘It’s absolutely stunning,’ she murmured, fighting off the insane urge to move close enough to slip her arm through his.

‘This region of Ferara has many similarities to the fiords of Norway,’ Alessandro said. ‘Don’t stand too close to the edge,’ he warned, coming to stand between Emily and the sheer drop only a metre or so in front of her feet.

Emily smiled, then felt unaccountably bleak when he started back to the car as if there was some other fabulous camera opportunity waiting just around the next bend for them.

‘You will find there is a lot of variety in Ferara,’ Alessandro remarked as he turned the car back onto what was now little more than a steep mountain track. ‘I hope you will eventually come to love it as much as I do.’

And the point would be…? Emily thought his remark strange, bearing in mind the peculiar circumstances of their marriage. ‘Mmm,’ she managed non-committally.

But if the view he had shown her had been the eagle’s perch, then his estate at Monte Volere was the eagle’s eyrie, she discovered as Alessandro turned in beneath a narrow stone archway. Set on the highest point of a hill cloaked with vineyards, the pink and cream stone of the old manor house glowed rose-red where shadows were painted by the failing light.

‘Why have you brought me here?’ she said curiously.

Alessandro turned to stare at her, an amused expression tugging at his mouth. ‘Rest and recreation—’

‘No. Really,’ Emily insisted.

‘Really,’ Alessandro replied steadily as he drew to a halt in front of the old building. ‘I thought you needed to get away from everything…everyone…for a few days.’

‘To be alone?’

But Alessandro had already climbed out of the car.

‘I’ll show you to your room,’ he called over his shoulder as she followed him up the steps. He opened an oak door and beckoned her inside.

My room? Emily thought, banishing the sense of disappointment. She stared across the stone-flagged hall as Alessandro sprinted up the stairs.

‘Well?’ he said, leaning over the carved wooden banister. ‘Aren’t you coming?’

The room he showed her into had been made cosy with throws, rugs and cushions in a variety of warm colours. One wall was almost completely devoted to a huge fireplace, carved from a single block of mellow honey-coloured sandstone. This housed a black wrought-iron grate and, because there was no need for a fire, an earthenware dish containing dried pot pourri to provide a splash of colour on the terracotta tiles. A wide-armed fan whirred lazily on the ceiling, stirring the scent of dried rose petals into the air. The thin coating of yellow ochre paint on the rough plaster walls had paled to lemon where the sunlight had faded it over many years, and exposed oak beams supported the high, sloping ceiling over the vast four-poster bed. Dressed with crisp white bedlinen, this offered a breathtaking view over the surrounding countryside—something Emily discovered when impulsively she flung herself down on it and bounced up and down.

‘I’ll be right across the landing if you need me,’ Alessandro said, closing the door quietly behind him before she had a chance to say a word.

Suddenly Monte Volere didn’t seem so appealing—she didn’t even want to be there any more. Gusting a long, shaky sigh, Emily stared around the empty room. If this was Alessandro’s idea of a honeymoon—She mashed her lips together, remembering he wasn’t much good at wedding nights either. But she wouldn’t let it get her down. No expectations, no disappointments, she reminded herself—and at least the bed looked comfy.

As Emily had anticipated, the high bed was extremely comfortable. The ceiling fan turned rhythmically over her head, soothing her while it kept everything airily pleasant. Over and above all this, she had taken a leisurely bath to ensure she got a good night’s sleep—but, glancing at the clock, she saw it was three o’ clock in the morning.

Safe to say success has not crowned my ventures, she thought, staring across at the closed door onto the landing. Irrationally, she felt an overwhelming urge to open it. Open it, and then what? Emily asked herself impatiently, giving her pillows an extra thump. And then leave the rest to fate, she decided, after another period of restless thrashing. Swinging her feet onto the cool tiled floor, she padded silently across the room. With care, she managed to lift the heavy wrought-iron latch without making a sound. Cautiously, she tested the door. The hinges were well oiled, and the movement was squeak-free. Opening it a little more, so that it looked like an invitation rather than an oversight, she hurried back to bed with her heart thundering in anticipation.

Above the sound of the fan she thought she could hear something…footsteps, maybe—measured, rhythmical—pacing, she decided. It had to be Alessandro, since he had already told her that the staff at Monte Volere came in on a daily basis, so she knew they were all alone in the house.

Arranging herself on the pillows, Emily fluffed out her long hair, moistened her lips, listened—and waited.

Across the landing Alessandro, after tossing and turning all night, found himself pacing the floor like a pent-up warrior on the eve of battle. Emerging from his angry introspection for a few moments, he noticed Emily’s door open. Feeling sure that he had closed it behind him earlier in the evening, he felt a rush of concern for her. Pulling on his jeans, he crossed his room to investigate.

Leaning against the wall just outside his bedroom, he paused, consciously stilled his breathing, and listened. They were still alone in the house; he was sure of it. The only noises he could detect were the typical muted creaks and groans of old timber as it cooled and relaxed after the heat of the day.

But, just to make absolutely certain Emily was safe, he crossed the landing, taking care to move silently, and stared into her room.

With her senses on full alert Emily detected the movement even though she heard nothing. Licking her lips one last time, she closed her eyes and concentrated on taking deep, calming breaths. Her limbs felt deliciously suspended and a seductive lethargy rolled over her…her nerve-endings grew increasingly sensitive as she lay still and contemplated Alessandro’s imminent arrival.

Emily…his wife, Alessandro mused, incredulous that it was so as he gazed at her still figure. Could it be possible that she was even more beautiful asleep than awake? Then, remembering the strength of character that burned in her eyes, and the firm set of her mouth whenever she was angry with him, he smiled and shook his head in a quick gesture of denial. And she was lovelier still when she smiled, he remembered. And when she laughed…

His gaze lingered on her mouth. The temptation to cross the room, to match his length to hers and to tease open those full, sensuous lips…lips he was sure waited like the rest of her to be awakened—

He stopped himself. The open door was her protection, he realised. How could he surprise her when she was beginning at last to trust him? He could not take advantage of the open door. He would not frighten her by entering the room when she was asleep. Spinning around, he returned to his own room after making sure that his wife’s bedroom door was closed securely behind him.

Breakfast was a tense affair. Cursing herself for behaving like a lovesick fool, Emily accepted that she had received no more than she deserved…which was precisely nothing.

Alessandro seemed cool and distant, though as polite as ever. Dismissing the cook who had come in to prepare the food for them, he insisted on waiting on her himself at breakfast.

‘This really is far too much for me,’ Emily protested, when he handed her a dish piled high with freshly peeled and sliced peaches, and a second plate covered in a selection of cold meats and cheeses.

‘Eat,’ he commanded impatiently, returning to the table where their breakfast buffet had been laid out only to return with some warm bread rolls. ‘You’ll need your strength today.’

‘Need my strength?’ Emily said suspiciously. ‘For what?’

‘We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.’

Watching him tear into his own roll, and stab at a plate of cheese with the energy of ten, Emily felt her spirits take a dive. Hiking, she guessed—at the very least. Mountaineering, probably—both of which filled her with dread. ‘You mean a day of physical activities?’

‘Mmm,’ Alessandro confirmed gruffly, his eyes glittering with a dangerous light. Draining his coffee cup fast, he pushed it away. ‘Grape-treading,’ he rapped purposefully.

‘Grape-treading?’ Emily echoed, following him with her eyes as he strode to view the massed fields of vines through the open window. The occasion was sure to be fascinating to watch, she thought. Her glance embraced Alessandro’s powerful forearms and the broad sweep of his chest. What part would he play in the proceedings? she wondered, hoping it would require him to strip to the waist again.

‘What?’ he demanded, thrusting his fingers into the back pockets of his jeans as he turned around. ‘What are you staring at?’ he repeated, more insistently.

Emily tore her gaze away from the well-muscled thighs so tantalisingly defined in snug-fitting denim. ‘Nothing,’ she said dismissively, with a flip of her hand. ‘I’d like that very much. For you to take me to the grape-treading, I mean.’

‘Good.’

That voice again, she realised, turning her face away so that he couldn’t see her reddening under his calculating and extremely disturbing gaze. ‘I had no idea that such archaic practices survived,’ she said, rustling up her most professional manner.

‘Just about everything is mechanised these days.’ Alessandro said, accommodating her approach. ‘But for the highest quality wines only an experienced eye can judge the grapes. So we keep our vines low and pick by hand. It is hard work, and must be completed quickly before the heat of the sun raises acidity levels.’

She tensed as he prowled closer. ‘I see…’

‘Oh, do you?’ he murmured sardonically, somewhere very close to her ear.

‘But surely you can’t tread all those grapes out there?’ she said edgily, staring fixedly out of the window as she waited for her face to cool down.

‘Of course not, ‘ Alessandro said, standing right beside her. ‘The grape-treading is purely symbolic. It marks the start of the harvest.’

He refused to take the hint as she moved away, and suddenly was right in front of her again.

Glancing from side to side, Emily realised she was boxed into a corner between an old oak dresser and a bookcase. How on earth had that happened? she wondered, sagging with relief when he moved away.

‘Different varieties of grape ripen at different times,’ he continued evenly, as if their game of tag, at which he was clearly a master, had never taken place. ‘And when they are all safely gathered in we celebrate, with a proper Festa del Villaggio. The custom of treading some of the grapes the old way after the first picking is said to placate the forces of nature.’

Emily began to relax. The history of the grape was surprisingly interesting…or perhaps it was more relief that, having distracted them both by explaining it, Alessandro was allowing the sexual tension between them to ease. She inclined her head to demonstrate her fascination with the subject, hoping her body would take the hint and calm down, too.

‘It is also carried out to ensure good weather,’ Alessandro went on, in the same soothing tone. Without any warning, he crossed the room, seized her arms, and held her close. ‘So, Emily,’ he demanded impatiently, ‘will you come?’

‘I’d love to.’ After all, she persuaded herself as his hands relaxed, the chance to get to know her husband a little better, to see him interacting with the villagers, was an opportunity that might never come again.

‘Great. You’ll have to get changed first.’

‘You mean it’s today—right now?’ She should have guessed! ‘Why can’t I go like this?’

‘Well, if you want to look like you’re heading for court—’

‘Without a jacket—?’As she pulled a face his lips tugged up in a half-smile. ‘You’re teasing me.’

‘Am I?’ he murmured provocatively.

‘OK, so now what? Point me in the direction of the nearest shops?’ Emily demanded, confronting Alessandro, hands on hips when he started laughing. ‘Please, Alessandro. Don’t be difficult. I want to go with you. Just tell me where the shops are and I’ll go and buy something suitable to wear.’

‘OK. I’ll take you.’

‘Thank you,’ Emily said graciously.

‘We can walk there,’ he said, when she stopped at the passenger door of the four-wheel drive he’d told her he used to get about the estate.

‘Walk?’ Emily couldn’t imagine how she had missed a dress shop as they drove through.

‘Certainly,’ Alessandro said, striding away in the direction of the fields. ‘It will only take ten minutes or so to reach Maria Felsina’s cottage.

‘Cottage?’ Emily demanded, increasing to a trot to keep up.

‘You’ll see. Come on,’ he urged, speeding up again. ‘We haven’t got all day. You don’t want the grape-treading to start without us, do you?’ he called over his shoulder.

A suspicion had taken root in Emily’s mind. ‘You mean we’ll actually be taking part?’

Alessandro’s loafers slapped rhythmically against the hard-baked earth. ‘Of course,’ he called back. ‘Why else would we be going?’

‘I don’t know…I’m not—’

‘Not what?’ Alessandro demanded impatiently. He blazed a stare at her. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

‘Of course I do. But—’

Taking her arm in a firm grip, Alessandro marched on in silence.

As they stood in front of the modest dwelling, waiting for the door to open, Emily still felt bemused at the possibility of shopping for clothes inside such a tiny cottage.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ Alessandro said as he turned to look down at her.’ Maria will find you something to wear.’

Emily made a conscious effort to relax. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

All the signs of a much loved home surrounded them. There wasn’t a single weed to be seen in the garden, and the colourful flowerbeds to either side of the newly swept path were crammed with blooms. The shuttered windows beside the front door were underscored with planters overflowing with blossom, while heavily scented climbers jostled for space around the doorframe.

Closing her eyes, Emily tried to concentrate on the sounds of the bees buzzing and the birdsong; the mingled perfume of flowers, all so delightful and distinctive. Had she been alone, she might have succeeded. But Alessandro was standing very close, claiming every bit of her notice—and why was he making such a fuss about kitting her out for the grape-treading? Surely she would only need to roll up her trouser-legs and don some sort of overall—?

She came to full attention as the door swung open. A short, generously proportioned woman, as creased and as brown as a walnut, slapped her hands together when she saw Alessandro and cried out with pleasure,’ Alessandro! Piccolino!’

‘My nanny,’ Alessandro explained, swinging the old lady off the ground with an answering shout.

Emily watched as a frantic exchange of questions and answers ensued between them.

‘Maria apologises for being at the end of the garden tending her geese,’ Alessandro translated. ‘Her favourite, Carlotta, is to take part in the annual goose race and must have extra care. True,’ he assured Emily when he saw the look on her face. ‘One day I’ll take you to see the race. These birds are treated like favoured members of the family. And the winner…’ He gave a low whistle of appreciation.

‘Fed to the family?’ Emily guessed wryly.

‘Certainly not!’ Alessandro said with a grin. ‘There is a substantial cash prize at stake—to keep the winning goose in luxury for the rest of its life. It is up to the owner to ensure that this is the case. A matter of honour,’ he explained, pinning a serious expression on his face. ‘And now Maria invites us into her home.’

‘Si,’ Signora Felsina insisted, nodding her head enthusiastically as she beamed at Emily.

Stepping over the stone threshold, Emily looked around curiously. The tiny cottage windows allowed in little natural light, but several old-fashioned oil lamps had been lit so that everything was softly illuminated. She could smell something delicious cooking on the old black range, and noticed that the best use had been made of the narrow window ledges, which housed an array of pungent green herbs flourishing in terracotta pots.

Contentment was contagious, she discovered, hoping they could stay for a little while. Everything was ordered for comfort. Every object had been arranged to please the eye. And all of it gleamed with the unmistakable patina of regular attention. A bolt of desire pierced her heart as she glanced across at Alessandro—desire that went way beyond the physical to claw at her soul. Did he feel it, too? Did he long for a sanctuary like this to call his own? Could he feel the tug of a real home? The longing to create a similar haven was overwhelming her—

‘Sit, Principessa, sit—’

The heavily accented voice of the older woman interrupted Emily’s reveries.

‘Here,’ she insisted, tossing rugs and cushions aside. ‘Sit here, Principessa.’

‘Emily. Please…call me Emily.’

Something in Emily’s voice must have troubled the older woman. Her hand lingered on Emily’s arm as she turned to confront Alessandro.

‘Alessandro,’ she said, her voice mildly chastening. ‘Your bride is not happy. What is wrong, Alessandro?’

Emily tensed at the bluntness of the remark, but Alessandro seemed not to have taken offence.

At his non-committal grunt Maria shook her head, and took herself off to pour out three fizzing glasses of homemade ginger beer from a vast stone flagon. ‘You sit, too,’ she said, turning around to face Alessandro. ‘You take up too much space,’ she complained fondly as she transferred the squat glasses onto a wooden tray.

‘Here, let me,’ he said, ignoring her instruction and removing the tray from her hands. ‘Now, you go and sit down, tata.’

Emily watched as the old lady hurried to obey his instruction, noticing her beam of delight when Alessandro used what surely must have been his childhood name for her.

Settling herself down into a chair so plumped up with cushions her chubby sandal-clad feet barely touched the ground, Maria Felsina held her glass aloft as she made a smiling toast to Emily.

‘Emily,’ Alessandro echoed softly.

Draining her glass with relish, Maria leaped to her feet and declared, ‘And now you must eat—’

‘Oh, no—’ Emily protested. She was still full from breakfast, but Alessandro’s glance warned her to stay silent. ‘Thank you,’ she said, seeing she might cause offence by refusing one of the sugar-frosted buns. ‘These look delicious.’ And they were, she realised, as the moist, feather-light sponge slipped down her throat.

In spite of the warm late-summer weather, there was a low fire in the grate, and as she ate Emily longed to open some buttons at the neck of her tailored shirt. She went so far as to toy with the top one—but when Alessandro caught her glance for some reason, the innocent action suddenly struck her as irredeemably provocative. She looked away, but not before she saw one of his sweeping raven brows rise minutely in an expression that was both accusing and amused.

‘My wife has come to you for clothes, tata,’ he said, turning his attention back to his old nurse.

‘Will they fit?’ Emily murmured discreetly.

Alessandro must have translated this, Emily thought, judging by their peals of laughter. Before she could feel embarrassed, Maria took her hand and stroked it gently, as if to atone for the outburst. Then, confirming Emily’s reading of the situation, she turned a face full of mock reproach on Alessandro and wagged a blunt-nailed finger at him.

‘Maria is the best dressmaker on the estate,’ Alessandro explained. ‘She’ll soon sort you out with something to wear.’

‘In time?’ Emily said anxiously.

Her concern crossed the language barrier, and with a vigorous nod of her head Maria indicated that she should follow her into the next room. Taking her through a low door, Maria pointed to some bolts of cloth stacked in one corner of the room, and then at the old treadle sewing machine standing against the wall.

There was a makeshift gown-rail—just a piece of rope suspended between two hooks on a low joist—and crammed onto this were cotton skirts in a startling profusion of colour and pattern, together with white puff-sleeved tops, all with the same scooped necks and tie fronts.

‘Ecco, Principessa!’ Maria exclaimed. And then, after viewing her thoughtfully for few moments, Maria swooped on the rail and unhooked an armful of clothing.