No woman had ever filled his mind and soul as she did, not even his sweet, childlike wife. The thought of Emma tormented him and the memory of her haunted him. It had begun as overwhelming lust, but after two short days he knew lust alone was not the reason why he wanted to lose himself in her, to melt into her, with a yearning so powerful it produced a physical pain. He wanted her by his side with her beauty, her courage and her indomitable spirit. Years ago his desires had been powerful, but they were pale candle flames compared to the burst of incandescence that consumed him now. He not only wanted her, but he needed her. And he needed her because he loved her. He had to know if she felt the same about him.

He longed to take her to his house, to make love to her in the sunlight and under the moon. He wanted to bathe her lovely body in sweet scented water and dry her with soft towels.

A few paces away he saw the flicker of a small fire where the men had boiled water to cleanse the wounds of their comrades. Restless, he gathered together all the indictments, the lists of accusations, the statements of false witnesses and fed them to the flame.

He had almost finished when Pietro returned. “The Comandante did not survive his wounds,” he announced solemnly. “We shall say prayers for his black soul.”

Marco nodded gravely. “Bene.”

Pietro shuffled his feet. Marco looked at him sharply. “What is it?”

“Signor Giovanni was seen during the fight. “

Marco swore under his breath. “And?”

“He fled, dottore. He was seen climbing in that direction.” Pietro waved a grimy hand toward the slope leading to the shepherd’s hut where Emma waited.

Suddenly Marco’s weariness vanished as a surge of fear-produced adrenaline surged through him. She had not been able to walk, so he could not have brought her with him and he had prayed she would be safe with the big dog. What if Giovanni had come across her? If she had been harmed or taken, he would get her back, no matter what it cost him. Money. Blood. His life.

He entrusted the remaining contents of the strongbox to Pietro, gave a few more orders and set off up the trail leading to Emma.

The ambush site was still within view when he saw some figures on the track ahead. He peered intently into the gray light of dawn. Gradually he made out the shape of a dog and two people, one apparently carrying a burden. He waved and shouted and the smaller figure signaled back. Teresa! Deo gratia.

A half-hour before he would not have thought he could place one foot in front of the other, but now he leapt forward to meet the straggling procession.

As he drew closer he could see that Teresa walked beside Matteo. On Matteo’s broad back, Emma was draped like a cloak, her arms dangling limply over his neck, her head resting on his shoulder. He held her legs around his waist. Her head remained immobile and with a sickening dread Marco willed her to move.

Matteo halted as Marco drew level and hitched her more securely around him. She looked up at the sudden movement, blinking her eyes.

“One of the most comfortable rides I’ve had since I arrived,” she said with a sleepy smile when she saw Marco. “I am so very glad to see you.”

Marco seized her around the hips and took her weight as Matteo let her go. He held her in his arms and gazed at her, drinking in the fact that she was unharmed, that she had smiled at him.

“Emma,” he said. “Bella donna.” His voice broke, and he suddenly felt a tightness in his chest. He had not dared to think of her in Giovanni’s hands again, but now she was safe, the relief overwhelmed him. He laughed, a release of pure delight at all the events of the night.

“By the way,” she said. “There’s a package waiting for you at the hut, all nicely tied up.”

“Giovanni?”

“None other.”

He bent his head to kiss her and she wound her arms around his neck. “This is a lovely welcome,” she murmured against his mouth, “and I’d love to continue, but my ankle is giving me billy-o. If someone doesn’t pick me up, I’ll fall down.”

With newfound strength he swept her up into his arms, gave orders to Matteo to bring Giovanni and started back down the path.

As they bumped their way down a long avenue of tall poplars Emma had to say the means of transportation had deteriorated over the past couple of hours. First, there was Matteo’s broad back, where she’d ridden like a sack of potatoes, then Marco’s arms for the last stretch down the hill, and lastly a wooden farm cart that lurched its way over the rutted path, drawn by a very big and slow carthorse.

Still, she said to herself, she shouldn’t complain. According to Marco, his house was around the next bend and he’d promised her hot water, clean sheets and cooked food. It sounded like heaven.

Not only that, but he’d whispered to her that tonight he would feed her figs and honey and sweet wine. Then he would take her to his bed and make wild, abandoned love to her until she drifted into sleep. In the morning he would be there, waiting, ready to pleasure her once more… When he’d found her on the way back from the shepherd’s hut his voice had grown husky and he’d lost the air of cool detachment that he liked to wear. She knew that underneath he was far from cool and detached. The muscles deep inside her tightened at the prospect.

The cart passed vineyards and orchards, interspersed with the silvery leaves of olive trees, then lumbered through a pair of iron gates. There were signs of neglect everywhere. Fences in disrepair, hedges overgrown with binding weeds, the roof of a shed that had fallen in. Nothing that couldn’t be repaired with some hard work. Mickey lay beside her, somnolent in the heat. Marco had dusted some powder into his wound after cleaning it, and the dog had jumped into the cart to ride beside Emma in style.

She reclined with her head on Marco’s coat and watched the play of muscles in his shoulders as he walked beside the cart. Every so often he stretched out a hand to touch her, as if still not quite believing she was there. Between the long shadows of the trees, the sunlight flickered over her legs, making dappled patterns. The scents of thyme and wild sage that marked their passing in the hills had transformed into wafts of lemon and ripening fruit, of fragrant blossoms and warm dust.

Now the crisis was over. Marco and his people had come down from the hills and were returning home. Every time they passed by a habitation, men came up to Marco in a continuous stream, slapping him on the back, laughing, swigging at bottles of wine and brandy that seemed to have appeared out of thin air. Their laughter grew louder, their words more hurried, their gestures wilder.

Home. All going home, save her.

She turned her head a couple of inches and buried her cheek in Marco’s coat. The same coat he’d given her when Enrico’s sons had fished her out of the water. Only three days ago. Together they had lived through emotional highs and lows she would never have believed possible. They had forged bonds like soldiers in a battle.

Marco called a command to the horse, and the cart creaked to a halt in front of a large white building. Mickey struggled to his feet beside her. Marco reached into the cart and took her hand.

“Benvenuto a la casa Antonioni,” he said with a flourish of his free arm. “My house is yours.”

She sat up. On both sides of a massive wooden door, thick shutters covered two rows of windows and a wide overhang cast deep shadows on the walls. Rows of red tiles formed the roof. A flowering vine with bright yellow blossoms crept up the side of the door and hung over the entrance. She inhaled aromas of heat, green growing things-and baking bread.

Her stomach growled. “It’s wonderful,” she said.

Marco laughed. She suddenly realized that she had never seen him laugh before today. It transformed his face, lighting his dark eyes, lifting the corners of his mobile mouth. She longed to kiss the tiny scar on his lip that sprang into prominence with his grin. Impulsively she pulled him toward her and placed her lips on the small, white mark. His arms came round her and he lifted her from the cart, his mouth still on hers, pressing, demanding, taking.