Part 9 (1/2)

”Because that is not all of what you ask, ma'am,” he said softly. ”And because of who I am, I couldn't give you the answer, even if I knew it.”

”My lord captain is the master of one of the greatest English s.h.i.+ps of the line, and a confidant of the admiral himself. If you do not know whether I should be preparing my neck for the arrival of monsieur guillotine, why, then, I-”

”Signora, you make me speak plain,” he interrupted, trying not to think of her and the Frenchmen's gruesome executioner. ”I am an officer of the crown, for my king and my country, and there are confidences and knowledge that I have sworn not to share with anyone, especially here in Naples.”

She flushed, suddenly understanding. ”When I said that this city was full of spies, I did not include myself.”

He sighed, wis.h.i.+ng things hadn't come to this. ”They say the guillotine is not much used any longer, especially by Napoleon's men, and not here in Italy.”

”Mi scusi! However did I overlook my good fortune?” She made a little gasping sound, a sad attempt at a laugh to accompany an even sadder jest. ”To be a lone woman, waiting for the arrival of an enemy army! Oh, yes, they shall let me keep my head, and in grateful return they can claim whatever other part of my person or possessions they please!”

Unhappily he sighed again, at a loss for how to comfort her. As a Neapolitan, she wasn't his responsibility, and for the security of his own men, s.h.i.+p, and country, he could not let himself become entangled in her personal affairs. It was his duty to always decide for the good of the majority, and not concern himself with individuals. When the long-expected orders finally arrived from the admirality offices in London and the goodwill and survival of King Ferdinando was no longer deemed important to England in this war, then the navy s.h.i.+ps would sail from this harbor, and the French would swiftly conquer this last, most southern kingdom in Italy.

Unfortunate, yes, even tragic, but also somehow inevitable. Edward was an experienced commander of high rank, and he understood the unfairness of war. The English navy could hardly be everywhere in the Mediterranean, could they?

But inevitable, too, was the danger to Francesca Robin. The jackals that filled the French army were rewarded with wholesale permission by their generals to murder, rape, and plunder wherever they conquered. Frenchmen who'd murdered their own king and queen without a qualm wouldn't think twice about sparing the home-or the body-of this lovely young woman who had proudly displayed portraits of royalty.

She knew it, and so did Edward, and to his shock the knowledge made him want to take her into his arms and hold her and keep her from the harm that was swirling around her. All too vividly he could imagine how she'd be to hold, warm and trusting against his chest, her golden skin like velvet and her scent enticing and womanly. For once he'd know exactly the right things to say to make her feel safe and to comfort her. The image was so vivid and soft and warm and so shamefully wrong that he could barely meet her eye.

”You should plan to leave Naples for a short while, signora,” he suggested instead, fighting to forget how much he still wanted her in his arms. ”Surely you've a friend or relation you could visit elsewhere, on Sicily, say. I want you to keep yourself safe and from harm, la.s.s, until affairs here are, ah, more settled, a month or two.”

”Affairs will only grow worse, not better. Don't dissemble, per favore,” She was staring down at her hands, her fingers clasped so tightly together that the knuckles had paled. ”You are quite abominable at it, and besides, such a blatant lie is scarcely worth the stain upon your much-vaunted honor.”

”But d.a.m.nation, I do care what becomes of you!”

”Go,” she whispered. ”Just-just go.”

She was right, and if he'd any pride left he'd leave at once. In miserable desperation he stole one final glance at the painting on the easel, as if he'd find inspiration there for what to say or do next.

”I'll give you three hundred gold zecchini for the picture, signora,” he said. He could have this part of her, if nothing else. ”Signed by your own hand, mind?”

With her lips pressed in a tight, grim line, she flipped the painting around and away from his sight, then with a flurry of skirts went to pause by the doorway. ”The picture is not for sale, my lord.”

”Why the devil not?” he demanded, hating the way she was dismissing him. ”Because your country is not the same as mine?”

”No, my lord captain,” she said, her voice dropping off into a fierce whisper as she stood in the doorway. ”Because I have no country, and you do. Because you have a future, and I have-I have my fate. Buon giorno, my lord, and farewell. Farewell!”

0=”4”4.

For the last time Francesca traced her fingertip along the proud arch of the painted horse's neck, then carefully wrapped a strip of lamb's wool around the narrow neck of the black and red vase. The vase had miraculously survived, unchipped, uncracked, for two centuries, and now all she could do was to pray and trust to cedar shavings that it would remain intact a few months more, through storms and war on the long voyage to England.

I want you to keep yourself safe and from harm, la.s.s, until affairs here are more settled... that was what Edward Ramsden had said, wasn't it, breaking his precious, honorable silence to say so? And the way he'd said it, as if he actually cared what became of her, the way no one else did. She'd remember that; she'd remember him.

d.a.m.nation, I do care...

If only it were as easy as he'd made it sound, as easy as wrapping herself in lamb's wool....

”Sainted Mother of G.o.d, how the old master would weep to see you do this!” muttered Nanetta, loud enough for Francesca to hear but still soft enough that she could pretend to be speaking only to herself. ”Sending off his treasures to this London, the one place on this earth he hated the most-ah, ah, how he must be weeping in his grave!”

With an exasperated sigh, Francesca placed the now-swaddled vase into its packing crate, and sat back on her heels to confront Nanetta, perched across from her like a cross-tempered crow in her rusty black gown. True, Nanetta had served her father and now her since before Francesca herself had been born, and as a worthy old woman who must have seen at least sixty summers, Nanetta was also ent.i.tled to certain allowances.