Undercover Cavaliere Read online

  This year's olive harvest was going to suffer if they didn't get some decent weather. The grape harvest had been poor, due to a rainy October. Just yesterday Alonso had mentioned that the olives were ripening slowly. "We need bright sun and hot winds," Gabe said, repeating his foreman's words. He pulled himself upright with the help of one crutch. I should be out there. He hobbled to the window, where he could just see over the sill. The alternating rows of well-pruned olive trees and yellow-leafed vines called to him.

  I never wanted to be a farmer. But now I'd give anything--anything but my left foot--to be able to farm my own land.

  The crutch dug into his armpit. Would he ever get used to using it?

  "A man can do whatsoever he wants, son, if he wants it bad enough. You 'member that, your whole life long. There's no such words as 'give up'."

  The thin clouds parted and a pale ray of sunlight illuminated an olive tree, turning the greenish-gray leaves silvery. "I hear you, papa. I hear you."

  Instead of ringing for his valet, Gabe hobbled to his wardrobe and pulled out a shirt and some rough canvas pants. My trees. My vines. It's time I tended them.

  Maybe if he worked at it, he could convince himself that he liked being a farmer.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  As she was packing, she found her knife in a drawer among her petticoats. She had no idea how it had gotten there. The last time I remember seeing it was on the steamer. At least the last time she'd noticed it, when she had taken it off, along with her filthy, raggedy dress. Peter must have made sure it got put with her belongings that someone had retrieved from the HÔtel Vendome. She hadn't missed it on the long journey home, had never worn it when she was teaching.

  She set her foot on the vanity stool and raised her skirts so she could strap it at its usual place on her thigh, just above her garter.

  Why? If I'm not going to use it, why wear it?

  The knife sheath was smooth with wear, the strap supple. She pulled the blade partway out, admiring as usual the sleek utility of the handle, the razor sharp blade. Her pa's hired man had made it for her when she was scarce sixteen, had designed it to be thrown, yet to be strong enough to take a good chunk out of bone. She'd practiced for hours on end, until she could hit a target at five paces nine times out of ten. And on the tenth, she could come close enough to scare her assailant.

  Pa and Merlin had sparred with her until she understood the basics of close-up knife fighting, but she'd never had to use what they'd taught her.

  Never had a chance, not when a knife might have made a difference. With a sigh, she released her skirt and set her foot back on the floor. She tossed the sheathed knife into her carpetbag.

  Later, as she went to put the last of her undergarments inside, she hesitated. Knowing she had the means of defending herself had kept her from falling into despair. Perhaps that had helped keep the girls' spirits up as well. Maybe Pa was right when he said that being armed gives a body confidence, no matter how much danger he--she's--in.

  She picked up the knife again. Would I have been so ready to take any opportunity that offered itself if I hadn't had this?

  She was about to take off alone for Italy. Pa would have a conniption at the very thought of her going unarmed.

  Again she set her foot on the chair and lifted her skirts. This time she didn't hesitate. She strapped on the sheath and straightened. With a smile, she patted the hilt of her knife, feeling as if she could handle any danger that came along.

  * * * *

  David Ferguson had already bad his breakfast and was off checking on a little girl who had fallen under the wheels of a cart. Gabe was glad to see him willing to offer his medical expertise to the villagers, who otherwise would depend on their own skills or make the long trek into San Gimignano. While he'd been an absentee owner more often than not, he still concerned himself with the people who worked for him or with whom his workers traded. I wonder if David would stay on here even after he decides I don't need him. He enjoyed the Scots physician, who was both a decent chess player and a challenging conversationalist.

  Once fed, he turned toward his library, where he'd spent his days since returning to Italy. Holding a book on his lap, staring at its pages, seemed to indicate he wasn't wallowing in self-pity. Does David realize how little reading I actually do?

  Halfway there he stopped, almost toppling with the sudden cessation of forward motion. "The olives. Right." He turned carefully and made his slow way toward to the front door.

  The steps leading down to the driveway were a challenge. He still wasn't sure how a man on crutches was supposed to descend, not without someone strong and steady at his elbow. When he started to move them both to a lower level, he overbalanced and nearly fell on his face. He put the crutch on his left side down one step, then the one on his right. When he went to hop down, he nearly fell again. The steps were a lot harder and had more sharp edges than the marble-tiled hallway.

  He finally devised a sideways-crabbing descent, and was happy no one was around to watch. When he finally stepped onto the graveled surface of the drive, he breathed a sigh of relief and made his way around the house on a narrow, graveled path. Already his shoulders were telling him they weren't accustomed to taking most of his weight.

  Alonso and another man were some distance down a row, their backs to him. He hesitated, then started toward them.

  The rain had softened the soil between the rows, even though that nearest the grapevines had been somewhat compacted by the feet of the pickers. His crutch tips sank in an inch or so with each step, and he quickly learned to make sure they were firm before putting his full weight on them.

  "This isn't so hard," he muttered, when he'd gotten about ten yards along the narrow aisle between grapes and olives. "I don't know what David was so worried about."

  He swung the crutches forward. The left one seated itself firmly. The right one sank. And sank. And kept sinking.

  It happened so rapidly that Gabe had no chance to balance himself. One instant he was making his way confidently along the aisle. The next he was face down in the mud.

  Sticky mud, smelling of rotting grapes. It clung to his face when he lifted his head, enveloped his hands when he braced them to lift himself. His good leg could get no purchase, and his stump was useless.

  He cursed. He may have screamed. He probably wept. Whatever he did, it was without conscious control. The next thing he was aware of was being carefully rolled onto tarpaulin. Alonso was speaking soothingly to him, broken sentences of reassurance, of concern. "Do not move, signore. We will summon the doctor. Are you cold? Ferdinando, fetch a blanket for his honor. Are you thirsty? I will get wine. Do you--"

  "Leave off, Alonso. I'm not injured. I just...just fell." Gabe had to clench his teeth to hold back more curses. He raised a hand to wipe the mud from his cheeks, and only added more to the thick, slimy layer. "Can you help me stand?" Not that he was sure he'd be able to handle the crutches if he did, but damn it, he wasn't going to let them carry him like a baby.

  "The doctor would not approve," Alonso said. "We will take you to your bed. Orsina will make you clean again and when the doctor returns he will examine you. Until then you must rest."

  Nothing Gabe could say made any difference. Eventually several more men appeared, and among them they were able to lift the tarpaulin holding him. When he was safely ensconced on his bed, he was forced to suffer the further indignity of having Orsina remove his muddy clothing and bathe him.

  By the time Dr. Ferguson arrived, Gabe was fit to be tied.

  * * * *

  "You're not going before Christmas?"

  "No, but as soon after as I can." Regina tossed another book into the discard pile.

  Lulu picked it up and flipped through the pages. "Why on earth did you buy this? It's nothing but fluff."

  "I like fluff sometimes. It was worth reading once." She added two more books to the pack-and-ship pile. "As I recall, I bought it to read on the train one time when I was coming home
from college ." The next book wasn't even familiar. Curious she opened to the title page. "The Military Telegraph? Now I do wonder why I bought this one." Another discard.

  Her lifelong best friend and almost-cousin flipped through the fluff. "Y'know, this might be interesting after all. Listen to this: 'Her heart pounded in her breast as she saw the masked bandido approaching. She trembled--'"

  "You don't read fluff, remember?" She doubted Lulu had time to read anything, since her twins were fully ambulatory and could climb like a couple of monkeys. "Move. I need more room."

  Lulu rolled to the side and curled against the headboard. "Regina, are you sure?"

  "That I love Gabe? Yes. That he needs me? Absolutely."

  "What if he still blames you?"

  "Then I'll just have to convince him that what I did was for the best. Certainly your parents think so." She pushed a couple of books aside and perched on the edge of the bed. "Lulu, he was at the end of his tether. He'd been in terrible pain for days. We were nearly burned to death, and we had no idea if we'd be picked up when we started floating down the river in that battered little rowboat. When I think of how easy it would have been for Peter to miss us..."

  "Then he should be grateful to you. I doubt that any of his spy colleagues would have taken such good care of him."

  Since Regina had occasionally harbored the same thought, she said nothing for a moment. "Pa says that when a man loses something he cares about, he needs something--or somebody--to blame. I was handy."

  "Well, Papa is pretty disappointed with Gabe right now. He says any son of his should have more gumption than to blame folks for being kind enough to save his worthless hide." Lulu had let her normally crisp diction slide into the soft drawl that was her father's.

  Regina had to smile. She could just hear Uncle William saying that. "What does your mama say?"

  "That she'd like to shake him. That's when she's not praising you for saving his life." Lulu reached out and caught Regina's forearm. She squeezed. "Reggie, Mama wants to go to Italy so bad it hurts, but she won't. She believes you're the only one who can heal Gabe. He may need his mama for comfort, but he needs you for strength."

  Regina buried her face in her hands, hoping to hold back the tears that came all too frequently when she remembered those awful days in France, that wearisome, trying fortnight in England while the doctors fought to save Gabe's life. "Oh, God, I hope she's right."

  A squeal sounded from downstairs, followed by a scream. "Oh, lordy, that's my signal. I'll see you for dinner Saturday." She dashed out, calling, "Hope, stop picking on your brother."

  * * * *

  "Rest now."

  "I've spent too much time resting. I need to learn how to work these damn things."

  David Ferguson stepped forward and blocked Gabe's progress along the central corridor of Castello di Re. "Gabe, working yourself into exhaustion is asking for an injury. You were lucky when you fell in the orchard. The ground was soft. Fall here--" He tapped the marble tile with his toe. "Land just right on that stump and it could be months instead of weeks before you get your peg."

  "You're right." Gabe swung through the door of the library and lowered himself into the leather chair behind his wide desk. "Why's it taking so long for it to heal? Doctor Stapleton said two to four weeks. It's been five, and the damn thing's still tender."

  David sighed. "I don't know. I'm about ready to let Orsina try her olive oil massage. God knows, it can't hurt."

  Just the thought of his housekeeper putting her hands on his bare stump made Gabe shudder. Still... "I'll think about it. I'll think about anything that will let me walk again." He rubbed his what was left of his thigh, digging his fingertips in when the muscles contracted, pulling the stump up toward his body. He'd been warned that he'd have to work to keep the hip joint flexible and strong.. "I'd give anything to be able to scratch my toes."

  David chuckled.

  Heartless bastard.

  * * * *

  Christmas came and went, and the olive harvest continued. As predicted, it was less abundant than last year. Gabe joined the pickers, once he figured out how to use his crutches in the orchard.

  Alonso had found a carver in the village. Gabe gave him rough sketches of what he wanted, but was almost unable to convince the old man to make them. Then figuring out how to fasten the devices to the tips of his crutches was a challenge. Eventually he'd simply bought another set of crutches and had the fat disks permanently attached. They were solid wood, about five inches in diameter, three inches thick in the center, with holes drilled halfway through, into which the tips of the crutches fit snugly. With them, he could all but walk on water.

  No longer did soft or wet ground slow him. He had to adjust his gait, and couldn't use them in the house, but on the loose gravel of the drive or the muddy soil of the orchard, they worked exactly as he'd hoped. Of course, they doubled the weight of each crutch, but that just meant that he was getting more exercise in the same amount of time.

  He was learning to use his peg, too. David kept telling him it wasn't a peg, but an artificial leg, but he rather liked the notion of using a peg. "When I was a boy, the life of a pirate appealed to me. Maybe I'll buy myself a parrot."

  He hadn't told his parents that he was learning to live with one leg. Not yet. He wanted to wait until he'd mastered the peg, until he could honestly assure them that he was healing, body and soul.

  He had the body part in hand. He was still not too sure about the soul.

  Still, each night he went to bed tired, and most of the time at peace with himself. Wishing he had two good legs wasn't going to make it happen. Wanting to continue his work for the Coalition wasn't a possibility, at least not in the role he'd played for ten years.

  If he chose, he could live in Italy for the rest of his life, growing olives and grapes, relaxing more and more into the role of an Italian farmer. At least his ancestry wouldn't be held against him here. By the time he'd won the castello from an optimistic vingt-et-un player, he'd spoken Italian like a native. He even looked the part, more or less, with his wavy black hair, swarthy skin, and the big nose he'd inherited from some unknown Nez Perce ancestor.

  Too bad it's so far from Cherry Vale, from Mama and Papa. But now I could invite them over. I'll bet Papa would enjoy a winter here, where snow's a novelty, not a daily chore.

  He heard the knock on the outer door, but paid no attention. Orsina would answer it, and like as not she'd deal with whoever it was. Leaning back in his comfortable chair, he lifted his foot to rest on the hassock.

  The harvest was all but finished. Today's weather had been miserable, with gusty wind and heavy rain. Gabe had declared Saturday a holiday, and told the pickers he didn't want to see them before Monday morning.

  He heard footsteps in the corridor, but ignored them. Someone asking for David, he supposed. Now that the Scots doctor had made his decision to stay, at least through the winter, he was frequently called out to deal with illness and injury.

  A tap on the door. "Entrare," he called, while wishing he could have pretended to be elsewhere.

  The door opened and a vision stepped through. Candlelight glinted on golden hair.

  "Buona sera, Guglielmo. Quale è la mia stanza?"

  He stared, speechless. Pinched himself.

  She didn't disappear.

  "Regina? Gina?"

  She smiled. "Sì, è I. E 'giunto il momento per noi di sposarsi."

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  When he responded to her knock on the library door, Regina stepped through before she could lose her courage. He sat behind a wide desk, relaxed in a high-backed chair, silhouetted against a window made reflective by the night.

  He's well! was her first thought, for his cheeks were full, his brows straight above his shadowed eyes. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been hollow-cheeked and his eyebrows had been drawn together, with two deep creases between them.

  She forced her lips to curve in a smile. "Good evening, Gabriel. Which room
is mine?"

  He stared, unspeaking. At last he croaked, "Regina? Gina?"

  "Yes, it's me. It's time for us to marry." She really hoped she had that right. Her Italian was still a little bit shaky. In Rome she had told the hotel clerk that she was on her way to meet her banker--finanziere--instead of her fiancé--fidanzato. If he was still her fiancé.

  He leaned down and picked up crutches. With an economy of movement that told of practice, he used them to get to his feet--to stand. Don't mention feet. Once upright, he resumed staring at her, as if he was seeing a ghost.

  "Might I trouble you for tea? It's been a very long day." Two winged chairs, upholstered in rich burgundy velvet, stood on either side of a fireplace in which a small fire burned. She chose the one on the left and sat, holding her hands out to the fire's meager warmth.

  He stared a long moment more, then moved to the far wall where he pulled a bell cord. Almost immediately the door she'd pulled closed opened.

  "Tea, Orsina, please." He hesitated, looking at her. "Cheese, wine, fruit, bread. Whatever. A light meal. I imagine the lady hasn't dined."

  At least that's what she thought he said. His Italian was so rapid and so idiomatic that she had trouble following it.

  The middle-aged woman who'd let her in gave her a peculiar look before she left. Hopeful? Certainly not disapproving.

  Gabe swung himself across the room with the same grace he'd displayed when he was running, back when they were children. He sat in the other winged chair and laid his crutches beside him on the floor. Gray eyes, his mother's eyes, regarded her unblinkingly.

  "I didn't know you spoke Italian."

  His word were so unexpected that she had no immediate answer. "I took lessons," she said, after a flummoxed moment. "Since I plan on living here, for a time, at least, I thought it wise."

  Another long silence, while he stared at her. At last he said, "Here? As in Italy?" His tone was flat, without inflection, without expression.