Flora stroked the small shaggy head with a gentle hand. ‘I wonder where he came from?’
Alfredo pursed his lips. ‘From one of the rented villas, signora. People do not always take their animals home after a holiday.’
‘How vile,’ Flora said with some heat. ‘Anyway, he’ll be company for me. And he’ll be fine once he’s had a bath and something to eat.’
Alfredo went off muttering, but by the time the little dog had been vetted and groomed he looked altogether more respectable, and, after only a few days, felt so much at home that an armchair in the salotto had become his designated abode.
‘And we will see what the Signore has to say about that,’ Alfredo said ominously.
But Marco seemed merely amused. ‘You should have said you wanted a dog, cara,’ he remarked, fondling the little animal’s pointed ears and receiving an adoring look in return that made Flora silently grind her teeth. ‘I would have found you a pedigree litter to choose from.’
‘Thank you,’ Flora said politely. ‘But I think dogs pick their owners, and I prefer my little mutt.’
And Mutt he was, from then on.
But, as an apparent consequence of his introduction into the household, Marco started staying in Milan for the weekends too, confirming Flora’s unhappy conviction that he had a mistress there.
But he was at home for Christmas and New Year, which were celebrated quietly, although Alfredo had told her that there had often been large parties in the past.
‘But they are a lot of work, signora,’ he said. ‘And the Signore will be anxious that you do not become overtired.’
Perhaps, thought Flora. Or more likely he did not wish to introduce his temporary wife to his family and friends when he knew it would be the only Christmas she would spend at the castello.
Her gift from Marco came in a flat velvet case. One perfect pearl, like a captured tear on its thin gold chain, she thought as he fastened it round her throat, her body shivering in involuntary delight as his fingers brushed briefly against her skin.
In her turn, she’d been careful to avoid anything too overtly personal and gave him a tall, frighteningly expensive crystal decanter that she’d found in an antique shop on her last visit to London.
And he thanked her with a smile that did not reach his eyes.
The weather turned much colder in January, and although Flora still took Mutt for his daily run, she did not go so far afield. She found she tired easily these days, especially as the baby was particularly active at night. Like a drum being beaten from the inside, she thought, remembering a line from a Meryl Streep movie she’d once seen.
Sometimes the movements were clearly visible, and she was aware of Marco watching her one evening, as she lay on the sofa, his attention frowningly absorbed on the tiny kicks and thumps that rippled the cling of her dress.
Do you want to touch? she longed to say. Do you want to feel how it feels?
But then he got up abruptly from his chair and went to his study to work, and the moment passed, unshared.
There was a small shop selling delectable babywear in one of the streets off the town square, and Flora was a regular visit every time new stock came in.
One day, as she emerged with her latest purchases, she realised she was being watched, and, looking round, saw Ninetta standing on the opposite side of the street, staring at her.
She half lifted a hand, but the other woman ducked her head and scuttled away.
She mentioned the encounter casually to Alfredo as he drove her home.
‘The Contessa Baressi’s villa has been sold, signora. I think some members of the family have come down to remove their personal possessions.’
‘Oh.’ Her tone was subdued.
‘But have no fear, signora,’ he added reassuringly. ‘The Signore’s orders are clear, and even if they call at the castello they will not be admitted.’
Mutt was waiting for her at the door, tail wagging furiously.
‘All right, old boy.’ Flora bent with difficulty to pat him. ‘I’ll take you out now. Fetch his leash for me, will you, Alfredo?’
‘Do you think that is wise, signora?’ He peered at the sky. ‘It will be dark soon.’
‘I won’t go far,’ she promised.
The wind was cold on the coast road, and she walked as quickly as she could, her head bent, while Mutt pranced eagerly ahead of her in the rapidly fading light.
Traffic was almost non-existent in winter, and she frowned as she heard the sound of a car approaching fast. She whistled to Mutt, who came running, and clipped on his lead. As she straightened she was caught in the beam of headlights, and flung up a hand to shield her eyes. She expected the car to pull over, but it seemed to be coming straight for her, and she cried out, throwing herself desperately to one side, fleetingly aware of a face, framed in a mass of dark hair, in the driving seat.
She fell heavily, and felt the fume-filled draught on her face as the car went past, its tyres screaming on the wet surface of the road. Mutt, barking hysterically, tried to chase after it, but fortunately she had his lead twisted round her wrist, and after a few abortive attempts to free himself he trotted back and licked her face.
Flora lay very still, her cheek pressed against damp freezing turf, all her senses at fever pitch as she tried to assess what damage might have been done.
Kick me, she pleaded silently to the baby. Kick me hard. But nothing happened.
When, eventually, she tried to move, she felt her ankle screaming at her to stop, and lay back again. She knew she needed to stay calm, but as the minutes passed she began to feel chilled and also extremely scared.
The driver of the car must have seen her fall, she thought in shocked bewilderment, but had made no attempt to stop even though it must have been obvious that she was heavily pregnant.
How long would it be before she was missed at the castello? And, when she was, how would they know which direction she had taken?
She swallowed convulsively. ‘Oh, Mutt,’ she whispered. ‘I think I could be in real trouble.’
As if in confirmation, Mutt flattened his ears, threw back his head, and began to howl.
Time became a blur of cold, and thin rain, and Mutt’s distress. She tried several times to get up, but the pain in her ankle invariably sent her wincing back to the ground. She was sure it wasn’t broken, but it could be badly sprained, which was just as inconvenient.
She became aware that she was drifting in and out of consciousness, and knew that this was the biggest danger. Mutt was quiet too, as if he’d decided his efforts were in vain, and she loosened his lead and whispered, ‘Home, boy,’ praying that the sight of him would speed up the search.
Unless, of course, he got sidetracked by a stray cat, or some other legitimate prey, she thought as she heard him in the distance, bursting into a frenzy of excited barking.
But that wasn’t the only noise. There were voices, she realised, and bobbing lights.
Or was she just delirious with the cold and imagining it all?
Because it seemed as if Marco was beside her, his voice saying brokenly, ‘Flora—mia carissima. Ah, Dio, my angel, my sweet love. What has happened to you?’
She knew that was impossible, because Marco was miles away in Milan, and anyway he didn’t care about her enough to say things like that.
Only his arms were strong around her, and she was breathing the familiar scent of his skin, listening to him murmuring the endearments in his own language that he had once whispered to her when they were making love. And somehow this surpassed every moment of rapture she had ever known with