The Man Behind the Scars(36)

       
           



       

"Take care.'

He moved so fast that she froze, like a rabbit pinned down by the swift,  deathly descent of the falcon from which his family took its name.  Long, lean tanned fingers closed round her wrist as he jerked her  forward, the mint-scented warmth of his breath burning against her face  as he leaned nearer to deliver an admonishment.

It was impossible for her to move. Impossible, too, for her to speak or  even think. All she could do was feel-suffer beneath the lava-hot flow  of emotions that had erupted inside her to spill into every sensitive  nerve-ending she possessed. This was indeed torture. Torture … or torment?  Her body convulsed on a violent surge of self-contempt. Torture. There  was no torment in this man's hold on her, no temptation. Nothing but  self-loathing and … and indifference.

But her whispered, "Let go of me,' sounded far more like the broken cry  of a helpless victim than the cool, calm command of a modern and  independent woman.

* * *

She smelled of English roses and lavender; she looked like an  archetypical Englishwoman. She had even sounded like one until he had  touched her, and she had shown him the fierce Sicilian passion and  intensity that was her true heritage.

"Let go of me!' she had demanded.

Caesar's mouth hardened against the images her words had set free from  his memory. Images and memories so sharply painful that he automatically  recoiled from them. So much pain, so much damage, so much guilt for him  to bear.

So why do what he had to do now? Wasn't that only going to increase her  deserved animosity towards him, and increase his own guilt?

Because he had no choice. Because he had to think of the greater good.  Because he had to think, as he had always had to think, of his people  and his duty to his family line and his name.

The harsh reality was that there could be no true freedom for either of  them. And that was his fault. In every way, all of this was his fault.

His heart had started to pound with heavy hammer-strokes. He hadn't  built in to his calculations the possibility that he would be so aware  of her, so affected by the sensual allure of her. Like Sicily's famous  volcano, she was all fire, covered at its peak by ice, and he was far  more vulnerable to that than he had expected to be.

Why? It wasn't as though there weren't plenty of beautiful, sensual  women all too ready to share his bed-who had, in fact, shared his bed  before he had been forced to recognise that the so-called pleasure of  those encounters tasted of nothing other than an emptiness that left him  aching for something more satisfying and meaningful. Only by then he'd  had nothing he could offer the kind of woman with whom he might have  been able to build such a relationship.

He had, in effect, become a man who could not love on his own terms. A  man whose duty was to follow in the footsteps of his forebears. A man on  whom the future of his people depended.

It was that duty that had been instilled into him from childhood. Even  as an orphaned six-year-old, crying for his parents, he had been told  how important it was that he remember his position and his duty. The  people had even sent a deputation to talk to him-to remind him of what  it meant to stand in his late father's shoes. By outsiders the beliefs  and customs of his people would be considered harsh, and even cruel. He  was doing all he could to change things, but such changes could only be  brought in slowly-especially when the most important headman of the  people's council was so vehemently opposed to new ideas, so set in his  ways. However, Caesar wasn't a boy of six any more, and he was  determined that changes would be made.

Changes. His mind drifted for a moment. Could truly fundamental things  be altered? Could old wrongs be put right? Could a way be found … ?

He shook such dreams from him and turned back to the present.

"You haven't answered my question about your grandparents,' he reminded Louise.

* * *

As little as she liked his autocratic tone, Louise was relieved enough  at the return of something approaching normality between them to answer  curtly, "Yes.'

All she wanted was for this interview, this inspection, to be over and  done with. It went against everything she believed in so passionately  that she was patently expected to virtually grovel to this aristocratic  and arrogant Sicilian duke, with his air of dangerously dark sexuality  and his too-good looks, simply because centuries ago his family had  provided the land on which this small village church had been built. But  that was the way of things here in this remote, almost feudal part of  Sicily.

He was owner of the church and the village and heaven knew how many  acres of Sicilian land. He was also the patronne, in the local Sicilian  culture, the "father' of the people who traditionally lived on it-even  if those people were members of her grandparents' generation. Like his  title and his land, it was a role he had inherited. She knew that, and  had grown up knowing it, listening to her grandparents' stories of the  hardship of the lives they had lived as children. They had been forced  to work on the land owned by the family of this man who now stood in  front of her in the shaded quiet of the ancient graveyard.                       
       
           



       

Louise gave a small shiver as she looked beyond the cloudless blue sky  to the mountains, where the volcano of Etna brooded sulphurously beneath  the hot sun. She checked the sky again surreptitiously. She had never  liked thunderstorms, and those mountains were notorious for conjuring  them out of nothing. Wild and dangerous storms, capable of unleashing  danger with savage cruelty. Like the man now watching her.

* * *

She wasn't what he had expected or anticipated, Caesar acknowledged.  That wheat-blonde hair wasn't Sicilian, nor those sea-green eyes-even if  she did carry herself with the pride of an Italian woman. She was  around medium height, fine-boned and slender-almost too much so, he  thought, catching sight of the narrowness of her wrist with its lightly  tanned skin. The oval shape of her face with its high cheekbones was  classically feminine. A beautiful woman. One who would turn male heads  wherever she went. But her air of cool serenity was, he suspected,  worked for rather than natural.

And what of his own feelings towards her now that she was here? Had he  expected them? Caesar turned away from her so that she wouldn't be able  to see his expression. Was he afraid of what it might reveal to her? She  was a trained professional, after all-a woman whose qualifications  proved that she was well able to dig down deep into a person's psyche  and find all that they might have hidden away. And he was afraid of what  she might find in him.

He was afraid that she might rip away the scar tissue he had encouraged  to grow over his guilt and grief, his pride and sense of duty, over the  dreadful, shameful demands he had allowed them to make on him. So was it  more than just guilt he felt? Was there shame as well? He almost didn't  need to ask himself that question when he had borne those twin burdens  for over a decade. Had borne them and would continue to bear them. He  had tried to make amends-a letter sent but never replied to, an apology  proffered, a hope expressed, words written in what at the time had felt  like the blood he had squeezed out of his own heart. A letter never even  acknowledged. There would be no forgiveness or going back. And, after  all, what else had he expected? What he had done did not deserve to be  forgiven.

His guilt was a burden he would carry throughout his life, just as it  had already been, but that guilt was his private punishment. It belonged  solely to him. After all, there could be no going back to change  things-nor, he suspected, anything he could offer that would make  recompense for what had been done. So, no, being here with her had not  increased his guilt-he already bore it in full measure-but it had  sharpened its edge to a keenness that was almost a physical stab of pain  every time he breathed.

They were speaking in English-his choice-and anyone looking at her would  have assumed from the understated simplicity and practicality of her  plain soft blue dress, her shoulders discreetly covered by simple white  linen, that she was a certain type of educated middle class professional  woman, on holiday in Sicily.

Her name was Louise Anderson, and her mother was the daughter of the  Sicilian couple whose ashes she had come to bury in this quiet  churchyard. Her father was Australian, also of Sicilian origin.

Caesar moved, the movement making him aware of the letter he had placed in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

* * *

Louise could feel her tension tightening like a spring being wound with  deliberate manipulation by the man watching her. There was a streak of  cruelty to those they considered weaker than themselves in the Falconari  family. It was there in their history, both written and oral. He had no  reason to behave cruelly towards her grandparents, though. Nor to her.