The Italian's Cinderella Bride. Lucy GordonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      When she was exhausted the impressions swirled about her head and ran together. She was asleep, yet not asleep, her dreams haunted by a man who came out of nowhere, seized her and took her to safety. In the darkness and rain she couldn’t make out his face. Only his strength and determination were real.

      Then the rain vanished and she was lying on a sofa while he pressed a brandy on her, forceful yet gentle, both together. She didn’t know who he was yet every detail was mysteriously clear. She could see his face now, handsome but for a tautness about the mouth, giving him a withered look that shouldn’t have been there for several years.

      When he rose and moved about the room there was grace in his movements, except that he seemed always ready against an attack. Or perhaps the attack would come from him, for she sensed something below the surface that might explode at any moment, all the more dangerous for the quietness of his voice.

      Then the impressions shifted, whirled away into the darkness, replaced by another time, another place. Now she was smiling as she was swept back to the time of happiness.

      There was Gino, gazing at her, giving her the fond smile she adored, reaching for her hand across the restaurant table, caressing her fingers with his lips.

      ‘They’re staring at us,’ she whispered, looking around at the other diners.

      ‘So let them,’ he said merrily. ‘Oh you English, you’re so cold.’

      ‘Me? Cold?’

      ‘No, never, carissima. You’re a dream of perfection, and I love you madly.’

      ‘Say it in Venetian,’ she begged. ‘You know I love that.’

      ‘Te voja ben—te voja ben—’

      How could there be such joy in the world? Her handsome Gino had come to England to take her back to Venice where his family were waiting to welcome her. Soon they would be married, living together in that lovely city.

      ‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘Oh, Gino, we’re going to be so happy.’

      But without warning the darkness came down, obscuring first his face, then everything. Suddenly the world was full of pain. He was gone.

      There were flickers—more pictures, but they came from much earlier. There was Gino as he’d been on the day they met in Venice, winning her heart with his cheeky humour and glowing admiration. She’d been struggling with the language, and he’d come to her aid. Somehow they had ended up spending the evening together, and he’d made her talk about herself.

      ‘You know so many languages,’ he’d said, ‘French, German, Spanish, but no Italian. That’s very bad. You should learn Italian without delay.’

      ‘But do I really need another language?’ she’d asked, not because she really objected, but to provoke an answer.

      There had been a special significance in his look as he’d said, ‘Well, I’m glad you couldn’t speak it today, or we wouldn’t have met. But now I really think you should learn.’

      After that he had set himself to teach her his language, and done it very thoroughly.

      More pictures—the airport where he’d seen her off, almost in tears from the strength of his feelings. Then the call to say he was coming to England, the ecstatic meeting, and that last evening together—

      ‘You’re a dream of perfection, and I love you madly—te voja ben—te voja ben—’

      ‘Te voja ben,’ she whispered longingly.

      There was his face as he said it, but it was fading, fading—

      ‘Gino!’

      She screamed again and again, stretching out her arms in a frantic attempt to hold on to him.

      ‘Come back,’ she cried. ‘Come back. Don’t leave me.’

      But then she touched him. She couldn’t see him but she could feel that he’d turned back to her, was taking her in his arms, drawing her against his body.

      ‘Where did you go?’ she sobbed. ‘I was so scared—I longed for you—where were you?’

      Strong arms tightened about her, and she heard the soothing words murmured in her ear.

      ‘It’s all right, don’t panic. I’m here.’

      ‘Don’t leave me again.’

      ‘I won’t leave you as long as you need me.’

      ‘Where have you been?’ she whispered. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’

      She reached for his face and kissed it again and again in her passionate relief, his forehead, his cheeks, his mouth. To her surprise he didn’t kiss her back, but at least he was there.

      ‘Te voja ben,’ she whispered. ‘Te voja ben.’

      ‘Lie back,’ he said, gently pushing her down against the pillow. ‘You’re safe now.’

      She could still feel his hands clasping hers, and their strength calmed her. Her terror began to fade. After so long among nightmares and mystery, Gino had finally returned, his arms open to her.

      ‘Sleep now,’ he whispered. ‘And in the morning everything will be all right.’

      But something perverse in her, something awkward that months of misfortune hadn’t managed to stifle, made her open her eyes.

      A man was sitting on her bed, holding her hands. Even in the semi-darkness she could tell that it wasn’t Gino.

      CHAPTER TWO

      PIETRO was in pyjamas and his hair was tousled. He switched on the small bedside light and watched as the joy died out of her eyes.

      ‘I heard you calling,’ he said. ‘You sounded desperate.’

      ‘I had such dreams,’ she whispered. ‘Gino—’

      He wondered if she knew that she’d kissed him, thinking he was Gino, and cried out; ‘Te voja ben,’ the Venetian for ‘I love you.’ With all his soul he hoped not.

      ‘Talk to me about Gino,’ he said.

      ‘Our last evening together—I have that dream so often, but then it fades—he vanishes, but I don’t know where—and it’s too late to find out because it was so long ago. I’m sorry if I awoke you. I promise to be quiet now.’

      ‘You can’t help a dream.’

      She suddenly put her hands together over her chest, but there was nothing seductive about her appearance. Like him, she was in pyjamas. They were sedate and functional, buttoning high in the front.

      ‘I didn’t mean to stare at you,’ he assured her.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ she said simply. ‘I’m used to it.’

      ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘I warned you last night that I was a bit mad.’

      ‘Don’t talk like that,’ he said quickly.

      ‘Why not? It’s true—well, a little bit. For the last year I’ve been officially diagnosed as “disturbed”. I’m a lot better than I was, but I’m not all the way there yet.’

      ‘But