LITMIR.BIZ

      Eyes narrowed, with a proud lift to her head, she waded out of the water and moved towards him, seemingly not in the least embarrassed at confronting a complete stranger in her sodden petticoat.

      ‘I trust you’ve had an edifying look, sir—pretending to be a gentleman, riding about the countryside on a fine horse on the look-out for poor, defenceless girls.’

      Max smiled. ‘You? Defenceless? Now you do exaggerate. Something tells me you are afraid of no one.’ Her clenched fists and rose-tinted cheeks, the brilliance of her green eyes, told him so.

      The accented voice was courteous enough, which only seemed to exacerbate Christina’s temper. ‘Have you nothing better to do with your time?’

      ‘I can’t think of anything more pleasurable just now than looking at you,’ he replied easily. ‘I was merely out riding.’

      ‘Then you must be a stranger, otherwise you would know you are trespassing. This is private land.’

      A slow, appreciative smile worked its way across his face as his eyes raked her from head to toe once more and then moved back to her furious eyes. ‘A thousand apologies. I hadn’t realised. But my crime—if that is what it is—was well worth it.’

      Helen Dickson was born and still lives in South Yorkshire, with her husband, on a busy arable farm where she combines writing with keeping a chaotic farmhouse. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure, owing much of her inspiration to the beauty of the surrounding countryside. She enjoys reading and music. History has always captivated her, and she likes travel and visiting ancient buildings.

       Recent novels by the same author:

      THE EARL AND THE PICKPOCKET

      HIS REBEL BRIDE

      THE DEFIANT DEBUTANTE

      ROGUE’S WIDOW, GENTLEMAN’S WIFE

      TRAITOR OR TEMPTRESS

      A SCOUNDREL OF CONSEQUENCE

      WICKED PLEASURES

      (part of Christmas By Candlelight)

      FORBIDDEN LORD

      SCANDALOUS SECRET, DEFIANT BRIDE

      Helen Dickson

       Prologue

      During the quiet of the afternoon heat, when everyone was at rest and nothing moved in Castello Marchesi in the Tuscan hills, the boy crept up the curving staircase and gingerly went towards the nursery. Pushing open the door, holding his breath, he halted on the threshold and peered inside. The light was subdued, the curtains having been partly drawn, one of them fluttering in the gentle breeze from an open window.

      Rosa, the nursemaid, was nowhere to be seen, but he knew she wouldn’t mind him being there. Looking directly ahead of him, his eyes came to rest on a cradle with diaphanous curtains.

      Tiptoeing across the richly patterned carpet, he peered uncertainly over the side at the tiny bundle lying there—a girl just six weeks old. Inhaling the innocent fragrance of her, studying her face with a smile of wonder, he watched her sleep.

      As he looked at her he felt a stabbing pain of joy to his heart and tears sprang to his eyes. Never had anything moved him as this child did, and with infinite gentleness he reached out his hand and touched the tiny fingers curled into a ball on the pillow beside her cheek. They twitched and he smiled, his bright blue eyes alight with tenderness.

      ‘Do you know how beautiful you are?’ he said aloud to the child, and then, more softly. ‘You are the most beautiful little girl I have ever seen.’

      The child’s eyes opened a moment—emerald green and sparkling, exquisite they were—unusual, the boy thought, he had been told that all babies’ eyes were blue when they were born. They fluttered closed and he laughed softly. ‘Oh, you little beauty,’ he whispered, his heart aching for his own empty childhood. ‘You see, little one,’ he murmured, lightly brushing her cheek with the backs of his fingers, ‘already I disturb your dreams. With eyes as lovely as yours you will set the whole world alight. If only you knew what trouble your arrival has created.’

      This was true, for what a terrible time that had been when Lydia, the baby’s mother, had died. Her father, Roberto, unable to cope with the grief of losing his beloved wife, had appeared at Castello Marchesi with the child and faced his mother, the boy’s step-grandmama, and begged her to take the child. From where he sat in a secluded part of the balcony reading his book, he had heard it all.

      Looking through the glass doors his gaze had been drawn to his step-grandmama. Tall and thin with a spine ramrod straight, her eyes were alight with the brilliance of a demon as she glared at her son. Although he hadn’t known Lydia well, he was aware that she had been a wilful, spirited young woman—unlike her husband, who was totally subordinate to his formidable mother. As always, it was his step-grand-mama’s voice that prevailed. Roberto had sat cowed, too distraught to put up a defence. That was when he had heard his own father calling his name from the drive below and he’d turned away.

      Leaving the child to sleep, he left the nursery, only to return the next day clutching a small fluffy bear as a gift. But things were not right. Rosa was folding a basket of freshly laundered clothes on the table, and he saw that she was quietly weeping. His eyes went to the cradle and slowly he walked towards it and bent to look inside. It was empty.

      He straightened slowly and turned, looking at Rosa with a sudden tension on his face. ‘Rosa? Where is she? Where is the baby?’

      ‘Oh, she’s gone.’

      ‘Gone? Gone where?’

      ‘The English lady and gentleman—you remember, they came yesterday. The lady is the baby’s aunt—Lydia’s sister. They—have taken her to England.’

      ‘You mean Grandmama has given her away?’ He stood transfixed, unable and unwilling to believe the old lady would do such a cruel thing. ‘But—Roberto will look after her. He is her father.’

      ‘Roberto has gone.’ She shook her head, sorrow etched into every line of her face. ‘He said he was not coming back.’ Rosa stopped what she was doing and looked at the boy. His eyes were wide open, his face like a chalk mask. ‘The English couple will be her parents from now on,’ Rosa said gently, wiping away her own tears, for she had become fond of the child and she would miss her.

      ‘But how can they be? Roberto is still her father.’

      ‘She will have a new father and a new mother, one who will love her as much as Lydia, which she would not have—’ Rosa bit her lip to stop herself saying more, for Countess Marchesi had laid down a proviso before the couple left. She had insisted that the child be raised knowing who she was and when she was eighteen she would return to Italy and wed her betrothed—this young boy whose heart she had already stirred. Their union would join two of Tuscany’s most successful houses. The boy was at an impressionable age. These things were best left to his family to explain.

      ‘But this is her home. I thought we would be a family now. Oh, Rosa, this is too cruel.’

      Striding out of the nursery, he went to his room and through the French windows out on to the balcony, where the olive groves and the vineyards with rows of ripening grapes spread out before him.

      Having told him as gently as she could, Rosa watched him go. She’d never before encountered the pent-up, rigidly controlled grief that the boy displayed, and for the first time she realised his mind was so powerful that it seemed able to completely override all his emotions when he wished. Rosa had cared for him since the moment of his birth—the moment he had taken

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