By the time they reached Naples, the rain had stopped and a wind was getting up. She would call in at the hotel and change before dinner, Carina decided, and engaged the driver to wait and take her on. The lobby was empty and the porter absent from his desk so she fetched her key herself. Then, with a quick look around, she lifted her damp skirts and went up the stairs. No one had bothered to light the lamp on the landing and when she reached her bedroom door, she stopped outside and felt through her skirts for her gun.
The pistol was in place, strapped to her thigh, and Carina turned the key to let herself in. She hung Gabriella’s cloak over a chair and took off her wet shoes. As she was tidying her hair, the window banged shut, making her jump. She was as nervous as a kitten – but was only because Ben wasn’t here and she must hurry or be late for Harry.
Carina searched for a dry pair of shoes and was about to put them on when she heard the creak of floorboards behind her. As she swung about the blood froze in her veins. The door was wide open and a heavily built man stood on the threshold. She stared at him, her eyes wide with shock. Her first terrified impulse was to try and make a run for it. She might just bolt past him and get downstairs but he was blocking the doorway.
‘I believe you have come to the wrong room, sir.’ She tried to keep her voice steady. ‘If you ask the concierge, I am sure he will redirect you.’
The stranger stood where he was, menacing and silent. Without taking her eyes off him, Carina slipped one hand into her pocket. She reached through the opening in her skirt and touched the stock of her pistol. Before she could remove it from the holster, the man stepped into the room. In two strides he was at her side and towering over her. Carina screamed before a blow sent her flying backwards. She fell against the table and tried to save herself, but a second blow sent her to the floor. Her body smashed onto the marble and she lay stunned.
She was dimly aware of the stranger beside her, lifting her into a sitting position. His hand was round her neck and a pad of material was clamped over her nose and mouth. Carina recognised the smell of chloroform and clawed frantically at his fingers. She tried not to breathe, but her lungs were bursting and she choked against the gag as she inhaled. With each breath her movements became weaker. Her vision blurred and she saw solid furniture melting in front of her eyes. She was falling, plummeting off a cliff into a swirling vortex, and seconds later collapsed on the floor unconscious.
Carina had the sensation of being cast adrift on a sea that was rolling and pitching beneath her. Her head ached and drowsiness pulled her under. Awareness slipped away until she was forced awake because she was going to be sick. Bending her head to one side, she retched. Then she dropped her chin on her chest until the nausea and giddiness passed.
Taking long, slow breaths, Carina opened her eyes. She was tied to a chair with her arms bound. Light from a flare flicked ghostly shadows over the walls and she was in a low, vaulted cellar with a portcullis gate. Over her own rasping breath, she heard the scratching of rats. Vermin infested this dark, dank place and she cast about desperately, trying to think what had happened. There had been a stranger in her room. He had drugged her and brought her here. She thought of the man who followed her and Ben, but there was no obvious connection. For the love of God, where was she?
There had been harrowing accounts in the newspapers of cells dug into the hills, where opponents of the old regime were condemned to a living death. They had been evacuated by the Redshirts but there might still be a guard. Carina called out. Her cries echoed around the chamber and came back to her and she let out a whimper of terror. No one would even know she was missing! Harry would wait in vain and assume she had forgotten or changed her mind. He wouldn’t think to raise the alarm. But if she had been brought here to die, why was a torch still burning?
Whoever he might be, her abductor meant to return. Carina felt the weight of the holster strapped to her thigh. It was hidden beneath her skirts. Thank God he hadn’t found the pistol! She began to rock backwards and forwards, trying to loosen the rope that bound her arms. She twisted her wrists, working at the knot. Then, from a long way off, she heard the sound of voices.
‘Help me! I’m down here!’
There were hurried footsteps and a shadowy hulk stood outside the gate, stooping to turn the key. As the gate swung open, her kidnapper emerged from the darkness.
‘Now you’re awake there’s someone who wants to talk to you.’
‘My dear Carina, this is a long-awaited pleasure.’
The big man stood aside and Carina turned her face towards the voice. With an attention to detail that distanced shock, she noticed that Prince Scalia was dressed for dinner. He had removed his gloves and held one hand over the other, stroking the signet ring on his little finger.
‘Fetch me a chair and leave us alone. Come back in half an hour. Make sure we’re not disturbed in the meantime.’
The man found a stool and Scalia locked the gate behind him. He dropped the key into his pocket. His face was close to hers and Carina felt her skin crawl. She should have guessed Scalia was behind this – but what did he want? Enrico was dead and he had joined forces with Garibaldi. She was no longer his enemy. Fear and revulsion made her heart pound, but she kept them out of her voice.
‘I’ve friends in Naples who will be looking for me.’
‘No one would think of searching here. Did you really think I was taken in by your charade in Palermo, Carina? I knew by then you had fallen in with the rebels.’
‘So why did you release Enrico Fola?’
‘Fola was of no consequence to us. I hoped to entice to you into my bed – but I’ve no taste for second-hand goods, particularly cast-offs from Captain Mavrone.’
Scalia sat with his legs wide apart and his hands clasped. Ben should have killed him when he had the chance, Carina thought and lowered her gaze to hide what was in her eyes.
‘You can’t keep me a prisoner here.’
‘I’ve no intention of keeping you a prisoner. Our business won’t take long …’
Scalia paused and Carina was swept by disgust. She loathed this man, with his small white hands and cruel face. Raising her eyes to meet his gaze, her lip curved contemptuously.
‘Do I revolt you, Carina? The scars you find so unattractive are your husband’s doing.’
‘To avenge the murder of his brother!’
‘You don’t believe in that old fiction, do you?’ Scalia gave a hollow laugh. ‘Mavrone never forgave me for stealing Bianca from him.’
‘That’s not true—’
Carina broke off as the prince stood up and kicked the stool aside. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and took out a small heart-shaped locket, which he dangled in front of her face.
‘Bianca sailed for Sicily with Mavrone this morning. They’ve spent time together in Naples. I have a record of all their assignations. She left this behind so that I would know she was with him.’
Carina recognised the locket. She remembered Bianca fidgeting with it the first time they met, clasping it as a talisman in the Villa Pallestro. She was never without it. Scalia must have ripped it off her neck – but it wasn’t evidence of Ben’s infidelity. The prince was playing a grotesque game. Bianca hadn’t gone to Sicily. Where was she, she wondered suddenly?
‘Let me show you the portrait my wife wears so close to her heart.’
Scalia leant down and snapped open the clasp. Carina glanced at the tiny painting inside. The portrait looked like Ben, but it wasn’t him.
‘The portrait is of Alexander, the man you executed,’ Carina spat the words at him.
‘It’s of Ben and not his brother. Come now, my dear. You know as well as I do that your husband’s still in love with my wife.’
Unwanted memories swam to the surface: Ben’s unexplained absences these last few weeks and the look on his face when she had first spoken of Bianca. But Ben had arranged for her to be with him in Sicily. He hadn’t betrayed her and Scalia was lying. She watched, transfixed, as he threw the locket aside and took a small dagger from his belt. Its blade was no longer than that of a man’s finger and Carina went cold with horror. Scalia wasn’t going to kill or rape her. Cruelty was his life’s blood and he had something else in mind, something that made the gorge rise in her throat.
‘You’re the weapon I shall use against Mavrone. He’ll never look at you again without being reminded of me. This is the last act of the vendetta.’
Carina tried to tip the chair backwards, but Scalia put one foot on the seat to hold it upright. He bent over her, his smile extended by the scars. His eyes shone feverishly, saliva brimming at the corner of his mouth. Carina couldn’t bear to look. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt the knife slice open the front of her dress, Scalia’s fingers moving from her throat to the top of her basque. The cold edge of the blade touched her skin and her mind reeled in terror. God save me! Then agonising pain spiralled upwards and she fainted.
A hand was slapping her face, becoming harder until Carina was forced awake. She was lying on the floor with Scalia standing astride her. A burning sensation in her chest made her groan as she pushed back on her elbows.
‘Goodbye, Signora Mavrone. I don’t expect we’ll meet again.’
Scalia put on his gloves as he walked towards the gate. Warm air bathed her skin and Carina felt blood trickling from her chest down to her stomach. Her fingers stretched out and as her hands touched damp straw, she stared at them. The rope had come undone! Scalia had untied her or else it had fallen off, and she could defend herself.
‘I will kill you for this!’
The prince turned to face her, but Carina was no longer on the ground. She was kneeling up with the pistol in her hand. Somehow, she had removed it from the holster and the barrel was aimed at his heart. Scalia was telling her to give it to him. He was walking towards her and holding out his hand. Her finger crooked on the trigger, but the hammer caught the edge of her cuff. She tore at the material with her teeth to free the action and he halted, the pupils of his eyes dilating.
‘Don’t be a fool. Give me the gun and I’ll let you go.’
Carina steadied her wrist and pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. A deafening explosion accompanied each shot. Through a cloud of burning gun-smoke, she saw Scalia stagger. He swayed on his feet but did not fall. She thought she had missed him and raised the gun to fire again. Now there were four scorched holes in his waistcoat turning from black to red, spreading into a pool of blood across his chest. Scalia fell on his knees. One hand clawed the air, and then he toppled forwards and lay still.
The prince lay on his stomach with his neck twisted towards her. His eyes were filmy and blood lathered his lips. A rigour made his body hunch up and a rattling sound came from his throat. Carina dropped the gun. She thought she would be sick or faint again, but did neither. Her mind seized on one thought – she must escape before the other man came back.
Scalia’s dead eyes were staring at her and the key was in his pocket. It was safer to stay low and she crawled across the floor on hands and knees. Gritting her teeth, she groped in one pocket and then the other. The prince’s arm moved in a final spasm and she cried out in fright – but she had the key and she staggered to the gate. The flare had burnt low and she had to feel for the keyhole with her fingers. The key was in, but wouldn’t move. Wiping her hands on her skirt, Carina tried again. The lock gave way and she leant against the heavy gate and shoved it open.
A moment later, she was running down a tunnel in pitch darkness. She tripped over the hem of her dress and fell. Her face hit the ground and Carina tasted mud in her mouth. Lifting her head, she saw a slither of light in the distance and stumbled on. Scalia’s accomplice must have heard the shots! He would be waiting to ambush her. She must be careful. With her back grazing the wall, she inched forward, listening for footsteps, but the only sound she heard was the howling wind outside.
When she came to the light, Carina crawled through a narrow opening, grimacing as she squeezed through the earthen tunnel. Fresh air touched her face – the fresh air of the living world not the fetid stench of the subterranean prison – and she was standing on a rocky escarpment. She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and made out an outline of buildings not far below. Dark clouds buffeted across the moon and, between them, Carina caught a glimpse of the metallic sea. A surge of relief energised her and she began to run, not stopping until she came to a stone paved street where the wind was funneled into gusts.
It was the sirocco, the hot African wind detested by Sicilians. Its wailing lacerated her brain and she crouched down, her hands clasped over her ears. The wind sounded like Prince Scalia screaming. Carina imagined him hurtling towards her with blood pouring out of his stomach. Deranged by the vision, she stared wild-eyed up the street. A wine barrel had broken loose from its moorings and burst open, bumping down and spilling its contents as it gathered speed and went past her.
She began to walk, keeping her balance by running a hand running along the wall. Three men were coming up the hill towards her and stopped beneath a street lamp. Her mind was rank with death and Carina saw their shirts were red as the blood on Scalia’s body. They were devils sent from hell in vengeance! With a muffled scream, she darted past them and careered blindly on, swerving round corners and down flights of steps until she came to the bottom of the hill. There she stopped and bent over to drag air into her lungs.
The wind was no longer warm and she shivered as it gathered up pieces of confetti, the remnants of a victory parade, and sent them swirling in a storm of snowflakes. Carina looked nervously over her shoulder. Why was she so afraid? Who was it that followed, keeping his distance hiding in the shadows? A man passed on the other side of the street, holding on to his hat as he bent into the wind. Robert Danby cast a furtive glance in her direction and hurried on. Snow would muffle the sound of carriage wheels and she must get home! How far away was she from Mount Street?
Wincing with pain, Carina forced herself on until she came to a cobbled square. On the far side was a hotel with lamps burning in the windows. She limped over to the entrance and read the sign above the door. The Grand Hotel Garibaldi. Of course! What in the world was she thinking? She was in Naples and not London – and this was where she was meant to be! How could she have forgotten Harry was expecting her for dinner? She hadn’t had time to dress properly. Carina couldn’t remember what had kept her, but Harry would understand.
She felt she had achieved a miraculous feat and stepped into the foyer with her head high. As she knew he would be, Harry was waiting. She saw him get up, his jaw dropping as he clutched the back of the chair. He was staring at her as if she were a madwoman. The wind slammed the door shut and a concierge came out from behind his desk, shouting at her and waving his arms about like a pantomime character. He looked so funny that she burst out laughing; a high-pitched, hysterical laugh that ended as Harry’s arms went round her.