The Italian's Baby. Lucy Gordon

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      ‘Are you all right?’ he demanded abruptly.

      ‘Yes, thanks to you.’

      She dismounted, and immediately realised just how tall he was. Now his grim face and dark, intense eyes were looking down at her, the traces of cold rage still visible.

      The angry little crowd had been alarming because there were three of them. But this man was dangerous on his own account, and suddenly she wondered if she was any safer than before.

      ‘They’ve gone now,’ he said. ‘They won’t come back.’

      It was a simple statement of fact. He knew nobody would choose to face him twice.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said, speaking English, as he had done, but slowly. ‘I’ve never been so glad to see anyone. I thought there was nobody to help me.’

      ‘You don’t have to speak slowly,’ he said proudly. ‘I know English.’

      ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Where did you appear from?’

      ‘I live just past those trees. You had better come with me, and I will make you some tea.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      As they walked he said, ‘I know everybody around here, but I’ve never seen them before.’

      ‘They come from England. They were looking for my father, but he’s away and that made them angry.’

      ‘Perhaps you should not have ridden alone.’

      ‘I didn’t know they were there, and why shouldn’t I ride where I like on my father’s land?’

      ‘Ah, yes, your father is the Englishman everyone is talking of. But this is not his land. It belongs to me. Just a narrow strip, but it contains my home, which I will not sell.’

      ‘But Dad told me…’ She checked herself.

      ‘He told you that he’d bought all the land round here. He must have overlooked this little piece. It’s very easily done.’

      ‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ she said involuntarily.

      They had turned a corner and come across a small stone cottage. It nestled against the lee of a hill in the shadow of pine trees, and her first thought was that it looked cosy and welcoming.

      ‘It is my home,’ he said simply. ‘I warn you, it is not so picturesque inside.’

      He spoke the truth. The inside was shabby and basic, with flagstones on the floor and a huge old-fashioned range. He was evidently working hard at improving it, for there were tools lying about, and planks of wood.

      ‘Sit down,’ he said, indicating a wooden chair that looked hard but turned out to be surprisingly comfortable.

      There was a kettle on the range, and he made tea efficiently.

      ‘I don’t know your name,’ she said.

      ‘I am Luca Montese.’

      ‘I’m Rebecca Solway. Becky.’

      He looked down at the small, elegant hand she held out to him. For the first time he seemed to become uncertain. Then he thrust out his own hand. It was coarse and powerful, bruised and battered by heavy work. It engulfed hers out of sight.

      His whole appearance was rough. His dark hair needed cutting and hung shaggily about his thickly muscled neck. He wore worn black jeans and a black sleeveless vest, and he was well over six feet, built on impressive lines.

      Hercules, she thought.

      The frightening rage in his face had disappeared entirely now, and the look he turned on her was gentle, although unsmiling. ‘Rebecca,’ he repeated.

      ‘No, Becky to my friends. You are my friend, aren’t you? You must be, after you saved me.’

      For the whole of her short life, her charm and beauty had won people over. It was unusual for anyone not to warm to her easily, but she could sense this young man’s hesitation.

      ‘Yes,’ he said awkwardly at last. ‘I am your friend.’

      ‘Then you’ll call me Becky?’

      ‘Becky.’

      ‘Do you live here alone, or with a family?’

      ‘I have no family. This was my mother’s and father’s house, and now it belongs to me.’

      The firm tone in which he said the last words prompted her to say, ‘Hey, I’m not arguing about that. It’s yours, it’s yours.’

      ‘I wish your father felt the same way. Where is he now?’

      ‘In Spain. He’ll be home next week.’

      ‘Until then I think it’s better if you don’t ride alone.’

      She had been thinking the same thing, but this easy assumption of authority riled her.

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      He frowned. ‘There is no need to beg my pardon.’

      ‘No, that’s not what I meant,’ she said, realising that his English was not as good as he’d claimed. “‘I beg your pardon” is an expression that means “Who the heck do you think you are to give me orders?”.’

      He frowned again. ‘Then why not just say so?’

      ‘Because…’ But the task of explaining was too much. She abandoned English in favour of Tuscan dialect.

      ‘Don’t give me orders. I’ll ride as I please.’

      ‘And what happens next time, when I may not be there to come to your aid?’ he asked in the same language.

      ‘They’ll have gone by now.’

      ‘And if you’re wrong?’

      ‘That’s—that’s got nothing to do with it,’ she floundered, unable to counter the argument.

      A faint smile appeared on his face. ‘I think it has.’

      ‘Oh, stop being so reasonable!’ she said crossly.

      The smile became a grin. ‘Very well. Whatever pleases you.’

      She smiled back ruefully. ‘You might be right.’

      He refilled her cup and she sipped it appreciatively. ‘You make very good tea. I’m impressed.’

      ‘And I am impressed that you speak my dialect so well.’

      ‘My grandmother taught me. She came from here. She used to own the house where we live now.’

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