The Dying Trade by David Donachie, page 25
The meal they ate, seated on their divans, in the cool of the inner courtyard, was light for a man of Harry's appetite, prescribed as it was for the normal needs of the Count and his wife. Small spiced dishes alternated with cool pulses, and plentiful fruit. The wine was Toraglia's own, a crisp white which bubbled somewhat in the glass. The flagon lay behind Harry, cooling in the spray from one of the fountains. On the table, the candles which lit the scene smoked gently, keeping the insects at bay.
After the exertions of the day, Count Toraglia had great difficulty in keeping his eyes open. He struggled manfully to fulfill his duties as a host, and Harry knew he would not appreciate any suggestion that he retire. They conversed quietly, speaking of voyages they had made, of sights seen, and of the strange and exotic peoples they'd met. Toraglia talked gloomily of the decline of Genoa and Venice into little more than satrapies of their more powerful neighbours, Austria and France, and of the problems associated with running the Republic. Harry declined to be drawn, since it would have been impolite to express a derogatory opinion on the state of Genoese politics in the house of one of its nobles. But he could not help thinking, that if all his peers had an ounce of Toraglia's nature, then the place would be better for it.
Throughout, his wife ate steadily if sparingly, contributing little, and mainly seeing to her husband's needs. Harry could smell her perfume, mingling with the odours of the flowers and trees. It was a heady scent, musky and eastern, and he often found that he had to drag his mind back to listen to the quietly spoken Count, having missed a great deal of what he'd said. Eventually, the blind man lay back on his divan, still talking, but his voice faded and was no more. He was asleep in seconds, his lined face relaxing, taking years off him. Now it was easier to see the man whose face adorned that portrait in the hallway. The Countess stood up, taking an embroidered blanket from beneath her divan. She covered him over, moving the candles from his side of the table.
Then she fetched the wine from the fountain, and leant over Harry to pour him a glass. Her body brushed against his and he felt a sudden surge of feeling, that seemed to reach to his very fingertips. She was deliberately leaning into him, and as if to reinforce this, she gently laid her hand on his shoulder to support herself. She must have felt him stiffen, for she laughed very softly.
"I think my husband likes you, Signor."
"Mutual, Madame, croaked Harry.
"There are not many people that he would invite to dine with us, nowadays, on such a short acquaintance."
"I realize that it has been a strain for him. Harry was wondering if he could stand the strain himself for she had made no effort to move. Even now that his glass was filled, she stood with the flagon in her hand, her thigh pressed against his arm.
Again she laughed, softly with a low timbre. My future troubles him greatly, for he realizes that his illness could carry him off before he has seen that I am safe."
"Safe?"
"Wherever we go, men surround us. Alfonso listens to them carefully, and always tells me afterwards, which one would be suitable, and those he would disapprove of. I'm afraid your brother scored very poorly."
Harry tried to be ingenuous, but realized that he struck completely the wrong note. Suitable?"
"Alfonso wishes to have a hand in the selection of my next husband. It is the aristocrat in him. As he says, given good health, he would wish to ensure that I was not foolish in my choice of lover. As he is now incapable of performing what he sees as his duty, he becomes quite obsessed by present needs, as well as my future welfare."
Harry was no stranger to the lax morality normal amongst the upper reaches of society. After all, he was, if not an aristocrat, rich enough to be a member of it. And this would not be the first time he'd set out to seduce another man's wife, with the husband absent, indifferent, or colluding in the act. Much hypocrisy was talked by the English, citing the looseness of European morals, while adjuring fidelity in the poor, as they swapped partners with dizzying rapidity. All was well if things were kept within the bound of accepted decency, which was that a wife, taking a lover, should not embarrass her husband. He could hardly mistake the drift of the Countess's words, nor could he claim a lack of desire. It wasn't from any overwhelming sense of propriety that Harry hesitated. The Count, even if he'd contrived at this, was clearly dying, and that circumstance troubled him.
"Pray that the need will not arise, said Harry quickly, looking at her and shifting away slightly.
"But it is arising, I think. She leant forward as she laughed, this time amused by what she'd said, her eyes flicking towards his breeches. Harry wondered what had become of her air of innocence, for it had entirely evaporated, to be replaced by an atmosphere of salacious innuendo. Few meet his high standards, and even fewer have been invited to dine with us."
She rubbed her hand over his shoulder, giving it the slightest squeeze, and her voice was husky as she spoke. How fortunate that I share his taste."
Harry, a man who prided himself on his competence, positively stammered. Madame, I cannot allow you to talk this way."
Suddenly she sat down on the divan, looking Harry in the eye. But she spoke without urgency, as if realizing that she risked scaring her quarry.
"Come, Signor. Do you not realize that my husband has arranged things in this way? He is aware of his shortcomings as a man, caused by his illness, just as he is aware of my needs as his wife. Ask yourself, would you invite a man, someone you'd only just met, to dine and spend the night at your house, knowing that you would inevitably fall asleep and leave this stranger alone with your young wife?"
"The servants, said Harry, well aware that he was beginning to equivocate.
"Are few, and be assured they will remain silent. She stood up, and reached down for his hand. When she spoke his name, her accent made it sound new to him. Come, Signor Ludlow, Arry, is it not? I think if you decline, Alfonso may take grave offence."
Harry allowed himself to be pulled to his feet by the gentlest of pressure. After all, who would not want to believe such a beautiful creature? She led him up the broad staircase to the gallery which ran right round the inside of the building. Harry had another moment of doubt, seeking to hesitate as they reached the top of the stairs. But she turned swiftly and pushed her body against his, pressing her hips into him urgently. What little strength he had to resist evaporated instantly and he leant forward to kiss her.
She skipped away from his proposed embrace and dragged him towards an open doorway. Once inside she turned again and threw her arms round his neck, kissing him full on the lips and forcing her eager tongue between his teeth. Harry put both his hands on her soft buttocks and pulled her violently towards his groin. She moaned and ground her hips, then gasped, tugging to remove Harry's coat as his hand encircled her breast, teasing the erect nipple.
Through the thin garment every contour of her body was plain to the touch. Harry pushed himself away, throwing off his coat. He felt her hand run over his breeches. Her eyes were fixed on his and he saw in the faint moonlight her tongue run round the lips of her partially opened mouth. Whilst he ripped off his shirt she sought the buttons that held his breeches. He reached down, pushing her hands out of the way, and in one swift movement he lifted her flimsy dress over her head and threw it into a corner.
The huge four-poster bed was several feet away, and they clasped at each other and they staggered towards it. He could feel her fingernails digging into his back as they thrust at each other. Finally her knees gave way and she fell backwards on to the bed. Harry, breeches undone, was inside her almost before she touched the counterpane. Months at sea, with no female company, told rapidly, and it was with a slight feeling of shame that he stopped moving, his head buried in the nape of her long neck.
She laughed softly and her muscles contracted around him as she did so. Why, Arry. You are just like a young boy."
He was about to apologize, to plead long abstinence, when she pushed him violently on to his back. She looked down into his eyes, still smiling. Boys recover quickly, I'm told. And when they do, they are extremely patient. You will be patient too, Arry?"
She kissed the nape of his neck. Then her lips drifted down to encircle the nipple on his breast. She didn't linger for long. Her tongue next flicked in and out of his navel, before drifting down, slowly and deliberately to replace her hand, which had been busy from the very beginning, trying to arouse him again so that she too could experience the pleasure she so patently craved.
She lay, face down, her hips arched as Harry entered her for the third time. The slight groan she emitted spoke equally of pleasure and anticipation. As he began to move within her she murmured words he couldn't understand and raised her hips further until his penetration was complete. She licked his finger before slipping it greedily into her mouth. Then she started to moan softly, her whole body rotating to increase the pleasure she took from Harry.
He pushed harder, raising his head as he did so. The shadow on the wall, caused by the moonlight, made him stop abruptly, bringing a soft protest from the woman beneath him. He turned his head, then his body quickly, but the figure had ducked out of sight, leaving just the sound of a hurried scuffling as evidence of reality. He would have gone to investigate if Lelia di Toraglia had not pushed him backwards, straddling him urgently and using her hand to place him back inside her.
Her hands rubbed his chest and her whole body rocked back and forth, with her loose hair swinging as she tossed her head. The moans were not soft now. They increased in volume and in frequency. Harry responded as her pulsating muscles gripped him, thrusting upwards to meet her. One last cry and she fell forward, her mouth covering his. He rolled her over on to her back, still inside her, feeling her teeth sink gently, and gratefully, into his shoulder.
The slight scuffing sound woke him. That and her fingers pressed on his lips. The Count stood framed in the doorway, the light from the moonlit gallery silhouetting his body. His voice was husky as he spoke.
"You should not have let me fall asleep, my dear. What will Captain Ludlow think of me as a host."
Her fingers pressed a little harder on Harry's lips. He looked sideways at the Count's shadow on the opposite wall, the knot of fear in his stomach easing as he realized that it was an entirely different shape to the one that had appeared there before.
"You were weary, Alfonso, it seemed for the best, she replied softly.
"You saw to our guest?"
She smiled at Harry before replying. Yes, Alfonso."
"Thank you, my dear. He seems an excellent fellow. Less barbaric than the last of his fellow countrymen we had as a guest. I shall retire again. You have given instructions when I am to be woken?"
"Of course. Now go to bed, Alfonso. You must get all the rest you can. Do you wish me to help you?"
"No. I can manage. Goodnight, my dear."
He left, using the walls to guide him. Harry lay as rigid as a board, doing all he could to avoid contact with her naked body. Either she sensed this, or she was sated. She removed her hand from his lips and lay down without a word. He waited until her breathing was even, before getting out of the bed and gathering up his clothes. He stood, conjuring up in his mind the image of that first shadow. Not the Count. A woman by the long hair, perhaps? Yet in truth the vision had been so fleeting that he could not be sure what he saw. He gave her a last, wondering look, so beautiful in this light, with her black hair spread across the white bedding. Then he turned and made his way back to the room he had been given when he arrived.
"You seem rather silent this morning, Captain Ludlow."
They were back in the sedan chair, jogging along in the early morning light of the pre-dawn. Harry was silent because he was trying to justify his behaviour to himself. He could easily forgive Lelia di Toraglia, excusing her actions as those of a woman frustrated by the need to live with a such sick man. In truth, you could go so far as to praise her discretion in the way that she kept such longings from her husband. But that did not justify his behaviour, and as soon as the Count spoke he was back to thinking himself the worst kind of scrub.
"Forgive me, Count Toraglia. I was merely running everything through my mind to ensure that nothing is forgotten.
"Then I shall not disturb you, my friend."
Harry cursed under his breath, wishing that his companion would speak so as to interrupt the train of uncomfortable thoughts that chased each other through his mind. But the other man kept his peace, gazing straight ahead with his sightless eyes, his face wearing a contented smile. He sat, fingering the key in his pocket as the silence lengthened. Harry could abide it no longer and, in a bid to take his mind off his behaviour, pulled the key out and asked the Count about the provenance of his heraldic crest.
The Count, rather surprisingly, laughed. It is an ancient device, of course. But there is, it seems, a great deal of difference between the intention and the impression. Family folklore has it that the bird of prey that you see is really rescuing the poor creature in its talons. That is supposed to denote the protective nature of my distant ancestors.
He laughed again and leant forward to touch Harry on the knee, his voice dropping to a confidential tone. I rather think that is an invention to suit these gentler times. The history of my family may be pure in recent ages, with the Levantine and Black Sea trade to sustain the family fortunes. But, if one goes back far enough, they achieved prominence for the very reason that they, as strong men, preyed upon the weak. So I think my arms, when they were created, served as a warning to beware of the house of di Toraglia."
Harry was examining the device closely. He could see no gentleness in the bird's hooked beak. And the animal in its claws looked to be in distress. He was thinking of his own father, who'd shown an acquisitive tenacity that had shocked some of his contemporaries, though he'd never allowed avarice to interfere with his proper duty.
"I dare say we'd all blush with shame at our families exploits, if we had any inkling of the truth."
"Truly, Signor Ludlow. I comfort myself that they were no different to the ancestors of anyone else with a noble name."
They came out on to the cobbled quay side and Harry pulled the curtain back, craning his neck to get a view of the ship. The Principessa was like an anthill, with a steady stream of men marching aboard carrying stores, while other items, like water casks, were being hoisted aboard with whips from the yard. Buckets of shingle, the extra ballast that would keep the vessel trim, were being hauled out of the hold and dumped on the quay, where men with barrows stood ready to take it away. The rigging was full of top men making perfect the things that they had rigged hurriedly the day before. All thoughts of Lelia di Toraglia left his mind at the sight.
It was only then he realized that Sutton hadn't turned up outside the villa with the other hands, but his thoughts on this were interrupted by the sound of bellowing. Lubeck stood in the middle of the deck, issuing a stream of orders, keeping half a dozen different activities under control. Harry led Toraglia up the gangplank, and placed him in the chair by the stern-rail, his mournful servant now taking station behind him. He saw Sutton coming up the gangplank, a cask on his shoulder. He'd obviously decided being a servant was beneath his dignity, and had taken to work to avoid it. Or perhaps the German giant had collared him. Whatever, it was none of Harry's concern.
Brown, having extracted a fair price from Harry, had hired extra men, and by the time the sedan chair arrived the loading of the ship was nearly complete. Coat off, he was up in the tops in a flash, checking that blocks wouldn't foul and that the pulleys were well greased. He tried the chains which held the yards, hauled on ropes to see they were secure. He had slowly made his way up to the cross trees above the topmast yard, when he spotted something interesting in the busy harbour.
Harry called down for a telescope, and one of the more nimble top men raced up the shrouds to fetch it to him. There is a clarity to the light of early morning, especially in a hot climate, that quickly fades with the heat of the day. He blessed this as he adjusted the telescope, for what he saw clearly now would have been a hazy blur in an hour. The French sloop, large in his glass, was a fair way off. A hooded figure had just gone through the entry post, hunched over, to be greeted by the much taller figure of Tilly. They made quickly for the cabin before Harry could see the identity of the cloaked visitor. But he'd been followed aboard by two men clad entirely in black, and they lingered on at the side of the deck, still in sunlight. One of the men turned and leant over the rail. Harry's heart gave a little jump as he saw the fellow was wearing a matching black bandanna wrapped round his head in the same manner as the man he'd killed two nights ago. He wondered what he might find aboard, if he did manage to take the sloop. But if he'd had any doubts about the desirability of attempting to do so, they completely evaporated now. Harry was grinning from ear to ear as he slid down a backstay to the deck, which earned him a suspicious look from Lubeck. But now was not the time to tell them of his plans, not with visitors aboard.
The gangplank was inboard, and the command stand by to un moor ship rang out. The warm wind was swooping down from the hills, steady in the open, but rushing through the narrow alleys that ran every twenty paces from the quay side up into the town. They braced the reefed topsails round to catch it, and swung the rudder. The Principessa hauled away from the quay on her own. Harry took the wheel, and with a man in the chains, yelling a furious warning to any boat silly enough to get in their way, he conned the ship out of the harbour without assistance. Even at this snail's pace he could feel that she answered her rudder well, the slightest turn on the wheel altering her course. They were out past the mole, into clearer waters. Harry nodded to Lubeck, who yelled out the orders to drop the courses.
Lubeck was shouting commands, getting the last bales and casks off the deck, to tidy up badly looped falls, and generally to turn the Principessa from a mess into what it should be, a sleek fighting ship. Harry glanced over his shoulder at Alfonso di Toraglia. His head was arched back, with his nose in the air, as he sniffed the wind. The flag behind him, which his servant had rigged, showed his coat of arms on a red and white background. With the wind nearly dead astern, the flag whipped forward over his head, and the sound of it flapping no doubt added the patent joy apparent on his face.
