Sara Craven Tribute Collection

It was not, she thought grimly, the kind of atmosphere for solitude. It was all too evocative of whispered words, stifled laughter, and the slow, languorous movement of bodies reaching a familiar and precious attunement. A time when love was reaffirmed, and babies were made…

With a small, stifled sound, Clare swung herself off the bed and went into the bathroom, discarding her underwear on the way. She turned the temperature of the shower to cool, and let it rain down on her until she was half-blinded, half-deafened.

Seizing a handful of towels, she blotted the moisture from her body, then rubbed her hair so fiercely that her scalp tingled.

Wrapping a dry bath sheet around her, sarong-style, she wandered over to the window and looked out across the shimmering landscape to the dark green hills crowding behind.

There would be shade in those trees, she thought wistfully. And space where she could be alone without feeling suffocated. And a walk might clear her mind, as well as giving her something to do before she met up with Paola.

Quickly, she donned white broderie anglaise briefs, topping them with crisp turquoise cotton pants and a matching loose shirt, picked up the wide-brimmed straw hat she wore for sightseeing, and let herself quietly out of her room.

When she’d been looking at the chapel that morning, she’d noticed there was a gate in the wall at its rear which seemed to allow access straight on to the hills, and she made for that.

It opened with a squeal of protesting hinges that cut the somnolent afternoon like a knife. Wincing, she slipped through, and dragged it shut again behind her.

There were several paths to choose from, one of which actually skirted the hill, but Clare decided to head up a well-worn but steep track which zig-zagged its way up to the trees.

She was soon in their shadow, and glad of it as the gradient increased sharply. From this point, she saw, rough steps had been cut into the rocky ground and rope looped alongside, between the trees to assist in the climb.

She went up at a steady pace, only realising how high she had reached when she paused for a breather and saw the Villa Minerva and its gardens laid out beneath her like a child’s dolls’ house.

How lovely it looked, she thought, her throat tightening. And how hauntingly, achingly familiar it had become in such a brief time.

She resolved that before she left she would come up here with her camera, and get a more tangible picture than the one she would always carry in her heart.

In the meantime, she was curious to know where these endless steps were leading. They were obviously well used, demonstrating that visitors to the villa were hardy souls.

Maybe you go on climbing till you get altitude problems, then come down again, she thought, her mouth twisting.

But, after another five minutes’ climbing, the ground levelled out suddenly, and the path divided.

‘Decisions, decisions,’ she muttered, hesitating. Then, invading the heavy stillness of the afternoon, she heard the distant sound of running water coming from the direction of the left-hand fork, and the choice was made for her.

Ahead of her, the trees were thinning out, and she glimpsed the solid grey of rock. She’d picked a cul-de-sac, it seemed, and for a moment she was tempted to turn back.

Moments later, she stepped out into what seemed to be a pool of sunlight. The narrow plateau she’d been traversing had opened out into a deep, grassy bowl, bounded by a wall of solid rock soaring high above her. She’d walked straight into a fold of the hills, she thought.

And there was the water she’d heard, a tiny, fierce stream bursting out of the wall of stone into a channel of its own making, until it was lost again in a deep fissure at the foot of the rock.

But she was wrong to think she’d have this isolated spot to herself. Someone was already there, waiting as she had been over all the centuries in a niche cut in the rock. A statue of a woman in a pleated robe, wearing a war-helmet, with a spear in her hand and a bird like an owl perched on her shoulder. Even the crudeness of the carving could not disguise the power of the figure, or the calm stone eyes looking down on the mortal girl who’d stumbled on her shrine.

‘Minerva, the warrior-goddess of wisdom.’

Clare started violently at the quietly spoken words, as Guido walked out of the sheltering trees and came to her side.

‘And my house’s greatest treasure,’ he added. ‘No jewel, no piece of gold ever compared with this.’ He smiled. ‘I knew she would draw you here.’

Clare swallowed, conscious of the swift thunder of her pulses. ‘Did you follow me?’ she demanded, lifting her chin defiantly.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I was here before you. But when I heard you coming, I went away, because I wanted you to discover her for yourself. And you did.’

‘I just came out for a walk,’ Clare said defensively. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy. And I had no idea that this place or the statue existed. Your uncle never mentioned her when he was talking about the villa’s history.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘We rarely speak of her openly for security’s sake. And very few who come to the house find their way this far.’

Clare looked back at the stone figure. ‘How old is she?’

‘Two thousand—three thousand years. No one is sure. But she was well hidden in her shrine. Rocks and stones had been piled up to hide her, probably when the barbarians invaded. Then, five hundred years ago, there was an earthquake, and she was found again. And there she has stood ever since.’

‘Even through the last earthquake?’ Clare shook her head. ‘Wouldn’t she be safer in a museum.’

‘Perhaps, but my family have always fought to keep their Minerva here in her own sanctuary. The legend says the house of Bartaldi will stand while she does, so we would not wish to see her go.’

He looked around him. ‘This is her place, Chiara, her first and her last. Can’t you feel it?’

She’d thought that all her awareness was focused on him, yet as he spoke she realised there was another element in the tense atmosphere—another kind of stillness that did not seem to belong to this world at all, but to some distant, primeval time.

Dry-mouthed, she whispered, ‘Yes…’

‘Drink some water.’ His voice was gentle. He walked forward and took down a small metal cup which stood on a ledge at the statue’s feet, holding it under the stream of water. ‘It is safe. See?’ He drank himself, then passed her the cup. The water was like ice, but she gulped it gratefully, and handed the cup back with a murmured word of thanks.

‘Shall we go back to the house?’ Guido poured the last few drops of water on the ground, and replaced the cup on its ledge.

‘Oh, I thought I’d walk on a little further,’ Clare fibbed hastily.

‘I do not advise it.’

She stiffened. ‘Is that an order, signore?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Merely some advice. At this level you are safe enough, but these are not gentle English woods. Wild boar have been seen in the locality, and wolves. And you should wear more substantial shoes,’ he added, directing a critical glance at her sandals. ‘There are snakes too.’

‘Oh.’ Clare bit her lip. ‘In that case, I’ll certainly go back.’

‘A wise decision,’ he said softly. ‘Minerva’s influence is working already.’

She gave him a mutinous look and started back along the track, keeping a careful eye on the ground for stray vipers.

When they reached the steps, ‘Perhaps I should go first,’ Guido suggested. ‘Sometimes it can be treacherous here if there has been recent heavy rain.’

‘It was perfectly safe coming up,’ Clare began, and immediately slipped on a loose stone, sliding forward to collide heavily with Guido. She cried out in panic, thinking they were both bound to fall, but it was like hitting Minerva’s rockface. He didn’t move an inch, apart from the arm that fastened round her like a vice, preventing her from slipping any further.

‘Thank you,’ she said, when she’d controlled her flurried breathing. She tried to laugh. ‘That was stupid of me.’

He did not share her amusement. Nor did he unclamp his arm from round her waist. His face was grave, almost bitter as he looked down at her. ‘And I am also a fool,’ he said softly, and kissed her.

He was not gentle this time. Nor did he hurry. It was a deliberate, totally sensual ravishment of her mouth, as if, she thought dazedly, he was putting his mark on her for all eternity. He pulled her closer, crushing her breasts against him, as if he intended to absorb her into his physical being, while one muscular leg ruthlessly parted her thighs, pressing on her in blatant erotic demand.

She gasped, her body convulsing in startled pleasure, her head falling back helplessly. But he captured her face between both hands, bringing her swollen mouth back to his, the subtle thrust of his tongue mimicking the more intimate contact that his thigh was enforcing.