The Bride's Awakening (17 page)

It hurt unbearably.

‘I see you don’t,’ she said quietly and, when Vittorio still didn’t answer, Ana did the only thing she could think of doing, the only option left to her. She fled.

In a numb state of grief—the same kind of frozen despair she’d felt when her mother had died—Ana walked away from her office. She didn’t think about where she was going until she found herself on the dirt road back to Villa Rosso, its mellow stone and terracotta tiles gleaming in the afternoon sun.

She was going home.

The villa was quiet when she entered, her footsteps falling softly on the tiled floor of the foyer. She headed for the stairs but heard her father’s voice call out from his study.

‘Hello? Is someone there?’

‘It’s me, Papà.’ Ana paused on the stairs; her father came to the hall. He took one look at her face—Ana could only imagine how terrible she looked—and gasped aloud.

‘Ana! What has happened?’

Ana gave a sad little smile. She felt as if her whole body were breaking, her soul rent into pieces. ‘I discovered you were right, Papà. Love isn’t very comfortable, after all.’

Enrico’s face twisted in sorrow, but Ana knew she could not bear even his sympathy now. She just shook her head and walked with heavy steps upstairs, to the room she had not slept in since she’d got married.

Married.
Vittorio was her husband, yet she hardly knew what that meant any more.

She spent the night alone, lying on her bed, watching the moon rise and then descend once more. She didn’t sleep. She found herself reliving the joy of the last few weeks, now made all the sweeter by its brevity. Vittorio kissing her, taking her in his arms. Laughing as they played
stecca
again; he’d won that time. Talking about the vineyards, and grapes, and wine, gesturing with their hands, shared enthusiasm in their voices. The way he touched her casually, a hand on hers, when they were reading in bed, simply because he wanted to feel her next to him. And then later, the way he touched her so her body cried out in pleasure. So many memories, so many wonderful, sweet,
terrible
memories, because she was afraid they were all she’d ever have.

Was their marriage actually over? She could hardly believe he had rejected her so utterly; she thought of trying to see him again and then knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t face that hard, blank face again. She couldn’t face the feeling of being so raw, so exposed and rejected again. Not by Vittorio, not by the man—the only man—she’d ever love.

She pressed her face into her pillow and willed the tears to
come; crying would bring relief of a sort. They didn’t. Some things, Ana knew, were too deep for tears.

Enrico knocked on her door in the morning, begging her to take a bit of breakfast. ‘Ana, have some toast at least,’ he called, his voice sounding thin and frail. ‘I told the cook not to make kippers. I know they put you off.’

Ana couldn’t even summon a smile. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, Papà. I’m not hungry. I just need to be alone for a little while.’

She needed to be alone to grieve the ending of her marriage, for surely that was what this was. Vittorio had not come to see her and Ana dreaded some horrible letter, a cold official ending to their marriage. Although, she reminded herself, he’d said divorce was not an option.

Yet the alternative—the cold convenient marriage she’d once agreed to—would be so much worse, for affection and respect had been obliterated. All that was left was duty.

Funny, Ana thought distantly as she lay on her bed, watching the sun rise in the sky, still in her clothes from the day before, how she had once convinced herself she could accept such a thing. A loveless marriage, a business arrangement. She’d deceived herself. Love wasn’t comfortable but it was everything.

In the early evening, Enrico knocked again.
‘Dolcezza—’

‘I’m still not hungry,’ Ana called.

‘You don’t need to eat,’ her father called back, ‘but your husband is here, and he wants to see you.’

Ana stilled. Her hands clenched into fists on her bed covers. ‘I can’t see him, Papà,’ she said, her voice no more than a choked whisper.

‘Please, Ana. He is desperate for you.’

‘Desperate?’ She said the word disbelievingly, yet still laced with damning hope.

‘Desperate,
rondinella
.’ Vittorio’s voice, no more than a husky whisper, made Ana freeze. Distantly, she heard her father’s footsteps
patter down the hall and, after a moment, her heart beating with hard, heavy thuds, she went to open the door. Vittorio stood there, ushaven, his hair rumpled, still wearing his clothes from yesterday. His eyes remained grave as he gave her a small uncertain smile.

‘You look as awful as I do,’ Ana said.

Vittorio touched her cheek. ‘You have not been crying, at least.’ His own eyes looked red.

‘Some things are too deep for tears,’ Ana told him and he stepped into the room. She leaned against the door, her arms crossed, unwilling to relax her guard. Afraid to hope.

‘Oh, Ana.’ Vittorio shook his head, his voice choking a little bit. ‘I made you so unhappy.’

‘Yes, you did,’ Ana agreed, and was amazed at how level her voice sounded, as if she wasn’t affected at all. As if she wasn’t dying inside.

‘I was so angry,’ Vittorio said quietly. ‘And it blinded me. All I could see—feel—was betrayal.’

‘I know.’

His smile was touched with sorrow. ‘It’s not an excuse, is it?’

‘No.’

‘Just a reason.’ He sighed again. ‘I have a lot to learn, I suppose, if you will consent to be my teacher.’

Ana shook her head. ‘I don’t want to be your teacher, Vittorio. I want to be your wife. And that means you need to trust me.’

‘I know,’ Vittorio said in a low voice. ‘I know I should have, but I couldn’t
think
—’

‘It doesn’t even matter.’ Ana cut him off, her voice tight. ‘I realize the bargain we made doesn’t work for me, Vittorio. I can’t…I can’t accept our marriage on your terms.’

‘What?’ He looked shocked. ‘What are you talking about?’

She swallowed, her voice raw. ‘I need more from you than your trust. I need your love.’

He stared at her, slack-jawed, and Ana braced herself for his refusal. His rejection. It never came.

‘I do love you, Ana,’ Vittorio said, his voice a throb of intensity. ‘And it has terrified me. That’s why I acted like I did yesterday. Not another excuse—just the truth. I am sorry. So sorry. Please forgive me.’

Ana could hardly believe what he’d said. ‘You love me?’ she repeated, and he offered her a tremulous smile.

‘Utterly. Unbearably. I spent the most wretched night last night, and for love of you—I thought I’d just gone and thrown out the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me, and for what? My own pride?’

She shook her head. Hope bubbled up inside her, an everlasting well of joy. ‘I shouldn’t have acted without you, but I thought…I thought to help heal the past—’

‘And you have,’ Vittorio said. ‘Already, it has begun. When you walked out of that office I realized you might actually be walking away from me for ever, and I was letting you go. I was devastated, in agony, and I knew I could not let my pride keep you from me. I spoke to Bernardo, and to my mother.’ He took a breath, offering her a wry smile. ‘It was not easy or comfortable for any of us. We have all committed wrongs against each other and there is still much to do, to say and to forgive. Yet we have begun. You have helped us, Ana. You are the best thing to have come into my life.’

Ana’s throat ached with unshed tears and suppressed emotion. ‘And you are the best thing in mine.’ Still, she felt the fear lurking in the dark corners of her heart. It seemed so hard to believe, too wonderful to be true. To last. ‘Yesterday you were so cold, so hard to me—’

Vittorio reached for her fingers and pressed them against his lips. ‘I do not want to be a hard man,’ he confessed, his voice a ragged whisper, his eyes glinting with unshed tears of his own.
‘God knows, I don’t. Yet, when I am afraid, I find that is how I become, for it is what I learned as a boy.’

‘I know it is,’ Ana whispered, remembering what both Constantia and Bernardo had told her. They’d helped her understand Vittorio, and she was grateful to them for that.

‘It is no excuse,’ Vittorio replied resolutely. ‘And yet you have changed me, Ana. I am so grateful for that. I realized just how much you’ve changed me when you left me yesterday. I do not want to be that man any more. With you, I am not him.’

He touched her cheek, resting his forehead against hers. ‘Can you forgive me,
rondinella
, for those moments when I became him again? Can you forgive me, and believe in the man I am trying to become?’

Ana thought of the man who had comforted her as a grieving child so many years ago; she remembered his many kindnesses over the last few months. She recalled the wonder and joy she’d felt in his arms. ‘You are that man, Vittorio. You always have been.’

He kissed her then sweetly, so very sweetly, a kiss that was healing and hope together. ‘Only because of you, Ana. Only because of you.’

She laughed, a tremulous, muffled sound, for the knowledge that Vittorio loved her—that this was
real
—was too wonderful, too overwhelming. She trusted it now; she believed in it, and it was good.

It was amazing.

Vittorio touched her cheek; it came away damp. ‘It’s all right to cry,
rondinella
,’ he whispered and Ana laughed again, entwining his fingers with her own as she kissed him once more.

‘For joy,’ she said. ‘This time for joy.’

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

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First published in Great Britain 2010
Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,
Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

© Kate Hewitt 2010

ISBN: 978-1-408-91912-5