The Italian's Baby. Lucy Gordon

tonight her ghost had walked through the costly feast, turning reproachful eyes on Rebecca, reminding her that once she had had a heart, and had given that heart freely to a wild-eyed young man who had adored her.

      ‘A kid, who doesn’t know much about the world,’ had been Danvers’ verdict on ‘Becky’, and he was more right than he knew. They had both been kids, herself and the twenty-year-old, Luca, thinking that their love was the final answer to all problems.

      Becky Solway had fallen in love with Italy at first sight, and especially the land around Tuscany, where her father had inherited the estate of Belleto from his Italian mother.

      ‘Dad, it’s heavenly!’ she said when she first saw it. ‘I want to stay here forever and ever.’

      He laughed. ‘All right, pet. Whatever you say.’

      He was like that, always willing to indulge her without actually considering what she was saying, much less what she was thinking or feeling.

      At fourteen all she saw was the indulgence. It had been just the two of them since her mother had died two years before. Frank Solway, successful manufacturer of electronic products, and his bright, pretty daughter.

      He had factories all over Europe, continually moving the work to wherever the labour was cheapest. During her school vacation they travelled together, visiting the outposts of his business empire, or stayed at Belleto. The rest of the time she finished her schooling in England. When she was sixteen she announced that she was finished with school.

      ‘I just want to live at Belleto from now on, Dad.’

      And, as always, he said, ‘All right, pet. Whatever you like.’

      He bought her a horse, and she spent happy days exploring the vineyards and olive groves that formed part of Belleto’s riches.

      She had a quick ear, and had learned not only Italian from her grandmother but also the local Tuscan dialect. Her father spoke languages badly and the servants who ran his house found him hard to understand, so he soon left the domestic affairs to her. After a while she was helping with the estate as well.

      All she knew of Frank was that he was a successful businessman. She never suspected a darker side, until one day it was forced on her.

      He had closed his last factory in England, opened another in Italy, then taken off for Spain, inspecting new premises. During his absence Becky went for a ride and found herself confronted by three grim-faced men.

      ‘You’re Solway’s daughter,’ said one of the men in English. ‘Frank Solway is your dad. Admit it.’

      ‘Why should I deny it? I’m not ashamed of my father.’

      ‘Well, you damned well should be,’ another man shouted. ‘We needed our jobs and he shut down the English factory overnight because it’s cheaper over here. No compensation, no redundancy. He just vanished. Where is he?’

      ‘My father’s abroad at the moment. Please let me pass.’

      One of the men grabbed the bridle. ‘Tell us where he is,’ he snapped. ‘We didn’t come all this way to be fobbed off.’

      She was growing nervous, sensing that they would soon be out of control.

      ‘He’ll be next week,’ she said desperately. ‘I’ll tell him you called; I’m sure he’ll want to speak to you—’

      This brought a roar of ribald laughter.

      ‘We’re the last people he wants to speak to—he’s been hiding from us…won’t answer letters.’

      ‘But what can I do?’ she cried.

      ‘You can stay with us until he comes for you,’ the most unpleasant-looking man snapped, still holding the bridle.

      ‘I think not,’ said a hard voice.

      It came from a young man that nobody had noticed. He had appeared from between the trees and stood still for a moment to make sure they had registered his presence. It was an impressive presence, not so much for his height and breadth of shoulder as for the sheer ferocity on his face.

      ‘Stand back,’ he said, starting to move forward.

      ‘Get out of here,’ said the man holding the bridle.

      The stranger wasted no further words. Turning almost casually, he made a movement too fast to see, and the next moment the man was on the ground.

      ‘’Ere…’ said one of the others.

      But his words died unspoken as the stranger scowled at him.

      ‘Leave here, all of you,’ he said sternly. ‘Do not come back.’

      The other two hastened to help their companion to his feet. He was trying to staunch the blood from his nose and although the look he cast his assailant was furious he was too wise to take the matter further. He let himself be led away, but he turned at the last moment to glare back at Becky in a way that made the young man start forward. Then they all scuttled away.

      ‘Thank you,’ said Becky fervently.

      ‘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