Men In Uniform: Captivated By The Prince. Lynn Raye Harris

in the annual goose race and must have extra care. True,’ he assured Emily when he saw the look on her face. ‘One day I’ll take you to see the race. These birds are treated like favoured members of the family. And the winner…’ He gave a low whistle of appreciation.

      ‘Fed to the family?’ Emily guessed wryly.

      ‘Certainly not!’ Alessandro said with a grin. ‘There is a substantial cash prize at stake—to keep the winning goose in luxury for the rest of its life. It is up to the owner to ensure that this is the case. A matter of honour,’ he explained, pinning a serious expression on his face. ‘And now Maria invites us into her home.’

      ‘Si,’ Signora Felsina insisted, nodding her head enthusiastically as she beamed at Emily.

      Stepping over the stone threshold, Emily looked around curiously. The tiny cottage windows allowed in little natural light, but several old-fashioned oil lamps had been lit so that everything was softly illuminated. She could smell something delicious cooking on the old black range, and noticed that the best use had been made of the narrow window ledges, which housed an array of pungent green herbs flourishing in terracotta pots.

      Contentment was contagious, she discovered, hoping they could stay for a little while. Everything was ordered for comfort. Every object had been arranged to please the eye. And all of it gleamed with the unmistakable patina of regular attention. A bolt of desire pierced her heart as she glanced across at Alessandro—desire that went way beyond the physical to claw at her soul. Did he feel it, too? Did he long for a sanctuary like this to call his own? Could he feel the tug of a real home? The longing to create a similar haven was overwhelming her—

      ‘Sit, Principessa, sit—’

      The heavily accented voice of the older woman interrupted Emily’s reveries.

      ‘Here,’ she insisted, tossing rugs and cushions aside. ‘Sit here, Principessa.’

      ‘Emily. Please…call me Emily.’

      Something in Emily’s voice must have troubled the older woman. Her hand lingered on Emily’s arm as she turned to confront Alessandro.

      ‘Alessandro,’ she said, her voice mildly chastening. ‘Your bride is not happy. What is wrong, Alessandro?’

      Emily tensed at the bluntness of the remark, but Alessandro seemed not to have taken offence.

      At his non-committal grunt Maria shook her head, and took herself off to pour out three fizzing glasses of homemade ginger beer from a vast stone flagon. ‘You sit, too,’ she said, turning around to face Alessandro. ‘You take up too much space,’ she complained fondly as she transferred the squat glasses onto a wooden tray.

      ‘Here, let me,’ he said, ignoring her instruction and removing the tray from her hands. ‘Now, you go and sit down, tata.’

      Emily watched as the old lady hurried to obey his instruction, noticing her beam of delight when Alessandro used what surely must have been his childhood name for her.

      Settling herself down into a chair so plumped up with cushions her chubby sandal-clad feet barely touched the ground, Maria Felsina held her glass aloft as she made a smiling toast to Emily.

      ‘Emily,’ Alessandro echoed softly.

      Draining her glass with relish, Maria leaped to her feet and declared, ‘And now you must eat—’

      ‘Oh, no—’ Emily protested. She was still full from breakfast, but Alessandro’s glance warned her to stay silent. ‘Thank you,’ she said, seeing she might cause offence by refusing one of the sugar-frosted buns. ‘These look delicious.’ And they were, she realised, as the moist, feather-light sponge slipped down her throat.

      In spite of the warm late-summer weather, there was a low fire in the grate, and as she ate Emily longed to open some buttons at the neck of her tailored shirt. She went so far as to toy with the top one—but when Alessandro caught her glance for some reason, the innocent action suddenly struck her as irredeemably provocative. She looked away, but not before she saw one of his sweeping raven brows rise minutely in an expression that was both accusing and amused.

      ‘My wife has come to you for clothes, tata,’ he said, turning his attention back to his old nurse.

      ‘Will they fit?’ Emily murmured discreetly.

      Alessandro must have translated this, Emily thought, judging by their peals of laughter. Before she could feel embarrassed, Maria took her hand and stroked it gently, as if to atone for the outburst. Then, confirming Emily’s reading of the situation, she turned a face full of mock reproach on Alessandro and wagged a blunt-nailed finger at him.

      ‘Maria is the best dressmaker on the estate,’ Alessandro explained. ‘She’ll soon sort you out with something to wear.’

      ‘In time?’ Emily said anxiously.

      Her concern crossed the language barrier, and with a vigorous nod of her head Maria indicated that she should follow her into the next room. Taking her through a low door, Maria pointed to some bolts of cloth stacked in one corner of the room, and then at the old treadle sewing machine standing against the wall.

      There was a makeshift gown-rail—just a piece of rope suspended between two hooks on a low joist—and crammed onto this were cotton skirts in a startling profusion of colour and pattern, together with white puff-sleeved tops, all with the same scooped necks and tie fronts.

      ‘Ecco, Principessa!’ Maria exclaimed. And then, after viewing her thoughtfully for few moments, Maria swooped on the rail and unhooked an armful of clothing.

      ‘Oh, no! I couldn’t possibly!’ Emily protested, seeing the top was so low her belly button would get an airing, never mind anything else. When Maria pressed it into her hands she bundled it behind her back, hoping Alessandro, who had just appeared at the door, hadn’t noticed.

      His eyes sparkled dangerously in the dim light. ‘Well? Go and try them on,’ he urged softly.

      ‘Will you—?’

      ‘I’ll come back when you’re changed,’ he said reassuringly.

      Next, Maria held out a selection of skirts for her to choose from, and Emily surprised herself by selecting the gaudiest one.

      Maria smiled, nodding approval of her choice, shaking out the fabric equivalent of a sunset.

      The prospect of wearing something so showy…so decadent…was exciting. Pulling on the skirt, Emily began to do battle with the blouse, managing at last to adjust the front into something approaching respectability.

      ‘No, no,’ Maria protested, waggling her finger. ‘Like this, Principessa,’ she said, with a broad grin on her face.

      Before Emily could stop her Maria had tugged the elasticated top below her shoulders until there was more cleavage on show than ever. But the older woman still wasn’t satisfied, and, plucking at Emily’s bra strap, she shook her head in disapproval.

      With a rueful laugh Emily finally capitulated and, reaching behind her back, freed the catches on her bra. As the last restraint was removed even she had to admit the result was impressive.

      Indicating there was one last thing to be changed, Maria darted down to reach beneath an old wooden chest. Pulling out a pair of simple brown leather sandals, scarcely more than a thong to stick between the toes on strips of toughened leather, she pushed them across the stone-flagged floor towards Emily.

      ‘Grazie,’ Emily said, flashing up a smile as she slipped them on. They were surprisingly comfortable, she found, wiggling her toes and relishing the freedom. As she straightened up, Maria reached for the pins that were already finding it a struggle to contain Emily’s heavy mane of shiny black hair. They were cast aside, and with a final flourish Maria carefully drew her fingers through the resulting cascade, arranging it like a gleaming cloak around her protégée’s shoulders.

      Standing back, she beamed with satisfaction and, taking hold of Emily’s arm, turned