Gladly Beyond Read online

She knew that he missed Scotland in autumn, when reds and golds threaded into the green hills. That he loved swimming but not being wet; disliked traveling but loved the seeing of new places; hated sickness but found joy in doctoring the ill. He discussed history and science for hours but tired of current politics after five minutes. He loved his mother and sister with fierce passion yet felt guilt over his desire to live better than their humble hearth. He dressed like a gentleman and usually sounded like one too, but the more he spoke of home, the more adorably Scottish his vowels became.

  She discovered he had a middle name—Charles, named for the absent king—when he had lent her a handkerchief, the initials ECM lovingly embroidered in the corner by his sister. Caro kept the handkerchief, and it may or may not be currently resting underneath her pillow.

  Sunlight off the river reflected in his eyes. She had thought his eyes to be simple brown, but over the past few weeks, she had realized they were nothing so monolithic.

  Flecked with gold and green and gray darting in and out of rich chocolate.

  Plaid eyes.

  Looking like she imagined Scottish heather and gorse to be.

  How was she to ever live without him? But Blackford and the Countess had spoken; Caro had no say in the end.

  The very thought made her throat burn with unshed tears.

  Ethan stared at Caro. Willing himself to look away.

  Any moment now.

  But . . .

  “I merely wished to thank you for the recommendation of the book.” She gave that tentative smile. The one that only he saw.

  Shy. Uncertain. Longing.

  “It is, as always, my pleasure.” He clasped his hands behind his back, telling them sternly not to reach for her.

  “You understand my likes and dislikes so well. It is as if you read my mind,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “It is similar to that sonnet by Shakespeare—”

  “‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments . . .’”

  Her smile broadened.

  His breath caught.

  “Precisely,” she whispered.

  “You had not been thinking of a different sonnet? Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day, perhaps?” He darted another glance at the statue looming above them.

  She laughed. Breathy and carefree. Heartbreaking.

  The soft late afternoon light caught her hair, kissing it with golden light. She called to mind the beach on a calm day. Colors of sand and endless blue water. Calm. Welcoming.

  It was as if they had always known each other. His entire existence hurtling toward her and this and now.

  He adored the flare in her eyes as she spoke of art. How hours passed in just minutes, their wit like a racket ball in play, pinging back and forth. Every little facet of her a revelation. Something shiny and new to be hoarded and relived in the long hours between her. He saw the loneliness she soothed through her drawing. Understood the fire within her for a life that was more than her current course.

  He knew her soul. It was the twin of his own. Forged in the same furnace.

  Heaven help him. He was utterly in love.

  It shattered through him, a crashing wave, scouring every other emotion away.

  Love. An ever-fixed mark, as Shakespeare described it, that looks on tempests and is never shaken.

  A gentle breeze caught a tendril of hair escaping her bonnet, twining it around her slender neck.

  Yes. He understood the emotion now.

  Humbling in its force. Dragging him to his knees before her.

  Leaving him ragged and gutted and so very new.

  She risked much being seen with him on the street like this, even with Mary chaperoning her steps.

  Blackford had offered for Caro. Or, rather, had negotiated a betrothal settlement with the Countess. Ethan wasn’t sure if Caro had even been granted the formal opportunity to decline the offer.

  But it wasn’t surprising, really. Blackford always got what he wanted, in the end. When he set about to collect something, he did. Like the purchase of a rare Raphael that Ethan had helped negotiate last week, along with a pair of Etruscan urns.

  Like Lady Caro herself. The rarest prize of all.

  Given her parentage, she was so far above Ethan’s own meek origins. She would never be his. He knew that . . .

  Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks . . .

  If he were wise, he would turn away. Never look back. So much rode on his shoulders. Blackford owned him. His mother and sister relied on him.

  Ah, but when it came to matters of the heart, wisdom had never been his forté.

  “Caro, dear, there you are.” A voice called.

  Ethan just managed to avoid startling as the Countess of Albany strode across the street to them, a maid in tow. Though gray-haired and stout, the Countess retained a strong sense of command.

  “Lady Albany.” He doffed his hat and bowed precisely.

  “Doctor.” She nodded in his direction. And then studied her ward.

  Ethan swallowed. The woman’s sharp eyes missed nothing. Would she report this ‘meeting’ to Blackford?

  Caro turned and fixed the duchess with a brittle smile. “My lady, I stumbled upon Dr. MacLure as I was leaving the palazzo. Was that not fortunate?”

  “Fortunate, indeed.” The Countess’ dry, dry tone said she clearly understood this situation. “Well, now that you are here, Doctor, you might be so good as to escort us up the street to the Cascine. We must take the air and the park is the closest place.”

  Interesting. What was her game? Why throw him and Caro together?

  Ethan clicked his heels together. “I should be honored, my lady.”

  He offered each lady his arm. Polite. Respectful.

  “Thank you, Doctor. You are always so kind.” Caro beamed as she wrapped her gloved hand around his elbow. Each finger searing, branding despite the layers of cloth separating them. “I do believe you were telling me of your friend—John, was it not? You said he likes to fly hawks every Tuesday morning. Is that not most odd, my lady?”

  The Countess harrumphed as she took his opposite arm.

  Ethan glanced down in surprise at Caro, who merely winked up at him as they strolled off the bridge, tightening the grip on his elbow.

  Heaven help him indeed . . .

  Seventeen

  Dante

  I reeled, still clutching the fluttering pigeon to my chest. A motorino buzzed by my elbow, brakes squealing, jarring me back to the twenty-first century.

  Claire gasped in front of me, standing just as Caro had, sunlight raking her. Shimmery blond hair wrapping around her face. Blue eyes drops of molten sky.

  “Wow.” Claire massaged her temple. “That was . . . unexpected.” She reached out and braced a hand against the base of the statue to her right. Blinking as if trying to clear her head. Absorbing the shift back into our reality.

  “Agreed.” I nodded, adjusting the pigeon.

  I glanced down at it, seeing the silvery shadow of a nun clinging beyond. An old habit . . . probably mid-seventeenth century.

  I looked back up at Claire, still shaking her head.

  Ethan’s emotions lingered, sliding from me oh-so-slowly. Love. Devotion. Admiration. I saw in her what he did. That spark of life. The mixture of kindness and spunk.

  Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments . . .

  But Ethan knew Caro far better than I knew Claire.

  In his memories of that brief regression, I saw they had been meeting like that for weeks. Coded meaning in their dialogue leading to seemingly accidental encounters where they talked and laughed.

  The Countess and Blackford hammered out betrothal papers behind it all. Ethan had been privy to some of their discussions. He knew more of Caro’s story . . .

  All the while, poor Ethan falling hopelessly in love with a woman destined to be his employer’s bride.

  “I thought you said only a scene of emotional turmoil caused a regr
ession.” Claire shook her head. “That seemed almost . . . banal.”

  “It probably did seem unimportant from Caro’s point-of-view. But, remember, the scenes just need to have emotional resonance for my past lives—”

  “You’re saying this is all about you?”

  I chuckled. “Something like that. For Ethan, that brief conversation on the bridge was the moment he realized he loved Caro.”

  “Poor Ethan.” Claire’s gaze seemed haunted.

  “Yeah. It pretty much shattered him, madly in love with someone he could never have.”

  Not that I thought for a second Ethan’s situation would parallel Claire and I, thank goodness.

  Abruptly, Claire’s eyes flared to life. “The Michelangelo! Caro saw it clearly in her head this time. It’s definitely the same composition as the Colonel’s drawing.”

  Excitement chased down my arms. “Really?”

  “For sure. She thought about the shading she had worked on that morning, and it was identical—”

  “Could the drawing she is copying from be the exact same sketch, I wonder? The exact thing the Colonel has?”

  Claire’s eyes glazed as she searched her memory. “I don’t know. My visual of the sketch she is copying from seems like it was done partially in silverpoint, not chalk. Not to mention it is undamaged.”

  “It doesn’t have a charred corner like the Colonel’s?”

  “Exactly. Without the mass spectrometry analysis, it’s hard to make any definitive decisions about the Colonel’s drawing.”

  “When will we get those results, by the way?”

  “Hopefully any day now.”

  “Interesting.” I shifted the pigeon squirming in my hands. “Regardless of the specifics, this is all far too coincidental to not be related somehow.”

  “Agreed. I just wonder how either sketch would come to be in the Colonel’s vaults.”

  “Who knows. Maybe the sketches were sold at some point?”

  “Possibly. Though what about the weird thing Branwell heard?”

  “That voice in a brogue saying, ‘You have taken something from me. And now I have taken it from you.’”

  “Was that Ethan talking, referring to the sketch in some way? I mean, if this is all about you, as you say, then the sketch has to be important to Ethan, not just Caro.”

  Smart. “This whole thing just gets more interesting.”

  I startled as a large bus swooshed by us. Both Claire and I took a quick step back from the road.

  “So many emotions from Caro.” Claire chewed on that plump bottom lip of hers, that haunted look returning. “She is convinced she has to marry Blackford. Don’t get me wrong—she adores Ethan, but nothing can happen there. The Countess determines her life.”

  “Well, with Caro’s parentage, she can definitely aim to marry a duke.”

  “You saw that? Caro didn’t think of it again specifically. Just something about her mother being a duchess and her great-uncle having power . . . I wish I could direct her thoughts.” Claire paused, waiting.

  I cocked an eyebrow at her.

  “Well?” She matched my eyebrow with one of her own. “Who are her parents? Aren’t you going to tell me?”

  I grinned, stretching out the tension.

  Claire folded her arms, willing to wait me out.

  “Caro is the granddaughter of the Pretender. Of Bonnie Prince Charlie,” I said.

  “Seriously?” Claire cocked her head. Blinked. “But . . . wait. The Countess was married to Charlie, but I’m pretty sure the Countess isn’t her grandmother. Caro never thinks of Louise in those terms. Just as her guardian.”

  “Yeah, I’m with you. I’m not sure what Caro’s exact relationship with the Countess is. Ethan just thought about how far above him socially Caro is, as the granddaughter of Prince Charlie. He didn’t ponder how it had come about. We’ll probably have to do some research.”

  “It explains why Blackford would marry her.”

  “Yes. And according to Ethan’s memories, Blackford’s very eager to . . . acquire her. That’s the word Ethan used. Kinda odd. Blackford likes to collect things, including people apparently.”

  “Poor Caro.”

  “Yeah, they’re both in a bad fix. And what was up with that parting shot she gave: Your friend—John, was it not? You said he likes to fly hawks every Tuesday morning. Ethan was puzzled by that.”

  “Yes. Caro saw the place in her mind’s eye as she said it.” Claire wrinkled her forehead and then snapped her fingers. “It’s that monument by Uccello in the Duomo. The one of the equestrian.”

  “More of their hey-imagine-seeing-you-here meetings.”

  “Probably.”

  The pigeon squirmed again. The good sister trying to make her escape.

  Claire gestured with her chin. “So a nun, huh?”

  “Yeah. Habit and everything.” I motioned for us to cross the street back to my motorcycle.

  “What did a nun do to end up reincarnated as a pigeon?”

  “No idea. I just see shadows. I’m not judge and jury.”

  Claire glanced up the road, waiting for a break in traffic. “I mean, was she rude to her Mother Superior?”

  I grinned. “Broke her vow of silence?”

  “Exactly. I bet she was sneaking into monks’ cells at night. I’ve heard about those tunnels linking monasteries and abbeys.”

  I laughed. The stoplight changed and we crossed the road. I juggled the pigeon in one hand while unlocking my bike seat with the other.

  Claire suddenly shoved my arm. Score one for uninitiated physical contact. I turned a questioning glance her way.

  “Oooooh. I bet she was a floozy-nun.” Totally serious.

  I laughed, embarrassingly too loud. “Floozy-nun? Of all the possibilities out there, you go with floozy-nun?”

  “Yep.”

  “Not fallen sister?” I angled the poor pigeon closer to my face. “Doesn’t this look like Our Lady of the Night to you?”

  She smiled at me. That bright, shiny smile I adored. Dimple popping.

  Whoa.

  I forgot how to breathe.

  “Sister Floozy?” she suggested.

  I just shook my head as if disgusted. Claire was flirting with me. The last thing I wanted to do was call her attention to it.

  I opened the bike seat and handed her a helmet. Dug around for a second and then shook out a paper bag. I gently stuffed Sister Floozy into the bag head first, carefully folding the top of the bag over several times.

  Holding the bagged pigeon with one hand, I texted my mom with the other.

  On our way.

  Pocketing my phone, I pulled a second helmet from the seat and tucked it under my arm.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to hold Sister Floozy on the drive to our palazzo.”

  Claire froze, her smile instantly fading. Uffa. And we had been making such progress, she and I.

  “Uhm, I’m good. Just text me the address. I’ll walk.” She tried to hand the helmet back to me.

  I shook my head. “Claire—”

  “I-I’m not comfortable riding on that bike with you.”

  “What? I’m a perfectly safe driver—”

  “Your driving isn’t the issue. The bike just seems a little . . . intimate.”

  Well, duh.

  That was entirely the point of bringing my motorcycle.

  “I promise to behave.” I crossed my heart with the bagged bird.

  Claire eyed the bike. And then me. Shook her head. “I’m good walking—”

  “Can’t. It’s too late.” I handed her the pigeon bag as I buckled my helmet and slid on my sunglasses.

  “What? It’s not too late.” She gave the pigeon back to me.

  “Nonna put down the pasta.”

  She crinkled her brow, adorably confused. “That makes no sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense. It means that in less than fifteen minutes, the pasta will be hot and steaming on the table. And if there is one thing I have
learned, nothing upsets an Italian grandmother more than letting pasta sit for even a minute after it’s ready. C’mon.”

  She popped her free hand onto her hip. Stubborn, as usual.

  “Porca miseria, cara.” I threw an arm up, being my most Italian self.

  “Did you just swear at me in Italian?”

  I stared at her. Appalled. “Swear at you? Like some temperamental teenager? Hardly.” I shook my head and exchanged Sister Floozy for her helmet and began buckling it on her head. “What kind of person do you think I am, babe?”

  She glared daggers at me. “Don’t call me babe. It’s Claire.”

  “Fine. Claire.”

  I turned away from her and straddled my bike, hiding my smile.

  Ha! Finally. No more Ms. Raythorn’s for me. Victory was sweet.

  I looked over my shoulder at her as I kicked the stand up.

  Claire rigidly standing. Holding the squirming paper bag, helmet pulled low on her head. Biting her lower lip.

  Unsure. Anxious. Utterly adorable.

  Mine.

  Emotion flooded me. Liquid fire.

  You, my love. Always and ever, only you.

  I swallowed. But it was no use. My heart was firmly lodged in my throat.

  Damn.

  I was falling so hard and fast for this woman.

  Just breathe.

  I straightened my shoulders.

  “Sister Floozy is getting antsy,” I said. “And you so don’t want to see Nonna upset over her pasta getting mushy.”

  “Mushy?” Claire tossed her head. “Isn’t cold the word you were looking for there?”

  “Nope. You’re in Italy, cara mia. We eat our pasta al dente and not a smidge more well-done than that.”

  I’m pretty sure she growled, “It’s Claire.” But it didn’t sound like her heart was in it.

  With a frustrated sigh, she straddled the bike behind me, wrapping one arm around my waist, the other holding Sister Floozy carefully.

  Oh man.

  I took a deep breath as I started the bike, closing my eyes briefly. The feel of her pressed up against me from waist to shoulder. Every point of contact sizzling, smoking fire.

  My entire body had just gone from zero to sixty faster than my bike.

  “Hold on.” I said over my shoulder. She tightened her free hand around my waist as I waited to edge out into traffic.