Gladly Beyond Page 20

  The Cathedral of Santa Croce stood regal at the far end of the enormous square. (Medieval Gothic construction. Victorian facade.) It is to the Duomo what Westminster Abbey is to St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. The former cathedral being the flashy showpiece. The latter housing the dead and most of the history of the city.

  Pretty much everyone who was anyone in Florence was buried in Santa Croce. Michelangelo, Galileo, Machiavelli . . . even Alfieri and Louise, the Countess of Albany herself. You literally walked on the shoulders of giants visiting the place.

  Very few people were buried in the Duomo. Which made the whole John Hawkwood memorial thing more notable.

  I spent a few minutes browsing the kitchy tourist vendor booths crowding the edges of the piazza, sifting through my thorny thoughts. I was pretending interest in a Duomo snow globe, when I got that prickly sensation of being watched.

  Not again.

  Rolling my eyes, I spun in a slow circle, studying the large piazza, hating the way my heart sped up.

  Was someone watching me?

  I thought through the possibilities.

  Was Pierce following me?

  That seemed unlikely, as I had just left him at the Colonel’s villa.

  Had the Colonel hired someone to spy on me?

  That was a viable scenario, but again, why? To catch me breaking his Sandbox Rule? Again, I couldn’t logically think of a reason why the Colonel would do that.

  Was my online harasser stalking me in real life?

  Possible. But though ugly, the texts in no way indicated my online harasser knew where I was.

  Soooo . . . what?

  Was it all just in my head? A phantom sense created by my anxiety?

  I couldn’t say.

  I carefully searched my surroundings. That bristly tingle along my spine wouldn’t go away.

  Wait? Had I seen that man sitting on the cathedral steps before? Was he the one following me?

  I studied him for a second. Dark hair. Nondescript coat. I couldn’t tell—

  The man suddenly stood, head angled in my direction. I took an involuntary step backward, breath hitching.

  The man smiled. I finally noticed the woman walking up to him.

  I stared as he kissed her and tucked an arm around her waist, strolling away from me.

  I clenched my jaw and closed my eyes.

  I needed to get a grip.

  Stop. Enough.

  I swallowed and determined to ignore my flight-or-fight response.

  To that end, I moved to another street booth and contemplated buying a statue of David apron—for no other reason than to make the wearer look like a chiseled, naked man. I chatted with the booth owner (Ottavio. Not married. Shameless flirt.) and gradually the sense of being watched receded.

  Progress.

  Slowly, I threaded my way through the narrow streets to the Piazza del Duomo. I was a little early, but I didn’t mind waiting for Dante.

  I stood in the tourist line and passed through the guards inspecting bags. The interior of the Duomo soared ahead and above me. Most cathedrals are cool and somewhat damp on the interior . . . the lingering mustiness of history, I suppose.

  But Santa Maria del Fiore—the Duomo’s formal name—bucks that trend. It’s cooler, yes, but the white-washed walls and contrasting, unpainted greenish-gray stone accents give the entire building a fresh, alive feeling.

  I wandered up the left side aisle toward the monument to John Hawkwood.

  And there he was.

  Dante.

  Leaning against one of the central stone pillars, one foot propped up. Jeans and a white button-down, untucked, cuffed to his elbows and open at the throat. He was studying his phone, dark hair flopping onto his forehead, perma-scruff neatly man-scaped.

  My heart did this crazy triple-skip thing and my feet wanted to runrunrun to him.

  Stupid, stupid emotions. Always getting me in trouble.

  Not this time. I was street-wise. Not going to happen.

  Besides . . .

  Twice now I had stumbled into a regression. I still wasn’t a hundred percent sure I wanted to do this again. I dreaded absorbing more of Caro’s affection for Ethan. I found the entire situation . . . terrifying.

  Just because my soul had loved Dante’s soul in a past life, it didn’t automatically follow that I had to fall for him in this life too, right? It was already bad enough that emotional-me in the here and now felt pulled toward him. Add in Caro’s emotions from the past . . .

  So yeah . . . I was just trying to avoid another spectacular soul-crushing guy-tastrophe.

  But . . .

  For one tiny moment, I allowed my heart to . . . hope. To want.

  To see the situation the way my naive self of several years ago would have.

  He hadn’t noticed me, head bent over his phone. It was touching he was here early, ready and waiting. Like this mattered to him. Like I mattered.

  It would be so easy to fall for him. Give in. Let go.

  Que sera, sera . . . isn’t that how the song went? What will be, will be?

  The mere thought of giving in to my emotions for Dante . . .

  My hands started to sweat. My lungs constricted, sucking all the air out of the building.

  Of course, he chose that moment to lift his head and see me.

  Oh!

  That first jolt of eye contact. The way his entire face lit.

  Like sunrise. Revelation.

  He pushed off the pillar, pocketing his phone, muscles flexing and moving under his shirt. Dark eyes locked with mine.

  I was in such trouble. Even without any further goosing from Caro.

  He walked up to me. I tensed. Waiting for the tell-tale swirling of a regression.

  But he came nearer. And nearer.

  He stopped his usual two feet too close. I craned my neck up to meet his eyes.

  Nothing happened.

  “You okay?” He cocked his head. “You look like you’re about to visit the dentist for a root canal . . . I promise I’m not that bad.”

  I laughed. Relax. You can do this.

  “Sorry. I guess I expected a regression to happen.”

  He shoved his hands into his jeans. Leaned even closer. Involuntarily, my head moved an equal amount away.

  “Yeah. Who knows if Ethan and Caro met here in the end. And even if they did, it may not have been significant.”

  Now what?

  “Did the Colonel send you the mass spec results?” I asked.

  “He did.” Dante’s face brightened. “I was just looking at them on my phone.”

  We talked for a few minutes about the results. His conclusions were the same as mine.

  Dante unconsciously crowded closer as we chatted. I half-heartedly backed up.

  It was this fun game we played.

  I told him the Colonel knew about our extra-curricular activities.

  “So did the Colonel say anything to you about our dinner together the other night?” I asked.

  “Yeah. He called earlier and we chatted.” Dante scrubbed a hand through his hair. “But it felt less like a warning about violating the Sandbox Rule and more of a friendly hurt-her-and-I’ll-hurt-you kinda thing.”

  A pause.

  “That’s weird,” I finally said.

  “It was weird.”

  My shoulders sagged. I’m pretty sure I sighed.

  Dante bumped my shoulder with his. Yeah. He was totally in my bubble.

  “If it makes you feel any better, the Colonel came off as more parental-protective than alpha-territorial,” he said.

  It didn’t make me feel any better.

  “I told him we were meeting here today,” Dante continued.

  “You did? Why?” My eyes grew three sizes.

  “Preemptive strike, I suppose. If we’re up front and honest, then it’s harder for the Colonel to later accuse us of rule breaking.”

  That made a sort of twisted sense.

  “Did the Colonel say we shouldn’t be tal
king to each other or meeting like this?”

  “No. He just seemed . . . concerned. Told me he would be watching to make sure I behave. His exact word.”

  “Again, that’s—

  “Weird, I know.”

  I pursed my mouth, trying to shove worrying thoughts about the Colonel away.

  Dante was still standing too close. Big and warm and so very male.

  “What do you think about John Hawkwood’s monument?” I asked.

  I used the question as an excuse to walk around him and down twenty feet to the enormous fresco on the wall.

  Effectively changing the topic and putting some much needed space between us.

  Granted, the fresco really was an excellent example of Paolo Uccello’s work from the mid-1400s. Hawkwood was staged on an enormous pedestal, seated in profile on his horse. The entire thing painted with a strong trompe l’oeil effect to make it look like a carved stone statue instead of merely a painting.

  “It’s nice.” Dante came to stand beside me. So close our shoulders all but pressed against each other.

  Figured.

  Part of me wanted to draw a circle diagram for him explaining how personal space bubbles worked.

  But . . . he smelled so good. Shower-fresh with just a hint of that cologne.

  I held my ground.

  “I always want to touch things like this,” he continued. “Skim through past scenes to see the original artist.”

  I swung my head to look at him. “You’ve done that?”

  “A time or two. A friend of the family let me set a finger on Michelangelo’s David once. He was a remarkably unattractive man. Michelangelo, that is.”

  “Really?”

  “Really and truly. Huge nose and matted, dark hair. I don’t think he ever bathed.”

  “Wasn’t that just a sixteenth century thing?”

  “Possibly, but I caught a glimpse of Raphael once too. Now there was a sophisticated, urbane artista.”

  We studied the fresco in silence for a moment, necks arched to look at it.

  “Still no regression.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “No idea.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Should we wander?”

  “Sure.”

  And so we did. Up the rest of the nave to the center of the cathedral—Brunelleschi’s enormous dome covered in a monumental fresco by Vasari. Dante maintaining a too-close distance the entire time.

  Still nothing.

  “How’s Sister Floozy?” I asked.

  “Good. Settling in. Mom set her leg and said she’ll be fine in a week or two.”

  “And Boney?”

  “Bossy. He has definite opinions about everything.”

  “Some people never change.”

  “True. Though it’s cute in rodent form.”

  “Context truly is everything.”

  We strolled along the center aisle, past the chairs set up for Mass but roped off to deter the tired tourists looking for a place to sit.

  I stopped and circled around, thinking. And then pulled out my phone.

  “Okay, so when I saw Ethan in here . . .” I scrolled to the relevant photos. “The first one was over there.” I pointed to a spot just below the fresco. “But he’s not looking at me. See?”

  I tilted the phone for Dante. He leaned over my shoulder, pressing his chest against my upper arm.

  I ignored the sizzling sensation of his touch. Or, rather, tried super-duper hard to ignore it.

  “But we were over there and no regression happened,” I continued.

  Dante reached over my shoulder and swiped to the next photo. The one of Ethan staring straight at me.

  “In this one, he was about right . . .” Dante studied the photo and then looked at the cathedral around us. “There.” He pointed to a spot twenty feet in front of us.

  “Shall we?” He held out a hand to me.

  I pocketed my phone. And, with a deep breath, took Dante’s hand.

  Strong, warm fingers wrapped around mine. What was it about us that made me want to melt into him? This aching sense of familiarity. Rest my head against his shoulder and never pull away?

  He led me forward.

  Darkness blurred my vision.

  This situation is so utterly impossible, I thought. How shall we ever come to a resolution?

  Twenty-One

  We risk too much meeting like this.” Caro pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, keeping her face impassive and neutral.

  She wanted to throw her fists to the sky and rage about injustice and helplessness.

  Instead, she calmly checked that Mary was following close at her heels.

  Propriety was paramount.

  All and sundry had to see Ethan walking at her side as a mere coincidence. A chance encounter.

  Nothing more.

  “I know. Yet, I canna help myself.” His low murmur shivered through her.

  Just the sound of his voice . . .

  Ethan tipped his hat to an acquaintance as they strolled up the nave. Proper. Polite. His simple wool coat clean and well pressed. Cravat neatly tied.

  He was the handsomest man of her acquaintance.

  This was the fourth time they had met in the Duomo. Not to mention the chance encounters in Piazza Santa Croce, near the Palazzo Vecchio, at the Countess’ salons . . .

  All very proper and yet entirely not.

  Caro walked at his side. Not touching, of course. Taking his arm without the Countess present would be deemed . . . inappropriate, given the difference in their rank.

  But all of her longed for it. Yearned to claim him as her own.

  Caro closed her eyes, trying to stem the ache spreading out from her heart.

  She had fallen in love with him. A Scottish physician with not much more than his manners and education to recommend him, a mother and sister under his care.

  Why did everything about him have to feel so . . . right? As if Ethan were a part of her very soul. And if they were cut off from each other, everything that was Caro would wither. Like a rose denied sunlight.

  She had spent her life as a blank canvas. An empty space for other men to draw their hopes and dreams upon. She had learned long ago the safety of being deemed . . . vacant.

  But now . . . there was something so incredibly painful in being seen. Known.

  Which was why she risked these meetings. She was helpless to stay away. Despite her all-but-announced betrothal to the Duke of Blackford.

  “I fear Lady Albany knows,” Caro said.

  She felt more than saw Ethan’s sudden tensing.

  “How so?”

  “She told me a decidedly long story about a ‘friend’ who found herself in love with a—well, she used the word unsuitable—gentleman, but the lady was betrothed to a wealthy earl.”

  Ethan shot her a decidedly grim look.

  “I know, I know. Spare me your dark expressions.” Caro managed a weak smile. “The Countess continued saying that the lady married her splendid earl and then went on to conduct an affair with the unsuitable suitor for the next ten years.”

  Ethan let out a harsh breath.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Caro murmured.

  “Did she say this woman was herself?”

  Caro laughed, low and breathy.

  “I think her meaning was well taken. Will you be offended if I say I am no adulteress? Unlike others, I would feel honor in my marriage vows. I am dreadfully bourgeois in that way.”

  “Heavens! What sort of a man do you take me for? Offended? Exactly the opposite. I admire anyone who holds true to a sacred vow. Particularly you, m‘aingeal.”

  “Hush. Others might hear.”

  A pause.

  “I would shout it from the rooftops, were I at liberty to do so.”

  His warm breath brushed her ear, indicating how far he had leaned. The heat of him lapped her, causing her breath to hitch.

  “Say the word, my love,” he continu
ed. “I can leave Blackford’s service. He does not own me—”

  “Perhaps not. But you do owe him. He saved you from poverty, paid for your education. And then there is the matter of your mother and sister.”

  “I can send for them. We live in enlightened times. Surely Blackford would exact no revenge.”

  “Are you so sure?”

  Another beat of silence.

  “He is the consummate collector, Ethan,” she continued. “He wants the rare and unusual. The brilliant Scottish lad plucked from poverty and transformed like Pygmalion. The granddaughter of the last Pretender, no matter my illegitimacy. The Michelangelo modello that is the dowry my great-uncle left me—”

  “You misjudge Blackford, I think. He is weak and spoiled. If we left, he would soon find something else to amuse himself.”

  “Perhaps. But he has seemed terribly insistent on the point of me marrying him—”

  “Bah!” Ethan turned his head away. “It is all just a game to him. A fanciful sport to pass away the ennui of his privileged life. I do not mean to offend you, my love, but he does not see the beauty of your soul as I—”

  “Be that as it may, he has been putting pressure on Lady Albany, who in turn has been pressuring me.”

  “Patience, mo chridhe. If we are but patient—”

  “My betrothal to him is all but secured. I fear time is not on our side.” Caro fought to keep her face calm. Serene to all those eyes in the Duomo looking at them.

  “We will stall,” Ethan murmured.

  “How is it to be done?”

  “I shall think of a way. Remember what I have said? Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks. I shall remain true, love.”

  Caro sighed, low and harsh. Most unladylike. “You omit the next line, I fear. Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks/But bears it out even to the edge of doom—”

  “We are not doomed. We shall find a way—”

  “Ah, Lady Caro. How remarkable to find you here.”

  Caro startled at the voice at her elbow.

  It was like the devil himself had summoned him.

  Only a lifetime of practice enabled her to keep her expression calm and pleasant as she turned around.

  Blackford stood before her.

  Immaculately dressed in fawn breeches, tight blue coat and shining boots. His shock of brown hair carefully styled. Hat tucked under one arm, leaning on a walking stick with the other. A calculating look in his eye.