Gladly Beyond Page 23

Without thinking, I gathered her into my arms. Crushing her to me . . . as if my arms alone could keep the world away. She trembled, hands trapped against my chest. I rubbed her back.

  “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe with me. I will pulverize anyone who tries to get to you . . .”

  I was babbling like . . . well, like a big idiot.

  “How can they be here?” Claire shook her head, voice muffled against my shoulder. “They’re not supposed to actually be here. That was the only thing keeping me sane. Assuming they were far away and couldn’t harm me. But if they’re actually here, watching us—”

  “No one’s going to hurt you, babe. Not with me around.”

  She leaned against me. Upright. Stiff.

  And then . . . little by little, she relaxed.

  First her head. Then her shoulders. Her knees followed.

  Finally (hallelujah) actually cuddling her weight into mine . . .

  Unconsciously, my arms tightened.

  She moved her hands and wrapped them around my waist. Tentatively to start, but then holding on with a fierce grip. Fisting her hands into my t-shirt in the middle of my back, pressing herself that much closer. Holding me as tight as I was holding her.

  I closed my eyes. All the air in my body swooshed out.

  My throat constricted. That she would trust me enough to let me hold her like this . . . to accept my support . . .

  Even more, to return it.

  I slid one hand firmly into her hair, the other bracketed her ribcage.

  Damn if she didn’t feel perfect in my arms. Tall enough that I didn’t have to hunch to hold her. Just the right amount of curve.

  Finally, I did what I longed to do—I buried my nose in the hair next to her ear, drawing Claire-scented air back into my lungs. Drowning in her.

  It was like every last piece of me had been made for just this. To hold Claire Raythorn. To be her rock in the storm. To destroy anyone and everyone who tried to hurt her.

  I had never felt like this before.

  I wanted to describe it as possessive . . . but possessiveness implied a sense of jealousy, a distrustful greediness. And that wasn’t it.

  No . . . the word I kept landing on was bramare.

  A yearning. An ache. Hunger. To want something with such fierceness . . .

  Ho bramato per noi.

  I longed for us. Craved it.

  And so I held her, a motionless island in the bustling crowd.

  “They’re just words.” Her shaking subsided. “Words can only hurt me if I allow them to.”

  “Has this person threatened you physically?”

  “No. They just say creepy, nasty things.”

  “Have you talked to the police about this?”

  She nodded. “Because the texts have never been physically threatening, there’s nothing they can do. And even if they were threatening, tracking down a cyber stalker is almost impossible.”

  I hated the truth in her words. Her helplessness.

  The crap this woman had been through . . .

  “Damn cyber bullies.”

  “I know. I just need to not let it affect me.”

  “It’s hard not to.”

  “But it’s what they want. Whoever is sending these wants me to be afraid.” She pushed away from me. I instantly let her go. “And I refuse.”

  She jutted her chin, defiant. “My fifth nanny, Mrs. Evans-Sharp, always told me to keep a stiff upper lip—”

  “Your fifth nanny?”

  “She was very British—”

  “I was more focused on the number five and the word nanny rather than her nationality. You had five nannies?”

  “Well, I prefer the term nanny over random-person-who-was-poorly-paid-to-keep-me-out-of-my-parents’-hair.”

  “Wait—was this the same nanny who taught you how to truss a kidnap victim?”

  “Still smarting over that, are you?”

  “Just trying to understand the colorful assortment of people who raised you.”

  She gave a small laugh. It didn’t quite touch her eyes, but it was a nudge in the right direction.

  “You have no idea.” She paused. Lifted her gaze to mine. Those eyes so impossibly blue. “Thank you. Just . . . thank you.”

  I knew what she meant.

  Thank you for listening. Thank you for fighting this with me.

  “Here. Turn this way.” I walked around her, pulling out my own phone. She swiveled with me, until her back was to the far left end of the piazza where it led into Via dei Magazzini.

  “What?”

  I framed her in my phone camera. “I don’t think it matters who takes the photo.”

  “True. I just have to be in it.”

  And bonus—I would have images of her.

  “You are fabulous. A tigress. Rawr.”

  She sank a hand on her hip. “Seriously?”

  “You’re not roaring.”

  She smiled, broad and genuine, that dimple on her upper cheek popping. Sunlight tangled in her blond hair.

  I took the photo.

  “Wait.” I reframed the image. “Let me get one with the background this time. You distracted me.”

  That got me a second smile. I snapped another photo.

  I swiped to the image and studied it. Claire came around, pressing into my arm, mimicking my posture from earlier. I tried (unsuccessfully) to contain a silly-happy grin.

  “There.” Claire pointed at the image. “He’s way back there, right at the entrance to that street.”

  Sure enough. There was Ethan, top hat popping above tourist’s heads near Via dei Magazzini.

  I glanced at her, still pressed against my side.

  “You’re in my bubble,” I said.

  She lifted her head. Studied our bodies. And then . . . grinned. Shy. Sweet.

  “So I am.” Completely unrepentant.

  I’m pretty sure my eyes went lovestruck glazed.

  I slid my phone into my pocket and gave her own phone back. She tucked it away.

  I nodded my head toward the opposite end of the huge piazza.

  “Shall we?” I held out my hand to her.

  She stared at it. “You’re pushing your luck.”

  “I know.”

  A beat. And then she gave me a welcoming smile and slid her hand into mine. Fine-boned. Soft and warm.

  I laced our fingers together.

  She was going to be very lucky if she got that hand back anytime soon.

  A group of rowdy teenagers, chattering in German, swarmed around us. Claire pressed closer to me. One of the teens did a double and then a triple-take, staring at her. He nudged a friend who whirled to look at us.

  I shot them my hostile, discouraging face. They turned away, but not before I heard something that sounded a lot like ‘batty ray psycho.’ One of them started to hum Achy Breaky Heart.

  Claire stiffened.

  “So, five nannies?” I asked, determined to distract her. I angled us away from the teens.

  She shot me a thankful look. “More like six.”

  “How much of a hellion were you?”

  “Me? Not much. My parents, on the other hand . . .”

  “Got it.”

  The teenagers drifted off, heading away from us. I watched them go, a warning look in my eyes.

  “I think there were actually more than just six, but I don’t remember anyone before Kristin. She was my first nanny. I was four.”

  “You liked her?”

  “I did. A lot. She was a college student—fine art major, of course. She taught me to read and would cut my peanut butter and honey sandwiches into awesome shapes. Apparently, JB taught her about more than just art, so she was replaced with the elderly Ms. Jones before I started first grade.”

  I ran my thumb over the back of her hand as we skirted around the Fountain of Neptune with its Mannerist sculptures.

  “Ms. Jones liked merlot significantly more than she liked me, so she didn’t last long,” Claire continued. “Ironically, it
was a move from Boston to San Francisco that made her quit, not her drinking problem. Miss Penny was next. My parents were in the middle of this mess with the Getty Museum at the time, so Penny made sure I had a crash course entitled ‘How the World Works’ which was basically a lecture on not sassing back. Though it came back to bite her when she was let go for being too mouthy. Cerise, my fourth nanny, was the ex-con—”

  “How did that happen?”

  Claire shrugged as we rounded the enormous statue of Cosimo I on his horse, still heading toward Via dei Magazzini in the far left corner of the piazza.

  “I’m not sure. Mom and Dad had recovered from the Getty debacle and were deep in the Statue of Liberty project at that point. I had been living with Grammy in Boston, but they brought me back to New York for some reason. I’m not sure why because my memories are of them frazzled and desperate to have me out from underfoot. I think they just hired the first person who applied for the job.”

  A huge burst of laughter came from the far end of the piazza. Someone yelled ‘psycho’ in a German accent. Claire tensed but didn’t turn around. My admiration and respect for her had grown ten times larger in the last five minutes. She had more courage—

  “Cerise was actually a ton of fun.” Claire tightened her grip on my hand. “Her stories were hilarious. She let me stay up late and eat ice cream straight from the carton. She was more like a big sister than a nanny. She was also a huge country music fan—”

  Claire paused, wincing.

  I held up a staying hand. “I’m not saying a single word.”

  She shrugged. “Yeah. You can guess what Cerise liked to listen to. Despite our differing taste in music, I loved her to pieces. My parents fired her eventually. Apparently, you shouldn’t hire an ex-con and then give her unsupervised access to your art collection—”

  “Ah.”

  “—which led to them hiring Mrs. Evans-Sharp.”

  “The British nanny?”

  “Yeah. Totally Mary Poppins until she got upset. Then she swore like a sailor. She was okay. She left when her eldest daughter married.

  “Mrs. Henderson was next. She cried a lot and watched period movies over and over. All those lush Merchant-Ivory films from the late Eighties. My parents finally sacked her. By that point, I was fourteen and old enough to help Grammy with her arthritis. So I just moved in with her.”

  Claire said everything in a completely matter-of-fact tone. But my heart ached for the lonely, slapdash childhood I could see behind her words.

  We neared the entrance to Via dei Magazzini. Though calling it a street was too generous. More like a tight alleyway. From across the piazza, you wouldn’t even know the houses led into it. I could still hear the German teenagers yelling at each other.

  “Wait.” Claire pulled me to a stop and then let go of my hand. “I have an idea.”

  I lifted my eyebrows.

  She darted in front of me. “Does Ethan show up on video, I wonder?”

  “That, Ms. Raythorn, is a brilliant idea.”

  I pulled out my phone, framed her in my screen and hit record.

  “Well?”

  I nodded my head, still recording. “You are a bonafide genius.”

  Claire cocked her head questioningly. But I was focused on the ghostly image of Ethan behind her, walking into Via dei Magazzini.

  I stopped recording and showed it to her.

  “I am a genius.” She grabbed my hand again. “Let’s follow him.”

  Claire pulled me out of the bright piazza and into the dim alleyway. Turned around and gestured for me to video again.

  Ethan continued to walk away from us, down the dark street.

  Claire grinned and hugged my arm when she saw it.

  We followed Ethan down the entire length of Via dei Magazzini, heading north toward the Duomo. He turned right onto Via Dante Alighieri and then immediately left onto Via Santa Margherita, leading us deeper and deeper into the narrow medieval alleyways of Florence. Streets that hadn’t changed in a thousand years.

  Finally, Ethan stopped in front of the ancient Chiesa di Santa Margherita tucked down a tight lane. The tiny church that Dante Alighieri, along with his beloved Beatrice, had frequented in the thirteenth century. Ethan turned to the camera, staring straight at me. Almost beckoning me forward.

  “What? What are you seeing?” Claire leaned from side to side in front of me, scanning the narrow road.

  I showed her the video.

  She darted a look at the church doorway with its dark, aged-wood awning. Studied the place where Ethan stood.

  “Could this get ugly?” she asked.

  “Possibly.”

  “I mean, this street might as well be called ‘Assassin Alley.’”

  “Definitely mafioso,” I agreed.

  “You can practically feel the history bleeding from the walls.”

  “It only needs someone in a doublet and cloak carrying a stiletto—”

  “Yeah. Or an angry nobleman out for blood.”

  She sucked in a steadying breath. Straightened her shoulders.

  “I can do this.” Words said low and not intended for my ears, but I listened anyway.

  A burst of loud laughter echoed down narrow walls. I looked back and saw the same group of German teens jostling each other as they walked down the cramped street toward us.

  One of them noticed Claire and elbowed his friend. The friend’s head snapped forward, a hunting dog on the scent.

  It didn’t take a detective to know they had been following us.

  One of them started humming Achy Breaky Heart. Another laughed.

  All of me tensed, half hoping the teens would get physical. My body itched for a fight—a physical way to combat Claire’s demons. She tugged on my arm, giving her head a small shake. Please don’t make a scene.

  The teens came nearer, shoving each other, pinging off the stone walls like bouncy balls.

  Grimacing, I wrapped an arm around Claire’s waist, pulling her into the alcove of the church door. Twisting us, so her shoulders were to the wood, using my body to shield her from prying eyes behind us.

  But as we moved, everything swooped inward.

  Day turned to night. Rain sparkled on the pavement.

  Please doona be late, Caro-lass. I must see you.

  Twenty-Five

  Ethan stared into the darkness.

  Light rain pattered against his caped great coat, dripping off the brim of his hat. He slouched against the wooden door of the church behind him, surveying the narrow lane. Though even calling it an alleyway might be too generous.

  Did I mention that my friend, Beatrice, was to be married? I think to see her tomorrow evening . . .

  Caro’s words echoed in his mind. She had to have meant this place. The church Dante Alighieri and his beloved Beatrice had frequented before she married another man.

  Ethan took a fortifying breath.

  Or had Caro meant something entirely different? That she would play Beatrice to his Dante, turning away from him to marry the man her family, such as it was, had chosen?

  Please don’t let that be our fate . . .

  The night shimmered. Dim lantern light flickered down the alleyway from Via del Corso to his right, leaving faint streaks of gold on the wet cobblestones.

  One week. It had been one week since Ethan had seen Caro, talked to her.

  He pushed against the gloom . . . but a solitary Shakespearean line kept thrumming—

  How like a winter hath my absence been from thee . . .

  Without Caro, the world felt less-than. Bleak. Colorless.

  Would she come? She had never risked such a clandestine meeting before . . .

  And what would he do if she didn’t come?

  Footsteps echoed to his left. Ethan pressed back into the sheltering blackness of the doorway. Waiting.

  An achingly familiar shadow slipped into the narrow street.

  At the last second, Ethan snagged her elbow, dragging her into the door alcove.


  She squeaked, whirling on him.

  “Hush. ‘Tis only me, lass.”

  “Ethan.” His name a benediction. She instantly collapsed against him. Boneless.

  He spun her around, tucking deep into the shadows. Protecting her with his body from even the most prying eyes. Not that anyone was out.

  She was slight and trembled in his arms. It took Ethan a moment to fully realize . . .

  He was holding her. His Caro. Snugged firmly against his chest.

  Heaven and damnation.

  The rain continued on heedless behind him, pattering on the pavement.

  “Were you followed?” He whispered against her hair. Paused to breathe her in. Lemon and clean soap.

  “No. I waited for Mary to go to sleep and then slipped down the servants’ stairs.”

  “It terrifies me that you risk so much—”

  “No more than you,” she countered, nestling further in his arms. “Blackford sends you away then? Lady Albany said as much . . .”

  “Yes. I am to return to Edinburgh. A Scottish merchant ship leaves Pisa Monday next. His Grace has insisted I be aboard.”

  “He releases you?”

  “No. He will retain my services—”

  “But he has not confronted you?”

  “Nothing beyond his snubbing at the opera last week.”

  Ethan gathered her close. She felt fragile. Bird-like. Smaller than she appeared.

  As if the force of being her somehow amplified the actual space she inhabited, rendering her larger-than-life to the eye.

  But in his arms, she became just Caro. Delicate. Soft.

  “Lady Albany has given me an ultimatum,” she whispered into the dark. “I am to marry Blackford or she will cast me off—”

  Ethan hissed through clenched teeth. “Blackford moves in shadows. Pushing us both around like so many chess pieces.”

  “I am so eternally weary of being a pawn for others’ ambitions.” She sagged her weight against him. Her unwavering trust as humbling as it was overwhelming.

  Silence. The rain drummed a soothing rhythm.

  “Whatever are we to do, Ethan?” Her voice a whisper of sound against his chest. She wrapped her fingers into his waistcoat. “I hate this feeling of helplessness.”

  “We are hardly helpless, lass.” He pulled back to look down at her face, a suggestion of eyes and mouth in the dim light.