Gladly Beyond (16 page)

Lady C returned his gaze, delighted and warm, eyes dancing with humor.

With an answering nod, Ethan stepped around her, placing the crystal dish with its dangerous ice cream projectile on the windowsill. There was no where else to set it, other than the floor itself.

He turned around. And then froze, staring at the drawing on the board before him.

Lady C quickly flipped a hanging sheet of paper over her sketch, shooting him a prim look.

The covering sheet of paper was a drawing of Florence from the vantage of Forte Belvedere. Demure. Sedate.

Which in
no way
described what the sketch underneath had been.

Taking a step back to her, he carefully lifted the top paper away, revealing what she had been drawing underneath. A sketch in its beginning stages. But, by Jove, the subject matter of the drawing—

Swirling motion. Sinuous lines. The suggestion of bodies twisted and turned and bent. Naked,
male
bodies.

Which was not
too
scandalous, in and of itself. Florence abounded with naked male figures, starting with Michelangelo’s statue of
David
in front of the Palazzo Vecchio which Ethan had passed by the day before.

But it
was
scandalous for a young, unmarried lady to sketch them.

He shot her a questioning eyebrow.

She shrugged.

Ethan was not an expert in art, but he knew some. And, as a physician, he definitely understood human anatomy. It seemed unlikely this work was hers alone.

“Your composition?”

“No. A copy. The
Battle of Cascina
by Michelangelo.”

“Ah, yes. I have heard of this.” He looked back at her drawing.

“I have just begun the composition. It will take some time to get the shapes right.”

“But you do not copy from a physical drawing?”

“No. I copy from memory.”

“Impressive. You sell your talents short. ’Tis remarkable how you have captured the lines here and here.”

“Thank you. You are too kind.”

“Not kind. Honest,” he said.

She turned her face up to his. Afternoon light raked the fine bones of her jaw, gleamed across her skin.

Ethan’s breath stuck in his throat.

Heaven’s above but she was lovely.

But it was somehow more than just the sum of a winsome smile and a pretty face.

I know you
, his heart whispered.

Was it that she represented home and hearth and all those things he had left behind?

Something in her eyes, their depths . . . it shot through him, jagged and cleansing.

A sense of familiarity. Of belonging. Of kindred.

Mine.

Despite Ethan’s lowly origins, he was well-employed now as the personal physician and aide to the Duke of Blackford, a powerful member of the Scottish peerage. Ethan had transformed himself into a learned, refined gentleman.

A part of him felt that all those years of work and sacrifice and struggle had been for this very moment.

So he could stand on equal terms with this mysterious Lady C and actually contemplate a life with her. Dream of keeping this angel at his side forever.

Lady Caro studied the tall, handsome Scot standing beside her easel. Many, many men passed through the Countess’ salon each year. It was easy to blur them all together . . . one hardly different from any other.

But something about Dr. M . . .

Perhaps it was the trace of brogue when he talked. The way his long fingers had clutched the small crystal dish. The curl in his dark hair. The good-natured humor in his brown eyes.

Or maybe it was the sense of careful strength about his large frame—that he could compact all that size and power into the smallest gesture of kindness.

Something in him called to her. A sense of kinship.

You. It’s you. At last. I have waited so long . . .

He studied her drawing a minute longer. She was painfully aware the subject matter was decidedly not
de rigueur
for gently-bred ladies. But the composition compelled her. It always had. All those bodies in motion . . . that moment right as the battle engages . . .

“This piece calls to you, m’lady?”

Ah.
He read her like a book. How delicious to be . . . read.

Dr. M rested his warm gaze on her, sending a thrum down her spine.

She locked eyes with him, helpless to look away. He was life and absolution and
hosanna
.

She wanted to weep. Of course such a man would arrive too late.

“Yes,” she finally said, forcibly turning her head back to her drawing. “I appreciate how Michelangelo captured the moment. How the composition is frozen and yet still pulses with energy.”

He looked at the drawing again, studying it. And then turned back to her, no judgment in his eyes.

“I remember reading about the actual Battle of Cascina at university.” There went that burr again, tugging at her senses. “It was fought outside Pisa against the walls of an abbey. Didn’t Machiavelli say it was the quintessential example of the problem of mercenary armies? It wasn’t about winning or losing. It was about keeping the pot of trouble thoroughly stirred. War and politics . . . they were all a game.”

“Well, naturally, of course. If a battle was decisive, the
condottieri
would find themselves unemployed.”

Dr. M chuckled.

Caro could feel Mary’s gaze in the corner, studying them, ever the diligent chaperone. Fortunately, she would say nothing to the Countess. Mary had once been Caro’s nursemaid, but now Caro just considered her a dear friend.

“The mercenaries rose to great heights, did they not?” Dr. M let the scene of Florence fall back over the Michelangelo copy. “I thought I saw several monuments to them as I strolled through the Duomo yesterday. Many weren’t even Italian.”

“Indeed. John Hawkwood is buried there. He was one of the generals involved in the Battle of Cascina itself—” Caro stopped herself. Would he think her a bluestocking and far too educated for a woman?

“Truly? How remarkable.” Said without a trace of irony or condescension. “You enjoy history then?”

“Exotic foreign battles, princes and dukes vying for power . . . such things always tempt the imagination.”

He smiled again. Wide and charming. Brown eyes dancing.

It made her stomach fluttery.

“Fascinating,” he murmured. Leaving her to wonder exactly
what
he found fascinating.

A painful joy cascaded through her chest.

When was the last time a man had actually listened to her? Spoke with her as an equal? Regarded her as something more than just a . . .
thing
to be admired or acquired?

How glorious to be truly
seen
.

“Ah, there you are, Doctor. Lady Caro.” A cool, aristocratic voice accosted them.

Both Caro and Dr. M froze.

And then slowly pivoted around to greet the Duke of Blackford, strolling across the room toward them.

The doctor came instantly to attention, giving his grace a deep bow. Caro rose and curtsied.

Blackford nodded, stopping in front of them.

Nearly twenty years older than her own twenty-five years, the Duke still retained his youthful looks, mostly attributed to his shock of thick brown hair. He was not a large man, but he exuded the arrogant confidence of someone who did not understand the meaning of the word
No
.

“Lady Caro, I see you have made the acquaintance of my personal physician, Dr. Ethan MacLure.” Blackford gestured to the man at her side.

“Of course,” she whispered.

Of course, Dr. M would be in your employ.

Of course, how foolish to think I could keep him for myself.

“Doctor, this is the charming lady I told you about. The Countess of Albany’s ward, Lady Caro.”

“Of course.” Dr. MacLure’s
of course
echoed her own.

Caro heard what he did not say:

Of course, I knew she was never for me.

Of course, she is the woman you will marry, your Grace.

She could practically s
ee
the moment that Dr. MacLure realized. That like-minds and flutter-inducing smiles would never trump money and rank.

Dr. MacLure’s eyes shuttered, tucking all that lovely warmth and understanding far away.

She swallowed. Her chest suddenly tight and aching.

A woman such as herself had to make do with the few choices she was given. Caro was quite sure she would marry the Duke of Blackford, whether she truthfully wanted to or not.

“Dr. MacLure and I were discussing Florence and its history,” Caro said around the lump in her throat.

“Always an interesting topic.” The Duke’s smile could politely be called condescending. “The doctor is kind to listen to your meandering musings. Though, I am sure one of the dignitaries circling the salon would be a more valuable source of information for the doctor. We would hate to tax your lovely mind, my lady.”

Caro’s smile froze. Most days, her smile rivaled the
matonelle
for brittleness.

She caught Dr. MacLure’s gaze.
Ah.
A smile just as frozen as hers.

Which was exquisitely wonderful and equally terrible all at once.

She did not need to find a kindred spirit. Not now.

Her decisions were not her own.

“Of course, your Grace.” She turned to Blackford. “You are always the soul of consideration.”

Caro tentatively wrapped her hand around the arm the Duke offered, allowing him to lead her back toward the main salon.

Dr. MacLure’s gaze burning a scorching hole between her shoulder blades.

Every impulse in her body resisting the urge to turn back and bury herself in the arms of a kind Scotsman . . .

Twelve

Claire

I
swayed on my feet. Heart pounding. Sweating.

The world righted itself with a lurch.

I was Claire. Claire Raythorn.

Not Caro . . . whoever she had been. Talking to Dr. Ethan MacLure.

I still held Dante’s elbow with one hand. My opposite foot propped open the door to the hallway.

It was like waking from a dream. Time felt fluid. Barely a second had passed, but the scene . . . whatever that was. . . had lasted much longer.

What had happened? Was I hallucinating now too?

Except . . . it had felt so real. I had
been
there. The heat of the sun on my back through the window. The teasing grin on Dr. MacLure’s lips. The deep burr of his Scottish accent. But Michelangelo’s
Battle of Cascina
had made an appearance, which seemed odd.

Did I need to add ‘psychotic episodes’ to my list of problems? The stress of assessing the Colonel’s sketch and my costumed ghost-stalker finally coalescing together into a weird waking dream?

Or had Dante spiked my drink? Wait, he hadn’t offered me one—

What. Just. Happened?!

My pulse pounded in my throat.

Shaking my head, I turned to Dante. His hazel eyes pleading above his duct-taped mouth.

He seemed to blend in that moment, becoming Ethan MacLure but still Dante D’Angelo as well.

Like
déjà vu
but somehow . . . more.

Most importantly, his expression said he
knew
.

Let me repeat—

He. Knew.

How—?!

“You experienced that, too.” It wasn’t a question.

He nodded anyway.

“You
knew
this was going to happen.”

He scrunched his forehead. And then shrugged.

“This has happened to you before.” Again, not a question.

Yes.

“Did you
make
it happen?”

No.

He looked pointedly down at his mouth, nearly going cross-eyed.

“You’ll explain if I remove the tape.”

Another nod.

Fine.

I grabbed the tape and pulled.

“Ouch!” Dante bent over slightly.

Huh. What do you know? Duct tape could be used for waxing.

I pulled him the rest of the way into my hotel room, letting the door close behind us. Helped him penguin-walk down the short hallway and into the main room with its king-size bed, large sitting area and desk.

I
tap-tap-tap
ped my foot while Dante continued to wiggle his mouth.

“Sooooo . . . just waiting for an explanation.”

He threw a glance over his shoulder, arching to see his hands. “I’m pretty sure my answer will be more interesting if I’m not hogtied.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to argue that point right now.”

He glared at me. Stubborn.

“Did you drug me? Force me to share the same hallucination?” I asked.

“Of course not.” His head reared back. “Is that even possible? I don’t think people can share the same hallucin—”

“Then what just happened?!”

He twisted again trying to lift his hands. Looking back at them pointedly.

“Please untie me.”

“No. Tell me what’s going on!”

He waddle-walked three awkward steps to a modern leather and chrome chair. Sat his enormous carcass down with an
oomph
. Leaned back and managed to swing his boots onto the glass-top coffee table.