Gladly Beyond (15 page)

“And that’s your story?”

“Yep.”

“Sticking to it?”

“Like stink on a skunk.”

“No stories of punking wasted prep school boys?”

“Not tonight.”

“Restraining difficult clients?”

“Are you done?”

“Just pointing out what would have been more believable.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Thank you.”

She stood up and bit off another section of tape.

“Now what?” I asked.

Without further ado, she slapped the small strip of tape over my mouth.

Shutting me up.

Annnnnnd, now I was going to have to kill her.

She noted my laser death-stare and, then, did the worst thing possible.

She . . . laughed.

The most mischievous sound. Throaty. A little naughty. Completely infectious.

Everything about her changed. Her eyes sparked and crinkled. Her cheeks plumped, revealing a tiny dimple just below her right eye. Open. Fun-loving. Ready to laugh her way through life.

Madonna mia.

It was worth being hogtied just to see her face in that moment. No wonder she didn’t laugh much. It was fairly lethal.

“C’mon, big guy.” She tucked a hand around my left elbow. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

Still grinning, she turned me toward the small elevator. She was enjoying this way too much.

I would so make her pay.

Once she untied me. And decided we were friends.

And I earned her undying trust.

Then . .
. payback time.

I awkward-shuffled my way past the front desk/office, only able to move my legs from the knees down.

I was pretty sure I looked like a drunk penguin.

Poor Matteo had definitely had an eyeful by this point. He shot me a broad wink. Obviously, he anticipated my evening would be significantly more exciting than I did.

If only he knew . . .

Smiling far too smugly, Claire loaded me into the closet-like elevator and took us up a floor.

“Ya know, this really did work,” she said as she helped me waddle down the hallway. “I feel so much safer now.”

I mumbled behind my tape.

“What was that?”

I stopped and glared down at her.

She chuckled.

That smile, those lips . . . she was going to be the death of me. A very sweet and pleasant death, mind you. But a death all the same.

She paused in front of her door, pulling a keycard from her jeans pocket.

My adrenaline spiked.

Would a regression happen? And if it did, what would we experience?

Would I only see death and horror? Or did other life experiences merit a regression too?

The other times, I had been caught unawares—tossed into the past before I could process what was happening.

But now . . .

Claire pushed the door open and, holding it with her foot, reached for my elbow, helping me forward.

Across the threshold.

Lights flickered on.

I glimpsed a hallway leading to a larger space with high, gilded ceilings.

And then everything faded.

The world spun. My taped hands and legs released.

Suddenly, I was walking through the doorway.

Same high, gilded ceilings. French paper and carved moldings on the walls. Herringbone wood floor. No furniture.

A young woman sat directly ahead, wrapped in a pool of light from the open window behind her.

At last,
I thought.
I have found you, my angel . . .

Eleven

D
octor Ethan MacLure walked a few steps into the room, staring at the ethereal sight before him.

Feeling like a man deep in his cups, head floating in that odd combination of euphoria and bonhomie.

A woman sat in a simple slat-backed chair, facing away from the window. Brilliant sunlight washed over her, wrapping around the white of her muslin, high-waisted dress and turning her hair into molten honey.

She braced one hand against a large, paper-draped board on an easel, chalk in the other. Sketching. Like a goddess . . . Athena in her bower. All she lacked was an owl of wisdom on her shoulder.

His eyes skimmed the length of her straight nose, rose cheeks that ended at a pointed chin.

Did even heaven itself possess such an angel? How had this creature found her way into this place?

Ethan walked farther into the room. The angel-woman didn’t raise her head, her attention absorbed.

An older woman in a mobcap and apron
did
notice him, however. She raked his figure from top to bottom and then returned to her stitching. The angel’s chaperone, no doubt.

The noise of the salon drifted through the open door behind him. Voices chattering in a garbled mixture of English, French and Italian. A couple wandered into the room walking past Ethan, perhaps intent on moving through to the room ahead.

He looked back at the woman seated before the window. Aching to know everything about her.

Or, barring that, her name at the very least.

He should wait for an introduction. That was only proper.

But the rules of propriety felt far away here. This was no London drawing room. Not even Edinburgh and home with his mother and sister.

The light enfolded her body, turning her into gold-rimmed curves and valleys. What was it about her that drew him so insistently?

Unbidden, the words flitted through his head again:

At last, I have found you,
m‘aingeal
.

His heart pounded out of his chest. Like a courser, eager to be let loose and given its head.

And still the angel-woman sketched. Ignoring the world around her.

Who was she?

Most high-born visitors to Florence found their way into this house eventually. Even the not-so-high-born ones, like Ethan himself. All and sundry wanted a tale of the elderly Countess of Albany to take home.

The Countess held salons, famed as much for what they did
not
provide, as for what they did.

A footman paused at Ethan’s elbow, holding out a tray of small crystal dishes, each sporting a tiny silver spoon nestled against a perfectly round, pale pink ball. With a polite nod, Ethan took a dish from the tray.

Refreshment was part of what the Countess
did
provide. That and scintillating conversation.

However, such was the beginning and end of her hospitality.

Ethan held the dish carefully as he surveyed the room.

It was just like the room behind him and surely the same as the room ahead.

Beautiful architectural creations with carved moldings and soaring vaults. Expensive Venetian wallpaper and polished wood floors. Marble-mantled fireplaces flanking each end.

Not a stick of furniture in sight. No carpets. No drapery. Nothing. The rooms were utterly bare of furnishings of any sort.

The Countess reserved her spartan collection of mis-matched chairs for herself and a few old cronies. Their cackling laughter drifted through the open door.

Visitors had to make do with standing—including chaperones, judging by the woman upright in the corner—ensuring that no one stayed long enough to wear out their welcome.

Except, apparently, the angel in front of the window who had also procured a chair for her comfort while drawing.

Again, who was she?

Still holding his dish, Ethan crossed the room to her. The sunlight curled around her head, threading through the ringlets framing her face. Her hair was more brown than golden, he noted as he drew near, but the light played tricks with its color.

She focused on her work with dogged intent, biting her bottom lip between her teeth in a gesture that surely had vexed more than one governess. Why did that simple act feel so achingly familiar?

“If you mean to offer me the
mattonelle
, I must refuse,” she said, setting her chalk down and studying her work. “They are far too dangerous for one of even my skill.”

She spoke without raising her head. Her cultured English wrapping through the quiet room.

Confused, Ethan glanced behind him. The other couple in the room were turned away.

“Yes, I am speaking to you,” she continued as he turned back. Still without raising her head.

Well.

His heart triple-skipped. He added
flirtatious
and
charming
to her list of angelic attributes.

Hallelujah.

“
Mattonelle
?” he asked, grin tugging at his lips.

She lifted her head (finally) and fixed him with the
bluest
eyes . . . the color of a frozen loch in January. Ethan found himself quite unable to breathe for a moment.

She motioned toward the dish he still held. And then bent back over her work, studying some aspect of it.

Oh.

He glanced down at the dish. The small pink ball appeared frosted on the outside, despite the warm June weather.

“I am just arrived in Florence,” he said. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to aid a traveler in a foreign land?”

She raised her head and raked him again with those diamond-blue eyes. And then primly folded her hands in her lap, pressing her lips together.

“Though your appeal has not fallen on deaf ears, I must maintain my neutrality.”

“Ah. Like Florence with Napoleon?”

“Precisely. I am merely preserving a long-held tradition. The
mattonelle
are more of an . . . initiation. A rite of passage, if you will, to unite you and your fellow travelers.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow, his grin widening.

“This?” He raised his dish.

“That.” She nodded.

He made a production of studying it, lifting the dish into the sunlight, sending shards of prism rainbows across the room.

“It appears quite harmless.”

She said nothing in reply.

“Is the danger in its taste?” he asked.

“I would not dream of spoiling the surprise.”

She matched his eyebrow. It had a decidedly challenging edge.

Ethan’s grin widened. “Well, I canna say I have ever been one to back down from a dare. No self-respecting Scotsman would.”

With a salute, he picked up the small silver spoon and dug emphatically into the round ball.

Mattonelle.

Or whatever it was.

But as soon as his spoon jabbed the frosted pink sphere—

The ball shot out of the dish. Bounced loudly against the gilded wainscoting. Thumped twice on the wood floor. Before coming to rest at the lass’s feet.

Ethan froze, spoon poised in one hand, dish raised in the other.

The angel-woman laughed. A joyful peal of sound.

“I see,” he said, lowering both items.

“Welcome to Florence, sir.” She gave him a grin, which could only be described as impish. Infectious.

He added
captivating
to his list.

Smiling himself, Ethan bent and carefully picked up the
matonelle
, placing it back in his dish. It was very cold to the touch.

“
Mattonelle
means tile in Italian,” she said. “The Countess finds it amusing to freeze ice cream to the consistency of marble and feed it to the unsuspecting.”

“They are quite dangerous.”

“Indeed. A Prussian count nearly took out the eye of the Sicilian ambassador last week with a
mattonelle
missile. The Countess only pretended to be horrified. I fear she will start another war with them one day.”

Ethan laughed. “She will be known as the Ice Cream Tyrant of Europe.”

The angel-woman returned a smile. Utterly charming. “Once they melt sufficiently, they are actually quite delicious. I believe today’s
matonelle
are infused with rose petals, as they are finally in season.”

Who was this creature? She was obviously familiar with the Countess and these salons.

His heart continued its painful thumping, demanding he
do
something about the emotion scouring his veins.

He swallowed. “I should not be speaking with you. ’Tis not proper.”

The angel-woman laughed again. “Ah, yes. We would hate to provide fodder for the scandal sheets, if there
were
such a thing in Florence. Surely tomorrow they would run a scathing report, ‘While at the Countess of A’s salon, the infamous Lady C was caught in
un
-introduced conversation with the noble Mr. . . .’?” Her voice trailed into a question mark.

“
Doctor
M,” Ethan supplied with a grin.

“Oh. Doctor M. Most excellent.”

“At your service, Lady C.” He bowed.

Their eyes met and held. And held.

A lengthy pause ensued.

A thousand emotions flashing.

Though now a well-educated doctor, Ethan’s entrance into this world had been much more humble. Perhaps too humble to fix his attentions on a woman such as this.

But he had clawed and crawled to this point in the world. And he was Scottish to his core; he would never back down from a challenge.

“Well,” Ethan nodded. “I fear we must brave the report of nonexistent scandal sheets, Lady C. I find it difficult to readily quit such charming company.”