“I’ve been riding a time or two,” she admitted reluctantly, remembering one successful trip around the lake and another painful excursion in the mountains when she was younger.
But she was pretty sure she could do it. Given a choice, she would rather have walked with him all the way. But he was obviously in a hurry today. That was disappointing. But at least the trip was still on. She ought to be grateful for that.
“Don’t worry, Mimi is gentle as a lamb,” he told her, reaching out to stroke the downy nose of a gray mare with a black, silky mane. “She’ll treat you right.” His face softened as the horse nuzzled into the palm of his hand with clear affection. “Won’t you, girl?”
Isabella watched, surprised to see him show such open emotion so effortlessly. That made her wonder what he’d been like before the accident that had scarred him. Had he been happy? Carefree? Had affection come naturally to him? Somehow she thought so. What a blessing it would be if somehow she could help him get that life back.
She bit her lip, knowing how ridiculous that thought was. She had no business thinking it. His life had nothing to do with her. Hadn’t he even told her so? But as she watched him gently stroke the beautiful horse, she found herself wondering if the touch of his hand was as gentle when he stroked a woman, and she flushed.
And then it came to her in a flash of intuition—this had been his wife’s horse. Of course. And that made her even more nervous about riding.
But the mounting went fine and soon they were trotting slowly out of the yard and onto the fields of the estate, she on Mimi and Max on the stunning black stallion he had been riding the night they’d met. Very quickly, she began to feel at ease, as though she were an experienced rider herself. Mimi was the perfect mount for a greenhorn such as she was.
The day was gorgeous, bright and breezy and full of promise. They were riding over territory she’d never been through before, rolling hills and green meadows. And then they came over a rise and below them spread an ancient vineyard with grape stakes as far as she could see.
She pulled the horse to a stop and made an exclamation of surprise as she looked at the limitless plain of struggling grape plants.
“What is this?” she asked him.
He leaned forward in the saddle and gazed at the expanse of it with one hand shading his eyes.
“This was once the Rossi vineyard,” he said, his voice even and emotionless. “It supplied grapes for our small family winery, an enterprise that lasted for a couple of hundred years.” He paused, then added dispassionately, “It was abandoned almost ten years ago.”
“Abandoned? Why?”
He didn’t turn to meet her gaze, and for a long moment, he didn’t answer. Watching him, she suddenly realized his neck was strained, as though he were holding something back, something painful. Her breath caught in her throat. She wanted to reach out to him, to touch him, but she didn’t dare. So she waited, and finally he spoke.
“I’m sure you know that I was married when I was younger. And that my…my wife died.” His voice almost choked, but he went on firmly. “At the time it happened, everything stopped. Life stopped.”
Turning, he stared into her eyes as though he was forcing himself to do it. “I mean that literally. All the workers were sent away, except a bare skeleton crew to keep the place from completely reverting to the wild.” His eyes seemed to burn. “And I’ve never seen a good reason to bring any of them back.” He stared at her a moment longer, then looked away. “It’s better this way.”
She shook her head. Better for whom? she wanted to say. But who was she to tell him how to live his life?
“It seems so lonely,” was all she dared put out. “And such a waste.”
He shrugged again. “There are plenty of vineyards in Italy,” he said, giving his horse a snicker that started him moving again. “One more or less won’t make a difference.”
She sighed. So he thought she was talking about his grape plants? Well, maybe she was. But she’d meant a lot more than that. A waste, indeed.
They crested another hill and found a small forest barely protecting a group of small stone buildings.
“What’s that?” she called to him, pointing at it.
He turned and looked, then grinned at her. “The family crypt,” he said. “Want to see it?”
“Oh! Yes.”
He helped her dismount and they tied the horses to a gate, then walked slowly into the little glen that held his ancestors’ graves. The garden was overgrown, but not completely shabby. His caretaker had kept it decent, if not pristine. There was a small pond with tiny flashing fishes darting back and forth, a rose garden and a marble chapel. And behind them all was a larger, brooding stone building that had served as a mausoleum to the Rossi family through the Middle Ages and beyond.
Isabella loved it. The place seemed like a secret, enchanted garden, full of history and family stories. But what was most stunning to her as she rounded a corner was a life-size marble statue of a half-naked man with a sword held at the ready guarding the entrance. Carved at the base of the marble was the name Adonis Salviati Di Rossi, 1732-1801.
Isabella gasped, hands to her mouth, then whirled to face Max, who was right behind her.
“It looks just like you!” she cried.
He tried to keep a solemn face and raised one eyebrow cynically, but his pleased sense of humor was hard to hide. It shone from his dark eyes and along the lines that framed his wide mouth. This statue had been a source of teasing and torture for him in his younger days. His friends and cousins had called him “Adonis” and joked about reincarnation and ghostly presences. In fact, Isabella hadn’t been the first to call him a vampire. His childhood playmates had done it as well.
He’d forgotten how much he hated it then. Now, it just seemed amusing.
“How would you know?” he challenged her. “You’re not really sure what I look like at all.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, no doubt in her mind. “I know exactly what you look like.”
She said it with such firm confidence, he looked at her, bemused. He felt so comfortable around her. Whenever he looked into her eyes, all he saw was a candid sort of joy in life. He hadn’t believed her when she’d first told him she didn’t see him as ugly. But ever since, he hadn’t been able to detect one sign of anything negative in her eyes, and he’d definitely been looking for it.
Still, he had to remember that she represented nothing but peril to him. She appealed to him, emotionally, physically, temperamentally—in every way possible. He wanted to be with her. He wanted to hear her laugh. He wanted to feel her in his arms. There was no denying the fact that she made him happy—happier than he’d been in years.
Happier than he had any right to be.
And that was the danger. He had no business dragging her into his private limbo of a life. He would do what he could to help her with her herbal requirements, but that was all. Once he had her supplied, she would be on her way and he wouldn’t see her again. Ever again.
At
