a finger at Archer. ‘You will learn. It’s the contrada above all else. My Bettina, though, your zia, was the old priore’s daughter so we are never separated.’ There was no mistaking the pride in Giacomo’s voice in having married a Torre woman. This was a new world indeed, his mother’s world, Archer reminded himself. She’d grown up in the contrada.
Giacomo clapped him on the back. ‘Do you have your eye on a pretty signorina already? Perhaps you refused my help because you have spied a pretty girl for yourself?’
Archer was tempted to tell him about Elisabeta, but thought better of it. If she had been from an enemy contrada it would only make trouble if he pursued her. Anyway, he wasn’t looking for a permanent relationship. But that didn’t stop him from thinking about her as they stepped into a few shops to meet some of the family’s especial friends. Was Elisabeta out in her neighbourhood doing errands? Talking with shopkeepers? Was she with friends? Another man?
Had he merely been an escape for her? Maybe he’d merely been part of a fantasy or the madness of the summer night? She’d not wanted to be followed. There were only so many reasons for that; none of them suggested she was unattached and free to make her own decisions. He should let it be and accept it for what it was: a few glorious moments. Yet, the thoughts persisted. Where was she? What was she doing? Archer chuckled to himself. He knew already he couldn’t just let it go. Against his better judgement, he was going to find her.
* * *
She was picking petals off a rose like a silly school girl. ‘He loves me, he loves me not.’ The foolishness made her laugh. Elisabeta snipped the roses and put them in her basket. To be honest, love had nothing to do with it. All right, then, she amended: he lusts me, he lusts me not. Even here in her uncle’s garden in the full light of day, thoughts of last night managed to bring a blush to her cheeks and a heat to her body that had nothing to do with the sun. Those thoughts made her want.
More.
Of him.
Pleasure once tasted was proving to be a potent elixir with a power, she suspected, to addict. Once was not enough. What a lovely addiction that would be. What an unexpected one. When she’d sought out her stranger, she’d not expected this wanting as a consequence. He was to remain a stranger, a man to whom she had no ties. But she’d come away with a name and a longing to have him again. Already, she was wondering if that name would be enough to find him. Over breakfast she’d reasoned an English name couldn’t be terribly hard to find among all of these Italian names. Nor was Siena so big that she wouldn’t be apt to run into him if she went to the city centre often enough. Surely, those odds would be in her favour if she chose to exercise them.
By the time she’d wandered out to the garden to pick flowers, the issue was no longer a question of finding him, but a question of did she truly want to? Her curiosity said yes. It was her curiosity that had driven her to distraction this morning with its questions filling her mind: Where was he now? What was he doing? Had he woken to thoughts of her? Had he dreamt of her? Did he too regret their veiled identities?
Then again, perhaps it was better to wonder than to know. The pleasure he’d offered might only have been the luck of the night, the work of the stars and summer magic. Surely such pleasure was not commonplace? It most certainly didn’t happen all the time. She’d lived her entire marriage without it and she would likely live through another without it, proof enough that Archer’s pleasures could not be conjured on a whim nor by just any man or woman. It would be a shame to have him again only to be disappointed by the ordinary nature of their lovemaking. Better to let him become memory.
‘Cousin! There you are. I’ve been calling for you.’ Giuliano came striding down the path, playful mischief sparking in his dark eyes. ‘Have we been daydreaming over our handsome stranger?’ he teased. ‘You were quick to disappear last night.’
She gave Giuliano a saucy grin in return, her good spirits making her reckless. ‘I told you I’d have him.’
Giuliano leaned in close, a grin on his face. ‘And did you? Have him?’
Elisabeta gave him a light punch on the arm. ‘You’re wicked. Besides, a lady never tells.’ She paused and gave him a considering look. ‘What of the lovely Widow Rossi? Did you have her?’
Giuliano groaned and had the good grace to look down at the ground. ‘Point taken.’ But a moment later any penitence he felt over probing into her personal affairs had vanished. ‘Will you see him again?’
Elisabeta shrugged and moved on to a new collection of flowers, trying to keep her actions nonchalant. She did not want to give too much away to Giuliano. He was reckless and there was no telling what he might do. ‘Of course not. We didn’t exchange enough information for that.’
Giuliano followed her, far too astute in the games of amore to take her response as a direct or even accurate answer. His voice was low now, his tone compelling. ‘But would you? If you could?’
Elisabeta fixed her cousin with a cool stare, trying to keep her pulse from racing. ‘What do you know?’
‘There’s an Englishman in town. There was word of it when I ran my errands this morning. He’s the nephew of Giacomo Ricci, the horse trainer who lives in Torre.’
The information was better than a name and it was worse. She could find him, she knew who his people were and where. But it didn’t help her cause. Her eyes held Giuliano’s and a silent message passed between them. Both of them were serious now. Love stopped being a game once the contradas were involved.
She could go to Archer. But did she dare? Beside her, Giuliano gave a short nod. ‘It’s probably best your answer is no.’ The Oca contrada’s sworn enemy was Torre and while that might not matter to her uncle, it would matter to her future husband’s contrada.
‘Then why did you tell me? I do not think of you as generally unkind,’ Elisabeta scolded quietly. Perhaps it was far crueller to know she could not have him. It was not like Giuliano to tease meanly.
He ducked his head. ‘Forgive me. Last night you said you were desirous of avoiding your engagement. I thought only to give you a choice, Cousin.’
‘Your father would never forgive me.’ Elisabeta played idly with the stems of the flowers in her basket.
‘My father need not know,’ Giuliano countered. ‘You have done your duty for the family in marrying Lorenzo. You may even do it again in another marriage very soon, but in the interim, perhaps you owe yourself some pleasure?’ The argument was so very compelling, maybe because it was the same argument she’d made with herself. To hear it validated by another made it all the more persuasive.
‘No one can know,’ Elisabeta said out loud, more to herself than to Giuliano, but it was Giuliano who replied.
‘He is English. He is not one of us. He will leave. He will be a thousand miles away. While you think it over, say you’ll come with me to see the horses for the August Palio. Father wants me to go out to the farm tomorrow.’
Elisabeta barely heard the invitation. She was too focused on the unspoken rationale. No one will ever know. Suddenly the risk seemed minimal against all that stood to be gained. Only two questions remained: Did she dare? What would she risk to see Archer again? And perhaps more importantly, what did it mean to her and why? What had started out as a spontaneous dare had taken on something much deeper and more significant if she cared to explore it.
