Prologue
A mountain road north of Venice, Italy
August 1846
The lady was hauntingly beautiful.
Ethan Penn-Leith hated the mundanity of the thought—the uninspired diction, the lack of poetic creativity.
However, the loveliness of the woman before him scattered his wits so thoroughly, it took all his willpower not to stare in slack-jawed stupor.
He felt stunned.
So stunned, in fact, that the flimsy sentence appeased him with its accuracy.
The lady sat opposite him in the jolting hired coach. A gauzy black veil consigned her eyes to glittering shadows, leaving only a pert nose, the elegant slash of a jaw, and the lush pout of her red lips visible. The severe cut of her gown revealed an enticingly curved figure, the sort designed to draw a man’s attention.
A fairytale bound in tight-cut silk.
The line of poetry flitted through his mind.
Aye, the lady was that and more.
Her presence in a hired carriage on a perilous mountain road implied she possessed courage and pluck.
The maid at her side indicated she was a noblewoman of some means.
The unrelenting black of her clothing suggested she was in mourning. Was it too cruel to hope the deceased had been her husband?
Heaven should strike Ethan down for such a thought.
And yet . . .
The carriage rocked over the rugged roadway, jostling his shoulder into a rotund man-of-business who sat sleeping beside him. The man snorted and half-opened his eyes before drifting off once more, head tilted back against the squabs.
Opposite, the beautiful lady demurely lowered her head. What color were the eyes hidden beneath her veil? Ethan’s poetic soul thrived on details, and he detested that this wee one eluded him.
Ye are still staring, ye eejit.
Right.
Ethan tugged a pencil and leather-bound notebook from his coat pocket, hoping to distract his thoughts by cataloging impressions.
Briefly, he wondered how his older brother, Malcolm, might describe the scene. No doubt, Malcolm would say something deeply philosophical about the fleeting nature of external beauty and the importance of inner virtue. However two years ago, Ethan had stopped looking to Malcolm for inspiration, vowing to rely on his own thoughts alone.
To that end, Ethan imagined recounting his current situation before a blazing fire in the taproom of the Lion Arms in his home village of Fettermill, Scotland.
I was in Italy, riding in avetturini. Imagine it like a yellow bounder—an Italian post-chaise. Only in Italy, ye can share a post-chaise with strangers. The coachman, thevetturino,sees tae everything for the passengers—arranging the coach, horses, lodging, and food. ’Tis more comfortable and safe than aDiligenza, the public stagecoach.
I had been traveling in thevetturinialongside a man-of-business from Padua when we stopped in Belluno, a wee village surrounded by granite peaks. Travelers fear bandits in the high Alpine passes, but I had come prepared.
While in Belluno, a bonnie lady and her maid joined us. The lady was exquisite. Imagine a Renaissance Madonna without a gilded halo—
No. That wasn’t quite right.
Perhaps—
She was a Mediterranean siren, akin to the one Odysseus faced as he—
