The gentle teasing of his words had conjured a smile on her lips.
Of course, Tristan’s support hadn’t stopped gossiping tongues. Many within theton(rightly) believed Allie to be the anonymous Italian highwaywoman from Ethan’s poem and castigated her reputation accordingly.
For her part, Allie failed to care. Others could believe what they would. None of it impacted her love for Ethan. Or the joy of their life together.
She and Ethan had decided to spend the first years of their marriage abroad. There was so much of the world to see, and Allie couldn’t wait to explore it all with Ethan.
Granted, they only made it as far as Venice before the lure of her roots had called. Though they had already spent a month in the city, neither of them wished to quit it anytime soon.
For her part, Allie was appalled that she had once aspired to a future alone, to a crippled idea of freedom. Nothing was more freeing than resting in the arms of one you loved and trusted so implicitly.
A gentle breeze stirred the gauzy curtains once more, holding the worst of the scorching Venetian sun at bay.
Ethan bent and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. Sighing, Allie ran her palms up his chest.
“I wrote ye a poem yesterday, lass,” he murmured against her mouth.
“A poem?”
“Aye. To commemorate our meeting almost two years ago today.”
“Is that so?” Allie frowned, thinking over the timeline. “I daresay you’re right. It has been two years.”
“I always am,” he replied.
Allie laughed and nipped his shoulder.
“Our visit to theBasilica di San Marcoyesterday inspired me,” Ethan continued. Rolling onto his back, he reached for the bedside table and the leather-bound notebook there.
Over the course of their courtship and marriage, Ethan had written Allie a number of poems. In fact, she was currently encouraging him to submit them to his publisher—a volume of love poetry that would be sure to set his female acolytes to swooning.
But that didn’t stop her own stomach from swooping at the thought of hearing her husband’s words addressed directly to her.
Notebook in hand, Ethan turned to her, propping himself once more on an elbow, the notebook resting on the sheets as he flipped through the pages.
Allie ogled him unabashedly—the fan of lashes across his cheek, the lopsided purse of his mouth . . .
He lifted his head and gave her that grin—her favorite one. “If ye keep staring at me like that, wife, ye will distract me from reading this.”
Allie ran her fingertips along his jaw. He turned his head and kissed them.
“Read to me, Ethan,” she whispered.
Smile turning softer, Ethan read from his journal.
“My lady,
To begin, I will lay a stone.
A tow’ring bulwark of bright hope
Placed ‘neath the growing cathedral
Of our love.”
The lilt of his brogue threaded between each syllable. Allie sighed, resting her temple against his forearm. “You compared our marriage to building a cathedral.”
“Aye. Hush, now. Let me finish.”
