They spoke of poetry for nearly an hour, arguing over Shakespeare’s love of metaphor and Dante’s use of meter.
This woman . . .
Beautiful, flirtatious,andeducated?
Bloody hell.
Ethan wanted to know every wee thing about her. Every detail of her history—her upbringing and parentage, her deceased husband and her life with him, why she was traveling on this dangerous mountain road and where she was headed.
Lines of poetry thrummed through his brain.
. . . ruby-soaked lips . . .
. . . a raven of grief rimmed in angelic light . . .
He would pen scores of poems in her honor.
She could be Beatrice to his Dante, Laura to his Petrarch.
He itched to begin. To immortalize this lady in words.
But first . . .
“And your name, madam?” he asked when their conversation lulled. “I have been so lost in our conversation, I neglected to perform an introduction.”
A wee smile touched her lips. Instead of answering, she relaxed back in her seat and removed her gloves, tugging at each finger in turn. Ethan stared in fascination, helpless to look away. Like the rest of her person, her hands were fine-boned and elegantly made. She folded the gloves neatly before tucking them into a pocket in her skirts. From that same pocket, she produced a fan, waving it to cool herself.
Bright August sun beat upon the roof of the carriage. Had they been traveling through the swamplands inland from Venice, they would have been red-faced and dripping in the humid heat. Thankfully, the climb into the Alps had lowered the outside temperature to more tolerable levels.
Still, several beads of perspiration gathered at her temples, damp jewels sparkling in the dim carriage.
“Il mio nome?” she repeated in Italian and then slowly shook her head. “Penso di no. I believe I prefer to remain a mystery.”
“I see.” He heaved a sigh. “I fear I shall have tae name ye myself then.” A pause. “Bellissima.”
“Bellissima?” she sniffed. “I am more than a pretty face,signore.”
“Of that, I have no doubt,Bella Mia.”
“Bella Mia?My beautiful one? You repeat yourself, sir, and show little creativity. Are you sure you are a poet?” She pointed her fan at his notebook. “Or perhaps yourabilitàwith the pen fails when challenged?”
Ethan mimed picking up and dusting off the gauntlet she had just figuratively laid at his feet. “Challenge accepted,La Mia Sirena.”
His actions startled a throaty laugh from her. “A siren? Are we to speak of Homer next? Or do you fear I shall lure you to your death?”
“Perhaps.” He leaned forward, bracing a hand on his knee in the swaying coach and permitting his gaze to drop to her mouth. “But what a sweet death it would be.”
The lady’s gray eyes flashed. She looked at him steadily as she fanned her face. With a quick grin, Ethan bent to tuck his notebook into the satchel at his feet.
When he lifted his head, the lady was in the process of removing her bonnet and veil, revealing a wealth of dark hair coiled atop her head.
The maid at her elbow stirred at the movement before sinking back into slumber.
“Fa caldo, no?” The lady set her bonnet and veil in her lap and then fanned herself more vigorously.
“Aye, ’tis quite warm today. Is that what I should call ye, then?Focosa?”
Yes, the word suited her—fiery, spirited.
