His lungs heaved. Over her shoulder, Fabrizio sent Ethan a death stare as he mounted his horse.
“God’s speed,la mia ladra,” Ethan murmured. Swallowing hard, he planted a kiss on her palm.
“You, as well, Poet,” she said softly.
And then, she straightened her shoulders, her gray eyes hardening to tempered steel—a huntress donning her armor.
Chin high, she turned round to her comrades and, placing a foot in Fabrizio’s stirrup, pulled herself up to ride pillion in front of him. The highwayman wrapped a possessive hand around her waist before sending Ethan a sneering look and kneeing his horse into a gallop. The rest of the gang followed after.
Ethan’s weeladradid not look back.
She was a thief in every way, he realized . . . his pocketbook, his watch, his revolver, and—devil take her—a sizable wedge of his heart.
Ethan was quite sure he would never be the same.
He watched until the highwaymen had disappeared into the surrounding forest, leaving only the chirp of cicadas and the lone call of a circling hawk.
Aye.
He may have lost the lady, but in a sense, that scarcely mattered.
Every experience, he knew, provided fodder for writing.
And this particular turn of events?
Well, he intended to shape them into a poem so epic, Shakespeare himself would writhe in jealousy.
Allegra Barozzi dreamedof a different life.
One in which she had enough coin to be free of constant worry. A place where she did not have to depend upon someone else—translation:a man—to support her.
In short, she yearned for freedom.
But for all her dreaming, Allie was a cold-eyed realist.
And realistically, she was currently as liberated as she was likely ever to become.
She sat on a cushioned window seat, slowly fanning herself and staring sightlessly out over the twilight mountain landscape. The setting sun painted the gray granite peaks of the Dolomites in shades of pink and orange. TheRosengarten,this particular grouping was called in German . . . a rose garden for the colorful beauty of the mountaintops at sunset.
Tonight, Allie scarcely registered the stunning vista.
Outside her door, the raucous noise of her comrades celebrating echoed up the stairwell. Of course, the extra bottles of wine Allie had gifted them likely contributed. She enjoyed sharing any largess that fell her way.
“You did well today,cara,” Fabrizio Sacci said for easily the tenth time, his Italian laced with the crisp staccato of his Lombardian roots. He stood near the unlit fireplace, twirling the Scotsman’s expensive revolver with one hand and holding a glass of finechianti rossoin the other. Their mountain villa may be rustic, but it was well-provisioned.
Allie did not acknowledge Fabrizio’s words.
He had to know he had crossed a line with the poet today—striking the Scot and then threatening more. In hindsight, she should have anticipated Fabrizio’s temper.
Allie, Fabrizio, and their band belonged toLa Giovine Italia, a political uprising determined to consolidate all of Italy into a single, unified republic. After all, the Italian peninsula had not been united since the fall of the Roman empire.La Giovine Italiawanted to see arisorgimento—a resurgence of the grandeur of Italy’s past achievements.
The robberies were merely a way to shuttle needed funds to the movement.
For her part, Allie was less interested in the cause and more dedicated to her own personal freedom—keeping her stomach full, her wardrobe in decent repair, and enough coin in her pocket to prevent having to become an old lady’s paid companion or some arrogant lordling’s mistress.
Being treated as a valuable cog inLa Giovine Italia’sorganizational machine was merely a lovely bonus.
Consequently, over the past five years, she had assisted Fabrizio in scores of heists.
