And pack her trunk and abscond before she didsomething ridiculous...like beg Alis for funds to purchase a railway ticket.
Alis frowned, likely seeing right through Chrissi’s onion-paper of an excuse.
“Of course,” he said.
“I do hope you feel well soon,” Miss Rollins said, her blue eyes limpid with concern. “We are all so delighted to have ye here.”
Not for long if Chrissi could help it.
“Thank you,” she nodded, turning for the door.
But not before witnessing Alis and Miss Rollins bending their heads together once more, the sound of his deep bass chuckle all but chasing Chrissi from the room.
May 2, 1849
Fiesole, Italy
“THERE YE BE, Miss Rutherford.”
Chrissi looked up as Mr. Maclagan’s shadow fell across the sketchbook she had spread atop her skirts, pencil gliding as she practiced her drawing skills.
Her heart frolicked in her chest, happy as a week-old lamb at the sight of him.
Over the past fortnight, she and Mr. Maclagan had shared stolen glances, speaking to one another whenever possible.
But this was the first time he had deliberately sought her out.
“Mr. Maclagan.” She shielded her eyes to gaze up at him. “Well met.”
Grinning, he sat down on the grass beside her.
“’Tis a bonnie spot ye have here, lass.” He wrapped his arms around his knees, taking in the view.
It was indeed bonnie, as he had said. Set upon the hill rising to Fiesole, the grassy knoll—dotted with wildflowers and roses in bloom—provided a stunning vista of Florence. In the distance, a sea of terracotta roof tiles undulated beneath towers and domes—the medieval spire of Santa Croce, Brunelleschi’s dome, the crenelated defenses of the Palazzo Vecchio.
Of course, Chrissi only wanted to look athim. To ponder the smooth skin of his neck and watch the wind ruffle his hair.
“I come here when I wish to think. And sketch, obviously.” She tilted her sketchbook toward him.
He smiled politely, but Chrissi knew her drawing skills were average at best. Nothing like the drawings she had seen him produce—plants and stone and bits of history. The world came alive under his pencil.
Thankfully, he nodded approvingly at her sketch before lifting his warm brown eyes to her face. Chrissi willed herself not to blush.
“And what thoughts grace your lovely head, Miss Rutherford?”
Lovely.
Her cheeks burned.
Later, Chrissi would wonder if perhaps it was the compliment that loosened her tongue. Or maybe just the thrill of having Alistair Maclagan’s attention focused on her, gaze earnest and listening.
Regardless, she confessed, “I wish to write. To see my ideas about archeology published in journals like my father.”
His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Ye can do that as a woman?”
“No.” The word emerged half sigh, half defeat. “That is the rub, obviously. My femaleness.”
The fire in his brown eyes stated, rather clearly, thatheconsidered her femaleness to be rather delightful.
