That, in essence, was Chris.
He happened to be watching out the great hall window the next morning when she opened his sketchbook to the illustrations he had created the previous afternoon.
Holding the illustrations in one hand, she touched her fingertips to the drawing.
Alistair felt the touch as surely as if she had skimmed her hand across the back of his neck.
As if sensing his gaze, she whirled her head, eyes lifting to his.
Grinning wildly, she waved at him and then hugged the sketchbook to her chest, simultaneously communicating her gratitude and approval of his drawings.
He raised a hand in reply, his heartbeat tingling in his palms.
Alistair had thought his love for her dead.
Instead, he feared that he had merely buried it deep.
And like her excavation, day by day, she unearthed a wee bit more of the adoration that had once flowered in his own chest.
Was it even possible to return to what they had once had...to regain trust and harmony? Or would his sins forever stand between them?
And, most importantly, did he wish to try to make amends for his folly?
He continued to see Miss Rollins, and though he appreciated her sweet nature and gentle ways, he recognized the simplicity of his feelings for her. There were no depths to be explored there. No mounds to excavate or promises of hidden treasures.
Being with Miss Rollins felt akin to a stroll through Princes Street Gardens in Edinburgh on a fine day—pleasant, easy, enjoyable.
Nothing like the heady joy of chasing Chris through an olive orchard in Fiesole, her helpless giggles drawing him onward. Or the euphoria of catching her about the waist and turning her to him, her arms reaching to pull his head down for a scorching kiss.
Granted, it was hardly fair to make such a comparison.
He was not the carefree youth he had been at age twenty-one, starry-eyed and believing in the power of love. Trusting that he and Chris would transcend every problem, every issue that might arrive.
And yet . . .
The memory of that love would not let him be.
A spark remained between Chris and himself. An ember slowly glowing back to life.
Three days later, he sat in his study pondering that ember, contemplating the wisdom of fanning the spark of their attraction into something more.
The room hung with afternoon light, the tall case clock in the corner ticking away the seconds.
A pounding of boots on the stairs preceded McIntosh bursting into the room in a whirl of overcoat and fresh Highland air.
“I am so sorry to disturb ye, my lord,” the man said breathlessly, “but ye best come quickly.”
Alarmed, Alistair rounded his desk. “Whatever is the matter?”
“’Tis Mrs. Newton.”
“Mrs. Newton!” A clanging bell sounded in Alistair’s mind.
“Aye. There has been an accident at the excavation site.”
July 29, 1849
Fiesole, Italy
