Chris carefully brushing dirt off a wee Etruscan funerary figurine, narrating the find for him to scribe in their field notes.
Chris curled into the curve of his arm on a lamplit stairway, bosom hitching as she arched upward to touch her lips to his.
Howhe had loved her. Even now, the thought of that heady summer set his heart to racing and yearning ribboning through his chest—
No.
He had grieved her loss and moved on.
He refused to revisit the brokenhearted boy he had been.
And now . . .
He studied her. Categorically, she appeared a mess. Given the mud caking every inch of her person, it was a wonder he recognized her at all.
And yet, beneath the grime, he could discern the stubborn clench of her jaw, the hollow slash of her cheekbones. Gone was the round softness of girlhood, that gentle air of hope and childlike exuberance that had clung to her shoulders like magic.
No, like him, time had altered and changed her.
It was for the best.
She had her life. He had his.
Now . . . they simply had to untangle themselves from this debacle.
April 20, 1849
Florence, Italy
Nine Years Earlier
HE STRODE OUT of the billowing haze like Apollo fallen to earth.
Standing at her father’s side in the Maria Antonia railway station in the center of Florence, Italy—enormous locomotives belching steam and smoke—Chrissi could only gawk in wonder at the god-turned-mortal coming toward them.
Dark-haired and dark-eyed, her Apollo walked with broad-shouldered confidence—not arrogance, per se, but the gait of a man secure within himself. Clean-shaven and fresh-faced, he was tall but not loomingly so. As if even his height chose politeness over dominance.
And unlike other aspiring antiquarians who begged her father for a chance to assist on an archaeological expedition, this man appeared to be no stranger to physical labor—the depth of his chest and width of his biceps testified to this.Strapping,her Aunt Eunice would describe him.
He stopped in front of them, setting his leather bag on the ground and tipping his hat in greeting.
“Dr. John Rutherford, I presume?” the man asked.
Chrissi nearly shivered as the delicious rumble of hisScottish brogue rolled over her. Moreover, he was younger than she had supposed, surely no older than her own twenty years.
“Yes,” her father replied.
The man extended his hand. “Mr. Alistair Maclagan, at your service, sir.”
Alistair.
It suited him, the name. Subtly refined and stuffy. The name of an elderly gentleman smoking a pipe in the library of White’s in London. But thedaresound inAlistairhinted at danger. At a strand of devilry and mischief.
The twinkle in Mr. Maclagan’s eye confirmed this as he turned to Chrissi, obviously expecting an introduction.
“My daughter,” her father gestured, “Miss Christiana Rutherford.”
Chrissi dipped a small curtsy and extended her gloved hand.
