Chapter Two
This was it? After six months of travel, he’d found the place he was looking for and it was…
a hill in the middle of nowhere. Alistair reached for a handkerchief and wiped his brow, wet with sweat beneath the brim of his wide straw hat.
This was a rather ignoble end to the journey.
A September in Naples was decidedly hotter than a July in London, and he’d just spent the better part of an hour climbing the stone-paved gradini in order to reach the Vomero, the neighbourhood where Sir Thomas Rose lived.
Only, now that he was here, Alistair thought the word neighbourhood was a bit generous or that perhaps he’d simply not translated the instructions correctly.
His Italian was still rough. But given that six months ago when the adventure had started, he’d had no Italian at all, he’d count what he did know as progress.
There’d been a lot of progress the last half year.
The journey he’d been so opposed to taking had been enlightening, and while Hayes had indeed been the Lord of Moderation, he’d also become a friend and cousin rediscovered. Now that journey was coming to a close.
Alistair made a slow turn, surveying the emptiness of the Vomero.
After the crowded chaos of the city below him, he’d not expected this solitude, this isolation.
On the left was the Castel Sant’Elmo, an old military fortress with a supposedly spectacular view of the city.
He’d seen the fortress from a distance at the bottom of the Petraio, one of the city’s many vertical neighbourhoods.
The castel’s views would have to wait. He was in no mood to sightsee.
He was hot and tired, and his journey was nearly at an end if he could find Sir Thomas Rose’s home.
Beyond the castel, there wasn’t much up here.
The area was vast and verdant, not a neighbourhood, in his opinion, so much as an agrarian district rising above the humanity of the city.
He stood beneath a sycamore growing at the side of the path, coveting its shade.
The paucity of the place applied to people, too.
If there were few homes, there were even fewer people.
Apparently, King Ferdinand’s summer home, Villa Floridiana, was up here, as was Thomas Rose’s home, Vista Sulla Baia.
The question was where? When he’d begun the climb up the Petraio, he’d thought he’d find a collection of homes, streets and people, a mirror image of Naples below, but the two areas couldn’t be more different.
He was officially lost. That meant he had two choices: wait for someone to come by—surely someone would come up the gradini—or pick a direction at random and start walking until he found a door to knock on.
Alistair wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief.
Jupiter’s balls, it was hot! That decided it. It was too warm for any more walking.
He sat down beneath the tree. Damn it all, he was tired of travelling.
He’d left Hayes and his new bride enjoying their delayed honeymoon.
It had seemed the perfect time to depart, although bittersweet.
To the surprise of them both, he and Hayes had become close during their time in Florence.
His father would be pleased to know it. He’d stood up with Hayes at his cousin’s rather unexpected wedding and stood beside Hayes when tragedy had threatened the newlywed couple shortly afterwards.
A revolutionary extremist had tried to burn down Hayes’s recently acquired vineyard and nearly killed his wife in the process.
He and Hayes had made sure the man was in no position to threaten anyone ever again.
Alistair closed his eyes, fanning himself with his hat.
A hot breeze was better than no breeze. He’d be glad to reach the Roses’.
The journey from Florence to Naples had taken multiple days by coach on dusty roads to reach Ostia.
From there, he’d opted to continue on by ship.
The ship had been a bright spot in the journey, allowing him to forego the several more days required in a coach to reach Naples through Rome.
He was missing the ship just now. The sailing had lived up to its promise of speed, and there’d been a cooling breeze on the water.
He’d stepped off the boat refreshed, thinking all he had to do was make his way to the Rose house and his journey would be done.
It had seemed straightforward at the time.
That had been his first mistake. If he’d learned anything about travel by now, it was that nothing was simple.
It took preparation and precautions. He was starting to appreciate in retrospect how much of that preparation Hayes had seen to for them on the journey to Florence.
He’d merely gone along with the arrangements.
Alistair opened his eyes at the crunch of footsteps on dry dirt. Someone at last! Alistair scrambled to his feet, organising his thoughts into the vocabulary of his limited Italian, as a figure crested the top of the pathway. He strode forward, waving his hat. ‘Buongiorno, signore. Per favore—’
‘Signore? è securo?’ Are you sure? The figure laughed, a provocative, feminine sound at odds with the trousered silhouette he’d seen at a distance.
Now that he was closer, Alistair could easily see his mistake in the delightful curves that filled out those trousers; the thick blond braid that fell over one shoulder; the breasts that were evident beneath the cut-down linen shirt.
This might be a man’s outfit, but the person who wore it was all woman.
Alistair offered a wide smile, acknowledging his misstep openly.
‘Mi perdoni. Il mio errore, signorina.’ He was guessing on the last part, or perhaps it was wishful thinking.
He wouldn’t mind getting to know her better.
His rescuer had a lithe grace to her movements, an air of confidence that matched her bold presence.
He loved bold women—their directness, their experience.
In Florence, he’d met several bold British women and found them quite enjoyable.
‘Sta bene?’ She gave him a querying look, waiting for him to say something more. He battled with his limited vocabulary looking for the word and struggling to find it. ‘Sono perdu.’ He knew his word was wrong the moment he said it. Perdu was French, not Italian.
She gave another laugh. He liked that laugh. It held a hint of the conspiratorial, as if he was being invited to share a secret with her. ‘The word you’re looking for is perso. Lost.’
Relief swept Alistair. ‘You speak English.’ And French and Italian. This was truly a miracle. In his hour of need a beautiful, English-speaking polyglot of a woman had appeared in the middle of nowhere. Now, if she knew where the Roses lived, he’d be doubly grateful.
Alistair grinned, detecting a spark of returned interest as she conducted her own rather frank study of him from beneath the brim of her hat with bold aquamarine eyes the colour of the Bay of Naples.
Perhaps he was a bit of a novelty to her?
Perhaps one did not see too many Englishmen outside of the city?
Suddenly, everything was going so much better.
‘I am looking for the home of a friend who I’m told lives in the Vomero,’ he explained.
‘His name is Sir Thomas Rose. Do you know of him?’
Her bay-blue eyes narrowed. ‘Might I ask who you are?’ Her tone had sharpened.
In an instant she’d transformed, becoming protective, and he’d become the enemy—not the usual response he engendered in a woman, he might add, although her next words explained the reason for her coolness. ‘Sir Thomas Rose is my father.’
Well, hell’s original belle! Surprise was not quite the word he was looking for—it was too tame.
There were four hundred thousand people in Naples, and the one person to come up the path was her.
And here he’d been thinking the afternoon was looking up.
The universe had certainly pulled one over on him.
Fortunately, he could take a joke. Could she? ‘Ismay Rose. It’s been a while.’
That surprised her. ‘You know me?’ She was studying him anew now, searching for some key to his identity.
Alistair laughed. ‘Don’t you recognise me, Ismay? Perhaps it’s because my teeth aren’t black from the dye you poured in my hot chocolate.’ He flashed her a wide smile, showing off his currently very white teeth. ‘Or because I’m wearing my trousers? Whose are those, by the way?’
Her aquamarine eyes flared in recognition, and he had the brief satisfaction of seeing her face register the same off-guard surprise he’d felt a moment ago. ‘Alistair Burke-Price, whatever are you doing in Naples?’
* * *
Alistair Burke-Price, childhood nemesis extraordinaire, was here?
Unbelievable. Fate was toying with her. Just when she thought today couldn’t get any worse.
She did remember him, and not in a good way.
More like in a I-smelled-durian-fruit-once-in-the-market-and-I’ll-never-forget-it sort of way.
Ismay met his gaze, determined not to let shock get the better of her.
‘Still arrogant, I see, assuming every woman you meet will find you memorable.’