With meticulous concentration, he examined the bunch in his hand. He ran his fingers over each grape, feeling the weight of the bunch in his palm. Next, he leaned in and smelled the fruit. Finally, evidently happy with whatever he was testing, he brought up the set of secateurs in his hand and cut the bunch from the vine. He placed it delicately on top of the already brimming bucket at his feet. The man straightened, slowly rolling the strain from his neck. He tipped his head back and drew in a long breath, pausing to take in a lungful of the crisp early-afternoon air. A shiver ran down my spine at the sight of his slightly sweaty skin shining in the bright sunlight.
Then I completely stilled when he bent down to lift the bucket . . . and turned directly to face me.
I was sure the wind was rippling gently and that time had not completely stopped, yet in that very moment, as my eyes gazed on a beautifully rugged face, I felt as if it had. A strong angular jaw sporting scruffy black stubble, smooth tanned skin lying over sculpted cheeks, one showcasing a small scar, and plump pink lips—they all stole my breath. But, most striking of all were his almond-shaped eyes . . . the brightest, bluest irises peeking from under long black lashes . . . eyes that I quickly realized had landed straight on me.
The man had stopped in his tracks, the bucket of grapes slung over his shoulder, hanging heavily down his back. His impressive biceps were tensed with the strain of the weight . . . and so were his almost-turquoise-blue eyes as they remained transfixed, in surprise, on me.
Swallowing hard, I forced my mouth to open and words to pass my lips. “Hello,” I offered weakly, my throat still rough and dry from my run. I winced at the slight shake in my voice. The man did not move.
Clearing my throat, I took a step forward and pushed a smile onto my lips. The man’s eyes crinkled slightly in suspicion. Unraveling my arms from around my waist, I said, “Sorry to disturb you. I found myself slightly lost and saw your house. I came to ask for directions, and” —I laughed nervously— “found myself mesmerized by your vines, gardens and horses.” The man still didn’t speak. He had not moved one hairsbreadth. I filled the silence with more nervous chatter. “You have the most beautiful home.” I blanched. “I mean, I didn’t go inside your home, I promise. I meant the building itself—the gray stone, the red roof—and the garden . . . and your horses. I just love horses. I used to ride competitively—” I cut myself off, gritting my teeth to shut myself up.
Taking a long, controlled breath, I walked the last few steps forward until I stood right before him. I held out my hand. “I should have started with an introduction. My name is Caresa. It’s nice to meet you.”
The man’s blue gaze, which had been so firmly fixed on mine, dropped to my outstretched hand. I watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat and his already flushed-from-work cheeks seemed to grow a little pinker.
This close, I could feel the heat from his skin radiating across the cool air between us. I glanced up and noticed, again, how tall he was. Maybe six-four? He was an inch or two taller than Zeno. And he was definitely broader than the prince. His torso was packed with muscle, and there was a scattering of dark hairs on his chest. There was not a part of him that wasn’t muscled, but not in the manner of a body-builder. This man was fit, lean and toned, not bulky. He . . . he was . . . breathtaking. There really wasn’t any other way to put it.
His sudden shift of movement caught me by surprise. The man, without looking at me, slowly lowered his bucket to the ground, dropped the secateurs and carefully straightened up. He wiped his dirtied palm on the worn jeans that hung low on his waist. A sharp, defined V led the way to his waistband. I felt heat rise to my cheeks as I noticed it.
Then his hand pushed out, and I stared at it as his warm skin met my palm. His rough fingers gently encased my own, and he said quietly, timidly, “Hello, Caresa. My name is Achille, Achille Marchesi.”
His deep baritone voice wrapped softly around the syllables of my name. He shook my hand once, then let go.
“Achille,” I repeated and gave a small smile. I looked into his eyes, finding him watching me with a nervous gaze. A thick strand of his black hair had fallen over his forehead, the ends covering the top of his left eye. “It’s very nice to meet you,” I said and wrapped my arms around my waist again.
He stood on the spot, head down, obviously not knowing what to do or what to say. “Your home,” I repeated, “is extraordinary.”
“Thank you,” he replied. His head tipped swiftly upward, and he looked surprised at the compliment.
Achille glanced away for a moment. When he looked back at me, he said, “You are the Duchessa di Parma, yes?”
“You have heard of me?”
“We all—the workers here—were told of your imminent arrival. About your marriage to the prince.” He drew in a breath. “That you would be staying here until the wedding.”
“Ah,” I replied. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t want to talk about that right then. Today was the first reprieve from this arranged marriage I’d had in three long days. I wanted the moment to continue. It was nice to talk to someone who wasn’t advising me about luncheons or etiquette. Achille pointed into the distance. “The main estate is back that way. If you leave here and turn left, there is a direct path to the house. The grass is well worn from years of use, so it will guide you home safely.”
“Thank you,” I said. Achille turned and picked up the bucket of grapes. Spontaneously, I asked, “You are a winemaker?”
Achille must have assumed I had walked away, as he startled at my question. He looked at me over his shoulder, his dark eyebrows drawn down, and nodded. He lifted the bucket to his back again and gave me a stiff smile as he walked by. I closed my eyes in exasperation. Caresa, what are you doing? I asked myself. He obviously wants you to leave.
But I didn’t listen to the voice in my head. Instead, I watched him walk, back tensed, toward the barn. When he disappeared from view, I took a final long glance at the vineyard. Seemingly he was only a few rows into his harvest. The first section was clear of grapes, but the rest of the vineyard was brimming.
A bird called out her song from a towering tree beside me. Her high-pitched notes snapped me from my thoughts, and I pushed my feet into action. I walked through a cluster of trees until I was back at the barn and stables. To my right, I saw Achille reappearing through the barn doors. The gelding in the paddock whinnied and trotted toward him. I watched as the merest hint of a smile pulled on Achille’s mouth. My heart surged at the sight. It beat even harder as he moved to meet the horse, rubbing his hand over the gelding’s nose, pressing a kiss to his head.
I took a step, my foot breaking a fallen branch on the ground. The sound echoed like thunder in the quiet surroundings. The gelding looked my way, quickly followed by Achille. He blinked, once, then twice, his questioning blue gaze not helping my racing pulse.
I cleared my throat. “A beautiful horse you have there,” I called and approached him.
Achille nodded in agreement, his hand slowly running up and down the horse’s neck.
When I stood beside him, I reached out to rub the gelding’s nose. “What breed is he?”
Achille swallowed, ducking his head slightly, and answered, “His father was a Shire and his mother a Friesian.”
I smiled and let out a single happy laugh. Achille’s hand stopped on the gelding’s neck as he watched me. The weight of his stare was heavy, and it caused a flush to sprout on my cheeks. “Sorry,” I said, flustered. “I just guessed that mix when I saw him earlier.”
Achille smiled at me briefly, minutely, but the small glimmer of amusement crossing his face was enough to launch a swarm of butterflies to swoop in my stomach. The silence stretched between us until the mare came over. In a way that only horses can, she pushed her head between us and nudged Achille’s arm with her nose.
I laughed again, louder this time, as she flicked her hoof against the fence. “Rosa,” Achille reprimanded, his voice raspy, yet deep in tone. His displeasure didn’t last long. He sighed and ran his hand over Rosa’s dapple-gray neck.
“And an Andalusian,” I said. The gelding stepped back to give Rosa her turn with Achille and came over to me. I patted his neck, the heat from his coat warming my chilled skin.