As the cassette player at my feet flooded the room with “Sogno,” I thought of Plato and vines. Of split-aparts and soul mates anew . . .
. . . and a single, solitary tear rolling down flushed and flawless skin.
Chapter Seven
Caresa
It was two days before I could get back to Achille. Maria had returned from Assisi early, and we had nothing but meetings to occupy each day. I had now chosen the silverware, the color scheme and the menu for the wedding.
The hours had dragged. Each minute that I spent in the great room, tasting the exquisite food and running my hands over plush velvets and silks, my mind had been back with Achille in his vineyard. I wondered how far he had got with the harvest.
I wondered how many times he had ridden out around his land. I wondered if he had missed me being there.
The very thought should not have ever crossed my mind, yet it was the single most occupying question I had.
“We’re done for the day,” Maria said. “The luncheon is tomorrow at noon. Some of the women from the biggest families are coming from Florence. There should be about twenty-five in total.” Maria stood. “Your outfit is in your closet.”
“Thank you,” I said and got to my feet. I walked Maria to the door. “Any word on when Zeno will be back? I’ve had no word from him since my arrival.”
Maria tried to hide the sympathy in her eyes. No, not sympathy, pity. Her hand gently landed on my arm. “He will be back for the Bella Collina grape-crushing festival, which is also the day the International Wine Awards will notify the winners. Then, that night, it will be his coronation dinner. The most important families from around the country will attend.” Maria released my arm. “We then have the masked ball to prepare for at the beginning of December, and the Christmas festivities later that month.” She gave me a tight smile. “Then your wedding. My advice would be to get your sleep now, Duchessa, while you still can.”
Maria left, and I shut the grand doors behind her. I pressed my back against the wood and closed my eyes. The grandfather clock began to chime three o’clock. My eyes opened and drifted to the oil painting of Achille’s land. Before I had even had time to contemplate my decision, I was darting up the stairs to my rooms, where I swiftly changed into my jodhpurs, boots and long-sleeved riding shirt I had brought with me from New York. Clutching my riding hat and crop in my hands, I decided to exit through my balcony’s double doors. The staff here never questioned anything I did, but for some reason I found myself wanting to keep my whereabouts from prying eyes.
The sky was overcast, and the sun was partially hidden by the clouds. I picked up my pace as I passed through a shortcut I had found. My walk was brisk, and in only half the time it usually took, I arrived at Achille’s home. I had been away only two days, yet when my eyes beheld the gray stone cottage and the majestic garden, the same sense of wonderment seized me.
When I arrived at the barn, there was no opera music playing, no Verdi blasting like a siren to signal where Achille worked. I searched the vines, yet I could not see him anywhere. Eventually I saw Rosa alone in the paddock; he must have been out for a ride.
I decided to take the opportunity to school Rosa. I turned for the tack room, and then I heard the sound of galloping hooves beyond the trees. As I ducked through the branches, my feet instinctively carrying me forward, I didn’t realize there was a smile on my face until my cheeks ached in a cool snap of the wind. The trees were on a slightly raised hill, and the elevation awarded me a perfect view of Achille racing Nico toward home.
Like every other day, Achille was shirtless, his uniform of faded work jeans cladding his legs. But what held me captive was the happy expression on his face as the wind whipped through his black hair. Every well-toned muscle was flexing as he controlled the reins. So much so that the sensation of butterflies swooping in my stomach stole my breath and parted my lips. The grip on my riding hat’s chinstrap became impossibly tight, and I felt heat rise to my cheeks.
Achille drew Nico back to a canter, then to a slow sitting trot. As he turned right toward the closed gate to the residential part of his property, his eyes collided with mine, and he jolted in his saddle.
He must have thought I had decided not to return.
I waited beside the path on the inside of the gate for him. He came toward me and dismounted, dropping only inches from where I stood. I shifted on my legs when they actually weakened at his close proximity. His scent assaulted me, all fresh air and an earthy musk.
“You came back?” he said, his voice cracking. His handsome face was drawn into a serious expression. My heart stuttered.
He was beautiful. Achille was absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful.
I must have been staring at him too closely or for too long, because his eyebrows rose and he began rocking awkwardly on his feet. I pushed my hair back from my face in an attempt to break the sudden tension. Yet my hand shook as it ran through my shoulder-length strands.
I didn’t know if he meant to do it. By the lost expression on his face afterwards I assumed he did not. When I dropped my hand, Achille reached out with his and caught a strand of my hair between his finger and thumb. His full lips parted and a slow breath escaped. “Your hair is down,” he said with such reverence that I was in no doubt that he liked it better than my jogging bun.
I stood motionless, fighting my body’s natural pull to his—like magnets, I thought. This close, my body was drawn, striving to get closer. I . . . I had no idea what to do with this startling truth.
Achille must have realized what he was doing. He dropped my hair like it was a naked flame. He took a step back, his tanned face flushed. He turned and led Nico toward the paddock. I held back for a few seconds to steel my frayed nerves. I stared at the grass beneath my feet. But when I looked up and saw Achille’s tense, naked back highlighted so perfectly in the afternoon sunlight, my heart raced anew.
You can’t do this, Caresa, I told myself—no, commanded myself. At that very moment, Achille glanced over his shoulder. As his gaze locked on mine, my instruction to myself fled with the last of my good sense.
His nostrils flared and his biceps tensed, I allowed myself a moment to admire him—guilt-free and uncensored. I could see he was doing exactly the same with me.
It took an impatient whinny from Rosa to release us from the spell.
Deciding to act like the grown-up woman I was, I pulled myself together and went to the paddock. I leaned against the fence as Achille went to release Nico. Before he did, he asked, “Did you come to ride Rosa?”
“I did,” I replied. “But if it’s too late, I understand. I have been kept away the last couple of days with meetings. This was the first chance I got to escape.”
It was slight, but I saw Achille’s expression soften. I realized I must have answered his unspoken question: why had I not returned sooner?
“It’s not too late,” he said softly, steering Nico away from the paddock’s gate and toward his stable instead. He led the gelding inside, then carried his tack toward the tack room. I followed to retrieve Rosa’s.
I moved toward the saddle and bridle I had used on Rosa a couple of days before. Then, to the left, I saw a set I hadn’t seen before. The light was dim in the dark room, so I moved closer. My hand flew to my mouth. On a wooden plinth were an exquisite dressage saddle and bridle. They were old, but their condition was immaculate.
I kneeled down to examine them further and spotted the Savona royal crest embossed onto the saddle’s skirt. I sensed him close by. I didn’t have to look around to know he was there.
“Achille, these are stunning.”
I heard him take a deep breath. Then I felt his body heat as he came closer. It took him several long seconds to say, “They were my mother’s.”
My heart melted at the gentle edge to his deep rasp. When he said the word “mother’s” it was more pronounced than the rest, as if he was unused to saying that word aloud. I supposed he was. He had never known her.
Not even a little bit.
“This was her championship tack?”
“Yes. My father kept it all these years. He took care of it every week for as long as I can remember—soaping, waxing and oiling the leather. I have not touched it since his death . . . but then . . . when you . . . the other day . . .” He stumbled over his words, and I looked up. His arms were crossed over his chest, his tense posture exuding discomfort.