RAKES ON TOUR

Outrageous hell-raisers let loose in Europe!

When London’s most notorious rakes embark on a Grand Tour they set female hearts aflutter all across Europe!

The exploits of these British rogues might be the stuff of legend, but on this adventure of a lifetime will they finally meet the women strong enough to tame their wicked ways?

Read Haviland North’s story in

Rake Most Likely to Rebel Already available

And read Archer Crawford’s story in

Rake Most Likely to Thrill August 2015

And watch out for

Rake Most Likely to Seduce and Rake Most Likely to Sin Coming 2016!

AUTHOR NOTE

I hope you enjoy this second story in the Rakes on Tour mini-series. This is your chance to catch up with Archer Crawford in Siena as he embarks on his quest to ride in the famed Palio. I’ve tried to incorporate details about the race and to be as true to fact as possible. If you want to read more about the great race try La Terra In Piazza—the text I consulted.

What is true about the race the way it is depicted in Archer’s tale:

1. The Pantera neighbourhood did win the June Palio that year, with Jacopo’s Morello.

2. The Torre neighbourhood did turn around and win the August Palio that same year with the same horse. (It is fairly remarkable to have the same horse win both races in the same year.)

3. The neighbourhoods (contradas) did have rival neighbourhoods. Torre was despised by Oca and Onda. Pantera was a neutral neighbourhood with no set rivals. The neighbourhood rivalry was strong and intense and I’ve tried to be true to that intensity in the storyline.

What is not true (obviously) is that Torre’s jockey is hurt before the race and Archer needs to ride in his place. You can look up lists of jockeys and see who really rode in the August race.

I hope you have a good time with Archer, and learning a little bit about a beautiful Tuscan city.

Join me online at bronwynswriting.blogspot.com or at bronwynnscott.com

Rake Most Likely

to Thrill

Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.

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For Judi and Don and Nina and El Dorado Farms.

Thanks for helping Catie find Sharper Eagle.

There is no finer love than a girl and her horse.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

The Antwerp Hotel, Dover—March 1835

There was going to be blood. It had become a forgone conclusion the moment the teamster brought the whip down across the hindquarters of the Cleveland Bay straining in the traces of the overloaded dray. How much blood, and whose, remained to be seen.

Archer Crawford had not stepped outside in the predawn darkness looking for trouble. Indeed, he’d been trying to avoid it. Inside, his travelling companion and long-time friend Nolan Gray’s card game was starting to take a turn for the worse. But it seemed trouble had found him anyway. He could not stand idly by and watch any horse abused. From the looks of this horse’s ragged coat, this wasn’t the first time. But it might be the last if Archer didn’t intervene. The teamster’s whip fell again, the beefy driver determined the horse pull the load or die trying. The latter was highly likely and the horse knew it. The Cleveland Bay showed no fear. He merely stood with resignation. Waiting. Knowing. Deciding: death now, or death pulling a weight more appropriate for two.

The whip rose a third time, and Archer stepped out from the hotel’s overhang. In a lightning move, Archer’s gloved hand intercepted the thong of the whip and he wrapped it about his wrist, reeling in the teamster on his high seat like fish from the river. ‘Perhaps you might try a sting or two of this lash yourself before delivering it to your animal.’ Archer gave the whip a strong tug. Each pull threatened to unseat the teamster. The man leaned back in his seat, trying for leverage.

‘Let go of the whip or come off the seat!’ Archer commanded sternly, his eyes locking with the other man’s as he gave another compelling tug.

‘This is none of your business,’ the teamster growled. ‘That horse has to earn his keep and I do too.’ But he released his end of the whip—forcefully, of course, probably with the hopes the force of his release would send Archer sprawling in the mud. But Archer was braced. The abrupt release did nothing more than seal his opinion of the man: bully, brute.

Archer wound the whip into a coil around his arm. ‘Not with loads that are best drawn by a team of horses.’ Archer jerked his head towards the horse. ‘That horse won’t finish the day, then where will you be?’

The man seemed to recognise the logic but his mouth pursed into a grim line. ‘There’s nothin’ to be done about it, if you’ll be givin’ me my whip back, guv’nor, I’ll be on my way.’ The hint of a threat glimmered in the man’s eye and he began to make his way down off the seat. That was the last thing Archer wanted.

He had a boat to catch within the hour. There was no time for fisticuffs. Archer was fast and light on his feet, thanks to hours of practice at Jackson’s salon, but that didn’t change the fact that the teamster outweighed him by two stone. Leaving on his Grand Tour sporting a split lip and black eye didn’t exactly appeal.

The horse whinnied and stamped in the traces, his head rolling towards Archer as if in warning. The big man stopped a few feet from Archer and held out his hand. ‘The whip.’

Archer grinned. ‘I’ll trade you for it. Give me the horse.’

The man spat on the ground. ‘A whip for a horse?’ His tone was derisive. ‘That seems a bit unequal to me.’

‘And for whatever is in my pocket.’ Archer patted the pocket of his great coat.

‘Maybe your pocket is empty.’ The teamster’s eyes narrowed. ‘Show me.’

Archer nodded, careful to keep his body between the teamster and the horse. He could feel the horse’s nose nudging his shoulder blade, perhaps in encouragement. Archer held up a gold money clip to the street lamp, letting it catch the light. He turned it, showing off the collection of pound notes folded together. ‘It’s fair. You can buy two horses for what’s in this clip.’ He was not going to doom another horse to the same fate simply by freeing this one.

Archer tried to assess the man’s reaction. Money was usually the fastest way to settle a dispute, even if it wasn’t the most moral. He waved the clip again in the beam of light. Behind him, he could hear the clatter of an oncoming coach, probably the one that was to take him and Nolan to the docks. He was running out of the time. ‘The whip and the clip for the horse,’ Archer pressed. What was there to think over? The man was letting pride get in his way.

‘All right,’ the man said gruffly, taking the money clip out of Archer’s hand in a rough swipe. He jerked his head towards the horse. ‘He’s yours now, you unharness him.’

Archer had the horse free in short measure. There was triumph in knowing he’d rescued the animal from a certain fate, but what was he to do now? The coach he’d heard was indeed theirs and the driver was waiting. He had ten minutes to see the horse settled. He led the horse by a rope bridle towards the hotel’s stable, sneaking a peek through the hotel’s long street-front windows at Nolan. The situation inside didn’t look good. Nolan and the other card players were standing. One of them was gesturing wildly at the cards and money on the table. Ten minutes might be a generous estimate.

Inside the stable, Archer roused the ostler, issuing rapid-fire instructions. ‘This horse needs to be boarded.’ He plunked down some coins on a small crude wood table. ‘This will keep him until you can deliver him.’ Money helped the ostler rub the sleep from his eyes. It was more than what was necessary. ‘When the horse has been rested, have a boy deliver him to this address.’ Archer pulled a card from a coat pocket. ‘The man there will pay well. Here’s additional money for the journey.’ His nearest friend was a day’s ride from Dover, but it was the best he could do under the hasty circumstances. Archer hoped the promise of more money would be enough to ensure the ostler didn’t sell the horse instead of deliver it.

The sounds of commotion drifted in from the front of the hotel. That would be Nolan. Archer ran a friendly hand across the horse’s ragged coat. The animal had been beautiful once, strong once; with luck he would be again. He dug in his pocket for more coin. Money was all he had to keep the horse safe. Archer pressed a third round of coins into the ostler’s hand. ‘This is for you, as my personal thanks for your efforts, one horseman to another.’ Perhaps an appeal to the man’s ethics would be enough. There was no time for more. The commotion was demanding his attention now. Archer gave the ostler a nod and strode into the courtyard, aware that the horse’s eyes followed him out.

In the darkness, he almost collided with Nolan who was moving at a near run. ‘Archer, old chap! Where did you get to? We’ve got to go!’ Nolan seized his arm without stopping and dragged him towards the waiting coach, his words coming fast. ‘Don’t look now, but that angry man behind us thinks I cheated. He has a gun, and my good knife. It’s in his shoulder, but I think he shoots with both—hands, that is. It wouldn’t make sense the other way.’ Nolan pulled open the coach door and they tumbled in, the coach lurching to a start before the door was even shut.

‘Ah! A clean getaway.’ Nolan sank back against the seat, a satisfied grin on his face.

‘It doesn’t always have to be a “getaway”. Sometimes we can exit a building like normal people.’ Archer straightened the cuffs of his coat and gave Nolan a scolding look.

‘It was fairly normal,’ Nolan protested.

‘You left a knife embedded in a man’s shoulder, not exactly the most discreet of departures.’ If Nolan had been discreet, he would have stopped playing two hours ago. The other players could have respectably quit the table, their pride and at least some money intact. But then he never would have had a chance to save that horse. ‘You got away in the nick of time.’

Nolan merely grinned, unfazed by the scolding. ‘Speaking of time, do you think Haviland is at the docks yet?’ They were scheduled to meet two friends at the boat this morning to begin their Grand Tour. ‘I’ll wager you five pounds Haviland is there.’

Archer laughed. ‘At this hour? He’s not there. Everything was loaded last night. There’s no reason for him to be early. Besides, he has to drag Brennan’s sorry self out of bed. That will slow him down.’ He and Haviland had known each other since Eton. Haviland was notoriously prompt, but he wouldn’t be early and Brennan was always late.

‘Easiest five pounds I’ll ever make,’ Nolan said something more, but Archer had leaned back and closed his eyes, blocking it out. He wanted a moment’s peace. Between angry teamsters, rescued horses and irate gamblers, the late hour was starting to take its toll. Sometimes, Nolan wore a person out. Provoking a fight on the brink of departure wasn’t exactly Archer’s idea of bon voyage.

Still, whether he agreed with Nolan’s choices or not, it was his job to have Nolan’s back just as it was Haviland’s job to have Brennan’s. He and Haviland had divided up the duties of friendship years ago at school when it had become apparent Nolan and Brennan weren’t entirely capable of exercising discretion on their own.

Back then, what couldn’t be tamed had to be protected. These days, Nolan did a pretty fair job of protecting himself. He didn’t need defending as much as he needed what one might call support. That was the gentlemanly way to put it. Needing a duelling second would be another.

It was times like this morning when Archer appreciated horses. He understood them, preferred them even. It was horses, in addition to his long-standing friendship with the others, that had provided the final, but not the only piece of motivation to leave Newmarket. Perhaps there were new breeds waiting for him in Europe, breeds he could send back to the family stud.

His father had charged him with purchasing any exciting prospects he could find and had given him carte blanche to do it. But Archer knew what that charge really was. It was his father’s way of apologising. His father was very good at apologising with money. It was easy to do if one had a lot of it and his father, the Earl, had bags of it, rooms of it even. He’d never understood his family wanted more from him than his money or what it could buy. Not even at the last had he understood that and Archer had had enough of his father’s aloof, uncaring reserve, enough of the coldness. He was off to seek warmer climates, warmer families: his mother’s people in Siena.

Archer had never been so glad to be a second son. His brother was the heir. He, as the eldest, was confined to the estates, whereas Archer had been given the stables, the racing string and that had been the avenue of a convenient escape when Haviland had delicately proposed the tour last autumn. He could be in Siena for the Palio, the town’s grand tradition in the heat of August. He could be with his mother’s family, horse breeders like himself. Perhaps that was what drew him most of all, these people he’d never met, only heard about in letters over his childhood; his uncle Giacomo, the breeder whose famed horses had won that race more than any other, a chance to be part of something great, a chance to keep the vow he had made to a dying mother. Her dreams and his promises were all he had left of her now.

There was the rustle of Nolan shifting, his body leaning forward to look out the window. ‘I don’t think he followed us, not with a knife in his shoulder,’ Archer muttered, eyes closed. He heard Nolan’s body relax once more against the squabs. Not quite relaxed, he amended. He could feel Nolan staring at him, those grey eyes boring into his head in a very one-sided staring contest. He would not open his eyes, he would not, would not, would not... Archer’s eyes flew open. He couldn’t stand it. ‘What?’

Nolan crossed his arms over his chest, a wide smile taking his face. ‘Archer, why is there a horse following us?’

‘A horse?’ It was Archer’s turn to look out the window. He stared, he squinted, he looked at Nolan and then back out the window. It couldn’t be. But it was. The Cleveland Bay he’d rescued was cantering down the road behind them. Right beside them, as if he knew Archer was inside the coach.

‘I sort of rescued him this morning while you were playing cards,’ Archer explained. What was he going to do with a horse at the docks? He couldn’t take the beast to France with him. It would hardly be fair to make the poor horse endure a Channel crossing or to make him walk from Calais to Paris. He needed good food and rest. That didn’t mean the horse’s efforts hadn’t tugged at his heartstrings. Nolan might laugh at the notion horses could and did communicate with their owners, but Archer had seen too many examples to the contrary. A horse’s loyalty was not to be taken lightly. Horses would give their lives for the people they loved.

Their coach turned in to the docks, the horse slowing obediently to a trot to match the pace. Archer jumped down the moment the coach stopped. The horse still wore the rope bridle, but thankfully no lead line dangled dangerously at his hooves. Archer held out his hand and approached slowly. ‘Easy, boy.’ The horse blew out a loud snuffle, flecks of foam at his mouth. The running had started to wind him. A horse like him should be able to run for miles, but poor nutrition and hard labour had taken their toll on his natural endurance. They had not, however, taken their toll on the horse’s sense of a good man. The horse stood patiently, letting Archer put a hand on his long nose and another on his neck.

Archer stroked the sweaty coat and spoke in soft, reassuring tones. ‘I’ve got a good home for you. The ostler at the hotel is going to take you there after you have had a rest. There are green pastures. You can run all day and eat orchard grass.’

‘He doesn’t understand you, Arch.’ Nolan chuckled, coming to stand on the horse’s other side. ‘He sure is a game fellow, though, to chase after you. Smart too. You’ve got to respect that.’

And wonder at it. Archer leaned his head against the horse’s neck. People only left when there was no reason to stay. He knew that perhaps better than anyone. His mother had kept him bound to England when he would have left perhaps years ago. Now she was gone and so were his reasons. Were horses any different?

Archer walked the horse to the back of the hired coach and tied him on behind. He gave instructions to the driver and a few coins to deliver the animal back to the mews at the Antwerp Hotel. The ostler would be expecting him. He gave the horse a final pat. ‘Trust me,’ he whispered. ‘Everything will be fine.’

‘Except that you will be five pounds poorer.’ Nolan gestured with a laugh towards a tall, dark figure standing alone on the pier. ‘Haviland’s already here. I told you he would be, and look, he’s got his fencing cases with him. He couldn’t be parted from them for even a night.’

Archer gave an exaggerated grimace and handed over the money, more concerned about the fact that Haviland was alone. ‘Where’s Brennan?’ Nolan called out as they joined Haviland.

‘Did you expect him to be here, scholar of human nature that you are?’ Haviland teased and then his tone tensed. Archer could hear the worry. ‘I had hoped he was with you.’ Haviland motioned to the boat. ‘We have to board. The captain is ready to leave. There’s no more time. I was worried I’d be sailing alone.’

‘Well,’ Nolan said cheekily, ‘we were rescuing horses.’

‘And throwing knives at people’s shoulders. Don’t forget the knives part,’ Archer added crossly. He was tired, concerned about the horse and Brennan. It seemed an ominous note to leave on. Perhaps it was an omen that he should stay behind? He could take a few days and deliver the horse himself to Jamie Burke over in Folkestone. He could find Brennan. They could catch a boat together. It was a sensible solution. He should offer...

No, he told himself firmly. He wasn’t going to give in to the excuses no matter how practical they seemed. He’d put this off long enough, put others’ needs ahead of his own long enough. He was getting on that boat. Perhaps he prevaricated out of cold feet at the last. If he took this step, there would be no turning back. His step would be larger than the others. He was going to find a new life, a new family.

The trio boarded the boat reluctantly and took up positions at the rail, their eyes glued to the wharf, each of them lost in their own worries about Brennan. The glances they exchanged with each other all communicated the same thought: What could have happened? Brennan had been with them last night at dinner. It wasn’t, Archer knew, a matter of where Brennan was, but a matter of whether or not he was safe. Nolan tried to keep everyone’s spirits up by wagering on Brennan’s arrival, but to no avail. By the time the anchor’s chains began to roll up, there was no sign of their fourth companion.

Archer bowed his head to the inevitable. Brennan wasn’t coming. It wouldn’t be the same the trip without him. It might be a whole lot safer, but it would lose something all the same. Wherever Brennan went, there was life and fire, he made everything exciting.

A blur of movement on the wharf caught his attention. Archer lifted his head. Beside him, Haviland saw it too. It was Bren! Haviland began shouting and waving madly. Brennan was running full tilt without his coats, white shirttails flapping like sails in the growing light. Haviland sprinted the length of the boat, yelling instructions: ‘jump,’ and ‘don’t jump here, it’s too wide, jump at the back of the boat where it hasn’t left the dock yet’. The back of the boat was flat for loading and there was a section that sported no railing. It would be Brennan’s best chance.

That was when Archer realised Brennan wasn’t alone. In his excitement, he hadn’t noticed the two men racing behind, one of them armed. There was something more too. Behind the men was a horse, thundering past them, jumping knocked barrels, headed straight for Brennan and the drink. That wasn’t just any horse. That was his horse. Archer exchanged a look with Nolan and they dashed off after Haviland.

The stern of the ship was chaos. Haviland was yelling, Brennan was running, the horse had pulled up alongside him, matching his pace to Brennan’s, but the two men in pursuit were gaining. As long as they kept chasing him, they couldn’t get a worthy shot off. It was when they stopped that worried Archer and that would be soon. There wasn’t anywhere else to run. The ship had nudged away from the dock, leaving a gap of cold dark water between itself and the pier. Archer gauged the distance. Even with Brennan’s speed, it would be close. Not close enough. Bren would need some help.

‘Get on the horse, Bren!’ Archer shouted into the wind, gesturing wildly towards the animal. It would be beyond dangerous. What if the horse refused to jump? What if they both missed the boat deck? Like him, Brennan had been born to the saddle. If anyone could do this, it would be Bren. There was no other choice unless Bren wanted to face pistols. Haviland and Nolan joined him in the wild charades. They held their breaths as Brennan Carr grabbed mane and swung himself up on the running steed. He put his feet to the horse’s sides.

They leapt.

They landed.

Just barely.

Another foot and they would have missed. The shock of the landing and the uneven movement of the deck beneath him brought the horse to his knees. Archer and Haviland raced forward.

Brennan rolled out of the saddle. Haviland was there to catch him, but Brennan pushed him down with a rush of incoherent words. ‘Stay down, Hav! Arch, the horse, keep him down!’

The first bullet whined overhead, missing Haviland by inches. Archer crouched beside the frightened horse, using his words and his hands to keep the big animal from becoming an accidental target. Now that they were all safe, Archer wished the boat would move faster. There was suddenly not nearly enough space between them and the dock. It wouldn’t surprise him to see Nolan’s man from the hotel show up. Everyone else was here, even the horse. Thanks to Nolan and Brennan, the morning had got off to quite a start.

Assured they were out of range, the foursome picked themselves up cautiously, brushing off their clothes and exclaiming over Brennan. Archer exchanged knowing glances with Haviland. It was going to be quite a trip with those two along, but Haviland was smiling as England disappeared. Archer nodded to the reins in his hand. ‘I’ll go speak to the captain about where we can stable this boy.’ As he moved off with the horse, Archer could hear Nolan drawl at the rail, ‘The real question isn’t where you’ve been, Bren, but was she worth it?’

Brennan’s laugh drifted over the wind, as if the mad chase had been a simple lark, as if there hadn’t been bullets fired. ‘Always, Nol, always.’ Sometimes, Archer envied Bren and Nolan their nonchalant ways, not seeming to care too much. They were proof that perhaps the unexamined life was underrated.

There was a makeshift stall above deck where the horse would be relatively safe. The Channel crossing was short. Just twenty-one miles of water separated England from France, but the water could be rough. Archer didn’t want to risk the horse doing further injury to himself, so saw the horse installed and ran a hand down each of his legs to make sure there’d been no damage from his leap.

Satisfied the horse was no worse for his morning adventures, Archer placed a hand on the horse’s neck. ‘I guess you’ll need a name if you’re going to stay with me.’ Archer thought for a moment. ‘How about Amicus? It means friend in Latin, and you were that today. You stood Brennan in good stead when he needed you.’

‘Especially since Cleveland Bays are carriage horses.’ Haviland’s voice was quiet behind him. Archer shrugged. He’d long since stopped caring if anyone heard him talking to the horses.

Archer smiled and stroked Amicus’s long nose. ‘Especially because of that.’ He gave Amicus a considering look. ‘I wonder if you might have been a hunter once, boy? It looked like you knew what you were doing when you made that leap.’ Fearlessly, as if he’d taken hedges and logs, heights and wide spreads, before. Cleveland Bays were the preferred carriage horse of royalty, and Archer knew a few breeders who enjoyed riding to the hunt on them.

Haviland stepped up beside him and petted Amicus. ‘Why do you suppose he did that? It was an extraordinary leap. I know horses that would have balked. He could have been killed.’

Archer gave Haviland a solemn look. ‘He decided England could no longer hold him.’

‘Like you, old friend?’ Haviland ventured. ‘Are you still determined to do this thing?’ Nolan and Brennan might not know of his choice to stay in Italy, but he’d confided in Haviland.

Archer nodded. ‘And you?’ Haviland had done some confiding of his own. Archer wasn’t the only one using this trip as an escape.

‘Yes. I want to taste some freedom, I want to know my own power, to see what might have been before...’ Haviland shrugged, his sentence dropping off. Haviland didn’t have to say it. Archer knew how that sentence ended: before he had to go back and give himself in an arranged marriage to a woman who did not inspire his passions.

Archer silently thanked the heavens again that he wasn’t firstborn. He at least had choices. He just had to make them. He and Amicus had something in common. He too had decided England could no longer hold him.

Chapter Two

The Pantera Contrada, Siena, Italy—early July, 1835

Tonight, nothing could hold her! Elisabeta threw her head back and laughed up to the starry sky. She let the wildness loose, humming through her blood in time to the musicians playing in the Piazza del Conte as she and her cousins drew near to the neighbourhood’s centre. There was already a crowd gathered for the celebration and they were jostled on all sides by good-natured merrymakers filling the narrow streets. She didn’t care. The press of people only added to her excitement. Tonight she was going to dance until her shoes were worn through and then she was going to dance barefoot. She’d dance until the sun came up!

It was her first real party since coming out of mourning and she was going to enjoy it, no matter what, which was no small thing in light of what had transpired this afternoon. Elisabeta grabbed her cousin Contessina’s hands and swung the younger girl around in a gay circle. ‘I’m going to do something scandalous tonight,’ Elisabeta declared, watching Contessina’s pretty brown eyes widened in shock.

‘Do you think that’s wise? Papa just announced—’

‘Especially because of that!’ Elisabeta cut her off. She wasn’t going to think about it—the fact that her uncle, Rafaele di Bruno, the contrada’s capitano, had bartered her off in a proposed marriage to Ridolfo Ranieri, the relative of another neighbourhood’s priore in order to secure an alliance for the all-important Palio.

Like her first marriage, it was not a match of her choosing and it wasn’t fair. Five years ago at the age of seventeen, she’d served her family and married the very young Lorenzo di Nofri. It was meant to be something of a dynastic connection for the family, and her feelings had not been considered. Then, Lorenzo had died after three years of marriage and she’d dutifully but begrudgingly done her year of mourning for her adolescent husband.

Now, at the very first decent opportunity, she was to be married off again. This time to a man in his late forties, more than twice her age, heavy and gouty from rich food and wine. Where would the chance for a family of her own be in that? Elisabeta forcefully shoved away images of what would be required of her to produce a child in that alliance. There was no place in this evening of celebration for dark thoughts.

She deserved better although her uncle disagreed. He was quick to point out she was lucky to marry again at all. She was no fresh virgin like Contessina, but a widow who’d been tried in marriage and hadn’t managed to prove her fecundity. Who would want such a woman? She should be honoured by the Priore of Oca’s attention and the chance to serve her family’s greatness.

The Piazza del Conte came into view and Elisabeta pulled Contessina forward with her to take it all in: people, music, lanterns lighting the piazza like a magical fairyland. Celebrations like this were being held all over the town tonight, with every neighbourhood, or contrada, hosting its own party. It was Siena at its best and she’d missed it sorely in the years of her marriage spent in Florence. She’d missed her family, the festivals and, perhaps most of all, the horses.

It wasn’t that Florence didn’t have festivals or that Lorenzo’s rich family didn’t have horses, but they weren’t hers and she was seldom allowed to work with them. Returning to Siena had been like coming alive again, which made the proposed marriage seem all the more cruel: to live again, only to face another sort of death.

Contessina tugged at her arm, slowing her down. ‘What will you do?’ she asked with a hint of worry.

‘I don’t know—something.’ Elisabeta laughed. When the inspiration came she’d know it. Spontaneity was best left unplanned. ‘Maybe I will dance with the next man I see!’ Elisabeth announced, but that was hardly scandalous to her way of thinking. She’d have to do better than that to be truly scandalous. She’d made the remark mostly to shock Contessina, who loved her dearly, but didn’t always know how to respond to her exuberance. Her uncle ran a strict household.

‘You can’t!’ Contessina whispered a warning. Contessina’s own dancing partners for the evening had already been arranged by her uncle and her brother, Giuliano. Even though it wasn’t a formal ball, Contessina’s partners were to be respectable young men from appropriate households in the contrada. ‘What if the next person you saw was someone from Aquila?’ Contessina dared to breathe the name of their rival contrada.

Elisabeta threw her a smug smile. ‘I would even dance with an Aquilini.’ She would too, but that was hardly likely. There would only be men of the Pantera contrada, her family’s neighbourhood, here tonight. No one would dare venture away from their own neighbourhood celebrations. Still, stealing a dance was hardly the type of scandal she was thinking of, it was far too tame.

‘What about your husband? What would he think?’ Contessina was almost aghast at the thought of disobeying male authority. Her father had ordered her life to perfection. She had lived sheltered and protected to ensure she made a good marriage. Contessina had never thought to question the dictates of her parents. She was a good daughter and she would do what she was told.

Not so Elisabeta. She had played the good niece once. She was not ready to do it again, if ever, and certainly not to the fat cousin of the Priore of Oca, no matter how rich he was or what benefits it might serve the family when it came time for the Palio.

‘He’s not my husband yet. The engagement isn’t even official,’ Elisabeta said sharply, irritated with the conversation and what it signified. ‘Perhaps I’ll find a way out of it,’ she teased, but she was only partially joking. If she could find a way out, she would. Ridolfo terrified her with his beady, lecherous eyes. It was clear how he saw her: another thing to claim, to put in his treasury of earthly possessions. She did not relish the idea of being any man’s slave, but especially not his.

‘How would you do that?’ Contessina, her brow knitting in contemplation, took her seriously. ‘I can’t see how it’s possible unless you were to take a lover.’ Contessina blushed as she said it. It was likely the most scandalous thing she could think of, an idea gleaned from conversations she wasn’t supposed to overhear when her mother gathered with the other women of the contrada to exchange gossip.

Elisabeta gave her cousin a wicked smile. ‘Exactly! What a perfect idea.’ The thought held merit, just the sort of scandal she was looking for, but the list of candidates for such an affair was horribly short. She scanned the piazza, selecting and discarding the men of the contrada. ‘Fabrizio is too old, I think I’d like someone younger, with more stamina. Alberto is young but he smells like garlic.’ She wrinkled her nose.

‘No!’ Contessina was truly shocked now. ‘I only meant to tease, to demonstrate how impossible it is.’

‘How impossible what is?’ Contessina’s brother, Giuliano, sidled up to them, throwing an arm about his sister. He was handsome and wild, always in the throes of a grand affair, but life was different for a male. No one would condemn him for such promiscuity.

‘Getting out of her engagement,’ Contessina supplied.

Elisabeta moved to his other side and looped her arm through his, feeling mischievous. ‘Contessina suggested I take a lover.’

‘I did not!’ Contessina blushed furiously.

Giuliano’s dark eyes sparked with mischief of their own. ‘Ah, a last fling before settling down? A widow could do it, but not one who is affianced to another.’ Giuliano thought for a moment. She could see her daredevil cousin puzzling it out. ‘It could be pulled off, though, as long as you were discreet and the man you chose wasn’t an enemy.’ That meant not a man from Aquila or from Torre, the enemy of her would-be husband’s neighbourhood.

Contessina looked frantically at them, waiting for them to give in and say they were only joking. ‘Stop it!’

But Elisabeta didn’t think she would stop. Why not take a lover? Perhaps just for the night? Perhaps it didn’t have to be publicly scandalous, just a private interlude for herself. She deserved it and she’d been alone for so long. Even if her marriage had not been an intensely passionate one, she missed Lorenzo’s presence. Was it so wrong to want one night in the arms of a strong, handsome man? To seek a little comfort, a little pleasure? No one had to know unless she wanted them to.

‘Who would it be, Elisabeta?’ Giuliano’s playful pressing fuelled her madness. She would do it if the right man presented himself. Surely there must be one...

Elisabeta looked out over the piazza, towards the arch that marked the boundary of their contrada. Her breath hitched. It was as if the saints had conspired to present temptation and scandal personified. A man stepped through the arch. His height alone would make him stand out in any crowd—add to that those shoulders and it made for a remarkable sight. Good lord, they were broad, and that face! Even at a distance, the angles and planes were striking against the rich dark brown of his hair. It was longer than most of the men’s present, skimming his shoulders and falling errantly over his right brow. She cocked her head and gave Giuliano a playful stare. This man wasn’t a rival from an enemy contrada, he was something even more dangerous, a stranger, a man of unknown origins and family. That didn’t make the man dangerous, it made him exciting, and it made him exactly the man she was looking for.

Did she risk it? It would be daring, even for her, but that was what tonight was for. The town’s general spirits were high. The first Palio of the summer was behind them, her uncle victorious, his attentions already turned towards the Palio in August, and tonight people had gathered to celebrate the strawberry harvest: La Sagra del Fragole. Elisabeta doubted she’d be the only person present who allowed themselves to be swept away by the magic of a summer evening. Decision made, Elisabeta spoke her verdict.

‘Him.’ Her eyes studied the newcomer. ‘I choose him.’ Most definitely him. She wasn’t the only one who’d noticed him, though. The attention of most of the feminine eyes in the crowd had gone his direction, she noted. He was that sort of man, the type who could command the female population of any gathering. The real issue was whether or not she could get there first. She would have to move fast. Signora Bernardi was closer and already edging near.

Elisabeta straightened her shoulders and tugged the square neckline of her gown lower, letting the tops of her breasts swell against the tightly laced bodice, to Contessina’s dismay. She didn’t have to reach him first, but she had to make her intentions known, had to convince him she was worth waiting for. She flashed Giuliano a competitor’s smile and crossed the piazza, hips swaying, head held high.

Chapter Three

She was the kind of woman men crossed rooms for, or piazzas in this case, and she was headed directly for him. Archer couldn’t say he didn’t see her coming. How could he not see a woman like that; all those shiny black curls cascading down her back, the almond-shaped eyes that tilted ever so slightly at their corners as if they were always full of mischief and mystery, and the gown that set off the rest of her to perfection. The white of her shift peeked enticingly over the square bodice of a pale-green overdress laced over the full, rising curves of her breasts to a tight, slim waist before flaring out into provocatively swaying hips. The knowing smile on her lips suggested it was deliberate. She knew precisely what she was doing and what she wanted. At the moment, that was him.

The thrill of the hunt surged through him. Quicksilver eyes locked on his, and he held her sharp gaze, his own eyes communicating the unspoken message: invitation accepted. On his periphery, he was aware of women falling back, their interest averted by the advent of this woman’s approach. She had staked her claim. If she meant to hunt him, she might be in for a surprise. Like any stallion worth his stud, Archer would be dominated by no woman.

She held out her hand, and he felt the full force of her attentions. ‘Dance with me.’ Not a question, then, she was too bold for that, but a summons, and he would honour it. Archer took her hand. That was where her supremacy ended. In his experience, a bold woman wanted a bold man and he could be that indeed, a commanding stallion to her flirty, teasing mare.

Eyes unwavering, he led her into the dance and fitted his hand to her back, swinging them into the polka without a word. Who needed words when they had eyes like hers? A body like hers, that communicated everything she thought and felt? She gave him a toss of her glorious dark head, tipping it up to meet his. Archer grinned, and she answered with a wide smile of her own, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of the dance.

Archer swung them into the turn and let the energy of the music claim them, his hand confident at her back as if it belonged there, as if they had done this before. He knew how to dance, how to navigate a crowded space, and she knew it too, recognised his skill and delighted in it, just as she was revelling in the sheer joy of the dance. The joy emanating from her was nearly intoxicating. She danced with her heart, her very soul, and it fired him, drove him to reckless abandon.

At the edge of the makeshift dance floor, he manoeuvred them sharply, bringing her up against him with the force of the turn, and did not relinquish her to the decency of distance. The pulse at her neck beat hard from the dancing and possibly from something more. She laughed up at him, confirming the latter. She felt it too, this surge of wildness, this connection between them although they’d not spoken a word—the dance was too fast, they were too breathless for conversation, too in love with the moment to contemplate the use of words.

What moments they were! Archer thought he would remember them for ever. It was an odd sensation given how many moments made up a lifetime, thousands upon thousands, most to be forgotten. Why these moments with a stranger who had lured him into a dance with only a smile and a touch? What made them different? What made them more valuable than all the other moments?

The music was ending. He took them through one last turn, his body memorising the soft curve of her hip where it met his, the straightness of her spine beneath his hand, his eyes discreetly taking in the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the tight-laced bodice just as he was aware of her gaze taking in him, studying his neck and throat where his shirt lay open. This was summer magic at its finest: a beautiful woman in his arms to enjoy the music and dancing with, a starry sky overhead, an arduous journey complete. He felt quite the king in these moments. Archer tilted his head to the sky and gave a howl of primal victory. And he knew.

He knew why he would remember these moments; because he was so alive in them, she was so alive in them. They were breathing hard and laughing, drinking in the simple pleasures of music and dance beneath a starry sky, the summer air warm around them. Did life get any better than this? His hand lingered at her waist in no hurry to set her apart from him and he thought that indeed it just might get better. His eyes drifted across her face, resting briefly on her lips. This woman was no stranger to pleasure, not with that body and those eyes, and the way she looked at him—with boldness and invitation. The rest of the piazza might as well have melted away for all that he noticed anything but her.

Archer’s voice was low and private when he spoke, his gaze lingering meaningfully on the sensual curve of her lips. ‘Who are you, bella signora?’ They were the first words he’d spoken to her. She would know now that he wasn’t Italian. She would hear it in his accent. Not just a stranger, then, from a neighbouring town, but a true outsider. Maybe it didn’t matter where he was from for what they wanted of each other. ‘My name is Archer.’

‘Elisabeta.’ She returned his signals, letting her own eyes wander over his mouth. Arousal stirred hard. She had understood the negotiation. She had consented. They were to be Elisabeta and Archer. No last names, no true way to trace the other once they parted. There would be no strings, no ties that would bind them beyond the immediacy of the affair.

‘Well, Archer...’ she smiled up at him ‘...you are just in time.’

Heat intensified in his groin. ‘In time for what?’

She gave him a coy glance. ‘For strawberries.’ Elisabeta crooked her finger and beckoned with a ‘come-hither’ smile that left him aching. ‘Did I mention there would also be cream?’

The innuendo was not lost on Archer. He was going to come all right. Between the dancing, the warm summer night, the elation of having arrived at his destination at last and the seductive beauty in his arms, his body was fully primed for more intimate thrills. He had every reason to celebrate. It had not been an easy journey from Paris on his own. He’d had to leave before Haviland’s rather sudden wedding. He’d given up the summer in Switzerland with Nolan and Brennan. There’d been no choice. Time had been of the essence if he wanted to make Siena in advance of the August Palio. He’d known from the start he’d never make the first one in July.

Travel had been rough, the Italian inns rougher. But, oh, the journey had been worth it the moment he’d passed through the city gates, seen the town lit up and festivities under way, as if the party was just for him. He’d stabled Amicus, left his bag at the livery and headed for the central piazza, hoping to find someone to direct him to his uncle’s. The piazza had been quiet, but he’d followed the music to this neighbourhood and found more than directions. He’d been in this piazza less than five minutes when this dark-haired beauty had pulled him into the dancing, all fire and beauty in his arms, her quicksilver gaze flashing with life and exuberance, her body moving into his as if they were made for one another. Dancing with her had been effortless, just as following her across the piazza was now. He had no doubts where this was heading: to the food tables and to a quiet space in the dark beyond the lights.

Archer’s stomach growled, and he grinned. There was no choice to ignore it. Elisabeta smiled and passed him a plate. She gestured to each dish and offered an explanation, pleased when he nodded. While all of his friends had been studying French, he’d been studying Italian. His mother had seen to it that he had Italian tutors. It was paying off now, even if it was just to bring a smile to this woman’s face.

‘Risotto alle fragole, polenta con fragole, ravioli...’ She rattled off the dishes, taking a serving for herself as they went. At the end of the table stood an enormous vat-like bowl of strawberries and tubs of cream alongside various tortes. ‘La torta!’ Elisabeta beamed back at him over her shoulder, silver eyes gleaming in delight.

Archer took a healthy helping of everything. The smells alone would have been persuasion enough to try the new foods, but Elisabeta’s smile stole any reservation he might have had. The way she looked at a man, the way her eyes lingered over him in appreciation, he would have eaten slugs for her. There was wine to pour from casks after that and slices of hearty dark country bread to add to his burgeoning plate.

She led him to a quiet spot off the piazza where the lantern lights didn’t quite reach and the music didn’t quite preclude conversation. There was privacy in the darkness. ‘It’s the strawberry festival, in case you haven’t guessed,’ she said between bites. ‘We celebrate it every year. Most of the dishes of the evening are made with strawberries.’

‘It’s delicious.’ Archer took another mouthful of the risotto. It truly was. The food was rich and warm. He’d never tasted anything as good as this, not even the fine food of Paris could compare. He took a swallow of wine, letting his tongue savour the full-bodied flavour, a perfect complement to the meal.

When his plate was nearly empty, she took it from him and set it aside. Her voice was a sultry whisper in the night. ‘Now for la dolce.’ She dipped a strawberry in the small pot of cream and held it to his lips. ‘Lick,’ she commanded as he took the berry between his teeth, laving the sweet cream with his tongue until her eyes locked with his and her lips formed the very erotic word: ‘Bite.’

Two could play this game, as he knew she very well intended. Archer plucked up a berry and swirled it in the cream before he offered it to her, his own voice offering a seductive invitation of its own. ‘Suck.’

She took the berry in her mouth, her tongue flicking across his fingers where he held the fruit, her eyes never leaving his, the message in them plain, you’re next. Archer’s throat went dry. He was going to love Siena, he just knew it.

Chapter Four

He would be an exquisite lover, and who would know what they had done? Who would care? He would just be passing through. He could give her something of pleasure to carry into her marriage. Elisabeta leaned towards him on their narrow bench, her eyes caressing his mouth with their gaze, offering him a moment’s preparation before her lips slid over his. She tasted him, tempted him—or was she tempting herself?

His mouth answered hers, hungry for more, his body straining in acknowledgement that they were not private enough for ‘more’. Elisabeta drew back. It would be up to her to initiate, this was her territory. ‘Perhaps a walk? There’s a lovely fountain not far.’ It was a ruse, an excuse to seek that privacy, to be alone, and her heart thundered in knowledge of it. There would be more to come with this man.

‘Which direction? I’ll go first.’ His concern for preserving at least a facade of decency spoke to her. Here was a man of experience.

‘To the right.’ She motioned to the street veering off from the piazza. ‘It’s not far.’ She watched him slip into the night and counted the minutes in her head before following.

He’d gone deeper into the curving street than she’d anticipated. There was a moment when she thought she might have misread him, where she thought he had taken the opportunity to disappear. Then the whisper came in the darkness. ‘Elisabeta!’ An arm reached out to seize her about the waist, dragging her into a curve of a little alcove. She gave a startled yelp as he spun her about and drew her against him, his mouth stealing a laughing kiss. He felt as a man should, all heat and hardness where their bodies melted together.

‘What took you so long?’ He was grinning in the darkness. She could hear that grin in his words as his hands rested at her waist, so comfortably, so naturally as if they were long-time lovers well used to one another’s bodies.

‘I didn’t expect you to go so far.’ Elisabeta twined her arms around his neck, her hands fingering the ends of his hair where it brushed below his collar.

‘I was looking for the perfect spot.’ His mouth was at her neck and his words came between kisses along the column of her throat, his mouth latching over the pulse beat at its base, sending a trill of excitement down her spine.

‘For what?’ She managed to breathe, although she could guess, and the guessing made her giddy with excitement. She was thankful to note there was a wall at her back should she need it. At this rate, her legs wouldn’t hold her much longer. This man was a consummate artist in the craft of amore with his subtle touches, the lingering of his gaze, the temptation woven in his kisses.

‘For this.’ His mouth returned to hers, his body pressing hers to the rough brick of the wall. She was fully protected here by the breadth of his shoulders and the height of his body. They blocked her from view should anyone stagger down the street or come looking for privacy of their own.

She should have known such a master of the art would not resort to a base, rushed, dark-alley coupling, or be carried away by the heat of the moment and his own need. She should have been ready. The kisses to her neck, to her throat, should have primed her, warned her that here in the privacy of the dark and the quiet of the night, the music and noise of the festivities far behind them, these moments would be different than the frenzied excitement in the piazza. But still, the kiss took her unawares.

This kiss was a long, languorous exploration of her, his tongue probing and tasting, his mouth opening to encourage her to do the same, and she did. She tasted the remnants of rich wine on his tongue, smelled the last vestiges of his morning toilette beneath the sweat of the day, the scents of a man. Wherever he’d come from, he’d come on horseback. The smells of leather and horse were evident too, on his skin, and most pleasantly so. She preferred a man smell like a man than a flower garden. A man’s scent should above all be an honest representation of him.

As should his body. There was honesty aplenty in that dark alcove. His want was in evidence, his erection hard at her stomach where their bodies met. He was not alone in that evidence, only more obvious. There was wetness at her core, an ache that rose in her, demanding to be assuaged. He nipped at her lip, tugging at it gently, and she moaned, her body pressing into his, her hips grinding in suggestion against his.

Archer groaned his response into her mouth, his kiss becoming possessive, the slow tempo between them quickening, turning primal. His hands bunched the folds of her skirts, pushing them up. ‘Let me lift you.’ The command was hoarse with need.

His hands slid under her, cupping her buttocks and hefting her to him, her legs wrapping around his waist as he balanced her between himself and the wall. Her skirts fell back, her private flesh bare against him. She felt the hardness of him through the barrier of his trousers, the contact erotic, and she moved on him in instinctive response.

She was rewarded with a fierce nip at her ear and the feel of the strong muscles that held her, trembling. ‘You will have me spilling like a green boy.’ The rasped warning was both caution and accolade and it spurred her on. The heat and frenzy was returning, stoked to life once more. Her hips sought him again, but he had other ideas, better ideas.

He shifted his weight, his hand finding the core of her, his palm pressing against her mons until she cried out in pleasurable frustration. She was far beyond it being enough. But he knew. ‘I can make it better,’ he promised against her throat, his fingers parting her folds. His breath hitched as he felt her wetness, found the tiny bean of her pleasure and began to stroke. Her pleasure was exciting for him, she realised. The knowledge that her delight roused him was intoxicating, heady, and she gave herself over to it, fuelling them both, driving them both towards the cliff of madness. She reached for him, her hand taking him through his trousers as he stroked her. Dio caro! The man was big, and long and, oh, so deliciously hard.

Elisabeta worked the fall of his trousers open. The best way to tell him what she wanted was to show him. Her hand found the naked length of him, and he gave a low, guttural groan. ‘You will kill me yet, Elisabeta.’ Her name was a groan on his lips, his body straining.

‘Take me,’ she whispered fiercely at his ear. She too had become primal in these moments. She had never been so lost in the madness of lovemaking before, had never been this far and yet something more loomed on the horizon of this pleasure. All reserve, all rational thought had been stripped away by his hands, his mouth.

‘Yes,’ Archer rasped and the response was immediate; the slide of his body into hers. She was tight but ready, the slickness of her tunnel easing his way until he was fully within her. There was the glorious sensation of stretching, accommodating. Then he began to move, and she with him, her hips matching the thrusting rhythm of his body, slowly at first, the pace growing with their intensity.

Moans and gasps became the sum of her vocabulary, his body the sum of her world. She muffled those gasps against the fabric of his shirt and still he brought them closer and closer to the undefinable something that lay just over the edge of madness. All she had to do was...

‘Let go, Elisabeta,’ came the hoarse command. ‘Let yourself go, we are nearly there.’ The words came in pants and broken fragments, but that he had any power of speech at all was miraculous to her—she had none. He gave a final thrust, and she let the madness take her entirely. She was over the cliff, claiming pleasure in its fullness, her heart pounding, her pulse racing, and Archer was there too, his own heart pounding hard against hers, proof of his efforts spilling against her thighs, a hot reminder of glorious life.

She rested her head against the brick of the wall, Archer’s head on her shoulder, his own shoulders heaving from his exertions. Her hands were in his hair, absently stroking, soothing. Her mind was still in an incoherent fog where thought came in incomplete scraps. What did she know of such things? She’d known nothing of this pleasure before tonight, only that it hypothetically existed. How was she to have known it would be so bone-shattering? Her experience was limited to the adolescent skills of a fumbling but well-intentioned virgin. Later, her marriage bed had known the comfort that comes with familiarity, but never this overwhelming pleasure that left her drugged; sapped and satisfied all at once.

Curiosity began to ignite as reality slowly settled on her. It made one wonder. If this man’s lovemaking could be incredible up against a wall in a dark alcove of a city street, what would it be like in a feather bed? What would it be like with a woman he knew or perhaps even truly loved?

No, she couldn’t let her mind travel that direction, not even under the excuse of this pleasurable fog. To know the answer to such a fantasy meant knowing him, learning his last name, his history, his people. She was not looking for that. She could not have that, it was far too much temptation. Her uncle had promised her to another. What a cruel temptation it would be to know he was out there in the world somewhere and to have the tools to find him, while being married to the priore’s gouty relative. There was only hurt down that path, and shame.

The thought of shame sparked too the reality of what she’d done. For all of the nuances he’d provided with his laughter, his touch, his sexy knowing mouth, his intimate possession of her body, for all that he’d never made her feel that this was a cheap encounter or she was nothing more than a troia, there was no disguising what this was: sex in an alley with a stranger. Extraordinarily good sex, apparently, and with a very handsome stranger, but adjectives didn’t change the blunt truth. She’d set out to act scandalously and she had.

Archer’s head moved against her shoulder and he set her down slowly, as if warning her legs they would need to stand on their own. He moved away from her long enough to restore his trousers. In the dimness, he was even more attractive after sex than he was before, if that was possible. His hair fell rakishly in his face as he concentrated on his clothes, his hands sure and competent in their tasks. She’d never found a man’s hands sexy before, but even in the dark, his hands carried a certain quality to them, she’d thought as much when they’d danced and eaten. Those moments in the piazza seemed a lifetime ago.

‘Elisabeta.’ His voice was soft in the darkness, his face close to hers, his eyes half-shut. One arm bracketed her as he leaned against the wall. His lips touched hers in a light brushing, not a full kiss. He was formulating ideas, deciding what happened next. She couldn’t allow that. She gathered her reserves.

‘Archer,’ she answered in equally soft tones, her hand gently cupping the firm line of his jaw. She wanted to touch him until the last, to give her body every chance to remember him. ‘I have to go.’ With that, she ducked under his arm and ran into the night.

* * *

Just like bloody Cinderella in the children’s tale. Archer took a few steps forward into the street after her, but he stopped himself. Women who fled without provocation didn’t want to be followed. He would not make a fool of himself by running after her. Or worse, put her in danger of discovery. Elisabeta, if that was even her name, was gone with not even a glass slipper to trace her. If Nolan was here, he’d tell him he’d got a fair bit luckier than the prince. That poor fellow had only got a dance after flirting with her all night. To which, Archer would acerbically remind him it was a children’s tale after all. As such, it was also a tale of true love.

Sex in an alley wasn’t true love, not even close. It wasn’t meant to be. Yet nothing in the encounter had been casual. Archer leaned against the wall, his active mind imagining the brick still warm from her body. He’d had casual sex before. It was physical and fast, a game for the moment, a way to pass the time at a ball or masquerade. The arousing quality of those liaisons usually came from the heightened risk of discovery. Certainly, those qualities had been somewhat in evidence tonight. A street was public no matter how dark. But there had been more. Even now, arousal gave an insistent stir at the memory of her head thrown back at the last as she claimed her pleasure, her hair spilling, her breasts thrust forward against her bodice, her cries of release, the squeeze of her legs, holding him. Never had he seen an abandon so complete, so beautiful in its naturalness.

She had been stunned, surprised when it had come. He’d had the sense in those moments that while she was no virgin, this was new to her. New seemed an apt but inadequate description of what he’d seen in her face, felt in her body. His ego preened at the thought. He’d given her that exquisite release for the first time. It was silly, he hardly knew her, but he prided himself on putting a woman’s needs at the centre of his lovemaking. It was what had made him one of London’s rather more successful lovers.

And yet, his body hadn’t been without its own pleasures there against the wall. His body hummed for more of the same even now with having achieved repletion. Once was apparently not enough. Then again, perhaps it was understandable. He’d been on the road and alone for quite a while.

He was going to be alone quite a while longer too if he didn’t put this fanciful nonsense out of his head and find his uncle’s house. He’d left Amicus at the livery near the campo, the town centre, with plans to return for him once he’d located his uncle’s home. He’d had no desire to tramp through narrow cobblestone streets with a horse in tow, in the dark, looking for a home he wasn’t familiar with. His best bet would be to return to the party and ask for directions to Giacomo Ricci’s home in the Torre neighbourhood.

Archer shoved off the wall and began walking back to the festivities. His other best bet would be to put his Cinderella out of his mind. He wasn’t here to fall in love; he was here to make a new start, to help his uncle with horses for the Palio and to fulfil a promise to his mother. Taken together that seemed quite enough to keep a man busy without a woman to complicate things. The mysterious Elisabeta would have to remain just that—a mystery and a memory.

Chapter Five

‘La famiglia è la patria del cuore! Family is the country of your heart. Of course you’ve come.’ Giacomo Ricci rose from his chair and came to embrace Archer, kissing him on both cheeks the moment Archer entered the loggia where a late breakfast was being served the next morning.

‘Buongiorno, Zio.’ Archer bore the effusive greeting as graciously as he had last night after finding his uncle’s contrada, Torre. It hadn’t been far from the town centre, just to the west of where he’d come from. Everyone had known his uncle and it had been easy to find Giacomo among the throng of revellers. Apparently each neighbourhood had been hosting its own celebration.

His uncle had kissed him publicly and spirited him away to his home where a new party commenced as he was introduced in whirlwind fashion to cousins, spouses of cousins and their offspring. There had been neighbours and friends after that, all eager to greet him and kiss him. He’d never been kissed by so many men in his entire life. Archer couldn’t recall the last time his father had kissed him. Had his father ever kissed him?

Archer filled a plate with bread, cheese and fresh strawberries and took a seat at the table where he could look through the arches of the loggia into the street. The loggia was open by design, so that people passing by could wave to his uncle or stop to conduct brief business or even partake of some food. He knew enough from what his mother had told him about her home that the arrangement spoke to the power and position of her family in the contrada. To be seen with Giacomo Ricci was important. It was the sort of news people would share over dinner later in the day.

For now, though, Archer was thankful the loggia was empty and the streets quiet after a boisterous night of festivities. He was still reeling from last evening. His uncle retook his seat. ‘Did you sleep well? I want to take you around the neighbourhood and show you everything, have you meet some people.’ His uncle’s eyes shone with warm pride as he paused, gripping Archer’s hand firmly. ‘I cannot believe you are here at last, my sister’s son, here in my own home.’

Archer felt his throat tighten unexpectedly at the warmth and sincerity of his words. ‘I cannot believe it either. I wish it had been sooner. I promised her I would come.’ These were promises only his brother, Dare, knew about, promises he’d made that last day in his mother’s final hour and not spoken of to anyone, not even Haviland. He and Dare had been with her, all three of them simply waiting, knowing the end was so very close, that all the sunshine, all the open windows letting in the crisp autumn afternoon, couldn’t hold back the inevitable. She was going on without them. They were grown men. They should have been able to handle the reality. But Archer’s own throat had been tight with emotion as it was now.

‘What did you promise her?’ his uncle prompted gently. Archer struggled to find words to tell this man he knew and yet didn’t know. ‘She said, “Promise me you will go to Giacomo, Archer. Go to my home. I think you will find what you’re looking for.”’ He was looking for so much. A father figure who could replace the one his father had become, a place of his own where he could be his own man as opposed to the second son, where he could live his own dreams among the horses.

‘This is a pilgrimage for you?’ Giacomo asked quietly.

‘In part,’ Archer confessed. ‘I come here to honour her, to remember her, to know who she was before she was my mother. But I have also come here for the future, for my future, to see what I can be.’ His mother had not told him explicitly to stay in Siena, but the idea suited him, this concept of striking out on his own and under his own power.

His uncle smiled, his grip on Archer’s hand tightening. ‘The past and future are often intertwined in this way. She was right to send you to us. You are a good son to honour her and you shall be like a son to me.’ Even if the past ten hours weren’t enough to confirm it, Archer knew from years of letters how his uncle and his wife had despaired of any children of their own.

Archer could see now, surrounded by the big brick home of the Riccis, how disappointing it must be for his uncle not to have the home filled with children. His uncle was a well-built man, tall in the tradition of the Riccis, but his temples were greying and his years for child rearing had passed. He was a local statesman now, his days consumed with running the family cloth business and training horses. Archer understood now with vivid clarity how his mother’s last wish had been a gift for him and for her brother. Even facing death, she’d thought about what would be best for the family, for others. He would not fail her.

* * *

Giacomo was smiling now, already planning. ‘There are people I want you to meet, places I want you to see. I’d like to show you around the contrada today if you’re up for it.’

‘I would like that, if it’s not too much trouble. I can show myself around,’ Archer offered. Perhaps there was a chance of running into Elisabeta. But he would like it in other ways too. It would give him time to spend getting to know this uncle of his. The warmth of his uncle’s welcome was overwhelming, the sincerity and emotion of it touched him. It reminded him of his mother, of the warmth she extended to everyone she met. She had been a generous woman in the way that his uncle was a generous man.

His uncle waved an adamant hand in the air. ‘No, no, it’s not any trouble. You are one of us. Everyone must understand that.’ Archer nodded graciously. His mother had warned him, had she not? In an Italian family, one was never alone, never ‘forced’ to make one’s way on one’s own. His uncle was not done with his plans. ‘Perhaps tomorrow, we can ride out to the country and see the horses. It is why you’ve come, isn’t it? Your mother mentioned you loved the animals in all of her letters.’

Archer smiled. Ah, this would be easier than he could have hoped. His uncle understood. ‘It is. I am interested in the Palio. I want to be part of it.’

Giacomo beamed and laughed out loud. ‘And so you will! I am the capitano this year,’ he said proudly. Archer felt the man study him for moment, dark eyes assessing. ‘Maybe I could appoint you as one of my mangini.’ He nodded as if the decision was made. ‘Yes, you would do nicely and it would give you a chance to learn about the race.’

The mangini were supporters of the capitano, his lieutenants in seeing his commands carried out. Archer knew it was a position of honour, but it was not what he’d hoped for himself. Archer leaned forward, holding his uncle’s eyes, amber-brown like his own, in all seriousness. ‘The honour would be mine. I will serve the contrada however I may, but I had hoped to offer myself to you as a rider.’ Surely his mother had mentioned his skills in that regard if she’d mentioned him in the letters that had been exchanged over the years.

‘A fantino?’ his uncle asked before shaking his head. ‘It is not possible. The riders are not from the contradas, or even from Siena.’ He gave another wave of his hand. ‘It makes it too difficult to arrange the partiti. It simply isn’t how it is done.’ Perhaps he saw Archer’s disappointment. He gave a gentle smile. ‘Everyone in the contrada is part of the Palio and you will be too, you will see. I will need you as a mangini, someone to help me with the Palio arrangements.’ He nodded, affirming his satisfaction over the arrangement.

It was not what Archer had wanted. He’d come all this way to ride in the Palio. He’d given up Haviland’s wedding to make the journey on time. But his uncle was done with the subject for the moment. He sat back in his seat. ‘You have your mother’s eyes, the Ricci eyes, and her chin.’ His tone softened and lowered. ‘My sister, your mother, was a beautiful woman. She stole hearts wherever she went, your father’s included, and his was not an easy one to steal. But he saw her and it was all over for him. I remember that summer as if it were yesterday; the grand English earl had come to Siena for the races to see the Italian champions, and he went home with a wife, the most beautiful woman in Tuscany.’

He gave a nostalgic sigh. ‘It was a heady summer, watching Vittoria in the throes of her courtship. It was a time full of victories and romance, and now the earl’s son has returned.’ He smiled benevolently at Archer. ‘Perhaps we will find you a wife too? Someone worthy of a Ricci, no?’

Archer tried to refuse politely. ‘My path is unclear to me. I don’t know that I’d be much of a catch at the moment.’ He didn’t need his aunt and the troops of his newly introduced female cousins matchmaking for him. Marriage was the last thing he wanted. He’d just gained his freedom, he didn’t need a wife. And yet his reckless conduct in the alley last night suggested he needed something. Had last night been about sowing wild oats, or had it been about a desire to make a connection?

His uncle drummed his fingers on the table, a knowing gleam in his eye. ‘Young men all think they know what they need. I know, I was a young man once too. That’s why young men have female relatives. Women can see what a man needs better than he can himself.’ His eyes moved to Archer’s empty plate. ‘If you’re finished eating, let us be off.

‘Have I completely overwhelmed you?’ Giacomo asked as they stepped out into the street and the sun.

Archer laughed, shading his eyes and appreciating the easy camaraderie that flowed between him and his uncle. He’d missed his friends during this last leg of the journey, even Nolan’s goading and endless wagers. It was good to be back among people he could trust. ‘You mean despite the fact that you’ve tried to get me married off in less than a day? And you’ve appointed me to be a mangini? Overwhelmed hardly begins to describe it. I am overcome with your generosity.’

‘That doesn’t please you?’ Giacomo asked as they turned towards the contrada’s central piazza.

‘It does please me, it’s just that I had hoped to ride,’ Archer confessed. He would be honest with his uncle. The sooner his uncle learned he was determined and wouldn’t accept no for an answer, the better. ‘Although I understand to be a mangini is a great honour,’ he added, not wanting to appear insulting.

‘Ah, I know the feeling. I would have loved to have ridden but it isn’t how it’s done for the Palio,’ his uncle commiserated. ‘The fantini don’t come from the contradas themselves. It’s no matter.’ Giacomo shrugged. ‘If Torre wins, you will still be a hero.’ He gave a mischievous wink. ‘The women will go crazy for you since you were part of the negotiation team that helped us win.’

They came out of the street into the piazza with its fountain. It was busier here, people starting to go about their daily errands. Although, Giacomo informed him, that wouldn’t last too long once the afternoon heat peaked. Everyone would retreat behind shuttered windows into cool stucco rooms for siestas. ‘My favourite part of the day with your zia.’ He gave Archer a knowing look. ‘In the evening everyone will come out again for strolling, la passegiatta, do you know it?’

He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Everyone strolls within their neighbourhood or in their allied neighbourhood.’ He pointed to a banner hanging on the wall of one of the tall buildings surrounding the piazza. It depicted an elephant in the foreground, a tall tower in the back, done in crimson. ‘That’s our symbol. We are Torre, the Tower.’

‘Does neighbourhood matter so much?’ Archer asked, thinking of Elisabeta and the neighbourhood he’d wandered into last night before finding his uncle.

Giacomo threw back his head and laughed. ‘The contrada is everything if you are Sienese. You are born into the neighbourhood. If you ask anyone who they are, they’ll tell you their neighbourhood first, city second. If you know someone’s neighbourhood, you know everything about them; who their allies are, what they do; most of us in Torre are in the wool trade. You know where they live, you know who their enemies are.’

‘Enemies? Really?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Giacomo was in earnest. They strolled the perimeter of the fountain, stopping occasionally to greet people and exchange a little news. ‘Valdimonte’s enemy is the Nicchio Contrada, Aquila’s enemy is Pantera and so on. Our enemy is Oca, which is rumoured to be striking an alliance with Pantera. Pantera won the July Palio.’

Archer did his best to follow Giacomo’s conversation. It was a lot to take in, especially in a second language. English families and English neighbourhoods were far simpler entities by contrast. He wondered which neighbourhood he’d stumbled into last night? Would that make Elisabeta an ally or an enemy? ‘Do contradas ever intermarry?’

Giacomo gave him a keen look. ‘Of course, but during the Palio, husbands and wives often separate and go home to their own neighbourhoods.’ He grinned and wagged a finger at Archer. ‘You will learn. It’s the contrada above all else. My Bettina, though, your zia, was the old priore’s daughter so we are never separated.’ There was no mistaking the pride in Giacomo’s voice in having married a Torre woman. This was a new world indeed, his mother’s world, Archer reminded himself. She’d grown up in the contrada.

Giacomo clapped him on the back. ‘Do you have your eye on a pretty signorina already? Perhaps you refused my help because you have spied a pretty girl for yourself?’

Archer was tempted to tell him about Elisabeta, but thought better of it. If she had been from an enemy contrada it would only make trouble if he pursued her. Anyway, he wasn’t looking for a permanent relationship. But that didn’t stop him from thinking about her as they stepped into a few shops to meet some of the family’s especial friends. Was Elisabeta out in her neighbourhood doing errands? Talking with shopkeepers? Was she with friends? Another man?

Had he merely been an escape for her? Maybe he’d merely been part of a fantasy or the madness of the summer night? She’d not wanted to be followed. There were only so many reasons for that; none of them suggested she was unattached and free to make her own decisions. He should let it be and accept it for what it was: a few glorious moments. Yet, the thoughts persisted. Where was she? What was she doing? Archer chuckled to himself. He knew already he couldn’t just let it go. Against his better judgement, he was going to find her.

* * *

She was picking petals off a rose like a silly school girl. ‘He loves me, he loves me not.’ The foolishness made her laugh. Elisabeta snipped the roses and put them in her basket. To be honest, love had nothing to do with it. All right, then, she amended: he lusts me, he lusts me not. Even here in her uncle’s garden in the full light of day, thoughts of last night managed to bring a blush to her cheeks and a heat to her body that had nothing to do with the sun. Those thoughts made her want.

More.

Of him.

Pleasure once tasted was proving to be a potent elixir with a power, she suspected, to addict. Once was not enough. What a lovely addiction that would be. What an unexpected one. When she’d sought out her stranger, she’d not expected this wanting as a consequence. He was to remain a stranger, a man to whom she had no ties. But she’d come away with a name and a longing to have him again. Already, she was wondering if that name would be enough to find him. Over breakfast she’d reasoned an English name couldn’t be terribly hard to find among all of these Italian names. Nor was Siena so big that she wouldn’t be apt to run into him if she went to the city centre often enough. Surely, those odds would be in her favour if she chose to exercise them.

By the time she’d wandered out to the garden to pick flowers, the issue was no longer a question of finding him, but a question of did she truly want to? Her curiosity said yes. It was her curiosity that had driven her to distraction this morning with its questions filling her mind: Where was he now? What was he doing? Had he woken to thoughts of her? Had he dreamt of her? Did he too regret their veiled identities?

Then again, perhaps it was better to wonder than to know. The pleasure he’d offered might only have been the luck of the night, the work of the stars and summer magic. Surely such pleasure was not commonplace? It most certainly didn’t happen all the time. She’d lived her entire marriage without it and she would likely live through another without it, proof enough that Archer’s pleasures could not be conjured on a whim nor by just any man or woman. It would be a shame to have him again only to be disappointed by the ordinary nature of their lovemaking. Better to let him become memory.

‘Cousin! There you are. I’ve been calling for you.’ Giuliano came striding down the path, playful mischief sparking in his dark eyes. ‘Have we been daydreaming over our handsome stranger?’ he teased. ‘You were quick to disappear last night.’

She gave Giuliano a saucy grin in return, her good spirits making her reckless. ‘I told you I’d have him.’

Giuliano leaned in close, a grin on his face. ‘And did you? Have him?’

Elisabeta gave him a light punch on the arm. ‘You’re wicked. Besides, a lady never tells.’ She paused and gave him a considering look. ‘What of the lovely Widow Rossi? Did you have her?’

Giuliano groaned and had the good grace to look down at the ground. ‘Point taken.’ But a moment later any penitence he felt over probing into her personal affairs had vanished. ‘Will you see him again?’

Elisabeta shrugged and moved on to a new collection of flowers, trying to keep her actions nonchalant. She did not want to give too much away to Giuliano. He was reckless and there was no telling what he might do. ‘Of course not. We didn’t exchange enough information for that.’

Giuliano followed her, far too astute in the games of amore to take her response as a direct or even accurate answer. His voice was low now, his tone compelling. ‘But would you? If you could?’

Elisabeta fixed her cousin with a cool stare, trying to keep her pulse from racing. ‘What do you know?’

‘There’s an Englishman in town. There was word of it when I ran my errands this morning. He’s the nephew of Giacomo Ricci, the horse trainer who lives in Torre.’

The information was better than a name and it was worse. She could find him, she knew who his people were and where. But it didn’t help her cause. Her eyes held Giuliano’s and a silent message passed between them. Both of them were serious now. Love stopped being a game once the contradas were involved.

She could go to Archer. But did she dare? Beside her, Giuliano gave a short nod. ‘It’s probably best your answer is no.’ The Oca contrada’s sworn enemy was Torre and while that might not matter to her uncle, it would matter to her future husband’s contrada.

‘Then why did you tell me? I do not think of you as generally unkind,’ Elisabeta scolded quietly. Perhaps it was far crueller to know she could not have him. It was not like Giuliano to tease meanly.

He ducked his head. ‘Forgive me. Last night you said you were desirous of avoiding your engagement. I thought only to give you a choice, Cousin.’

‘Your father would never forgive me.’ Elisabeta played idly with the stems of the flowers in her basket.

‘My father need not know,’ Giuliano countered. ‘You have done your duty for the family in marrying Lorenzo. You may even do it again in another marriage very soon, but in the interim, perhaps you owe yourself some pleasure?’ The argument was so very compelling, maybe because it was the same argument she’d made with herself. To hear it validated by another made it all the more persuasive.

‘No one can know,’ Elisabeta said out loud, more to herself than to Giuliano, but it was Giuliano who replied.

‘He is English. He is not one of us. He will leave. He will be a thousand miles away. While you think it over, say you’ll come with me to see the horses for the August Palio. Father wants me to go out to the farm tomorrow.’

Elisabeta barely heard the invitation. She was too focused on the unspoken rationale. No one will ever know. Suddenly the risk seemed minimal against all that stood to be gained. Only two questions remained: Did she dare? What would she risk to see Archer again? And perhaps more importantly, what did it mean to her and why? What had started out as a spontaneous dare had taken on something much deeper and more significant if she cared to explore it.

Chapter Six

Archer didn’t dare press his uncle’s decision immediately. No man liked to be countermanded outright. Challenging his uncle would hardly be the way to ingratiate himself to his new family. But he could make an effort to change his uncle’s mind about the Palio. Archer kicked Amicus into a trot to pull up alongside Giacomo, determined to start on that good impression today at the horse farm.

If his uncle could see him handle the horses or see him ride, his uncle would change his mind. Seeing was believing after all. His uncle had nothing to go on in reference to him except his mother’s letters and mothers were inherently biased. Based on that, Archer understood his uncle’s reticence to make him a rider.

‘Tell me about this beast of yours, mio nipote,’ his uncle said as Archer pulled even with him. The traffic had lessened on the country road. They were able now to ride side by side and enjoy some conversation. ‘He’s a fine-looking animal, strong through the chest.’

‘He looks much better these days,’ Archer agreed. Even considering the rough travel from France, Amicus had blossomed from good care and affection. He told his uncle the story of Amicus’s rescue and his heroic jump on to the boat, keeping his attentions covertly alert to his uncle’s reaction.

‘No!’ Giacomo cried in happy disbelief. ‘That’s incredible.’

Archer patted Amicus’s neck. ‘It is incredible. But he’s an incredible horse. He had two months to rest in Paris and I worked him with a fine group of riders while I was there. Paris has a surprisingly strong group of enthusiastic riders. I had not expected it. They were a pleasure to train with and I was able to give Amicus some more refined skills. He’ll make a good hunter.’ Although he intended to stay in Italy, Archer still wanted to make the trip north to the Spanish riding school in Vienna. It would be a treat to see Amicus join their training regimen and it would be a good opportunity to look for new horses. He shared as much with his uncle. ‘Perhaps next year’s Palio horse will be among them.’ He winked.

‘Could be. We haven’t had a horse from that far away for quite a while, but it wouldn’t be unheard of.’ Giacomo nodded, the idea becoming more interesting as he thought about it. That had to be a good sign, a sign that he could trust his nephew as an assessor of horses. One step closer. Archer had no intentions of taking no for an answer on the Palio. Just because his uncle thought he wasn’t going to ride in the race didn’t mean he was going to accept that decision any more than he was going to accept the mysterious Elisabeta simply disappearing into the night, lost to him.

He’d come too far to let these challenges get in his way. He was going to ride in the race. He was going to find Elisabeta because he wanted to, and Archer Crawford was a man used to getting what he wanted.

‘We’re nearly there. The farm is just over the hill.’ His uncle gestured ahead of them. ‘Let’s be clear on what we’re looking for today. This man is a horse breeder. He’s bred more winners of the Palio than anyone else currently living. I train them, of course, but they spend their early years with him. I’ve had two horses in his care since they were yearlings. They are four years old now. I want to see if they’re ready to be recommended for the race, but I also want to see which other horses might be brought in either by Torre or by the other contradas. We are not the only ones who use him.’ This was to be a test, then, of his skill, Archer thought. His uncle would listen to his opinions and decide if he knew his business. But the visit was more than a test for him. It was also a subterfuge.

Checking on the two horses was merely the surface of his uncle’s agenda. Archer saw that immediately. This was a reconnaissance mission. They were here to ascertain the level of competition. ‘I understand,’ Archer nodded. He was enjoying this easy camaraderie with his uncle, finding it a novel contrast to the terse, succinct conversations he had with his father. His father rarely asked for opinions. The man just gave them. But his uncle seemed to genuinely care what his opinion might be. ‘This is not all that different than wandering through the Newmarket stables during race week to see the other horses.’

Giacomo gave a friendly laugh. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, mio nipote. At Newmarket, it is straightforward; a man races his own horse with his own rider. Anyone who wants to enter a horse can as long as they can pay the entry fee. Not so, here. We have to make it more dramatic. We can recommend horses for the Palio, but we do not control which horse we get. We do not enter a horse for Torre, our horse is drawn for us, assigned to us, out of the final pool of horses. All we can do is recommend the best horses possible for that pool.’

That was news to Archer. He was starting to see that his mother’s stories of the great race had left out certain details. It was easy enough to do. When one lived in a particular milieu, there were nuances that one took for granted and assumed everyone else did too. ‘I think I understand, but give me an example.’

Giacomo grinned and warmed to the subject. ‘Consider the horse that won the July Palio, Morello de Jacopi. He is owned by Lorenzo Jacopi, but the Pantera Contrada drew him for the race. It doesn’t matter what contrada Jacopi is aligned with, if any. For the race, the horse is Pantera’s. If the horse is selected again for the August Palio, another contrada might draw him.

‘Hopefully us.’ Giacomo leaned in although there was no one on the road to hear. ‘He’s the best-looking horse this year and I think we could put a better fantino on him than any of the other contradas.’

The remark wounded Archer although he knew it wasn’t his uncle’s intention. He could be that rider if his uncle would give him a chance. ‘If the horse has proven himself by winning, surely he’s an immediate choice for the August race,’ Archer put in.

‘You Englishmen are always so direct.’ Giacomo laughed. ‘You’re thinking just like your father, that speed matters. It does to some extent. But now, you must think like an Italian, like a Sienese. If we all know who the fastest horse is, the race is less exciting. Why race if the outcome is certain?’ He gave Archer a sharp look, daring him to debate the proposition.

For all that his mother had taught him about her city and her language, she’d not taught him that. Archer had no answer. ‘First you tell me a contrada doesn’t enter its own horse and now you tell me the race isn’t about speed? I’m afraid it all seems a bit counter-intuitive.’

‘It’s like this,’ his uncle explained, clearly revelling in the chance to delve into the intricacies of the great race. This Archer was prepared for. His mother had told him that for many in Siena, the mental exercise of the Palio was raced all year. ‘Every contrada should have an equal chance to win the Palio. To that end, the horses are selected to give everyone the best chance for an equal race. Obviously, horses who are hurt or not in good physical condition are not considered. They would obviously put the contrada who raced them at a disadvantage. But also, a horse who is too good might give a contrada who drew it an unfair advantage. When the capitani vote for the horses that should be in the drawing, we vote for the horses that will create the most equal race. The horses that are chosen for the honour are neither too fast or too slow, but just right. They fit well with each other.’

The fastest horse didn’t race? That sounded crazy to Archer but he did not dare to say it out loud. It would be imprudent to question a centuries-old tradition. Who was he to say it was wrong? It was merely different, vastly different than the straightforward tradition of speed he’d been raised to.

‘Of course, a good fantino isn’t going to let a horse go all out in the trials if he’s too fast,’ Giacomo put in cryptically. ‘There are ways to ensure your horse fits in.’ Good lord, Archer thought. This wasn’t a horse race, it was a chess game. Based on the statistics, Torre played the game well. His uncle’s contrada had won the Palio eleven per cent of the time over the past three hundred or so years. Many of the successes of the past twenty years had been his uncle’s doing as the contrada’s capitano.

The farm came into view, a lovely spread of flat green pasture fanning out before them with a brown-brick farmhouse rising in Tuscan style in the background. The age-old desire of man to claim land and to make it his own surged within Archer, so compelling was the scene spread before him. This was what he wanted—a home of his own where he was master, not of the land necessarily, that was rather egotistical, but master of himself and his destiny, where his children ran alongside the horses in the grass, where his sons and daughters would ride bareback through the fields, where he worked hard each day and retired each evening to a table full of fresh country food and a wife to warm his bed and his heart.

It was an entirely fanciful notion. He had some of that in Newmarket but there, he was always the earl’s second son and the stables had been part of the family long before he’d taken over. There was also the issue of wealth and social standing. There were appearances to keep up at Newmarket. He could not muck out the stalls or work too closely with the stable hands. He could hand out orders, design breeding programs and instruct the riders who exercised the Crawford string. But that was all. Heaven forbid his father heard his son had been out riding like a common jockey or cleaning stalls. And his father always heard. How many times had he been told by the earl that gentlemen rode to the hunt? That they bet on the races?

They swung off their horses as the man they’d come to meet strode out to greet them. Michele di Stefano was a man of middling stature and easy confidence, dressed in farm clothes. There was hand-shaking and cheek-kissing, something Archer didn’t think he’d ever get used to. He couldn’t imagine Haviland ever kissing his cheek, although he could very well imagine Nolan doing it just to goad him. Nolan would like Tuscany with all its touchy rituals. Nolan was a great believer in the idea that people were more inclined to trust you if you touched them.

They tromped out to the stables and the paddocks where his uncle’s two horses—both high-spirited chestnut beauties—were running the length of the fence. Giacomo and the man talked briefly before the man excused himself to see to other guests. For the first time, Archer noted how busy the stables were. They were not the only guests who’d come to see the horses. ‘I see you’re not the only one who thought to come out and view the horses,’ Archer said slyly.

Giacomo elbowed him teasingly. ‘Everyone is interested in making the race equal. There are three weeks until the horses are chosen. The capitani from the different contradas will spend the time travelling to the different stables looking for horses and fantini. Naturally, the capitani have been looking all year, but now that we’ve got one race behind us, we know what must be done for the next. We’re looking to fill in gaps.’ Giacomo lowered his voice. ‘What that really means is that we’re all looking for a horse to beat Jacopi’s Morello.’ This last was said with more seriousness than it had been on the road, a clear indicator that they were in earnest on this mission.

‘Tell me, mio nipote, what do you think of the horses?’ Here came the first test. Archer was ready.

‘I think they run quite nicely, but at a distance that is all I can tell. Let’s go in. I want to look at their legs.’ Archer was already heading into the paddock, slices of apple retrieved from a pocket and at the ready in his outstretched hand, his voice low and sure. It was an irresistible invitation. Both horses wasted no time making his acquaintance.

Archer stroked their manes and played a bit with them before beginning his examination. He checked teeth and ran his hands down their legs, finding the bones strong and the muscles cool. ‘They are in good shape. Now, how they’ll do with a rider remains to be seen.’ He brushed his hands on his riding breeches and stepped back.

‘We should take them to my farm, then, to join the others?’ his uncle asked. ‘I have riders there who will work with the horses we want to nominate.’

‘Yes, definitely take them,’ Archer said confidently, his blood starting to hum at the mention of a horse farm. He’d not realised his uncle had a place outside the one in town. ‘Perhaps I could deliver them for you if you’re busy?’ He was suddenly anxious to see this place.

His uncle smiled and Archer grinned, laughing at himself. He had taken his uncle’s bait quite easily. ‘You’re just like your father when it comes to horses, eager as a school boy.’ His uncle clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You may pick them up tomorrow and deliver them to our villa.’ There was something else in his uncle’s eyes too, something that said he had passed the first test.

‘Just like my father?’ Archer queried, not sure if he liked the sound of that. He’d spent most of his life trying to avoid such a comparison.

His uncle studied his face for a moment, his happy eyes sobering a little. ‘Like he used to be the summer I knew him. I don’t know the sort of man he became, but I know what he was like at your age.’

‘And what was that?’ Archer ventured, finding it odd and novel to think of his uncle knowing his father, knowing a man different than the one Archer knew.

A small smile returned to his uncle’s face. ‘A man who wasn’t afraid to live, to embrace life. A man like you, who wasn’t afraid to get his hands or boots dirty when it came to horses.’ Really? Archer didn’t know that man.

There was movement across the field, and Archer followed his uncle’s gaze as it flicked across the paddock to another holding pen farther out. ‘Pantera’s here. The capitano has sent his son and that niece of his to survey the competition. Rafaele di Bruno must be feeling the pressure now to win two. Wouldn’t that be a feather in Pantera’s cap to win both Palios in a single year? Of course, it won’t happen.’

Giacomo uttered something about the statistical possibility of that being unlikely, but Archer didn’t hear it. He was too focused on the woman across the field. He’d been ready to ride the breadth of Tuscany to find her and here she was. She could not have been delivered to him any more neatly.

‘His niece is a beauty,’ Giacomo put in idly. But Archer wasn’t fooled. He’d better tread carefully. His uncle’s next words confirmed it. ‘Perhaps you might spend some time with her this afternoon if you’re interested.’

Archer was interested, all right. She was perhaps even lovelier by daylight. Any worries he might have entertained that his perception of her beauty had been influenced by the night and the lighting were immediately banished. Her black hair was neatly coiffed beneath a straw hat that showed her profile to advantage; the curve of her jaw, the firm jut of her chin. She wore an exquisitely tailored riding habit done in blue. The white of her lacy jabot stood in striking contrast from the dark fabric, but even from here Archer could see that the jabot was loose, the neck of her blouse undone against the warmth of the day. She walked arm in arm with her cousin, stopping now and then to watch the horses and comment to their host. Archer imagined he could catch hints of her laughter. But thoughts of Elisabeta had to be set aside until later. There was work to do now. Pranza, or lunch, was to be served only after everyone had viewed the horses. There would be time to meet her then. He could possibly manoeuvre a place beside her at the table, perhaps a walk after the meal while his uncle conducted the rest of his business.

Archer’s blood began to hum with the knowledge of her presence and with plans. He let a smile of satisfaction spread across his face. Today was shaping up quite nicely in terms of his goals. His uncle had been impressed with his story about Amicus and Elisabeta was here, standing a hundred yards away.

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