Twice Upon Time. Nina Beaumont
her skin.
“Only the English come to Firenze in the winter.”
Her gaze skittered back to him, and again she froze. No, it was not the face of her dreams. But the eyes. Surely it was not possible that there could exist another pair of eyes of just that color. The color of the sunlit sea amid ever golden islands.
“Who—who are you?”
“Guido Mercurio.” He bowed again. “At your service.”
Sarah closed her eyes and shook her head to clear it. But when she opened them again, he was still there, smiling at her as if she were a treasured guest. When was the last time anyone had smiled at her like that? Had anyone ever?
“Guido Mercurio,” she repeated. “Like Mercury, the messenger of the gods?”
“Exactly.” Pleased, he smiled. Perhaps she was the one. The one he had been waiting for. “Come. Sit down and tell me your name.”
Sarah found herself moving toward a sofa, although she had no sensation of moving her limbs. A force at her back seemed to be propelling her, supporting her. When she reached the sofa she could have sworn that she felt a small push so that she plopped down on the worn velvet with a little bounce.
Looking up at the young black-haired man, she wondered if he was the statue of some mythological god come to life. “Sarah Longford,” she managed to say. “My name is Sarah Longford.”
“Benvenuta, Sarah Longford.”
On his lips her prosaic name seemed to acquire a number of extra vowels, making it sound like poetry.
“Here, drink this.” He pressed a silver cup filled with wine into her hands and sat down opposite her in a straight-backed chair. “Drink.”
She wanted to tell him that she could not possibly drink this. She was already dizzy. And besides, proper Englishwomen did not drink wine with strangers who reminded them of their dreams. But then she found herself taking a swallow of the rich red wine. It tasted of the sun, and she drank again.
“Now tell me, Sarah Longford, where were you going?” He touched a matching silver cup to hers and drank, as well.
“No place in particular.” Somehow, with the warmth from the wine moving through her, it did not seem odd to admit that. “I was just walking.”
“You were looking for something.”
His words struck her with their simplicity, a matter-of-fact statement that had no inflection of a question, and her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Why do you say that?”
“I can see it in your eyes.” He sent her a strangely sweet smile. “Do not worry. I will help you find it.” He covered her hand with his, “I will show you.”
Sarah felt a small flash of excitement. As she looked down at his olive-skinned, elegant hand on her pale one, she allowed herself for a moment—just a moment—to take pleasure in the feeling of his fingers on her skin. When his hand began to stroke lightly over the backs of her fingers, she pulled her hand back as quickly as if she had been burned.
Was this how her father had seduced her mother? With wine and sweet Italian words and gentle touches? A quick spurt of anger flared, but it flickered out just as quickly, and she found herself feeling empty and wanting. At least her mother had had that, while she, Sarah; had had nothing.
“I have to go.” Snatching up her gloves, she started to rise.
He lifted his hand to stop her, and although he did not touch her, she found herself sitting back down.
“I’m sorry, I did not mean to frighten you.”
“You didn’t frighten me.” She sat very straight, clutching her gloves so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
“No, I didn’t, did I?” Guido smiled that sweet smile again. “You frightened yourself.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she protested, but without heat, because she knew he spoke the truth. For a moment she had felt the passion that slumbered inside her stir, like the first, barely audible rumbling of a volcano about to erupt.
“No matter.” He brushed away her words with an elegant gesture of his long-fingered hands. “Now, you sit for a moment and drink your wine, sì?”
Sarah took a swallow of wine and then another. Suddenly she began to laugh. “I do not believe this is happening. Here I am in Florence—” her hand lifted to her mouth as if to smother her laughter “—sharing a cup of wine with a stranger.”
He gave her a quizzical look. “And that is bad?”
“I don’t know.” Sarah felt a lightness she had never, ever felt before. No, she thought, that was not quite right. She felt the lightness in her dreams. That was why all her life she’d waited for the night to fall. Because if she was lucky, the night would bring her the dreams. Dreams of Florence. Dreams of Bianca and Alessio and their illicit love.
She looked down at the cup she still held. The wine had gone to her head, she thought. Or perhaps it contained something that made her forget all caution, all sense, like the waters of the river Lethe. She felt her blood stir again. “I don’t want to think about whether it is good or bad.”
Leaning back against the worn red velvet, she sipped her wine and let her gaze wander around the small, windowless shop, crammed full of string instruments in various stages of disrepair. It was then that she saw the lute.
It was obviously an old instrument. The red-and-blue decorations painted on its pear-shaped body had faded to just a hint of color. It hung from the wall on a braided leather strap cracked with time.
Sarah rose and went toward it. “May I touch it?” Even before she heard his affirmative answer, she was running her fingers along the smooth wood.
Guido watched the Englishwoman run her fingers over the lute as tenderly as she would touch a lover. He watched her take it down from the wall and coax a melody from the old catgut strings. And he smiled because now he was certain that she was the one he had been sent for.
Sarah felt her fingertips tingle as the instrument came to life under her stroking. Raising her head, she smiled across the room.
“My father brought me a lute once. He put it in my hands and I began to play it.” She laughed softly as she remembered. “It was like a miracle.”
When she had hung the lute back on the wall, she returned to the sofa but did not sit down. Guido had tilted his head up to look at her, and suddenly she had an insane vision of herself cupping his face, running her fingers through his short black curls. The heated promise of passion rippled through her and she wondered what it would be like, just once, to give in to it.
“I have to go now.” She linked her fingers tightly.
“Si.” Guido stood and ran his knuckles over the fingers she had clasped together so cruelly. “You have to go, Sarah Longford.”
Sarah hesitated for a heartbeat, then she stepped back from the temptation, from the touch she wanted so badly. “I’m staying at the Pensione Bartolini near the Church of San Martino. Can you tell me how to get there?”
“I will accompany you.”
“It’s not necessary,” Sarah protested. She had been strong enough to deny herself a moment ago. Would she be strong enough again? “Truly.”
“But it is.” Picking up a cloak, he slung it over his shoulders. “I must show you the right way.”
“Is it that hard to find?”
Guido shrugged. “There are many ways, but only one right way.”
Sarah shook her head at his cryptic words. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you remember? I told you that I would help you find what you are looking for.”
“How