I made my way downstairs, marveling at this change in my maid's demeanor. The very fact that she had allowed herself to be charmed by Agostina's brother—or any man—was startling. I would place the blame, or credit, on Christmas, although she had certainly not allowed the spirit of the season to influence her temperament last year. No, I blamed the villa for this. The Villa of the Enchanted Seas had cast its spell on Margaret, just as it had on me. It was a fanciful notion and yet . . . What better time than at Christmas to indulge in the fanciful, the improbable and all things connected with magic?
The enticing aromas of Agostina's cooking wafted around me as I descended the stairs. I closed my eyes for a moment and savored the mouth-watering fragrance. It struck me that, while the scent of roasted turkey and chestnuts had brought Christmas to mind for me in the past, I would never again smell the exotic blend of tomatoes and garlic and onion that permeated the air here without thinking of Christmas. I resisted the urge to wander into Agostina's domain and beg a sample. Not that I would ever go uninvited into my own kitchen. My cook would, no doubt, turn in her notice. I tried not to dwell on the fact that I had one servant who would not allow me entry to her domain and another who did not feel a cordial disposition to be part of her duties although, at the moment, I found it endearing of them. But this year, as last, I was not my usual self.
I entered the parlor, and my breath caught.
There, positioned between the French doors that led to the terrace, was the loveliest Christmas tree I had ever seen. It was tall and narrow, some sort of cypress, I thought, planted in a large, square stone pot set on wheels. I believed it was one of the potted trees that was usually on the balcony. Today it was covered with the most exquisite angels. Brilliantly colored, they perched on the branches as if caught in mid-flight. It was quite simply magic. "Well?" Fletcher appeared at my side. "Will it do, do you think?"
I swallowed against the lump in my throat. "Do you ever sleep on Christmas Eve?"
He laughed. "I knew you would be missing home, and I thought this might help."
"That was . . . quite nice of you." I moved closer to the tree to hide my face as much as to examine the angels. I didn't want him to know how very much his efforts had moved me, and I needed a moment to gather my composure. "This must have been a great deal of work."
"But well worth it. For you." His words were casual but underlaid with a meaning I didn’t know how to interpret.
"These are remarkable." I leaned forward to examine an angel clothed in robes of blue and gold. Her face, hands and wings were terra cotta. Her robes were fashioned from stiffened fabric. I slowly circled the tree, entranced by every new celestial being. Each was unique, as if meant to depict real people. Or real angels. "Where did they come from?"
"Naples originally." He cleared his throat. "They belonged to my grandmother."
I peered around the tree at him. "And you brought them all the way here? For me?"
He paused. "I did."
I wasn’t sure anyone, man or woman, had ever done anything quite so thoughtful for me. I studied a particularly exquisite angel, her painted face a study in serenity. "This must have taken you all night."
"Tradition, of course, demands a tree be put up on Christmas Eve and no sooner," he said staunchly. "I arrived three weeks ago, but while I did hope, I wasn't sure if you were going to be here. If what we'd said in parting was a true pledge to return."
I nodded.
"I didn’t want to do this and then have it as a reminder if you did not come."
"I will be here every year if you will," I said without thinking, then realized what I had said. What had compelled me to say such a thing? I was on the far side of the tree and couldn't see his face. I held my breath.
For a long moment, there was silence.
"Is that a promise?" His demeanor was offhand, as if it was of no significance whatsoever. But it was, and we both knew it.
I stepped around the tree and met his gaze. "Yes, I believe it is."
"But is it a promise you can keep?" His tone was light, but there was a serious look in his eyes.
"I don't know." It certainly wasn't a promise I had intended to make. And yet, I had never made a promise I had more wanted to keep. I shrugged. "But I would try."
"I wouldn’t expect you to come if you married."
I widened my eyes in feigned surprise. "I can’t bring a husband with me?"
"Very well." He heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Bring him along if you wish."
"I don't know." I shook my head in a mournful manner. "It might be awkward."
"True." His brow furrowed, then he brightened. "I know. If you have a husband, I shall simply have to dig up a wife and bring her along."
I raised a brow. "Do you have someone in mind?"
He looked at me as if trying to decide what to say, then shrugged. "Not at the moment."
I brushed aside a stab of disappointment and turned my attention back to the tree. "I have no one in mind for a husband either. At least, at the moment."
"Good." He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me. "Because you have just made a promise to me, and I intend to hold you to it."
"Oh?" I rested my head against his chest.
"I could never allow a friend to break a promise this important," he said firmly. "It is, after all, a Christmas promise. There is little else that is as sacred."
"I have already given you my word. I can't do more than that." I heaved an overly dramatic sigh. "And yet, I fear I'll be here all alone."
I heard the grin in his voice. "Are you asking for a promise from me?"
"It seems only fair. One sacred Christmas promise for another."
"Very well, then." He rested his chin on my head. "I promise you that I will be here every year for Christmas." He paused. "Barring circumstances beyond our control."
"I hadn't thought of that. Circumstances like marriage."
"I was thinking more along the lines of death and disease, but I suppose we can add marriage."
"So we each promise to be here for Christmas every year unless we are married or diseased or dead." I thought for a moment. "Much can happen from year to year."
"I am aware of that."
"But I can't think of anything else, can you?"
"Marriage, death and disease seem to cover it." He chuckled. "Although perhaps we should include volcanic eruption as well."
"Excellent idea." I shivered. "Do not expect to see me if Vesuvius is spewing molten rock."
He laughed. "Then we have a pact?"
I stared at the tree for a long moment. I didn’t know what the future held for us, but on this Christmas, I knew I didn’t want to spend any Christmas without him. If Christmas was to be all we had, then so be it. I nodded slowly. "We do."
"Good. Something to sustain me through the long year ahead."
"Don't expect my sympathy. You are living in Paris and doing exactly what you want to do." There was the tiniest edge to my voice. Was I envious of the freedom Fletcher had found? Or was it that he'd had the courage to, as he’d said, follow his heart and my heart had no idea what it wanted? "Most of us don't have that opportunity."
"You have to seize opportunities when they present themselves, Portia," he said mildly.
"Yes, well, the next time an opportunity wanders in my direction, I assure you I will seize it." I huffed. That wasn't entirely true. It had to be the right opportunity. Thomas had been an opportunity. "Given, of course, that it is an opportunity that is to my liking."
"That goes without saying." Amusement sounded in his voice. "Were you to have the opportunity to, oh, say, drive to the top of Vesuvius, I assume you would not—"
"That is not amusing, Fletcher." Although I could understand why he might think it was. "And I believe I owe you an apology."
"Oh?"
"You filled a tree with angels for me, and I don't have anything for you. It was quite thoughtless of me."
"Nothing?" Disappointment rang in his voice. "Not
hing at all?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
"I do so love Christmas gifts," he said mournfully.
I twisted in his arms to face him and noted the laughter in his eyes. "I am sorry. I didn't decide to come until it was very nearly too late."
"And you are all I need," he said gallantly. "You are a gift, Portia. The perfect Christmas gift."
I narrowed my eyes. "You are even more charming this year than you were last year."
"I know. I have been practicing." He grinned wickedly and pulled me closer. "There a gift of sorts you can give me. Something I would very much like."
"I'm almost afraid to ask."
"I would be most appreciative."
"Very well," I said slowly. "What is it?"
"You could be my model as well as my inspiration."
"Goodness, Fletcher, we tried that last year, if you recall." An annoying wave of heat washed up my face. "You managed very little painting, and we both ended up with paint where it shouldn’t be."
"It was fun, wasn't it?"
"Yes, I suppose it was, but—"
"This is important, Portia." He was abruptly serious. "I can't afford not to paint while I'm here, and painting a beautiful woman will add to my body of work."
Perhaps he hadn't been painting naked women in Paris, after all. "There is that charming manner of yours again."
"It comes in handy." He smiled down at me. "What do you say, Portia? Will you pose for me?"
"I warn you, I have never been good at sitting for a portrait. I am entirely too impatient, and I bore easily."
"I shall do my best to keep you entertained."
"Oh, that does make it sound worthwhile."
"Sarcasm, Portia." He shook his head in a chastising manner. "The least you can do to make up for it, as well as make up for that shocking lack of a pres—"
"Very well." And why not? He was so endearingly earnest, and it seemed little enough to do for a man who had gathered angels for me.
"Do you know what I wish to do now?" A wicked light flashed in his eyes.
"Yet again, I fear the answer."
"As well you should." He brushed his lips across mine. "As well you should."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"I think every Christmas should be like this," Fletcher said thoughtfully. His arms were folded under his head, and he gazed up at the ceiling.
I rolled over on my side and propped my head in my hand. "You mean doing nothing more than eating extraordinary meals created by Agostina followed by zeppole—"
He winced as if in pain. "I do love zeppole."
"And lying in bed for a great portion of the morning?"
"That lying in bed part does seem like a waste." He reached for me and pulled me to lay on top of him. "I can think of much better things we can do than just lying here."
I laughed, but then, I had laughed a great deal in the three days—three delightfully self-indulgent days—since Christmas. When I wasn't sighing with delight at Agostina's latest offering, I was sighing with an entirely different kind of delight. I wondered if lovemaking with Fletcher would ever grow old. Not that I would have the opportunity to find out. I pushed the thought out of my head. I was determined to live only in the present and not consider what might happen tomorrow. At least until I left Italy.
"Perhaps you haven't noticed, but I have been doing a great deal of work."
"It would have been difficult not to notice, as I have spent more hours than I can count watching you paint."
In spite of his revelation about his move to Paris, I had not entirely realized how committed he was to his work. He had returned to painting the day after Christmas. I had not yet posed for him, but I had indeed sat with an unread book in my hand, watching him apply paint to canvas. Watching the way his brow furrowed in concentration. Noting how he seemed to vanish into a world of his own when he worked. Studying the way he wielded his brush almost like a sword in battle. There was a passion about him that was irresistible and mesmerizing. And I couldn’t pull my gaze away. It was as if I were storing up memories and images to sustain me when we were apart. I had planned to stay as long as he did, but we had not discussed how long that would be. Nor had we spoken again of our sacred Christmas promises, but they hovered between us nonetheless. A reminder, at least in my mind, that the days here were not endless. That this holiday, this respite, from the realities of my life, would soon be over. At the villa with Fletcher, it was easy to forget that the wanton, free-spirited creature I was here had nothing in common with the proper, strait-laced Lady Redwell.
"It is fun, isn't it?" He grinned, pulled me closer and kissed the tip of my nose.
"Oh my, yes," I said with feigned enthusiasm. "I can't imagine doing anything more exciting than watching you do something you enjoy."
"I knew it." He smirked. "You have to admit, you are liking my work."
"I refuse to answer that." I shook my head. "It will just make you arrogant."
"More arrogant, you mean?"
"Yes, but I was trying to be nice."
He laughed, tightened his arms around me and rolled over until our positions were reversed. He grinned down at me. "I can be nice." He nuzzled my neck. "I can be very nice."
"Have you given any thought to the possibility of a child?" I said abruptly. I hadn't intended to say anything on the subject at the moment, especially not this particular moment, but it had been in the back of my mind.
He raised his head and stared down at me. "What are you trying to say?"
"I'm not trying to say anything. I'm simply asking if you have given the possibility any consideration whatsoever."
"Actually, being the responsible sort I am, I have." He shifted to one side and stretched out beside me. It was so wonderfully decadent. "I have given a great deal of thought to it. Even concocted a somewhat twisted explanation for our hasty marriage."
"Marriage?"
"We would have to marry," he said firmly. "I would insist on it."
It was the answer I was expecting. Fletcher was an honorable man. Still, it was good to hear it aloud. "How responsible of you."
"Are you worried?"
"Not really. Women in my family tend not to have children before marriage. I'm not sure why."
"I suspect it's because women in your family do not have clandestine liaisons in foreign countries at Christmas."
"Or any other time." I thought for a moment. "At least as far as I know. I could be wrong, but—"
"Do you trust me?" His tone was abruptly serious.
"Should I?"
"Without question."
"Very well, then." I drew a deep breath and gazed into his eyes. "I trust you."
"Good." He kissed me quickly, then fairly leaped out of bed. "Are you coming?"
"Am I coming where?" I asked cautiously. Who knew what the man might have in mind?
"It's time to get to work."
As much as I did rather like watching him paint, today I was in no hurry to rise. Someone—probably Agostina—had tactfully left breakfast offerings outside our door this morning, so there was no need to leave Fletcher's rooms. Or his bed. I waved him off. "Do feel free to start without me."
"I can't." He pulled on his trousers. "Yesterday I finished the works I had started before you arrived."
"You finished the scene of the Roman villa clinging to the edge of the cliff?" I sat upright. "I love that painting."
"I know." He smirked.
The painting truly was remarkable, at least I thought so. He had been accurate enough in his depiction of the steep cliffs rising out of the sea and the ancient, nearly ruined building precariously perched as if it might tip into the water at any minute. But he had painted the scene as if one was looking at it through seawater or old glass. It had the overall effect of a dream or a vision. He was right. He had learned a great deal since last year. As had I. Thanks to my numerous gallery visits, I had knew enough to recognize that the blasted man really was respectably good by today's standards. The ol
d masters, Botticelli, Rembrandt and their friends, would probably disagree. But then, they were dead.
"You did promise to pose for me. I believe it's my Christmas gift." He nodded at the French doors. "On the balcony, with the bay in the background, you'll look perfect outside."
"A gift is a gift, I suppose." I wouldn’t mind being immortalized by Fletcher. To be a part of his work and not just an observer. It was exciting, really. I swung my legs off the bed. "It will just take me a few minutes to dress."
He shook his head. "That's not what I had in mind."
I stared at him. "Surely you're not serious."
"I'm very serious."
"But I shall freeze."
"Nonsense, you're made of sterner stuff than that. Besides, the sun is shining, and it's quite pleasant today." He pinned me with a pointed look. "Last year, you said you would pose for me naked."
"That was last year." Now that the time had come to actually do the deed, I was not quite so flippant about it. "Now, however . . ."
"Now?" he said hopefully.
The look in his eye was impossible to resist. Besides, I had promised. "Very well."
I wrapped the blanket around me and stood up.
He smiled. "That's cheating, you know."
"Is it?" I glanced down at the blanket. "And I thought it was a compromise."
He laughed. "What it is, is a start."
"I'm not sure I like how that sounds," I said under my breath.
We had been lucky thus far this year. While it had rained a bit at night, the days were bright and sunny. He dragged a bench out onto the balcony and positioned me in a reclining position, facing the bay, the blanket draped artfully around me.
"Perfect." He nodded. "Especially the way Vesuvius is off to one side. It reminds me of something you said last year." He thought for a moment. "Ah yes, you said you didn’t want to live in the shadow of a volcano. There was something profound about that."
"Was there?" I wrinkled my nose. "I thought it was nothing more than a desire not to be engulfed in flame and molten rock."
"There's much to be said for that too," he said absently.
I sighed and wished I wasn't quite so ill at ease. I was not completely naked, which suited my sensibilities, yet I did feel exposed. I tried reminding myself that I was revealing little more than I did when I wore a particularly daring gown. It did not help. Even so, there was a remarkable sense of freedom in being nearly naked under the Italian sun. I never would have suspected such a thing.
Same Time, Next Christmas Page 17
