Then she stopped.
Angelo, the homeless man who was usually seated next to the bridge, was absent.
Raven took a moment to look for him, wondering if he’d merely changed location, but he was nowhere to be found. His belongings, which were normally placed next to the bridge in one favorite spot, were also gone.
She felt a prickly feeling on the back of her neck. In all the time she’d lived in Santo Spirito, Angelo was seated next to the bridge morning and evening.
She made a mental note to stop by the Franciscan mission, which he sometimes visited, in order to check on him.
Glancing at her watch and seeing she had mere moments before she was supposed to start work, Raven continued running to the Uffizi, a distance of one and a half kilometers. The sensation of her feet hitting the pavement, the jarring of her lower legs and knees—all these feelings were eagerly embraced.
A gentle breeze caressed her cheek and hair as it spilled over her shoulders and knapsack. She felt stronger, bolder, more confident. She felt as if she’d been given a new body and a new outlook.
With every step, she grew less and less concerned about what had caused such a dramatic reversal of her bad fortune.
Consequently, she was unaware of the mysterious figure who’d been shadowing her since she left her building.
It was the happiest morning of her life.
Chapter Three
The Prince climbed the stairs to his bedroom in the Palazzo Riccardi, an old Medici palace. He’d returned the wounded lark to her world. Now he returned to his.
And what a world it was—dark, violent, destructive.
As he entered the room, he caught sight of his reflection and pushed a few wayward strands of blond hair from his forehead. He never spent long looking at himself, despite the fact that his body was far more attractive now than it had been in life.
Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain.
Funny how he could still quote Scripture. Funny how he, who had once been a servant of God, was now counted among the Church’s enemies.
He frowned, thinking of a beautiful face with green eyes.
He pushed her image aside. He’d recklessly interfered in human affairs because of a centuries-old memory. Because of another beautiful face with haunting eyes . . .
He scrubbed his face with both hands. His body never tired but his mind needed rest. On this morning, he wanted nothing other than to spend hours in quiet meditation. But that would not be possible. He’d scented Aoibhe the moment he’d entered the palace, and she was behind him.
“You’ve been hiding.” She spoke to her erstwhile lover in English, rolling to her side on the large bed and absolutely neglecting to cover her naked body.
(She had few virtues. Modesty was not among them.)
Dawn was just peeking over the horizon. In a few hours the lark, no longer wounded, would awake in her apartment. But at this moment, the Prince forced himself to forget her and gazed hungrily at Aoibhe’s naked form, her firm, full breasts and long, tempting red hair.
He licked his lips. “Good morning to you, too. How did you know I’d be here?”
“I guessed. You’ve been in that impenetrable fortress of yours for days. I knew you’d have to feed eventually. Then you’d come here.”
“I thought I changed the locks.” He pulled the blackout shades over the windows. The action was for her comfort, not his.
Unbeknownst to the others, he could brave the sunlight.
Aoibhe rested her head on an upturned hand, looking remarkably like a Renaissance painting.
“You did. I wandered into the museum and persuaded one of the servants to allow me upstairs. I would have come to you at the fortress, but as you know, I can’t pass through the gates.”
The Prince ignored her pout, his gray eyes narrowing. “Is the servant dead?”
“Of course not. Merely—indisposed.” She lifted a pillow and threw it at him. “I wouldn’t kill one of your humans. At least, not without asking.”
He cursed, batting the pillow aside. His memory was drawn to the green-eyed girl, cowering in an alley while Aoibhe begged him to share the “exceptional vintage.” The memory, like the feelings that accompanied it, made him uneasy.
He turned his back. “Servants are easily replaced, but it’s inconvenient to do so every time a guest gets hungry.”
Aoibhe paused, for she’d seen the discomfort that flitted across his face a moment before. “You never used to care about them. I can recall when you executed your entire staff on a whim.”
Her comment hung in the air as he crossed over to the aged wardrobe opposite the bed.
“I don’t have whims, Aoibhe. I executed them for good reason, I assure you. Servants are like clothes. As long as they remain useful, I’ll keep them. When they outlive their usefulness, I dispose of them. Perhaps it’s more correct to say that I mourn the departure of a nice garment. A servant? Not so much.”