He had looked at her quietly. “Home is not always,” he’d said, “where ye left it.”

And that had been all he had said on the subject.

* * *

“A broken man,” Effie had said, “is a man who has left his clan, or been cast out of it. An outlaw.”

She had looked comfortable early the next morning, bundled in her hammock in the tiny cabin fitted in the ship’s prow. There was color in her cheeks again, and she’d had energy enough to make a thorough explanation of the system of the clans within the Scottish Highlands, each belonging to its lands and bound by ties of loyalty and blood, with a chief who looked after the whole of the clan and could claim all its members’ allegiance, the chieftains of various branches below him, and all of the other clan members arranged below that. “But a broken man,” she had concluded, “is shunned by his kin and no longer belongs to the land he was bred upon, and has no shelter or comfort but that he can scrape for himself.”

Mary had tried to absorb this. “But Hugh…that is, Mr. MacPherson says he’s not a broken man.”

“Then he is not. And it’s Hugh is it, now?” Effie’s eyes had been knowing. “What else has your Mr. MacPherson been telling ye, there in your cabin at night?”

“That I talk too much.” Mary had smiled and refused to be shamed. “He has made no improper advances, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It is, and I’m glad of it. But I’ll be gladder still,” Effie had told her, “to finally be back on dry land.”

She had found her wish granted three days after that, when at last having caught a fair wind, the Princesa Maria came safely to Civitavecchia.

Captain del Rio insisted on coming ashore with them. “I know the coachmen here who can be trusted to bring you to Rome. Also those who are not worth your trust, and in harbors like this there are many of those. You will have to be careful,” he said, “for I hear that the man at the root of this scandal in London, a man named John Thomson, is even now heading to Rome with a borrowed name.”

Mary could see, as before, the intelligence lighting the depths of his playful dark eyes.

“There will be many people, both here and at Rome, who are watching for this man,” del Rio remarked. “The reward is a large one, a great deal of money, for one who can capture him. Here, I have this from Marseilles.” Reaching into his pocket, he took out a cutting of newspaper, tidily folded. “It is his description, in case you might see him yourself.” The quick flash of his grin let them know beyond doubt he had known Thomson’s name all along. Maybe theirs too, thought Mary.

But when he bent gallantly over her hand, having found them a suitable coach that would carry them down from the harbor to Rome, he still said, “Mrs. Symonds. It has been a very great pleasure to know you. If ever you’re captured by corsairs, it would be my honor to rescue you.”

“Thank you.” Mary had carried her fur-lined cloak over her arm, while Hugh carried the dog and the bulk of their other things, but now she folded the softness and passed it to Captain del Rio. “For Emiliana,” she told him. She no longer needed it. No longer needed to borrow the plumage of some other bird when she’d learned how to fly on her own. “It’s a present, for taking such kind care of Effie. Please tell her I’m grateful.”

Kissing her hand with a warmth that would have done great credit to one of Madame d’Aulnoy’s heroes, del Rio straightened to face Hugh. “I’m thinking, Mr. Symonds, you must buy your wife the finest wedding ring in all of Rome, for how you won the love of such a woman I will never know. How did he do it?” he asked Mary.

Mary thought a moment, then she raised her chin and told the truth. “He watched me from afar when he believed I could not see him. He followed me when he believed that I was not aware of it. One day my gloves were stolen in the street, and he returned them to me. And,” she told the captain, simply, “that was our beginning.”

Feeling she could do no better for an ending to this chapter of their voyage, Mary turned towards the coach. Hugh stood beside its open door, his hand outstretched to help her. And he waited. For the first time, Mary laid her hand on top of his, and felt his hand turn so her fingers were enclosed within his own, a masculine protective touch that left her feeling cared for. Safe.

And Mary needed all of that to give her strength this morning. For by day’s end she would be in Rome, preparing for a meeting with her father. And the king.

Chapter 36

I didn’t like interviews. Didn’t do well at them.

Luc had assured me, “It’s only my brother.”

Which hadn’t been helpful. The fact that the man I’d be meeting at lunch was Luc’s brother made it imperative I do my best to impress him, since he wouldn’t only be judging me as a prospective employee but as someone worthy of Luc. When I’d tried to explain this last night, Luc had hugged me. “He’ll like you, don’t worry. Just be yourself.”

“I don’t have the right clothes for an interview.”

“Fabien’s very informal, he’ll be wearing jeans. So should you, if we’re taking the bike. He’ll care more about what’s in your head than what outfit you’re wearing.”

That still hadn’t stopped me getting up early this morning and trying on all of the clothes in my wardrobe before I had settled on one combination I liked, and then taking a full sixteen minutes to tie and retie the blue scarf Luc had bought me in Paris, until its folds lay in a perfect arrangement. The clock on the chest of drawers had been my lifeline, and when I had later gone downstairs to wait, I’d relied on the stately and competent pendulum swings of the old longcase clock in the dining room, and at 10:50 precisely I’d stepped out to wait on the terrace, deferring in turn to the time display that I refreshed on my mobile with rhythmic, predictable clicks.