Page 24 of Betrothal Between Enemies

‘He did not know what he was journeying to. He had no idea of the contents of the letter he carried.’ Her mother shook her head. ‘I can see that you are intent on seeing this through.’

‘I am intent on being fair to him. There is still time before the engagement party for him to prove himself. Either way.’ She smiled and squeezed her mother’s hands. ‘Let us give him that and then decide.’ If she was honest, it was herself she was buying the time for. Two more weeks with Alistair. And perhaps, her conscience whispered, two weeks to decide what she wanted and if it was possible.

‘You are right, Ismay. We will give him a chance. The party can always be called off.’ Her mother rose. ‘While you are gone these next few days, think about what I’ve said.’

She would. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter what she thought in the end. Perhaps Alistair would view the news with relief and nothing else, although she did not think that would be the case. He liked Naples. He liked working with her father. And, maybe, he didn’t despise her. Maybe she was part of what he liked in Naples, too, even if he didn’t want to marry her. Still, he would be free to go back to his cousin, Hayes, and she would be free to carry on here. They would both get over their feelings in time once they realised they’d gotten what they wanted.

* * *

They carried nothing with them on the ascent of Vesuvius, relying instead on the hospitality of the Hermitage of San Salvatore, halfway up the western slope on the Canteroni Ridge, for rest and refreshment. A rest, Alistair was surprised to find, he appreciated. Monticelli had hired a guide for their group, and the first half of the climb had been difficult if not strenuous, due to the shifting nature of the rocks and dirt on the pathways.

‘It gets worse,’ Ismay assured him with a smug toss of her head. She sat down beside him on a rough wooden bench outside the inn and handed him a tin cup of wine. ‘I won’t promise it’s good wine, but it’s something to drink.’

‘You’ve done this before.’ Alistair took a tentative sip of the wine and grimaced. ‘Hard to believe these are the same grapes as the ones in your father’s wine. Lacryma Christi? Is that right?’

‘Tear of Christ grapes.’ She took her own small sip. ‘Hermitage wine is definitely an acquired taste. What do you think of the mountain so far?’

‘It’s busy. One does not think of mountains as busy. I supposed I imagined it would be a granite sanctuary of solitude, that we’d have the mountain and the stars to ourselves. But here it is, nearly midnight, and this inn in the middle of nowhere is bustling as if it was midday in the city.’

‘It is the height of climbing season,’ Ismay confessed. ‘No one climbs in the summer, it’s too hot. It’s also tourist season. All of you Englishmen time your Grand Tour arrivals for the winter months so you can enjoy the best of our weather.’

Alistair laughed. ‘Steady on! You’re English, too. But yes, the climb is more social than I thought it would be. I like it, though.’ To prove the point, a young Swiss soldier who’d climbed with them stopped to shake his hand. ‘Are you ready, Monsieur Burke-Price? I think the guides are starting to rope our parties up.’ The soldier’s gaze went apprehensively to the shadow of the mountain looming above them. Alistair’s gaze went with him. Vesuvius was in fine form tonight, sparks and flame spouting from time to time against the dark sky. The soldier was grimly determined. ‘Together, we will we take on the mountain, yes? Tonight we shall be brothers in arms. Both of you, come sign the Livre d’or with me before we go. I’ve not climbed the mountain with a woman in trousers before.’

Inside the rough-hewn inn, Alistair signed his name in the big leather-bound book next to Captain Wilhelm Steiner, his hand pausing as he skimmed the list of those on the mountain tonight. There was his party of course: Teodoro Monticelli and his guests, but others, too, from all over Europe. Frenchmen, Germans, even a man and his wife from Poland. Suddenly, it felt important that he be here, that his name be in this book, his presence noted with strangers who would never meet again but who’d come together for an evening to share in witnessing something spectacular. He passed the quill to Ismay, and she smiled at him as if she had guessed the philosophical jumble of his thoughts.

‘Does it always feel like this?’ Alistair asked as they stepped outside to rejoin Monticelli and his guests.

‘The French call it venire ensemble, to come together. And yes, it does feel like this always. The challenge of the climb outweighs anything else that might keep us apart off the mountain.’ She gave him a wink. ‘The challenge truly begins now. The higher up we go, the narrower the path, and we’ll encounter ash fields at the summit, which makes climbing difficult. There’s no traction. You slide as much as you move forward.’

‘You’re not selling me on the hike, Ismay.’ Alistair grimaced and stared up at the summit, Vesuvius taking that moment to throw sparks to the sky.

‘Don’t worry. Your biggest concern isn’t the pathway. That’s conquerable. People do it every day. It’s the earthquakes and the lava you have to worry about.’ She knit her brow. ‘And the toxic gas clouds.’

‘Lava?’ Alistair took a length of rope from the guide and tied it about his waist.

Ismay gave her rope a firm testing jerk. ‘I wouldn’t be concerned. I doubt we will have any tonight, although I do believe the mountain is working up to something.’

‘Iz, that’s not reassuring in the least.’ Alistair took a deep breath and stared up at the mountain. It didn’t look that high. Perhaps heights wouldn’t be a problem. Perhaps there would be no cliffs, no gaping crevasses to peer into.

‘Are you nervous?’ she asked in all sincerity. ‘Do you want to wait here?’

Yes. But he would not admit it. He grinned. ‘And disappoint our new friend, Wilhelm?’ He pulled himself together. He was Alistair Burke-Price, master of the dare. The mountain and Ismay were daring him tonight, and he was damn well up for it. What a story this would be to tell: climbing an active volcano at midnight. ‘Come on, Iz, let’s have an adventure. Just don’t let me fall,’ he joked.

What an adventure it was! There was much planting of feet, bracing of bodies and offering of strong grips to pull one another forward. More than once, Alistair relied on Wilhelm’s strength to pull himself up a cliff or around a treacherous corner where the earth disappeared and dirt slipped away beneath his feet, taking part of his nerve as well. And many times he returned the favour. There was encouragement, too, as some of their party tired.

‘What we need is an observatory at the hermitage,’ Alistair told Ismay during a quiet stretch of pathway that allowed for some conversation. ‘That way, no one needs to brave the summit.’

‘What’s the fun in that?’ She looked back at him over her shoulder with a laugh. He’d been enjoying his view as best he could in the dark. The mountain was a wonder to behold with its sparks and flames, but the real wonder was right in front of him in boots and trousers, striding up Vesuvius as if she was born to it. How was it that she panicked at the merest suggestion of a long-term relationship but strode up active volcanoes undaunted? She’d been fearless tonight, unbothered by the occasional rumblings. Instead, she aahed in admiration and made intelligent speculative conversation with Monticelli, while it took all of Alistair’s courage to put on a brave face. His agile mind kept running the numbers. The odds favoured him, he reasoned. Hardly anyone died on the mountain. Tourists with no expertise climbed up all the time. He would be fine. But he had a hard time convincing himself of that.

What a woman Ismay Rose had become. One simply had to understand her to appreciate her, which was easier said than done. He would miss her when he left. Leaving Naples was becoming more difficult to contemplate. If anyone had told him back in September that he’d not want to leave, he would have laughed and then made a very large wager to the contrary, never thinking it was a wager he’d lose. But he’d given her his word that, no matter what, whether the ruse succeeded or not, he’d leave. She would be free to pursue the life she wanted. This life: meeting with fellow scholars, climbing Vesuvius at midnight in trousers. It suited her. He hoped it made her happy in the end, because it, too, would come at a cost.

‘Alistair, watch out!’ Wilhelm’s shout reached him as the earth shook, the dirt shifting and sliding beneath his boots as he tried to stay on his feet and failed. One moment there was solid ground and the next nothing. He was falling, swinging in midair, suspended between the cliff above and certain death below by the rope girdle about him, his worst nightmare come to life. The odds had not favoured him. He was going to die on the mountain. His hands gripped the rope of his harness irrationally. What good was that going to do? He couldn’t stop the rope from breaking if it chose to.

A lantern appeared at what was left of the path. Ismay’s face looked over the narrow ledge. New panic—different panic—swept him. Any other young woman would have screamed and frozen. But no, Ismay had to throw herself into the breach, risk her own neck. The fool! ‘Ismay, get back! The ground’s not safe.’ Good Lord, the ledge could go at any time. If it did, she’d fall. He was terrified—for her. Terrified for what could happen—they were all roped together. If the ledge weakened, his weight could pull her off. He did not want to be responsible for that. ‘Wilhelm, get her off the ledge! Ismay, what do you think you’re doing?’

‘Saving your arse,’ she said grimly as he felt the rope start to move, tugging him upwards. Towards safety. Wilhelm’s hand reached down to take his, Monticelli reaching down to take his other hand. Together, they hoisted him over the ledge.

He lay in the dirt, taking deep breaths, looking up at the stars for a long moment. Wilhelm passed him a small flask. ‘Drink this.’