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He touched her between her legs and the jolt of pleasure made her moan aloud. It was shameful… someone might happen by… but she couldn’t wait. She reached for the fall of his breeches, her fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar buttons. He slipped a finger into her, bringing her own wetness over that tight bud of nerves, sending a jolt of pleasure through her that made her gasp. “We… we must be quick,” she managed.

His grin was lazy as his fingers continued to stroke her until she was squirming. Heat seemed to flicker over her skin. Her nerves wound tighter, her muscles wound tighter. She felt a though she were about to explode… as though she must explode. Her hands gripped the sand. The fluttering inside her became waves. The waves built, higher and higher, until she was crying out as she shook under his fingers.

Everything around her was half in pieces, as though the world was still shattering as he entered her inch by inch. But the hunger that he’d set off in her still hadn’t been satiated. He planted kisses along her jawline. The sun flickered red against her closed eyelids. She pushed up towards him, seeking more pressure. When she got it, she heard herself moan. He deepened his thrusts. She ground herself against him. The maddening, fluttering muscles were an itch that she couldn’t scratch. She heard herself making frantic mewling noises.

Without warning, her muscles clenched almost painfully tight again and then let go in spasm after spasm of pleasure. He thrust deep, and his member began to jerk inside her as she rode out her climax, crying out as she arched against him until it was over.

Gradually she drifted back into her body. West’s face was buried in the side of her neck. She was lying on sand. She squinted upward. The sun was in her eyes. What on earth had she just done? And how had it happened so quickly—and out of doors, too?

No—that was nonsense. She knew perfectly well what had happened, because she’d wanted it to happen. She’d given in to the same impulses that had ruined so many women. She might as well be some silly country girl letting a man tumble her in a field and give her a green gown. What if he’d got her with child? How would she write novels then? If she couldn’t write, her life might as well be over.

West kissed her neck. “That was a surprise.” His voice was husky.

She pushed him away and sat up. She felt lightheaded, as though she hadn’t eaten in days. “Well, it will not happen again, so… so do not think that it will.” It wasn’t much of a retort, but her thoughts were too scattered to come up with a better one.

Thankfully they still seemed to be alone. But there was sand all over her redingote… and down the back of her gown! Sand! And her hat was half off her head, and her hair was coming out of its pins. She scrambled unsteadily to her feet and brushed at her petticoat and the skirts of her riding habit. The dark blue linen was crumpled and marked.

“May I help?” He was still sprawled lazily on the warm sand, propped on one well-muscled arm.

“No you may not.” Her hands trembled as she shoved pins roughly back into her hair. She didn’t want him touching her again until she could tidy away her emotions, just as she was tidying her appearance. She didn’t trust herself—and for good reason.

After a moment he busied himself packing the watercolors back into his saddlebag. “Well. I am sorry that this island proved to be such a disappointment for your… project.”

What did he mean by that? Even in her lightheaded state she felt instantly wary. Did he suspect that her interest in these islands wasn’t what she’d told him it was?

She tied the ribbon of her hat painfully tight under her chin and didn’t look directly at him. “It cannot matter. Let us go. I am quite finished painting for today.”

It was obvious that before she could make more progress with her book, she must discover the gloomy castle and terrifying, crumbling cliffs that had made The Prisoner of San Severino such thrilling reading. But when they went sightseeing, she could find no hint of them. The Doge’s Palace, for example, was not a castle at all. Its intricately arched and ornamented facade looked like white lace carved of stone. And the famous Bridge of Sighs—whose name promised gloom and misery—was also carved of white Istrian stone.

Even in the humble back streets, all was color and beauty. She would turn a corner only to be confronted with the turquoise water of a narrow canal lit by a brilliant shaft of sunlight, and clotheslines full of colorful laundry strung overhead. Brilliant sprays of red bougainvillea arched over salmon-colored plaster walls and verdant palms hinted at lush private gardens. The blossoms of the wild caper bushes that pushed from ancient mortar of the canal banks—which passed for weeds in Venice—were frivolous explosions of bright purple. It was all very charming. Too charming. There had to be a dark underbelly to the place. It was simply that she was looking in the wrong places to find it.

She consulted Norwood’s Guidebook, which seemed to assume that its readers were already familiar with Venice’s geography. Still, inside the back cover there was a map of the entire lagoon in it that was cross-referenced to an index. She pored over it, trying to deduce which of the islands had the potential to be foreboding.

“Did you know that one of the small islands here was used to quarantine victims of the Black Plague?”

She’d joined West at dinner, though she often dined alone in the library. He looked surprised. “Yes. I believe that I had read that somewhere.”

“May we visit it?”

“Er… why?”

She thought quickly. “I should like to paint a view of Venice from its shores.”

“Really?” His dark brows went up. “It is a little too far away for that, I should have thought. You will not be able to make out the individual buildings at that distance.”

“That will make it more... picturesque.”

“Ah.” There was an amused gleam in his eyes. “Let me guess—because of the foreground?”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Well.” He set his wine down. “I shall write a note to the commander of the Austrian troops.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, because that particular island is now where the Austrian army has its chief garrison. They have taken over the former hospital buildings and use them as barracks. In fact, I believe that the whole island is a military fort.”

Oh. This didn’t sound as promising as Norwood had led her to hope. Still. With such a history behind them, the walls of the buildings—indeed, the very stones themselves!—could scarcely fail to emit a brooding, tragic melancholy that would be perceptible to visitors of a sensitive disposition. Simply walking through them, she could expect to experience inexplicable feelings of foreboding and despair. Perhaps there would be sudden icy drafts, and rooms that even the most battle-hardened of soldiers dared not enter…