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onto a cart track
that ran beneath fragrant pines, their sweet resin smell heavy on the still
air.
    “There
it is,” he said at last. “The private chapel of the di Cilento family, one of
the oldest noble families of the Campania region.”
    “It’s
charming,” she breathed.
    The
building was simple in design, a rectangular shape with a squat bell tower at
the far end. Its unadorned honey-coloured walls glowed in the sunlight. The
chapel stood in a glade, encircled by a near perfect circle of cedars.
    “Won’t
they mind us trespassing on their land?”
    “They
won’t mind.”
    He
led her beneath the portico, unlocked the chapel with a large key that hung on
a rusty nail beside the door, then they stepped into the cool shadows of the
church. Isobel unpinned her hat, and gasped as her eyes adjusted to the dim light.
    Roman-style
arches rose to a round, vaulted ceiling bright with colour. The church was unadorned
but for the large wooden crucifix behind the altar, its walls plain and
white-washed, drawing the eye upwards to the heavens and the spectacular
frescoes painted there.
    In
the centre of the ceiling sat a young girl with her head bowed. An angel stood
before her, wings outspread, a hand extended in blessing. All around them
stretched a sky as blue and cloudless as the one outside. At the very edges of
the painting, where the vault met the walls, wove a band of intertwined vines
and acanthus leaves.
    “This
chapel is dedicated to the Madonna.” Stefano’s whisper echoed off the walls.
“But this place was sacred long before the chapel was built. That circle of
cedars outside is all that remains of an ancient pagan temple.”
    “I
can feel the magic.” Isobel spun around, arms outstretched. “I’ve never seen
anything like it. It’s not the sort of thing Giotto usually painted, is it?”
    “No,
it’s not.” He shrugged. “Perhaps it was only a student of his, working in his
style.” A roguish look lit his eyes. “But the local legend says that the Conte
di Cilento brought Giotto here from Naples and gave him free reign to paint
whatever his heart desired. And this is what he created.”
    She
closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. The fragrance of the cedars was
prominent even here.
    “You
are not like other English girls I’ve known,” Stefano said.
    She
opened her eyes but did not look at him. “And how many English girls have you
known?” She ignored the sudden pang. Did he do this often, pick up easy English tourists?
    “I
lived in London for a while. And New York.”
    “Oh.”
To cover her relief, she turned her eyes back up to the magnificent painted
ceiling. “How am I different from other English girls?”
    “You
have more warmth and passion in you.”
    She
shook her head, rueful. “My art teacher always told me I lacked passion.”
    He
took a step closer, and she turned to look at him at last, her heart missing a
beat. The look of mischief had gone from his eyes, replaced by a smouldering
heat. “Perhaps because Italy had not yet awakened you. But it’s there in your
eyes. You are open to new ideas, to new experiences. You want to explore. You
are not afraid. Most English girls I’ve met are afraid.”
    She
contemplated this new vision of herself, and liked it. Except that she was not
as brave as he seemed to think her; there were a lot of things she was afraid
of.
    He
looked up at the ceiling, and her gaze followed his.
    When
he spoke again, his voice was light, conversational, without the heat and fire
that discomforted her as much as it stirred her. “It is also said that the
Conte di Cilento who commissioned these paintings was a heathen, and that he
built this chapel not as a place to worship God, but as a place to worship
pleasure.”
    “And
what do you think?”
    His
full mouth quirked into a smile. “I think I would have liked him. He was a man
who appreciated God’s finest creations, nature and art, and he brought them
together. He was a man who appreciated the