The Italian's Cinderella Bride. Lucy Gordon

managed to build up a picture of Ruth’s movements, even down to half an hour she spent drinking coffee in a small café.

      In no other city but Venice could he have done this. The word began to spread ahead of him. People telephoned each other to ask if Ruth had passed that way, then they began waiting for him in the squares and alleyways, and one was even able to describe the new coat she’d just bought. It was dark red wool, very stylish, he assured Pietro, and a great improvement on the light coat she’d been wearing, which was damp.

      It was a help. Now he was able to look for the coat, and finally he spotted her in the Garibaldi Gardens, at the extreme end of Venice, where the land tailed off into the lagoon.

      He almost didn’t see her at first. By now, it was late afternoon, the light was fading fast and she was sitting quite still on a stone bench. Her elbows were resting on her knees and her arms were crossed as if to protect herself, but she didn’t, as he’d feared, have the look of despair he’d seen last night. She merely seemed calm and collected.

      After the frazzled day he’d had, the sight had an unfortunate effect on his temper. He planted himself in front of her.

      ‘I’ve spent all day looking for you,’ were his first cross words.

      ‘But didn’t you get my letter?’

      ‘Yes, I got it, for what good you thought it did. The state you were in—Just running off—Of all the daft—’ He exploded into a stream of Venetian curses while she waited for him to be finished.

      ‘But can’t you see that I had to do it?’ Ruth asked when she could get a word in.

      ‘No, I can’t,’ he snapped.

      ‘I just felt so embarrassed about dumping myself on you like that.’

      ‘You didn’t. I hauled you in. That was my first mistake.’

      ‘You wish you’d left me there?’

      ‘I wish I’d chucked you in the Grand Canal. But I didn’t. I invited you into my home, where you collapsed.’

      ‘But if I’d known about your wife—’

      ‘Why should you? Leave that.’

      There was a silence, then she said awkwardly, ‘And now you’re angry with me.’

      Remembering her frail condition, he knew he should utter comforting words, designed to make her feel better. But something had got hold of him and the words poured out in a stream of ill temper.

      ‘Why should you think that? I only dashed out without any breakfast and spent the day wandering the streets looking for the most awkward, difficult woman I’ve ever met. I’m tired, I’m hungry, I’m cold, and it was all completely unnecessary. Why the devil should I be angry with you?’

      Instead of bursting into tears she regarded him thoughtfully before saying, ‘I expect you feel a lot better now you’ve lost your temper.’

      ‘Yes!’

      It was true. All his life he’d been even-tempered. That had changed in the last year, when rage would sometimes overcome him without warning, but he’d put his mind to controlling these outbursts, and succeeded up to a point. But these days self-control had a heavy price, and now the relief of allowing himself an explosion was considerable.

      ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ she asked.

      ‘You can buy me two,’ he growled. ‘Come on, let’s go, it’s getting dark.’

      Pietro grasped her hand firmly, so as not to lose her again, and reached for her suitcase. But she tried to hold on to it, protesting, ‘I’m quite capable of—’

      ‘Quit arguing and let go!’

      He took her to a small café overlooking the lagoon, and they sat at the window, watching lights on the water. She bought him a large brandy, which he drained in one gulp, at which she ordered another.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

      ‘So you ought to be. Of all the stupid, stupid—’

      ‘OK, I get the point. I’m stupid.’

      ‘Yes, no! I didn’t mean it like that.’ With horror he realised how his careless words might sound after what she’d been through. ‘I don’t want you to think—just because your head was injured—’

      Then he saw that she was giving him a quizzical half-smile.

      ‘It’s all right,’ she said kindly. ‘You don’t have to tread on eggshells. Let’s leave it that I’m crazy but I’m not stupid.’

      ‘Stop that talk! You’re not crazy.’

      ‘How do you know?’ she demanded indignantly.

      ‘Why are you suddenly different? Last night you were half out of it, and today you’re ready to fight the world.’

      ‘Isn’t fighting better than giving in?’

      ‘Sure, if you fight the right person. But why me?’ he demanded, exasperated. ‘Why am I getting all your aggro dumped on me?’

      ‘You’re handy.’

      ‘That’s what I thought.’

      ‘I’d had a bad time yesterday, what with the flight and getting soaking wet. There’s nothing like half drowning for making you depressed. But I’ve sorted myself out a bit now. Why are you glaring at me? What have I done wrong now?’

      ‘All day I’ve had nightmares about you wandering Venice alone, confused, miserable. I was sorry for you, worried about you—and now you’re fine.’

      ‘Well, I’m sorry about that. Last night the pressure made me slip back to my bad time, but I’ve pulled myself together.’

      He wasn’t totally convinced. Her smile was too bright, not quite covering an air of strain, and he guessed that part of this was presented for his benefit. But certainly she was mentally stronger than he had feared.

      ‘I’m glad you’re better,’ he said, ‘but you’re still not ready to go wandering off among strangers. Whatever you may have thought, I didn’t want you to go.’

      ‘Of course you did—’

      ‘Woman, what will it take to stop you arguing every time I open my mouth?’

      ‘I don’t know. If I think of something I’ll make sure you never find out.’

      ‘I’ll bet you will.’

      ‘I was just so embarrassed when I found out about your wife and child.’

      ‘You needn’t be,’ he said, pale but speaking normally. ‘They died nearly a year ago. I’ve come to terms with it by now.’ Abruptly he changed the subject. ‘I’m ready for something to eat, on me this time.’

      She knew he wasn’t telling the truth. He was far from coming to terms with his tragedy. His eyes spoke of a hundred sleepless night, and days that were even worse. He looked like a man who could be destroyed by his feelings, and, strangely, it made her feel calmer, as though in some mysterious way they were alike; equals in suffering, in need.

      ‘As long as you know that I’m sorry,’ she said slowly.

      ‘You’ve nothing to feel bad about. You’ve even done me a favour, giving me something to think about apart from myself.’

      ‘Oh, yes!’ she said fervently.

      He gave a faint smile. ‘You too?’

      ‘I’ll say. After a while you get so bored with yourself.’

      He ordered a meal, and while they waited he took out his cell phone and called Minna.

      ‘It’s all right, I’ve found her,’ he said. ‘If you’d just make up her bed—oh, you have. Thank