by Deb Marlowe
“Let’s start again, mates, with the old Hamilton House, eh? Ready?” A big man waved his hand and nodded his head in time and they were off, four of them with a pipe, a fiddle, a bodhran and a set of spoons, all tripping along well together on the rollicking song—until suddenly they were not. The pipe lost the melody, which set the fiddler off. The spoons gradually died away until only the quick, heart-thumping rhythm of the drum forged on.
“Hold on,” the piper called and a muted discussion ensued.
Rhys finished off a quick sketch of them, then looked around for something else to draw. The view of the Abbey and the Palace was not bad here. He worked for a while on capturing the grandeur and was just making a note in the margin about the quick-changing color of the sky behind it, when a cry of distress brought his attention back to the misfit band.
A young child had joined them. The piper’s son, by the sturdy look of him—and by the miniature pipe clutched in his small hands. He was attempting to mimic the simple run of notes his father played for him. The other musicians had wandered over and gathered around a smiling woman with a basket—presumably the child’s mother.
Almost without volition, Rhys began to sketch the pair. Fingers flying, he raced to catch the determined furrow in the child’s brow, the clear affection in the father’s eyes and the flush of pride and relief that glowed from the boy when he won the man’s praise. What must that feel like? That unconditional support? The open fondness?
“That’s the first time I’ve seen you frown while you worked.”
He looked up with a start. Flightly sat cross-legged on the ground only a few feet away. Her gaze was curious—and a little triumphant.
And his reaction was immediate—and physical.
“You found me quickly, today.” He closed the sketchbook.
She shrugged. “I thought about what you said yesterday, and I thought you might feel like sketching people today. Everyone’s talking about the rain coming.” She gestured overhead and he realized that the predicted weather had grown decidedly imminent. “I figured a lot of people might be out to enjoy the weather before it turned—so the parks. I tried the Royal Botanical first, but . . . here we are.”
“Very quick witted of you.” And too observant by half. Had he been frowning? He glanced quickly over to where the boy and his father had finished their lesson and had gone to help the others pack up their things.
She watched them too, alight with curiosity. “I’m sorry I missed their rehearsal. I’ve been hoping to hear the Highland pipes.”
“They are very . . . singular.”
She grinned. “Then I shall be sure to enjoy them. When isn’t singular better than common?”
She was dressed as a boy again. His first reaction was disappointment. He had been looking forward to seeing those curves showcased again, instead of hidden so thoroughly. But all around them people were gathering up their belongings and starting to leave—and her attention shifted quickly from one group to the next, to the sky and on to him, and her thoughts flowed like water across her face. Dressed like this, there was no distraction from her fascinating, quicksilver expressions.
And right now her expression told him that her attention had been diverted. “Excuse me for a moment?” she said to him, her gaze focused somewhere off behind the musicians. “I’ll be right back.”
He watched her go, watched her face go blank and wary as a group of gentleman passed her by, their heads together and their conversation low and muttering. He watched her smile and nod to a couple of small girls gathering flowers at a small hillock. She spoke to them a moment, then bent and wandered about a bit, gathering up a handful of flowers herself. Were they violets? He narrowed his eyes, trying to see and saw her wave at the girls as she headed back towards him, her expression now one of satisfaction.
He could do a whole series on her, he mused. One aspect after another, each featuring that creamy skin, that trail of freckles across her nose and those incredibly expressive, changeable eyes . . .
“Oh, I forgot!” She stopped in front of him, paused in the act of pulling a knapsack from her shoulder so that she could deposit her flowers inside. She dug into it, coming out with two, linen-wrapped bundles and held one out to him. “I owe you a meal.”
He gazed down at the offering—and something softened in his chest. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to. Since you gave me a taste of the Highlands, I thought I would return the favor.” She held it out. “Fresh baked oat bannocks, slathered with honey, and scotch eggs. My friend grew up here and assures me this was regular fare at tea time.”
His stomach growled and they both laughed. But an alarm thumped inside of him, as well. He’d always been a popular fellow. His size discouraged most mischief. His cheerful, even nature made him a fair amount of friends. His willingness to reward good service and loyalty generally ensured that he was welcome everywhere. But his solitary and wandering ways meant few opportunities for others to reciprocate—and now he found himself unexpectedly moved and . . . restless.
“I thought we might—” Whatever she meant to say was cut off when a great raindrop splatted right on her nose. Her eyes widened. A similar drop hit his forehead—and then the heavens opened up.
Around them people laughed and cursed and whooped and headed for the gate in a steady stream. Flightly slung her bag back over her shoulder and made to follow, but he held out a hand.
“Wait.”
Pulling out one of Mrs. Beattie’s plaids, he draped it over her head and let it hang down over the rest of her. Grabbing his own, he pointed toward a thick grove of elms and weeping ash not far beyond the spot where she had picked the flowers. “We’ll stay mostly dry in there, I think. Shall we?”
She hesitated but a moment, giving him a long look, then turned and dashed for the shelter of the copse.
He’d been right. The leaves were thick above them, and only a few drops made it through the protective canopy. The light shone dim. A carpet of old leaves and needles lay thick beneath their feet. The branches of the ash trees drooped low, enclosing them in a protective bubble, with only the patter of the rain overhead to remind them of the world outside.
“Well, this is cozy.” Flightly removed her plaid and folded it, using it to soften a seat on a wide, low branch. She tossed him the packet she’d offered before, then took her perch and dug into her food.
Rhys shook his head, immeasurably pleased with her sang-froid. Not many women of his acquaintance could adapt so easily—but neither did they run about town in breeches. He took a seat against the base of a tree and unwrapped his own lunch. “This is not the oddest meal I’ve ever enjoyed, by far,” he told her placidly. “But it’s the oddest one I ever shared with a female.”
“At least you won’t forget me,” she said, unconcerned, and took a bite of egg.
He snorted. “Forgetting you won’t be an issue.” He cocked his head. “But I would like to know more about you. Your name, for example?” He raised a brow.
She sighed. “Why is no one ever happy with just Flightly?” She tipped her head back, as if asking for patience and he fought back a laugh. “It’s Francis,” she said at last. “Francis Headley.”
“Frances.” He tested it out. “Convenient. Suitable for either a male or a female.”
Her chin rose. “I spell it with an i. F-R-A-N-C-I-S. Always. No matter the clothes I’m wearing.”
“Why take the masculine version?”
“It’s a long story.” She lifted a shoulder. “Maybe I’ll tell you, another day.”
He nodded, allowing the retreat. “Well, it’s pretty enough.” Her knapsack was getting in the way and she reached up to hang it on a higher branch. Her sleeves fell back and he stared at the firmness of her arm and the toned musculature beneath her silky skin. What must she look like, without clothes? As fascinating and unique as she was in them, he’d wager. “But Flightly suits you better.”
“I know,” she answered glumly.
<
br /> “I can guess how you came by the nickname. I gather you are fast?”
“Like the wind,” she said with pride, her grin the widest he’d seen from her yet. His fingers literally twitched—and so did his cock. He wanted to snatch that wig from her head, let her hair free, watch it stream out behind her as she ran—and he gave chase.
“I was faster than any of the—” She stopped and the smile faded. “Faster than anyone. She shifted on her branch and he knew she’d had enough of sharing. “So what was your oddest meal?” she asked, clearly diverting focus onto him.
“Let me think a moment.”
“So many to choose from?” she said, slightly incredulous.
“You don’t believe me?” He sat back against the tree. “The tales I could tell! A Danish sailor once shared his rye bread, raw beef and fresh pickle sandwich with me.” He smirked at her crinkled nose. “But that does not compare to the night I shared a bottle of wine and a boiled calf’s head with a French executioner.”
Her jaw dropped at that one, he was pleased to note. “How? Why?” she demanded.
“His sister was married to the mayor of a little French village. I was staying with the couple while I painted her portrait. The brother came to visit from Paris and asked me to join him for dinner. Truthfully? I went because I was afraid not to, after he was done telling me how much he enjoyed his job.”
She laughed, and he felt triumphant. Her smiles were a joy, a transformation. They spoke of ancient mischief and shared laughter. He was struck, suddenly, with a very vivid image of her in his bed, wrapped in tendrils of red-gold hair and dissolved in helpless laughter.
Damnation. She made him yearn with all the zest and zeal of an untried boy.
“You’ve traveled widely, then?” she asked with a note of approval.
“I have. I grew up in France. But I’ve been through Prussia and Austria. As far north as Copenhagen. And now England and Scotland.” He did not mention how it was that he came to England. If she was Marstoke’s creature, then she knew his father had arranged it. If she was Hestia Wright’s—then it would be better if she didn’t know the particulars. “Italy will be next. Soon.” He shrugged. “I can feel her pull.”
“It would seem the natural destination for an artist,” she agreed.
“It’s possible that I’ll be diverted again, but I’ll make it there. And what of you? Have you traveled?”
“A bit. All within the confines of England.”
“And yet you’ve seen much in your meager years.” He could tell. Knowledge lived behind those changeable eyes.
“I’ve seen the ocean.” She deliberately didn’t answer his true statement.
“Where?” he asked.
Her gaze had gone unfocused. “In Dorsetshire. Near Weymouth.”
“And?” he asked softly. “What did you think?”
She didn’t answer for a moment. “The beach was silt and pebbles. So odd under my feet. The water was cold. It was so . . . vast. The sky so large and blue. I found it to be beautiful, of course.”
He waited.
She blinked and turned to him. “I felt small,” she confessed. “But also connected to something very large. To everything.”
He nodded, satisfied. He’d known she had an artistic soul. “I believe that there are some places on this earth that are meant to make you feel—truly feel.”
“Are those the spots you paint?”
“Some of them.” His mind cast back. “Some are too perfectly beautiful to be translated by the hand of man.”
She drew a deep breath and blew it out. “Tell me.”
“The mountains,” he said in a low voice. “Gorgeous crags and alpine lakes, so smooth, like glass. They act as a perfect mirror. You stand there, suspended between two sets of wooded slopes and snow peaks. Two brilliant blue skies.” He closed his eyes. “I think surely they are there for God’s use. And we are just fortunate to be able to experience them.”
They sat, for a few moments, in comfortable, contemplative silence. A rarity in itself, in his experience. The light was still dim, but the rhythm of drops overhead had slowed considerably. Rhys watched her lay her head back against the tree and examine the roof of sheltering limbs. A relief, really, to know that she had the ability to turn all of that quick wit and inquisitiveness off, for at least long enough to rest a moment.
Eventually, though, she shifted on her branch to watch him. She’d gone serious. That wide mouth pressed thin and her eyes had widened. “I may not have seen as much of the world as you have, but I’ve seen enough to know that I like the way you look at it. And the way you translate it, through your art.”
He froze, uneasily certain that she’d just shattered the peace between them. “You’ve seen . . . what?” he scoffed a little, trying to diffuse the sudden tension. “A preliminary landscape and a handful of charcoal sketches. How could you know such a thing?”
She turned her head. “I’ve seen some of your other work.”
His mind raced even as he sat very still. “The Royal Academy?” he asked after a moment.
She nodded.
No chance of retrieving the quiet now. His heart was pounding too loudly in his ears. “Ah. I suppose Mr. North told you where to find me, then?”
“Yes. I saw your renditions of the Brimham Rocks.” She hopped down, took a step toward him, then retreated again to lean against the branch. “They were magnificent. I was caught up in the small details—right down to the striations in the rock. They felt . . . real. And I suppose you know Mr. North could not stop rhapsodizing about the color of the sky.”
He didn’t answer.
“I truly enjoy the way that your art transports the viewer. I could feel the awe that place must inspire—almost as if I were there myself.”
Would she continue to surprise him every time she spoke? He wanted to delve into her reactions, ferret out the details, ask a hundred questions. Instead he stood. “The rain’s not so heavy now. I have work to do.”
She folded her plaid and handed it over. Pulling down her knapsack, she waited, as if it were a foregone conclusion that she would accompany him.
He strode off, feeling dreadfully conflicted and more than a little resentful about it. She followed him at a run and he bit back a sharp remark, then surprised himself with a surge of irritation when she paused.
He walked on, but looked back as he reached an intersection, to see her talking to a girl. The mite was huddled under a lamppost as if it would protect her from the still-steady drizzle of rain. A flower seller, she had her ragged cloak spread wide at her feet to protect the bucket holding her wares. Rhys watched Flightly pass over the bunch of violets from her knapsack.
Snorting, he crossed the street, but it didn’t take long for the intrepid girl to catch him up. He held his silence as she dogged his heels all the way until Holyrood Road turned to Cowgate. As the traffic thinned a bit, he shot a terse question over his shoulder. “You’ve seen more than the Brimham paintings, haven’t you?”
Her hesitation spoke volumes.
“Yes,” she said at last. “I thought your portraits of the Duke of Danby’s granddaughters were . . . amazing.”
He stopped, right there on the street and ignored the mutters of protest as their fellow pedestrians were forced to break and flow around them. “You’ve seen Danby’s paintings?”
Yet again, it was not what he had been expecting. He’d thought she was going to admit she’d seen the sculpture that Marstoke had . . . appropriated.
“Yes.” Her spine went ramrod straight. “And the companion piece, as well.”
He was aghast—and struggled to understand why. He’d already known she’d come looking for him.
But he surely had not imagined her following in his footsteps across the country, examining the artwork he’d left behind him. The thought of it made him feel . . . a little wild.
“Damnation.” He spun on his heel and stalked on. Stubbornly, she followed. When it suddenly began to rain in earn
est again, he ducked into an alley, reached out and pulled her in with him. Half dragging her, he continued into the gloom until he reached a doorway. He shoved her in, under the scanty protection of the recessed doorframe.
It was a world of shadows and haze back here. The street they’d left was hidden in the mist. Everything, the stone building, the mud at their feet, and the rain in the air—all was slick and dim and grey.
But her face shone bright up at him. Her cheeks glistened and her eyelashes were damp and spiky. He pushed her further into the doorway until her back came up against the wooden door.
Her eyes went wide. Her mouth hung, pink and tempting and slightly agape. “Pixie,” he said roughly. “How did I ever mistake you for a boy—even for a second?”
His hands were still on her, clutching her arms. She reached up and grasped him, just behind his wrists. “You saw what I wanted you to see.”
He snorted. The rain was cold on his back but all of the rest of him was surging with glorious heat. “Don’t think it will happen again.”
She laughed. “It will,” she said with slight derision. “But you won’t even know.”
Another challenge.
This time, he answered. Holding her tight, he bent his head and kissed her.
Chapter Six
Fortunately, my friend Pearl, owner of The Oyster, had connections in varied circles. She knew just the woman, had met her back in her own heyday. The woman had fled Paris with a group of artists and intellectuals and was living in Vienna. We wrote to her and made plans while we awaited a reply. We thought we had plenty of time.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Shock hit Francis first. Shock at the sensation of his warm, masculine body pressed abruptly all along her front—and then wonder at the feel of his mouth moving over hers.
Her second reaction was a sudden, thorough comprehension. This explained so much.
She’d thought kissing a small thing. The touching of mouths, the sharing of breath, the mingling of tongues. But it was more—so much more.
