by Deb Marlowe
“I gave her an idea, a bit of creative thinking. Perhaps now her nimble brain is thinking about other ways to make her wares stand out.”
“I hope you are right. I hope she learns that her own hard work and acquisition of skills—or ideas—will serve her best in the end.”
“I don’t dispute that—”
“Good. Because only the effort she puts forth for herself will stick, in any case. Everything else will just slide away.”
Denial bubbled inside her, white and hot. But she breathed deeply and glanced over at him. The early sun struck his profile, turning him into a study of earnestness done in planes and angles and shadow. He looked a tower of masculine confidence—but she knew vulnerability lived beneath.
The realization calmed her boiling need to argue with him. He meant what he said and he meant well in sharing it.
He risked a glance at her, waiting for her response.
She couldn’t give him one quite yet. Truth be told, she’d spent the night reevaluating her decision to stay, her notion to show him Hestia’s work—and her very real desire to enter into her first affaire. She’d been thinking that she might indulge in this one, sunny, perfect day and then head back to London to report to Hestia and allow her to deal with her reluctant son.
Now, though, the light of purpose shone on her, much like the sun had found Caradec yesterday. He was far more guarded than she’d suspected.
She’d encountered a good number of people who had closed themselves off from the world. Many were flippant and jaded. Most were sullen, reserved or disagreeable. Caradec, the clever, tricky man, had fooled her longer because he was friendly and full of wit and charm. But where it counted he was the same. Not open. Cut off. Closed to people, relationships and even the idea of one, if his reaction to his friend’s news could be judged. It was as if he drew a line before everyone he met. This far you may come. This far and no further.
And she’d seen enough to know how it would turn out. Caradec might break a few more hearts along the way, but in the end he would be in the same place—alone and small and unhappy.
And what of his art? Surely his work would suffer if he went on this way. He talked of the places that made one feel, but what of the people? What of the abiding understanding that comes with real friendship? What of that bone-deep contentment and surety that she’d seen blossom in her friends along with their love for their husbands? What of birth and death and the paralyzing fear and boundless hope and unconditional love that came with a child? How could he cut himself off from all of the best and worst of humanity—and still be a great artist?
Her path was clear. He held on to too much resentment and pain for Hestia to reach him yet. Francis had to make the attempt. And she had to do it so very carefully. If she struck just the right balance and used a light touch—she could perhaps set his feet on the path.
She must protect herself, though. A street rat with a fast mouth and a history of spending her time as a boy was not the sort to tempt him fully over, while he was everything that called to her. This time, to save her own heart, she might need to draw her own line.
This far and no further.
“What is it?” he asked, glancing her way. “What are you thinking?”
She smiled at him. “I’m remembering you saying that you wanted to know how I see the world.” Reaching over, she patted his hard, muscled thigh. “And I’m thinking that I’m going to show you.”
Chapter Ten
Saying goodbye to Pearl . . . I barely managed and cried buckets of tears. But she bade me go. See the child safe, she told me, and then learn your lessons well. Find your own power, she whispered in my ear.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
The sun had climbed only halfway to its zenith when they finally arrived at their destination. The grasses were still damp with dew.
Rhys heard Francis’s breath catch in gratifying fashion as the old, overgrown track rounded a copse and the spot came into view. Her hand clutched his arm as he lifted her down, her gaze locked on the charming picture before them.
Truly, it might have been one of Andor’s scenic sketches. A forest of old trees, thick with shadow, opened up onto a meadow of low grasses and wildflowers. In the midst of it squatted the rambling ruins of an old castle—with one stone tower still mostly intact.
He’d seen a rough sketch of the place back in Leeds, in North’s book. He’d known at once that he must see it for himself. North had given him the information and in fact, Rhys had stopped here first on his journey, spending an afternoon here even before he continued on into town.
He wanted to share it with Francis. He’d known she’d love it. She and this place shared so many of the same qualities—strong bones and wild beauty and an almost joyous refusal to give in to the elements that worked against them.
Her reaction was even better than he’d hoped. Her grin stretched wide with delight, she reached up to unpin her hat. The gloves were next, then the pelisse—she left them all on the seat of the gig and with a laugh she scampered off, ignoring the dew dampening her skirts as she darted from one delight to the next.
He watched her go, happy to have pleased her and grateful for the small respite after their . . . disagreement.
Perhaps he should not have said anything to her, but he’d felt compelled to do it. He’d seen the damaging effects of Hestia Wright’s transitory attention. He’d seen the truth of it in action—her notice could be the greatest blessing, her indifference akin to a death knell.
Hell, he knew firsthand how it felt to bask in that glowing warmth, and how the empty, aching loss of it felt, too. He liked and respected Francis. Enough to break his own habits in order to keep her from making the same mistakes—and to prevent someone else from suffering a painful, confused aftermath.
He brushed the issue aside for now, though, and looked up at the boy still waiting on the back of the gig. “Well, since we’re to spend the day together, I should know your name, at least.”
“I’m Geordie, yer lordship.” The boy tugged a forelock. “Geordie MacNeal.”
Rhys doffed his hat—and then tossed it after Francis’s onto the front seat. “Call me Rhys, Geordie. I’m not a lord. Can you hobble the horse in a likely spot? And then feel free to explore as you will. I’m going to do some sketching while the lady looks about. We’ll call you when it’s time for luncheon, though.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Rhys strode through the calf-high grass, headed for the far end of the ruins, opposite the tower. A short section of stairway had survived there, leading up to a spacious stone-floored room. It stood mostly open now, with only one exterior wall still standing. But it had a thick, recessed and arched window in it that lent inspiration to quite a few images in his head.
The sun slanted down on it now, coming over the trees to warm the stone beneath his feet. He crossed to the edge to enjoy the view of the rest of the castle—and the girl scrambling through it.
He settled down to draw as she explored. She was drawn to the stone tower first, just as he’d been. He knew what she would find in there. Narrow, spiraling stairs and small rooms, dust and cobwebs. Pretty views of the countryside and perhaps a dream or two of the past. He did a quick sketch of a tall window, a panorama below and the flutter of red-gold hair in the breeze as a girl gazed out.
She came down slowly after a while and set out to follow the outlines of the old foundations and walls. She ducked down to inspect crumbling, old fireplaces, and stopped to pick up forgotten roof tiles of slate.
His fingers lay idle as he watched her, but his brain was busy. He had not yet set upon an idea of how to paint her, although the urge grew with their every encounter. She was busy too, moving lightly, flitting from one discovery to the next. When her wanderings brought her close, he called out to her.
“Come up? I’d like to show you something while the sun is right.”
She came running up the steps, but slowed, pausing in
wonder when she reached the top. “How lovely!”
Just as he had, she crossed to the lone wall with its deep-set window and ran her fingers along the rubble of what must have been a wide window seat. “Oh, can’t you just imagine them sitting here?”
“I can. Tapestries on the walls. Women gathered together, sewing and laughing. Colored pillows and a girl sitting here, reading by the light of the afternoon sun.”
“Or giggling while she spies on the men training below?” she answered with a laugh. “Will you hold me?” She held out a hand and when he took it, she lifted her skirts and stepped into the depression where the stones had crumbled away. Twin windows arched high and she braced a hand on one and leaned over to look out.
“Ooh, I might have been right! It could have been a training yard down there—and it looks like the remains of a forge on the corner!” She spoke further, caught up with the view, but Rhys was caught, literally and figuratively, by her hand.
So small and warm, and it told him so very much. Her grip was unselfconscious and trusting. He could see clipped nails and several reddened knuckles. He could feel calluses on her fingers and a rough patch on her palm. Such a tiny, useful, functional hand. He felt a raw, sensual need to feel it moving across his skin.
Unconsciously, he gripped her tighter.
She glanced back.
He cleared his throat, pointed with his chin. “Look up, Flightly.”
She did. “Oooh, how wonderful,” she whispered.
The sun shone in at a perfect angle to light up the carved Green Man. Rhys had discovered him at a similar hour in the morning—and wondered if he might have missed him at another time of day.
Tucked up high in the thick curve of the arched bay, he looked as if he’d been placed there to watch over the occupant of the window seat.
“He was the first one I saw here. I liked him, somehow. It’s what made me search out the gargoyles and other green men like him in town.”
“I’ve never seen one look so sad,” Francis said.
Rhys nodded. The face had been fashioned long, the nose wide, the eyes turned down with bags heavy beneath them. Oak and ivy framed the face and curved twigs made up a drooping mustache and long beard.
“Usually they look fierce, but this one appears . . .”
“Weary?” Rhys asked. “Maybe he grew tired of all the women and their chatter,” he teased.
“No, I think he rather misses it. Perhaps he’s lonely and sad because of what’s become of his home.” She took a last look outside and then turned to climb down. “This place is still beautiful, but it is sad, when you think of what it once was.”
Instead of letting her hand go, he took up the other one. “Well, that won’t do. I didn’t bring you out here to make you sad.”
Unblinking, she stared up at him. “Did you bring me here to seduce me?”
“What?” he choked. “Of course not!”
She raised a brow.
“Well, perhaps . . . just a little.”
“A little seduction?” She ran a bold gaze up and down the front of him.
Lustful approval smoldering, he laughed. “Slow and steady wins the race.”
“Oh, that old tale.” She rolled her eyes. “I should have known you’d take the side of the tortoise. I was always partial to the hare.”
“I could have guessed that all on my own.” Rhys began to walk backward, pulling her by both hands to follow. “You are always in motion. Even when you are sitting, your eyes are darting, your head tilting . . .” He stopped, realizing the reason why even as he said the words. “Always ready to fly.”
She said nothing, but her lips pressed together for just a moment before her expression began to grow defiant. Challenging.
He shook his head. “No need to fly today, Francis. All is well. I want to share something with you.”
She gave a little snicker.
“Hell and damnation, girl. I’ve said I wasn’t going to seduce you.”
She gave a pout. “You said a little.”
“Fine. A little. Since you are insistent about it.” He blew out an exasperated breath. “But not now.”
“Fine.”
“Now, come and sit.”
“Where?”
“Here.” He moved to the edge of the stone floor and sat, letting his boots dangle over the edge.
She made a face. “I’ll stay back here, if it’s all the same to you.”
He frowned. “You just stood on a broken seat and looked down over a greater height than this. You cannot be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid of heights. I’m afraid of drops.” She gestured back from where they’d come. “There was a wall in the way over there—and you had a hold of me.”
“I won’t let you drop. I promise.”
Sighing, she came forward and gingerly sat down next to him. He scooted away a bit. “Do something for me, Francis?”
“What is it?” She looked wary.
“Concentrate. Let your worry fade. Forget about everything for a bit—even that seduction you’re insisting on. Forget about yesterday and tomorrow. Just . . . breathe in today. Now.”
She looked a little sad. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“It’s not hard. Try closing your eyes.”
She grimaced.
“Grip the edge if you need to. Just for a moment. Come on, then. Close them.”
Still reluctant, she curled her fingers around the edge of the stone, her spine echoing the curve. “And now?”
He shrugged. “Feel the warmth of the stone. The tickle of the breeze.” He waited a moment. “Breathe deeply.” She obeyed, but still did not relax. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking about keeping my feet arched.”
He blinked. “Why?”
“Because if I do not, my slippers are going to fall off of my feet.”
“Oh.” He laughed. “Let them.”
Her eyes popped open.
“It’s not that far. They’ll land in the grass—and I’ll fetch them for you when we go down.”
Grinning, she looked down. “There they go!” Laughing, she wiggled her toes.
Her feet were dainty and clad in silk stockings. When she lifted them straight out in front of her, he pretended to be shocked. “Careful! You’ll start a scandal! Your ankles are showing.”
She tossed him a look of pure mischief. “Just a little scandal.”
He rolled his eyes. “Keep poking the fire, lassie. You’re bound to get burned.”
“Oh, are you on fire?” she asked in a stage whisper.
“Not yet. Now, come then. Eyes closed,” he ordered.
With a huff, she obeyed. He said nothing this time, just let her adjust. Ever-so-slowly, she stilled. Her breathing slowed. Her eyes opened. They sat there together for several quiet minutes.
Eventually, she turned to him. “Why?”
He merely lifted a shoulder. “Listen. There’s an angry squirrel in the trees behind us. Can you hear him scolding?”
She listened, then nodded.
“And look ahead and to your right. That lacey patch of meadowsweet—can you see it swaying?”
She stared. “Yes. Why—”
“A hare at the base, perhaps? Or a vole at the roots?” He swept a hand across the view. “There’s a panorama of light and shade in here. And do you hear the birdsong?”
She nodded.
“And your heartbeat too. The breath moving in and out of you. It’s a gorgeous, simple slice of life—and you are part of it. Breathe it in. Let it fill your soul.” He tilted his head back. “Think of it as ballast. It will keep you afloat during some dark time in the future.”
She drew a deep breath. “I like it,” she declared softly. “Like I told you before, I like the way you see. With all of your senses.”
For a while, they lingered. Rhys was watching the grasses dance in the breeze while his mind drifted, mentally choosing the separate colors it would take to create all the red and blonde t
ones in her hair, when he became aware of a shift in the atmosphere.
Her gaze rested upon him. He felt it like the weight of an actual touch. And his focus shifted. He wasn’t hearing his own exhalations, but the slow and deep rhythm of hers. All the desire banked in him began to glow again, warming his belly—and throwing heat higher—and lower. Surely she must feel it—hotter even than the sun-warmed stone.
Slowly, he turned his head. She watched him with a gaze that was both knowing and curious. She’d left off gripping the edge and had leaned back, propped on her hands. The posture thrust her bosom to the sky.
So fortunate, the sky.
But fortune favored the bold—and luck often followed the seizure of circumstance. So he edged closer to her.
She watched—and then looked up to his face with a clear invitation to come closer.
With a surge of triumph, he answered the call.
Clearly she believed in helping luck along too. She tilted her head, achieving the perfect angle for his kiss.
Leaning down, he gave it to her.
She didn’t shift position, only kissed him back with a long, shuddering sigh.
So he kissed her softly, reverently. He kept his hands to himself, even though her thrusting bosom was a nearly irresistible temptation. He gave her soft kisses and light, teasing flicks of his tongue. He kissed her cheek and along the curve of her jaw, then pressed a tender, worshipful tribute to the delicate spot beneath her ear.
She sighed again and stretched a little, giving him better access. He complied with the silent request and kissed down to her nape until she squirmed.
He pressed closer still, moved to return to her mouth and was just about to deepen the direction and intent of the kiss—
When her stomach gave a long, demanding rumble.
He stopped. His eyes popped open just as hers did—and they both broke out in rueful laughs.
“Well.” He pulled away. “I know an order when I hear one.”
“I am sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I took too long fussing with my hair this morning. I missed breakfast.”
