Averill: Historical Romance (The Brocade Collection, Book 3)

by Jackie Ivie

  “More secrets? Are you trying to fascinate me on purpose? Because if you are, I must warn you in advance, it won’t work.”

  He turned away before she could answer.

  Averill’s frown deepened as she studied him. He walked across the sand and tried to look dignified at the same time. It wasn’t possible, and the captain was proving it. Fascinate him? She didn’t want to fascinate anyone. Insularity was her only defense. She didn’t need anyone or want anything. She didn’t want anyone thinking of her…especially not enough to call it fascination.

  The captain had been in a bad mood since they got up, anyway. Most of the men left him alone. Averill didn’t know what to make of it, so she said nothing. He wasn’t still angry, was he? She’d taken her blanket with her to relieve herself just before daybreak, the same as she did every morning. It wasn’t her fault that he found her missing, and thought she ran away.

  Men and their anger! She’d thought in disgust. Where did the man think she would run to?

  “Oh noble Pegasus, give thy wings a try.”

  The camel actually lumbered to its feet. And after a long wait, Captain Tennison finally gave the order to proceed. Averill wondered if he was getting touched by the sun or something. She smiled and lifted her hood over her head to make the shade last longer. Her pants were much more comfortable, although her thighs were still painful. She must remember to thank him again for the ointment.

  The white burnoose he wore flared out onto his horse’s flanks. Averill studied it for a while. The contrast in dark and light was highly interesting, and there were shades of color in the horse’s hide, too. That reminded her of her thought last night. Why had she imagined Captain Tennison bare-chested? She didn’t want to see such a thing. Such foolishness belonged to foreign women with nothing to occupy themselves.

  Averill leaned over far enough to pull a small canvas from one of the packs. She might be able to work around the camel’s motion. She strained to reach her brushes and paints, careful to get out only the things she needed. She’d have to blend on her canvas, but that was no hardship. She added umber and charcoal together, making a mixture for the captain’s horse. When she finished, the color was more like the captain’s hair. She didn’t waste time pondering it. She began.

  The sun beat down on her head, but Averill didn’t notice. She had the perfect blend for the sand below and the sky above. The colors were so real, she could almost taste them. She felt the texture of the sand and the heat from the sun simply by looking at what she was putting on canvas.

  She glanced up occasionally, blinking to refocus her eyes before returning to her work. She couldn’t keep away for long. It was like the picture was calling to her, showing the image she wanted. It seemed emblazoned in her mind, long before it became painted reality.

  “Your luncheon, miss.” One of the men rode up and spoke to her.

  She glanced at him without comprehending his words. Go away, she thought. You’re interrupting.

  He left after a while, but she didn’t notice. He could’ve stayed all afternoon, and she wouldn’t have noted it. All the sight, sound, and taste she could experience were incorporated in the small canvas balanced on her knee. The sun blazing down on her head came into being right before her eyes on her canvas. Sand dunes grew before her, some larger than others, some undulating with heat, some shifting into waves of emptiness. The desolation tore at her heart, making her eyes water.

  She wiped them away with her sleeve, the motion covering more of her cloak with the colored mixture. The picture tugged at her, making her feel melancholy and sad and drained. It wasn’t a serene picture. It was emotionally moving. It was far removed from the painting she’d been planning when she’d started, too.

  “Averill,” Captain Tennison said from somewhere. “I heard you refused your noon repast. You’ll fall from your camel if you don’t...Good God!”

  His oath got her attention. Averill turned her face away. The experience was too vivid to share.

  “Let me see it.” He tugged the canvas from her nerveless fingers. “I’ve never seen such a rendition. I’m speechless.”

  She turned back, taking in how wide his eyes were and the look of awe on his face. “You like it?”

  “Do I like it? I already told you, I’m speechless. No one will doubt your cover, and the reason for your presence. You possess great talent. Did you know that?”

  She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. The look in his brown eyes was full of wonder. She’d never seen anything to compare.

  “May I take this?”

  His mouth moved with the words. Averill reasoned out what he said, since she couldn’t seem to hear him over the beat of her own heart.

  “It’s not finished,” she answered.

  “That doesn’t matter. I don’t want anything to happen to it.”

  He didn’t wait for her answer. He took one more look at the canvas he held. Averill watched him do it. And then he rode back to the front of the column with the picture in one hand. Shortly afterward they called a halt. She wondered when the sun got so low in the sky. Her hands were smudged with the dun color she’d been creating, and she clucked her tongue. She was forever covered with filth.

  “Down, Pegasus.”

  She kneed the camel, and raised both eyebrows as it actually obeyed. Then she was off, stiffly moving to dig out her solvent bottle, to pour a small amount onto her brushes, kneeling to clean them. The solvent also worked on her fingers. Colors swirled away, blending the blues and tans into the colors of the black delta. She felt exactly like the new color looked. Tired. Dark. Dirty. She watched in silence for some time as the camp settled behind her.

  “Are you going to study that all evening?”

  Averill’s eyes widened at Captain Tennison’s voice. She shook her head. She took out her cleaning rag and wiped off her brushes. And then she stood and repacked her saddle bags.

  “I almost sent Harvey to fetch you, but decided to come myself.”

  She waited for him to say more.

  “Come along now. Dinner is almost finished. We have a fair cook. You should be hungry. And you should be tired of painting by now.”

  “Since you’ve taken away my canvas, I must obey.”

  She looked up at him and smiled, watching an answering smile appear on his face. She hadn’t noticed how sensual his mouth was. His lips were full and yet masculine at the same time. Nor had she noticed how well his features were put together. He had a square jaw and a straight, aquiline nose. His teeth were white against his dark skin, while a skiff of whiskers shadowed and narrowed his cheeks.

  She’d slighted him before, she realized.

  Captain Tennison was a very handsome man.

  She ducked her head before any more daring thoughts came, and followed him to his lean-to in the sand. She dared glance up at his back occasionally before returning to the ground. She was still pretending to ignore him when he moved across his pallet to prop her picture where his head would go. Her painting was incredible. The dunes and sky called out to the viewer, rendering a person as sad as she felt when she’d painted. She wondered how it was possible. She knelt before it.

  “What will you paint into it?” He settled into a squat beside her.

  She shrugged.

  “That’s not an answer, Averill.”

  She glanced up and then couldn’t look away. His eyes were so warm. She would love to create such a shade of brown. It matched the growth of whiskers above his mouth, and her eyes moved there. She hadn’t been mistaken, earlier. He had shapely lips. His was definitely a mouth worth painting.

  Averill tore her gaze away and welcomed the uncomfortable blush. This wouldn’t do at all. She had weeks to travel with him. She had to eat and sleep beside him. Finding him attractive was completely forbidden.

  Perhaps she should bed down with the camels.

  “Do you know what you’ll paint, or does it occur as you go along?”

  “I don’t know…exactly.” She turned t
o look out at the purplish sky. It was safer. “I pick up the brush, and no matter what I intend, the pictures grow in my mind. I paint what I feel.” She didn’t think she explained herself very well.

  “Where on earth did you come from?”

  He turned from her to light the lamp. He kept asking that, but she was determined to keep it to herself. She’d never tell anyone of her days at the mission. Captain Tennison might go there and talk to Father Sanders, who might lie to the captain.

  Worse, he might tell him the truth.

  “We’re serving rice, black beans and flat bread tonight, sir.”

  A man appeared in the opening and handed Captain Tennison a plate. Averill wondered why she didn’t get one, but she didn’t ask.

  “We share tonight.” Captain Tennison set the dish between them. “That is how it’s served. It’s perfectly acceptable. Come. Fill your bread.”

  She watched him spoon a large portion of the filling into his flat cake and sit back to eat. The light blended with his cheekbones, making him look slightly sinister. And then he grinned at her. And her heart jumped.

  Averill looked down and fought the shivers. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. This was the captain who’d plucked her from the street. The English captain. He was off-limits to her. She wasn’t to feel anything for him. Ever.

  “You haven’t eaten all day, Averill. Come.”

  She reached for a piece of bread and connected with his fingers. She pulled back as if burned. Tingles flew up her arm. Across her shoulders. Warmed her breasts. It was frightening. And it was wonderful.

  “I believe I’ve finished. Here.”

  Captain Tennison sounded like he spoke through a thick blanket. He pushed the plate at her before crawling out. Averill watched him stand and shuffle away, lamps lighting him as he walked past them. And then she shrugged, ate some of her supper, and set the remainder outside.

  Still, Captain Tennison didn’t return. So Averill snuggled into the blanket and tried to sleep. Stars filled the sky through the doorway, and the slowly abating noises in camp filtered in, yet still the captain didn’t return. And in her dream kingdom, Captain Tennison was a knight riding a dark charger into battle for his queen. Averill was his queen. She sat on the podium and watched him. This knight would accept a kiss from her as a token of her regard. It wouldn’t be beneath him.

  In her sleep, she felt him fill the space behind her. She smiled drowsily, before snuggling against him, using his warmth like another blanket.

  “Damn it, Averill!”

  She heard the curse and lost the warmth as he rolled away.

  “I’ll sleep elsewhere,” he said and left her again.

  She wondered what she had done to provoke such a response. She didn’t have anyone she could ask. All she had was the captain. Perhaps she’d ask him in the morning. Perhaps not.

  She saw her secret kingdom before her again, and smiled, just before she entered it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was almost dark when they called a halt the next day. Averill had added a string of camels to her painting. It still evoked a sense of loneliness that made her want to cry. The wind had risen steadily, stirring sand. Averill gave up fighting the grit added to her work. She looked forward to her bed and to smoothing the liniment on her sore inner thighs. There was supper, too, but she wasn’t anticipating that because the captain would be there. She was leery of being close to him again.

  “The captain would like you to follow me, miss.”

  It was Harvey. He waited as Averill dismounted from Pegasus. She was stiff and limped slightly. Riding a camel strained her legs. He didn’t comment one way or the other. He didn’t have to. His attitude spoke for him. Averill waited until he turned about, expecting that she’d follow. And she did. She couldn’t prevent the wince as she sat beside the captain, who already had a lamp lit.

  “Does the liniment work, Averill?” he asked indifferently.

  She nodded.

  “I see you’ve been working on your painting. It’s beautiful, but very sad.”

  She met his eyes momentarily before dropping her gaze. It was getting difficult to breathe. Neither said anything until someone brought supper. She nearly sighed in relief. It was on two platters again. Averill ate what she could, all the while aware of him studying her. Her hand trembled before she finished.

  “You’re finished so soon?”

  She couldn’t answer. She didn’t even know what was wrong. She looked out at the wind-borne sand filling the air in the distance.

  “Don’t worry. It’s miles off, and it’s not coming this way, yet. I’ve seen sandstorms before, though, and they’re very tricky. I’ll get extra canvas to spread over us if it nears.”

  Averill flicked her glance at him, then looked out again.

  “You’re wondering why I’m still talking to you when you’re giving me every indication to leave you be, aren’t you?”

  She shrugged, lifting one shoulder to her ear before dropping it again.

  “It’s because you’re such an enigma. Do you know that?”

  She slanted her gaze to him again. She knew what he meant. He wanted her to be crystal-clear and easy to read. That would never happen.

  “You have beautiful eyes, Averill,” he commented, surprising her.

  “I hate them!” she snapped.

  “Ah. So, there is a crack in your indifference. I was beginning to think you weren’t human.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. Maybe he didn’t expect one. She watched him leave. He wore the traditional red-checked headdress called a ghotra. It flapped around his head in the growing wind. His disguise was easy for her to pierce. He may look Arabian, but nothing could hide the erect set of his wide shoulders. He stood out easily among his men, mainly due to his size.

  His manliness.

  Hmm. It seemed Captain Tennison was a very manly specimen. Fascinating. Interesting. And very handsome.

  “Oh no. No. Please God...no.”

  Averill whispered the words and turned from her contemplation of Captain Tennison. She did not think him manly. She didn’t think of him at all. It was forbidden. This couldn’t be happening to her.

  “So tell me,” Captain Tennison’s words preceded him as he brought in a bundle of canvas sheeting. “Why do you hate your eyes so?”

  Averill looked out at the sand swirling about the campsite. She wasn’t about to face him until she had her thoughts back where they belonged. That much, she was certain of.

  “You don’t look especially Egyptian anyway, you know.”

  He spoke as if she weren’t ignoring him. She glanced sidelong at him. Of course she looked Egyptian. It was just her eyes marking her as a union of two races.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’m only speaking the truth. I would guess with less sun, your skin might surprise you at how light it is, too.”

  “I don’t want to talk about me.”

  The thought of his looking at her skin made a series of strange tingles run her arms. Her legs. And center at each breast tip. It was an exciting sensation. And dangerous.

  “All right.”

  Averill watched him look out at the night for some long moments.

  “The sand is getting nearer. Help me cover our shelter.”

  She wasn’t much help at lifting his canvas high enough. But he didn’t chastise, only worked efficiently, until the extra material draped the space, creating an intimate interior. And worse. Captain Tennison waited for her, reclining on his pallet. He’d left the side away from the wind open a bit, and through it she saw him gesture for her. And she couldn’t think of one reason to refuse.

  It was brighter when the lamp didn’t have to compete with the wind, but it was much harder to breathe. That could’ve been because the captain took up so much room. Averill scooted to one side, letting him stretch out his legs. She couldn’t help noticing that when he did so, the outline of his legs was easy to see through his long robes.

  What was wrong with
her? She shouldn’t even notice such things. He was a man. And he was forbidden. And she was staring. Heat flared in her cheeks.

  “So. What do you want to talk about?” he asked.

  She jumped slightly before resorting to a shrug.

  “That’s no answer, Averill.”

  “Why talk?” she asked in Spanish to test him. Perhaps she was looking for the spark of pleasure in his eyes.

  “Spanish, too? I should’ve guessed. I’m almost speechless. Where did you come from?”

  She didn’t reply. The enclosure grew warmer as he regarded her. She had to turn away first. And finally, he sighed.

  “I know. You don’t want to talk about you. But I can’t just sit here and watch you stare at the ground. I’ll go mad. Think of me for a change.”

  It was a good thing she was looking at the ground. He’d not miss the widening of her eyes, nor the gasp from that statement. It was getting difficult not to think of him.

  “I’m the black sheep of my family,” he said, conversationally.

  She glanced up at him and saw his grin.

  “If we can’t talk about you, I’ll just bore you with talk of myself. That should make the hours pass a bit faster, no?”

  She looked heavenward for a moment and he laughed.

  “Very well. Here goes. I’m a Tennison. The family name goes back to the Crusades. About fourteenth century, or so, if I’m not mistaken. I lost many a great-great-great....” He let his voice dwindle and then he winked.

  Averill ducked her head, ashamed of the blush that stole across her cheeks. He had winked at her! She almost put her hands to her face, but that would give her away.

  “...great relative in this blasted sand of yours. But enough Tennisons survived to carry on the family name and traditions. The wind’s starting to whip, isn’t it?”

  The door flap cracked. Averill squinted at the sand filtering in through the canvas. The tiny grains of sand hung in the air, making prismatic colors in the lamplight. That was better than the whirlwind just outside, though.