River Of Fire (15 page)

"Perfect for what?" he inquired.

There was humor in the smoky depths of his eyes. Humor, and something more. Abruptly she recognized the wild impropriety of dragging a man into her bedroom and attacking his clothing. A good thing she didn't have a reputation to lose. "I've been toying with how to do your portrait, and inspiration just hit," she explained. "Lord Byron wrote a poem called "The Corsair' three years ago. It was a great success—all about a dashing, Oriental, wildly romantic pirate. A perfect way to paint you."

"Surely you're joking. I'm neither dashing nor romantic, and certainly not Oriental." He smiled suddenly. "If I were a real pirate, I'd do this." He slid a hand around her neck and pulled her down for a kiss.

His tone was teasing, but the meeting of their lips was deadly serious. She felt a physical shock as his mouth moved against hers. The blaze of creative energy she'd been experiencing transmuted into fierce desire. Her hands were still resting on his chest, and her fingertips tingled from the accelerating beat of his pulse. She wanted to climb into his lap and rip off his shirt. She wanted to explore every inch of his powerful, masculine body. She wanted… she wanted…

He released her and pulled his head back, ending the kiss. She saw in his eyes that he was as stunned as she.

After a long moment, he said with a credible attempt at calm, "But I am not a corsair. Merely a secretary."

"Once a captain, always a captain," she said, as eager as he to pretend that nothing important had happened.

She dropped her hands from his chest and stepped unsteadily away. "You positively radiate romance and dashingness. When I've finished with your portrait, you'll look at it and see yourself for the first time."

"I'm not sure I want to see myself that clearly."

"You don't have to look at the results if you don't want to." Her eyes narrowed as she retreated into the safety of professional judgment. "I want to play with this for a bit. Lean back. Relax. Lay your arm along the back of the sofa."

She gave a nod of satisfaction when he obeyed. A pose like this, languid but latent with power, would be exactly right. What else should be used? She didn't want to clutter the painting with an elaborate costume, so she must create a sense of Oriental mystery more subtly.

She paused, then gave a crow of triumph and seized a small carpet that lay by the far side of the bed. "This will make a perfect background. I'll drape it over the sofa behind you."

He turned to examine the carpet as she spread it over the sofa back. "This is superb." He ran his palm lovingly across the lustrous, exquisitely patterned surface. "I suppose it's Persian, but I've never seen a carpet with such rich burgundy colors. And the texture… it feels like the Gray Ghosf's fur."

"Ifs made from silk. A gift from the Persian ambassador."

Kenneth's brows rose. "Surely there's a story behind that."

She shrugged. "Nothing terribly exciting. Mirza Hassan Khan decided that while he was in London he would commission a European-style portrait, so he came to Father. He liked the results so much that he also wanted a picture of the two wives he'd brought to keep him company. Since a strange man could not be allowed to see their unveiled faces, Father suggested me for the commission. The carpet was Mirza Hassan Khan's gift when I refused to accept money for the portrait."

"He must have been very pleased with your work. This is worth a king's ransom." Kenneth caressed the luxurious pile. "And I get to touch it for however long it takes you to paint me. I feel privileged."

The carpet provided exactly the sensual richness that she wanted. Her pulse quickened, fueling the exhilaration that came when the pieces began to click into place.

Now to find the right pose. Usually she directed her subjects, but she suspected that Kenneth would need no more than a suggestion. "Take a comfortable position that you can maintain for long periods," she ordered. "I want you to look relaxed but alert. A lounging lion rather than an upright soldier."

He leaned back and drew his left leg up so that his booted foot rested on the edge of the sofa seat. Then he draped his arm casually across his raised knee. The effect combined the ease of total confidence with a menacing sense that he could spring into action on an instant's notice.

"Excellent," she said. "Now look at me as if I'm a
lazy
, insolent soldier in your company."

His expression hardened, the scar becoming more prominent. He looked every inch the pirate captain who would loot or love with equal ease.

She bit her lip as she studied the overall composition. She would use dramatic lighting on his features and leave the rest of the scene shadowed to add to the air of mystery. So far, so good. Yet there was still something missing. Making Kenneth look fierce would be easy. But how could she convey the perceptive, contemplative side of his nature?

She stalked around him, trying to find the perfect angle. A shimmer of movement caught her eye. It was Kenneth's reflection in the mirror on her dressing table. Her eyes flicked from him to the mirror as an idea crystallized.

Eureka! Her excitement blazed higher. She would do a double portrait. The focus would be on him staring challengingly from the picture. But on the right side

would be a reflection of his profile. There she could convey his haunted, weary intelligence. The reflection could not be as bright as if it were in a real mirror— that would be too strong, too distracting. She would use a wall of polished black marble so viewers would have to look closely to see the captain's hidden side.

As she reached for her sketchbook, the Gray Ghost came awake and leaped from the bed to the sofa, landing with an audible thump. Then he sprawled alongside the captain's thigh. Kenneth began idly stroking the cat's head. "Will the Ghost interfere with your drawing?"

Rebecca laughed aloud, intoxicated by the Tightness of it all. To think she'd just told her pet that he'd never given her any good ideas. "On the contrary, the Gray Ghost is the crowning touch. I'll make him larger and turn him into some kind of wild Asiatic hunting cat. Just the kind of barbaric pet one would expect of a pirate chief."

She bent her head and set her charcoal flying across the page. It was going to work. It was going to work
well
.

The ensuing silence was broken only by the rasp of charcoal and the faint, distant sounds of a sleeping city. She had finished the main figures and was roughing in background when Kenneth said wistfully, "Will I ever be allowed any food?"

Startled, she glanced at the clock and saw that it was after one o'clock. "I'm so sorry—I had no idea how much time had passed. I'm afraid I got carried away."

"An understatement. If a fire-breathing dragon had fallen down the chimney, you wouldn't have noticed." He stood and rolled his shoulders to loosen them.

She watched the fabric of his shirt tighten over his taut muscles and made mental notes of how to imply that power in her painting. Then she set aside her sketchbook and got to her feet. "You're going to make a splendid corsair, Captain."

"If you say so." He lifted the sketchbook and studied her work, his brows knit. "Do I look that ferocious?"

"Sometimes. It's no accident that the household staff has become so well behaved." She yawned, suddenly tired. "They're terrified you'll sell them into slavery in High Barbary."

He began flipping through the earlier pages. "You certainly tried a variety of different compositions." He paused at a drawing that portrayed him as a weary soldier in a shabby uniform, his expression stark as he
gazed
over a harsh Spanish landscape. "Are you sure you aren't clairvoyant?"

"Just an artist's imagination." She regarded the sketch thoughtfully. "Is the sunlight really different in Spain?"

"There's a bright clarity very unlike England. We're much farther norm here, and the moist air makes the light softer, almost hazy." He began paging through the sketches again.

Content with her progress, Rebecca picked up a fresh stick of charcoal to set into the holder. Then the silence caught her attention. She looked up to see that Kenneth had stopped again and was staring at the sketchbook.

Feeling her gaze, he raised the book to show the drawing of a woman tumbling headlong through the air, her expression a silent scream of horror. "What's this?"

The fragile stick of charcoal snapped between Rebecca's fingers as her elation crashed into grief. She had forgotten the drawing was in this particular sketchbook. "It's… it's a study of Dido hurling herself from the towers of Carthage when Aeneas abandoned her," she improvised, her mouth dry.

"In modern dress?" he said skeptically. "A change for you. Your other classical studies celebrate women who are heroic, not those who die of thwarted love. Besides, I thought Dido killed herself with a sword."

She stared at him mutely, unable to come up with another lie. Quietly he said, "The woman looks rather like the portrait of your mother. Did Lady Seaton die in a fall?"

Heart pumping as if she'd been caught stealing, Rebecca dropped into her chair again. "Yes, and ever since then, I've been obsessed by images of her falling," she said haltingly. "I suppose I've done at least fifty sketches like that one. I keep wondering how she felt, what she thought in the last moments. It must have been ghastly to die alone, in terror."

There was a long silence. Then Kenneth said slowly, "I've been afraid often, particularly before battles. Fear can be a lifesaver by increasing one's strength and alertness. Yet oddly, on two occasions when I've
known
beyond any shadow of a doubt that I would die, I felt no fear. Instead, there was a strange kind of peacefulness.

"Both times, I survived through a miracle. After the second incident, I became curious and talked to friends and found that others had had the same experience. Perhaps peace is nature's last gift when nothing can be done to stave off an inevitable fate." Expression compassionate, he set down the sketchbook. "It's quite possible that your mother felt no terror before the end. Only a few fleeting moments of acceptance."

Rebecca bent her head as she struggled to master her emotions. "You're not making that up to make me feel better?"

"It's God's own truth." He sat opposite her on the sofa again and enfolded her hands in his, the warmth dispelling some of her chill. "If you tell me what happened, it might exorcise a few demons."

Perhaps he was right. Though she had tried never to think of that day, she forced herself to cast her mind back. "We were at Ravertsbeck, our home in the Lake District," she said, praying that her voice wouldn't break. "It was a lovely, sunny day—one could see for miles. I had been walking in the hills and was returning home when I saw several men on a cliff where Mother often went to enjoy the views. Even though I was far away, I knew something was very wrong. I began to run. By the time I reached the cliff, they were… were bringing up her body."

"How dreadful for you." His hands tightened comfortingly. "Perhaps the worst thing about a lethal accident is the sheer suddenness. There is no time for friends and family to prepare."

That wasn't quite true in this case, but she said only, "Even now, I sometimes forget she is gone." Her throat dosed and she could say no more.

His thumbs stroked gently over the back of her hands, sending pleasant tingles through her fingers and wrists. "I wonder how the accident happened," he said thoughtfully. "Had your mother been upset about anything? Unhappiness or worries could have distracted her to cause a fatal misstep."

"No," Rebecca said sharply. "There was nothing like that." She pulled her hands away. "One of the men who went down the cliff said that flowers were scattered all around her. Mother loved wildflowers and picked them often. The cliff slants gradually before making a sharp drop-off. I… I think she simply went too close to the edge while gathering a bouquet, then lost her balance and fell."

"A tragic irony," he murmured, his keen gaze on her face.

Rebecca looked at the picture of the falling woman. "When I'm upset, I draw pictures about what is bothering me," she said haltingly. "like lancing an infected wound to release the poison. It worked for everything from a dead pet to a broken heart. But this time, drawing hasn't helped."

"You draw what distresses you?" he asked curiously. "I dr… I would have thought it would make more sense to escape the pain by drawing other subjects."

She smiled without humor. "I've done that, too." Drawing and painting had been her life. And a rich and rewarding life it had been, but art was not enough. Not this time.

"If lancing doesn't work, perhaps cauterization will." Kenneth took the sketchbook from her and ripped out the picture of her mother. Then he held the corner in the candle flame. "From what I've heard about Lady Seaton, she would not have wanted you to be crippled by grief. Let her go, Rebecca."

Heart aching, Rebecca watched the flames consume the drawing. Smoke spiraled upward before dissipating into the darkness. She appreciated his desire to help, but he didn't understand. Not really. Because he was strong, he didn't know what it was like to be so filled with grief that her spirit was paralyzed. He couldn't know that if she ever cried, she would never be able to stop. That she would cry until she died.

He tossed the burning remnant of paper into the fireplace before it singed his fingers. They watched silently as the paper and image crumbled into ash and the yellow flame died away. Then he said, "Drawing so furiously must have required a great deal of energy. You should eat. Join me in my raid on the kitchen."