by Deb Marlowe
“Thank you for showing him up, ma’am. I’ll send him down for our dinner, later.”
“Have at it, then,” she said, closing the door.
Francis had to work not to blush.
She concentrated on the room instead. After all, she’d been alone with Caradec before. This was no different.
It felt different, though. Likely because they were closed in, with no passers by or fellow tavern customers—and no easy escape down an alley or through the woods, either. Breathing deeply, she looked around, avoiding the bed, which had been pushed against the right hand wall. She concentrated on his work area instead, running her hands along a desk in the corner. Covered in a tarp-like fabric, it held a collection of palettes, a multitude of paint bladders and a vase filled with brushes. She fussed with the brushes as if they were flowers that needed rearranging, then stepped around a couple of stacks of unused canvas, and over a pile of paint-smeared rags, to move to a smaller table, where she traced her finger along the rims of two porcelain, paint stained bowls.
“Are you nervous?” Caradec asked incredulously.
She shot him a glare. “A little.”
He frowned, looked around—and then understanding dawned across his face. “Don’t be, Flightly. You’re safe here. No escape route needed. If you want to leave . . .” He shrugged. “Just walk out the door.”
She flinched, because his insight ticked her panic up another notch. But she refused to give in to it. “How do we begin?” she asked instead.
“Hair,” he said, making it an order. “Wig off. I need to see it down.”
She had to turn away to do it. It felt too personal, removing her disguise while he watched. She lifted off the wig, then the cap that constrained her own hair, and shook it out, sighing in relief.
The sound he made as her hair fell down her back was altogether more guttural.
She turned.
“Oh, yes.” He let loose a long sigh of pleasure and gestured toward a chair set up a few feet before the easel, in the sun. “That’s for you.”
She took the seat and found it comfortably padded.
“Sit forward, on the edge for a bit, will you?” he requested. He stared avidly and she shivered a little at the intensity. Hidden away inside her boy’s clothes, her nipples peaked. But she had to wonder; what did he see? Flightly, the urchin? Francis, the woman? Or had she become just a combination of color and form?
“Pull your hair forward, so that it falls over your breast.”
She did and he moved away from the canvas, caught up his sketchbook, stood before her and began filling page after page, flipping them over without letting her see a thing.
“No.” He moved at last, trailing around and frowning at her. “Muss your hair a little.”
She did.
“No.” Stepping forward, he took her hand. “Bend down.” When she didn’t move fast enough, he helped her along, pushing on her back.
“Caradec! Now that’s—”
Her protest was cut off when he dug his fingers into her hair. With strong fingers he rubbed at her scalp, moving them to shake out all of her locks. Saints, but it felt good.
“Now, flip it back up.”
She did, meeting his gaze. He stood so close, and there, at last, she saw it. All of the emotion, the smoldering desire, banked like a sleepy, erotic fire.
He leaned in. “First, we paint,” he said thickly.
“And then?” She couldn’t stop herself from asking.
“And then . . . you decide what’s next.”
They both returned to their seats—and there followed after that several of the strangest days of Francis’s life.
She posed for hours. Sitting. Standing. Hair up. Hair down. Once he asked her to wrap up in a blanket and bare her shoulders, but though she waited in trepidation, he did not ask her to pose nude. At one point he had her stand behind the desk, leaning on it with her hands planted on the edge.
“Push against it,” he told her. “As if you were going to launch yourself over it.”
“Why?” she demanded. “Come now, Rhys. I’ll do it, but surely you’ll give me a peek at it, if I do.”
He shook his head.
“Just a sketch? Something?”
He merely shook his head and held fast, refusing to let her catch a glimpse of paper or canvas.
One afternoon he perched her next to the window and knelt before her. Taking her hand, he stretched out her arm and bent close, trailing a fingertip along the path laid out by the faint blue of a vein.
Her every nerve ending lit up, pleasure points pulsing across her body like stars in the sky.
“Your skin is softer than silk,” he whispered. “And the color of the palest cream.”
Leaning forward, he placed a row of kisses where his finger had led. She shivered. Goosebumps erupted all over her.
He looked up. “Your eyes change with the light, but those long lashes—” He sighed and rubbed them with a finger. “They are dusted with gold.”
His eyes had gone dark with passion, his expression hungry. And she leaned down and pressed her lips to his.
Such a kiss. Soft and slow. Light as a feather. Deeper than the darkest ocean depths. She wrapped her arms around his neck, slid down to meet him on the floor and pressed her body up against his.
He pulled her in and she gasped as the hard ridge of his manhood met her belly. Sliding her arms through his and clutching his shoulders, she rubbed against him. Sighed his name.
Moaning, he buried his face in the curve of her neck, sending shivers down her with his hot breath. But only for a moment.
He pulled away. “Not yet,” he said into her hair. “You have thinking to do, still.” He drew back and smiled at her. “And I must paint.”
They did leave the studio occasionally. She spent one morning standing against the outside wall of an apothecary’s shop, increasingly bored as he scribbled away. Hours, days, he spent staring at her. She wondered if he realized she stared at him quite as long? She didn’t think so. And she was grateful that he never seemed to notice that her body hovered continually on the edge of molten desire.
She yawned incessantly one morning, when he picked her up in the pre-dawn black and bundled her into a carriage. Geordie saluted her from the box. She nodded at him and promptly fell asleep in the corner, only to wake as Caradec bustled her outside and onto a thick blanket at the top of Calton Hill.
“I want to see your hair when the morning sun hits it.”
It was all the explanation he gave and she huddled in a wrap and fought sleep until the sky lightened in the east and a sudden wailing sounded nearby. She sat straight up, only relaxing when a piper stepped out from behind a tree.
“You did say you always wished to hear a great pipe,” Caradec said with a shrug. He took up his brush and set to work.
She nodded, touched, and he painted furiously while she listened and watched the sun wake the city with a soft caress of light.
One evening his hand cramped and they abandoned the canvas, wandering instead all across the city as Caradec examined one sort of greenery after another. He marched them from public gardens to kirk yards, but it wasn’t until they passed a private residence in George Street that he found what he wanted—a climbing vine cascading down over an iron fence, covered in small violet flowers. Laughing, he gathered an armful of garlands and carried them back to the studio, where he bade her to put them in water.
She grew comfortable staying alone with him in the enclosed space, although she lamented the fact that she had to spend all of her time in her boy’s clothes. It was necessary, though, especially as Malvi lurked constantly about, irritating both Francis and Mrs. Beattie.
“What’s he painting in there?” the maid demanded one day, cornering her as she left to fetch water and grabbing tight to the sleeve of her tunic. “Why doesn’t he come out?”
“He does. But he’s nearly always painting—a portrait of that ginger-haired lady.” Francis added a note of disgus
t, secretly chuckling inside at her success at fooling Malvi. She waved paint-stained fingers at the maid, for she had indeed learned how to mix colors. “And how many shades of red-gold can one girl sprout from her head? It don’t make a lick of sense.”
“Put in a good word for brunettes in general and me in particular,” Malvi said shrewdly. “In return, I’ll see you get extra helpings of sticky pudding—any time you wish.”
“Won’t do a bit of good,” she lamented in answer. “The cove is in the grip of . . . something. Paints like a madman. Don’t even remember to eat or drink until I remind him—and then I have to poke him several times before it gets through.”
The maid sighed in frustration. “Oh, what good are you to me, then?”
“None at all,” Francis said, grinning as she moved on. “None at all.”
Chapter Fifteen
But I had time before the child was due. Monsieur and I used the interval to come up with a mutually beneficial plan.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Rhys had never enjoyed the creation of a painting more. Francis had appointed herself his caretaker and proved to be exemplary at the job. She made sure that he took regular meals and always had a cool drink to hand. She forced him to leave the studio occasionally to breathe fresh air and focus on something besides the work for at least a small portion of each day.
And she turned out to be quite the best model he’d ever had. She never complained, although she did fidget if he kept her sitting for too long. She possessed an excellent weather vane for his temper, somehow knowing when it was acceptable to talk while he worked and holding silent when he was caught up in a difficult or transcendent bit.
She asked question after question about his habits, about technique in general and even about all the myriad small tasks that come with the creation of one presentable portrait. She listened to his answers too, learned and actually became such a help in making things run smoothly that he found himself to be far more productive than ever before.
They discussed all sorts of art, from paintings to architecture, to public monuments and even poetry. She was a reader. He was not—so she shared with him some of her favorites. He loved all of those conversations, because her questions were intelligent and her comments were insightful. And her curiosity was boundless.
“You know, it’s no wonder that everyone likes you,” he said one evening. They were out getting dinner at a pub. She paused, leaving a forkful of shepherd’s pie hanging in mid-air.
“Everyone does not like me,” she said carefully.
“They do.” He swallowed a gulp of ale. “People are often interested in me. They like to hear about my work, my travels. They ask questions I can’t answer about painting, sometimes. But I’m an object of curiosity, something to tell their friends about. Whereas, they genuinely like you. You become their friend.”
She shook her head.
“Have you not noticed? Everywhere we go, someone is happy to see you, whether you are in skirts or pants.”
“Next time we are both in London, remind me to introduce you to a girl named Jesse. She’ll be sure to tell you about my many bad qualities.”
“Jealous. Must be,” he said with a wave of his hand.
“Talk to Malvi, then.”
“Definitely jealous—of both of you, boy and girl.” He shook his head. “No use denying it.” Cocking his head, he regarded her with thoughtful concentration. “I think it is, in part, because you are like a sponge. You soak up information and are always thirsty for more. You pay attention to all the little pieces that people tell you about themselves—and you never forget them. You ask questions. You are truly interested in their lives and preoccupations.”
She shrugged. “I suppose I am.”
“I don’t think you realize how appealing it is. Mostly because it is so rare. So many people are interested only in themselves, their own cares, their own world.”
She set down her cutlery. “But that is nearly how you describe yourself.”
He flushed. “It’s different. Entirely.”
“How?”
He straightened and flung out a hand. “I’m interested in people. New people, new places and new experiences.”
“As I am.” Her voice gentled. “You are just not interested in connecting with them.”
He fell silent, largely because there was no answer to that. It was true. He’d just never seen the consequences of it so clearly.
They finished their meal without further conversation.
“It’s late,” he said when they had finished. “Why don’t you go home and enjoy your evening. I think I’ll take a walk.”
“If you’re sure?”
Nodding, he waved her off. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Francis walked slowly back to Mrs. Spencer’s, her mind awhirl. Perhaps she should not have been so . . . forthright? But she’d stayed because she wanted to show him a different path. She’d begun to make headway. She just wished he hadn’t gone so . . . blank.
Still lost in thought, she turned into the alley behind the shop. She always entered at the back when she was dressed in her boy’s clothes. But she drew to a halt when she found Jasper and Angus reclining on crates and passing a flask between them.
“Evening, you lugs.” She pulled up a crate of her own.
“Angus has come to see you, lad,” Jasper said meaningfully.
“Aye.” Angus grinned. “But I was countin’ on ye takin’ a bit more time about it.” Ruefully, he passed the drink back to Jasper.
“Keep it. I’m to learn more about the bookkeeping this evening. The two don’t mix.” Jasper made the announcement with mingled pride and reluctance and climbed to his feet. “Good night to you both.”
Angus watched him go and tried to pass the flask to Francis when he’d gone.
She shook her head. “Have you learned something, then?”
He nodded. “Not much, but I’ve two things to pass on.”
She waited.
“First—that girl is nae just a maid.”
“What makes you say that?” And did she want to know?
“Twice a week she slips out o’ the inn and gets herself to a newsstand a couple of blocks away. Always speaks to the same bloke, who is always there at the same time, reading the papers.”
“Well, she is the type to have a beau,” Francis mused.
Angus shook his head. “Not her beau. I went myself, with the boys, the second time. Not lovers. Whole thing looked familiar. Just like one of my boys, reportin’ back to me after a job.”
Not good news. Francis could think of only one person who might want reports on Caradec. “Who’s the bloke?”
“No idea. Never seen ’im hereabouts, which means he likely ain’t from here. And I can tell you—he didn’t look too happy with the chit, either.”
“He wouldn’t. Malvi hasn’t made much headway. What’s the second thing?”
“She’s got a powerful interest in the new girl working in there with Mrs. Spencer.” He jerked his head toward the shop.
Francis straightened. “Angus! You didn’t take that maid’s money, did you? After I set you to watching her?”
“Aye, I did. But I ain’t told her nothin’.” He scrunched his nose at her. “You and the girl showed up at about the same time. The pair o’ ye related?”
“You could say that.”
“Then we won’t be telling the maid anythin’. Ye come to us first. And besides which, she treated me like the dirt she couldn’t wait to rub off her shoes—and ye’re practically one o’ us.” He offered the flask again and this time, she took it.
“I’m honored you would say so.” Raising it in salute, she took a swig.
When she burst out coughing, he deftly took it back. “All right, there?” He stood. “Well, I’m off. Want us to keep watching the chit?”
“Yes, please,” she choked out.
“P’rhaps ye should go in,” Angus suggested, looking amu
sed.
But she was recovering—and beginning to enjoy the warmth spreading throughout her chest. “No. If the chit is spying on Caradec, he needs to know. I’ll go and warn him.”
“As it suits ye.” Angus nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”
She found him in back of the inn, chopping firewood. Standing in the shadows, she watched for a moment.
He’d stripped off his coat and waistcoat. Only his linen shirt was left and it was plastered to him, showing off broad shoulders and a strong, muscular chest. His hair hung loose and had gone damp with sweat. Saints in heaven. She put a hand on the inn wall, seeking support. Was there a saint that protected young women from sheer, unbridled lust?
There ought to be.
He filled that courtyard. There was nothing to do but look and admire how large, hard and incredibly beautiful he was.
“I see you there, Flightly. Come on out.” Pausing, he let the head of the axe rest on the toe of his boot. “I thought I sent you home.”
“I came back.” She stepped forward. “I have something to tell you.”
He nodded, waiting.
She moved closer, trying to shut off all of her senses and remain unaffected by his rugged masculinity. “You aren’t going to like it.”
He tossed the axe, wiped his brow and made an impatient gesture. “Spit it out, then.”
“It concerns Malvi. She’s no simple maid.”
He scoffed. “Anyone who’s met the girl can see that. She’s got ambition.”
He sighed and she shook her head. She’d thought the Scots were skilled at expressive noises, but Caradec could also say quite a bit without actual words.
“She’s likely thinking she’ll find a rich man she can seduce into taking her on.” Lifting a shoulder, he continued. “She might be right, at that.”
“It’s worse than that, I’m afraid.” She told him what Angus had said about the girl’s meetings. “All of her focus has been on you, Rhys. It seems likely that she’s watching you for someone.”
His eyes closed. “Francis.” Another inarticulate sound—this one telling her how weary—and slightly exasperated he was with the topic. “I know what you are going to say. I know you are vested in this private war going on between Hestia and her enemies—”