by Tracy Sumner
Knocking aside emotion that did neither of them any good, she crouched behind the desk, finding needle and thread, scissors, bandages, a bottle of brandy, and an ointment that smelled horrific but promised much according to the label.
It seemed Julian prepared for a crisis.
Before rising, she hastily replaced the sketch, glad to be rid of a talisman she’d been unable to stop touching since Simon gave it to her.
Julian analyzed her with calm precision as she crossed to him, his hooded gaze having settled to the color of the mist that chaperoned her morning rides. She seethed inside but tried to hide it. That she’d not known this about him seemed a betrayal.
When it was simple.
His passion resided in this dwelling—and his passion was not her.
“No questions?” he murmured, breaking the charged silence.
She dropped to her knee before him, placing the supplies at her side. “Yes.” Tucking back a lock of hair that had broken free of her chignon, she took the needle in hand. “How do I thread this thing again?”
He laughed roughly and closed his eyes, permitting her attendance. There were no battle lines drawn, as even a playing field as they’d ever entered. She took this discovery and held it close: his interminable self-possession could be disabled, the man beneath accessible should he allow the breach.
Piper knotted the thread, seizing the opportunity to examine him without his vigilant gaze holding her back. There were discoveries—a crescent scar beneath his nose, freckles scattered across his cheeks—when she’d once known him well enough to sketch a portrait not only of his gorgeous body but his dazzling mind.
He stiffened at the slide of needle through skin. At some point, she handed him the brandy, which he drank liberally. She wished to drink herself but worried it would affect her steady hand as she was no nurse, and this task was making her woozy. “So, this is how you can help me.” She dabbed blood from the wound with a discarded paint rag, praying for an even stitch. “Cataloguing the auras.”
He swallowed, his throat doing a supple pull above his open shirt collar, the slice of bronzed skin in startling contrast to the creamy linen. Peeking through the collared vee was a liberal amount of dark, coarse hair. Face flushed, she tracked back to her task. “Your little secret,” she said, appalled the statement sounded wounded when it arrived.
“I was punished if the staff found paints in the house. And by punished, I mean savagely beaten and locked in my bedchamber without food or water until the viscount’s temper settled. Which could be days. He thought art for the lower classes. Though painting gave me the only relief I found from the visions until I met you, so I kept going back to it, withstanding the abuse until I couldn’t withstand it any longer.” He gave a dismissive wave with his good hand, a release of two fingers from the brandy bottle. “It was my savior. My normal. Some days, my reason. When I ran, my art came with me, and my bastard of a father didn’t.” His lip curled. “Although the viscountcy remains.”
“Why hide it…” She tied off the thread and clipped the loose ends with a snip, avoiding his gaze should those soulful eyes of his slide open. “Why hide it from me?”
His head dipped as he drew a clipped breath. She thought he wasn’t going to answer when he finally did: “Self-preservation.”
She swabbed at the blood pooling around the slightly crooked stitches. This would not make a handsome scar. “Absurd.”
He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Perhaps.”
Uncapping the ointment, she wrinkled her nose. “This is putrid,” she said, spreading it liberally over the gash.
“To keep the wolves at bay, Yank.”
“Am I a wolf, then?” she asked, wrapping a length of gauze around his arm and tying it off.
He lifted his head, his gaze locking with hers. The scent of his skin, the ointment, a tepid summer night, and the sting of paint and turpentine swirled to form an unbelievably tantalizing mix. Abrasive, ardent, inviting. Wrapping her longing in an utterly perplexing package. Her body trembled, and she released a breath of frustration. Of torment. The flutter in her stomach, the sensation raising the hairs on the nape of her neck trumped sound judgment and her promise to herself.
His lips canted, the suggestion of amusement should she wait for it. As if he recognized what being this close to him did to her.
She shook her head. No.
In response, he lifted his hand, thumb gliding her lower lip, a silken sweep.
“What”—her words were like steam, faint and effervescent, dissolving over his skin—“are you doing?”
“Remembering.”
Swaying, she fell forward, palms hitting the planked floor. He took control of the adjusted position, his fingers tangling in her hair and drawing her closer. “I can’t—” She gulped the cluttered scents—hers, his, the room’s. “I can’t think when your hands are on me.” In fact, she wasn’t sure where the needle had gotten to. A jab for one of them was coming any minute.
“I know the feeling. Have always known it,” he whispered, his confession a balmy caress. His lids fluttered as one of his infrequent smiles curved his lips.
She waited, breath held, letting her lids drift because, if he were to kiss her, it might startle less if she didn’t see it coming.
And then…he did the worst, the sweetest, the most vulnerable thing she’d ever known him to do.
Like a child, he slid swiftly, silently, into sleep.
The boy’s dreams had led her here.
Sidonie placed her palm on the sarsen stone and imagined those who had come before her. Wondered as her tears fell, how many tears had soaked this very spot. The village green was deserted, the night liquid, hushed, tranquil. His dreams had been filled with images of the mystical community being established in a manor across the field, the healer at its center, the earl’s chronology their guiding treatise.
They were forming a society of misplaced souls without her—the most misplaced of all.
But the end of her torment was near. The granddaughter was going to liberate her from this repellant life. The healer was going to help Sidonie slay the dragon.
Before the dragon ate her alive.
“Patience,” Sidonie whispered as her men circled her.
It took perseverance to win a battle like the one she and the boy—Finn—waged. He was taking, oui, but he was also giving.
He would hate to know how generous he had been.
It was quite simple: she needed to find them before they found her.
Chapter 10
The most characteristic mark of a great mind is to choose one important object and pursue it for life.
~Anna Laetitia Barbauld
Julian roused from sensual slumber with Piper’s voice drifting lazily through his mind. He frequently dreamed of her, but, ah, this one had been so intoxicating it would linger for hours. Possibly a day. He slid his hand over his belly to his aching cock and considered letting the notion of her rouse him in a thoroughly inspiring manner.
Yes, he resolved and stroked, sending a painful jolt through his shoulder.
What?
He blinked, puzzled, the details presented not adding up. Morning, but late judging by the sunlit strip sitting high atop the wall. His head lay on his bed pillow, but the hard planks beneath him were no bed. Shading his eyes against the spill of light, he went up on the arm not throbbing like the devil and kicked a thin woolen blanket from his body. Bloody hell, he thought as the night came flooding back. He was sleeping in front of the lodge’s door and…
Piper’s touch had been no dream.
Had she stayed? Would she risk such—
He didn’t have to actually see her curled in a neat bundle on his sofa to feel the impact; his body vibrated like someone had teased a bow across it. As if the floor was made of ice, he got slowly to his feet.
Obviously, she would risk everything.
She lay on her side, hands folded beneath her cheek as if in prayer, hair a russet spill tea
sing the paint-spattered carpet. The counterpane from his bed had slipped to her waist, her luscious breasts doing a gravitational shift against the fabric of her dress.
She looked innocent, angelic even, when she was anything but.
Her invasion of his private space for some unfathomable reason called to mind that damned kiss.
Something he should have never started but wished he’d started earlier.
Dangerous thoughts, dangerous desires.
His cock hard enough to pound timber was an excellent sign he should wake her, send her back to the main house.
Helplessly, his gaze flicked to his bedchamber door. He’d never made love in the lodge; he’d only made art.
Recognition consumed him as he stood there debating. He realized the feeling was similar to one after sex, that instant of intimacy which, in his experience, immediately turned in upon itself and made you feel lonelier than when you’d started.
Only, he didn’t feel lonely.
He felt complete—when he had yet to touch her.
Julian rocked back on his heels. Lifted his hand to his head and tried to rub the sensation out. Idiot. Seeing her thus was familiarity afforded a husband.
Or a lover.
Releasing a low hiss through his teeth, he again glanced toward his bedchamber, steps away from where she lay sleeping.
Piper let out a soft murmur, and he looked back to see a stockingless foot slide from beneath the counterpane and through a dazzling sunlit strip. Forming the drawing in his mind, he stepped in. Shadow dancing over the delicate arch, light over the bony point of her ankle. The contrast between grey silk, the golden hue of her skin, and the crimson counterpane would be extraordinary in oil. Her hand dropped from its tuck beneath her cheek, finding rest in an artistic curl that broke his creative control.
Crazy, crazy, crazy, he cautioned even as he reached for his sketchpad.
He whispered instructions to a sleeping woman. Her beauty held that kind of power. The delicate curve of her shoulder, the dainty spill of her fingers on the carpet, cupped as if asking the sky for rain. This was his lost place, where time, plans, worry, slipped away like smoke in a fierce wind. Where he forgot the title, those days in the gutter, his goddamn gift. The people he had sworn to protect.
His very life.
Here, there was nothing but light and shadow. Bone, sinew, skin. Curves, lines, shapes on paper. Colors. A multitude of them.
As Piper lay there, he gloried in taking her where he wanted her to go.
An hour later, maybe two, he came back to the present, found his hand stiff, his shoulder screaming, the sun a fierce burst outside the window.
The mental list came easily. Points that excited him; points that made him ill.
One. The house staff was aware of Piper’s presence. Breakfast had been left on the stoop, as it was each morning, but the amount was doubled this morn. And included chocolate, which was certainly not for him.
Two. The sketches were only the foundation for a complete work. Oil, if he went with what best suited. Full length. In the garden, surrounded by a riot of pigment. Or, with less clothing, right back there on his bed.
Three. She was a heavy sleeper, as the day was sliding by and she continued to slumber without a care in the world.
Four—and this was the point that made his stomach knot. Made his heart pump in hard beats against his ribs.
She was searching. While he slept, she’d investigated. He noted the subtle shift of his ledgers; the movement of a canvas. Paints and brushes on a side table that had been on the floor.
What genuinely terrified—were she to go deeper—she now knew where to look.
He sipped tea, balancing the cup on his thigh as he tried to arrive at a compromise with himself. An alternative to the concept his body proposed: licking away the dab of paint on her wrist, lifting her skirt past her waist, and sinking his teeth into the supple flesh of her thigh.
She would scream when he found what she liked—and he would find what she liked.
But the deal, the damned promise and not only to her grandfather, was that he keep his hands, his cock, his cursed gift, to himself.
There were elements of his life he could prudently share. His artwork, his plans for the League. She now knew about the first and deserved to be part of the latter.
If he opened the door standing between them instead of straining to hold it shut, perhaps the influence she had over him would lessen. Friendship could flow in, friendship they’d shared before. It sounded logical, though he wasn’t sure he believed it with his body poised and ready, pulse zipping through his veins as he watched her sleep.
He had never enjoyed watching someone sleep.
Moments later, Piper woke as he’d have expected. Alert in an instant, quelling an expression he couldn’t decipher. The wheels in her mind whirled as she scooted to a sit, checked her clothing, evaluated the situation, surely his aura, before deciding on her strategy.
She would have made an excellent gambler, clever and fearless, able to make a bold choice when pressed figuratively against the wall.
He’d never seen someone vacillate less amidst disaster.
As she watched him watching her, her smile grew, though she brought her hand to her mouth to cover it. Damn it. He wanted to be a stern presence, even got so far as opening his mouth to admonish her for the inadvisable situation they found themselves in. But he couldn’t come up with one reasonable statement as her delight seeped through his skin, unleashing his smile.
He shook his head, glanced at the detailed sketch, erotic in its stark simplicity, and wondered what the hell he was doing.
He did not want to be—become—lost in Piper Scott.
The stillness playing havoc with his nerves, he pushed off the floor with a grunt, his shoulder stretching in protest. Placing the sketchpad on his desk, he turned to the breakfast tray, arranged a plate of food, poured tea. The visions he encountered were governable. No need to involve the healer. All the while, the intensity of her regard burned a hole through his thin cotton shirt.
Sidestepping the tempting puddle of stockings beside the sofa, he handed her the plate. Knocking aside a tube of shockingly expensive Dutch paint, he set her cup and saucer atop the table. “Breakfast, Lady Elizabeth, as your reputation takes its final bow.”
Balancing the plate in one hand, with the other, she completed a quick modesty pat down her wrinkled bodice. Notwithstanding the bare feet, which she took the instance of his review to wiggle, she was otherwise covered. Thank God. Lifting her gaze to his, she brushed aside his comment with a flick of her fingers. “Another benefit of country living.”
With this avowal, she commenced eating.
Delicate sips, poised bites, as if unchaperoned, barefooted, sleepy conversation over poached eggs, kippers, and toast was not only wholly acceptable but preferable. With a muted groan of capitulation, he flipped to a blank sheet in his sketchpad and settled back against the desk. The drawings he’d completed this morning pulsed on the pages beneath his fingers, but he was unsure if he wanted to share them. His image of her was drawn from a secluded place and likely a version of herself she didn’t see when she looked in the mirror.
All she would see was his desire, chalked in every charcoal stroke. Trapping him with its tangibility.
He wanted to paint her, he thought in desperation. Sketches were a good start, although charcoal was not enough to capture the golden splash flowing through the window, the way it lit her skin where it struck her.
Not enough to capture the contradictions. Dreamy innocence and bold challenge. He shaded the stubborn tilt of her chin, struggling to portray the look. Her look. “Head up,” he instructed, then banged his on the desk when he realized he’d said it out loud.
“So, the viscount is an artist.”
He held up a hand, urging her to let him take another stroke. Releasing a tense breath, he stepped outside the sketch and looked up in time to see her slide her knuckle from her mouth, jam clingin
g to her bottom lip. Feeling like his brain was going to explode, he forced himself back to outlining the sweep of hair tumbling over her shoulder. “The artist is a viscount,” he corrected. “He always was.”
“The boy my grandfather located in the rookery…”
He didn’t want to think, much less talk about that boy. This sketch was the now, taking shape in ways he’d not planned. Art calmed the chaos in his mind, and he wanted to embrace what calmed the chaos.
Only a healer’s touch, if he let himself accept it, calmed more.
When he understood the silence was going to draw out like she’d placed him on a rack with her comment, he said so low he hoped she didn’t hear, “A rebellious, furious young man. So bloody angry.” He grimaced at the pathetic recollection. Maybe if he painted that boy, he’d retreat gracefully into the past, too.
“Your father”—she paused, twisting her skirt in her fist—“somehow, somehow you’ve been able to forgive him.”
His heart stuttered, the pencil falling still in his hand. If he could relieve her of the misery of having a parent who cared more for himself and had shown this deficiency quite cheerfully, he would. “Forgive is not the word I’d choose to describe how I handled ending my relationship with him.”
“My anger has driven too many choices.” She tapped her teacup on the table. “I don’t want to be angry. I don’t want him, and how little he cared for me, to matter. To shape one more step I make.”
With a sense of hopelessness, he dove back into the sketch. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he touched her now, offered solace that would turn to something else. “A dart thrown at a dead man’s portrait, I suppose, but I hate him for what he did to you. Or what he didn’t do. Failed at the only significant task of his life.” He tapped the pencil against his chest without looking up. Her gaze would be too open, too tempting. And his too hungry. “My father loathed the sight of me. Or rather, he was terrified.” He shrugged, then swore as his stitches yanked. “I didn’t know at such a young age not to trust him.”