“A finial?”
“For the posts. That might work although it’s so heavy, I can’t see how it would remain fixed in place.” She tilted her head to one side and squinted at it, hoping another view might help. “It could be an ornamental end for a staircase railing. But moonstones are notoriously delicate, so I doubt that. Maybe it’s a—”
“For the love of God, woman!” He arose with a lithe movement and strode across the carpet to where she stood. He held out his hand. “Let me see that blasted thing.”
It was an imperious gesture and she was tempted to refuse, but she wanted to know what the object was, so she handed him the stone.
He took it, hefting it one hand. “It’s could be a doorstop.”
She hadn’t thought of that.
“But no.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t weigh enough. Especially not for the doors in this house.”
He had a point. Like many very old houses, the huge oak doors had been designed to make enemies quake as they imagined giants walking the halls.
He flipped the object over and examined the base. “The carving is ornate.” His brows knit, he peered closer. “It’s old. Ancient even. But as many carvings and sculptures as I’ve examined, I’ve never seen this particular style before.”
She tried not to look at his hands and failed. They were large and calloused, beautifully formed and yet strong. As an artist’s hands should be, she decided. She hadn’t paid Robert’s hands much attention, but she was certain they didn’t look like these.
Until now, she hadn’t realized how disappointing that was.
He held the object up to the light and the moonstone gleamed anew, casting a warm shadow over his stubbled face. “I wonder . . .” He held it out, as if to visualize it in use. “I know what it is. It’s the head of a royal mace or scepter.”
A royal mace. Fascinating. She looked at it with wonder. “It’s beautifully made.”
“It’s well done, although I’ve seen better.”
As if it had been bumped by an invisible hand, the mace head flipped to one side, falling from Marco’s grasp. He tried to catch it, but it slipped through his fingers and landed squarely on his foot.
She winced at the solid thud of metal hitting his leather boot. Marco cursed through clenched teeth, muttering a string of Italian invectives that made her glad she only knew the barest rudiments of the language.
He left the mace head on the floor and limped a few steps away, shaking his foot as if to shed the pain. Every step or two, he’d cast a furious glare at the stone, still muttering vivid curses.
Fearful for its safety, Charlotte scooped it up and returned it to the mantel where they’d found it.
“That thing should be tossed into that lake you’re so fond of riding around!” he declared, his teeth still clenched.
“How do you know I’ve been riding the lake path?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped, and then nodded to the moonstone. “You should toss that damn thing away. It’s of no use for anything.”
“You don’t know that. And you should be more careful how you handle it. It’s an antique, as you said, and moonstones are fragile.”
“That ‘fragile’ moonstone broke my toe.”
She cocked a disbelieving look at him. “You think it’s broken?”
He moved his foot in a careful circle. “Perhaps not,” he admitted reluctantly, though his scowl remained in place.
“Keep moving it,” she ordered. “A few more minutes and your toe won’t even hurt.”
Amusement softened his ire. “You don’t know that.”
“No,” she admitted. “But I’m hoping it’s true.”
“Hope has never cured a broken toe.”
“As far as you know,” she retorted.
He moved his foot again, wincing which made him glower anew at the stone. “Throwing that damned thing into a lake would be too nice for it. It should be burned.”
“No. I like it.” She glanced at the mace head where it sat on the mantel. “I just wish I had three more to use as finials. I’d rather have them mounted on my bedposts than the carved pineapples Mama has put there.” She made a face. “It’s a wonder they haven’t given me nightmares.”
“You think four scaled claws holding oddly gleaming stones would give you fewer bad dreams than pineapples?”
“Say what you will, I think this is a beautiful piece of art.” As if it liked her compliment, the stone caught the light from the window and sparkled even brighter. “And scaled claw or not, it’s far prettier than a pineapple.” She held up and admired it. “Perhaps you could use this as inspiration?”
“A claw holding a rock? No, thank you. Besides, that damned thing is bad luck. Ask my toe.”
She sniffed. “I think it’s very good luck.”
“Yes, well, you didn’t even know what that bloody thing was before I figured it out, so . . . .” He shrugged.
“I know now. It’s a mace head,” she said in a smug tone. “A royal mace head. I know because an art expert told me.”
Marco’s foot hurt too much for him to laugh, but he couldn’t help a reluctant smile. She was as charming and as fresh as the morning sun. But behind her occasional bravado lurked something more. A hint of sadness, perhaps. Whatever it was, mixed with her mischievous innocence, it was potent, and he found himself wondering what she’d do if he pulled her to him and kissed her smile from her soft lips, drinking from them like sweet wine. His body ached anew and he pushed the thought away.
“Admit it,” she said. “The mace head is beautiful.”
No, you are beautiful, not that ridiculous moonstone. “I am no expert on random metal and stone objects. All I know is that I don’t trust that blasted thing, and with reason.” He eyed it now. As odd as it sounded, right before it fell on his foot, it had twisted from his grasp as if leaping on its own power. Almost as if it hadn’t liked what he’d just said—
Good God, I’m conjecturing on what a vexatious hunk of metal thinks. What madness is this? What was it about this place, this woman, that made his mind leap to the most impossible thoughts?
Unaware he was now questioning his own sanity, she mused aloud, “I’ll ask Simmons how it came to be here. My butler knows everything that happens under this roof, so—” Her own words seemed to catch her, for she stopped and looked at Marco. “Simmons knew you were here.”
“Of course he does. Surely you didn’t think I’d snuck in through a window like a thief?” He could see from the pink rising in her cheeks that she’d thought exactly that. “I’ve been visiting at different times of the day so I can observe how the light moves through the room. Your butler’s only request was that I shouldn’t wander into the rest of the house, which I was more than happy to promise.”
“If you’d dressed the way I first saw you, I daresay he would have allowed you to go wherever you wished.”
God, but he loved it when she let her gaze roam over him, as warm and intimate as a touch. He found it especially gratifying when he remembered that she’d ignored him for nigh on three entire days now.
His pride had been pinched by that. After their kiss in the wood, he’d wrongly believed she would find a way for them to meet again, but as far as he could tell, she’d made no effort at all. Worse, every morning since that day, he’d watched from his workshop window as she rode out into the misty morning forest on the back of her white mare.
He’d come to hate that blasted window. God, but I’m being morose. He was glad he wasn’t home where his brothers and sisters would recognize his folly and tease him relentlessly.
They would be right to do so. As ugly as it was, he knew his pinched pride came from the fact that he wasn’t used to being ignored. Women loved an artist. And as an artist, he had an endless appreciation of the beauty of the female face and body, of the hollows and shadows, of the soft lines and graceful curves. He loved their shy and seductive smiles, their soft laughter, and – when the mood suited him – their heated embraces i
n a rumpled bed.
Women, young and old, never ignored him. Except this one. Even now, she was eyeing him with the cautious enthusiasm of a lamb facing a rabid wolf.
She turned from the mantel and walked away, limping as she went. He’d noticed that limp when she’d come into the room, but had forgotten it while examining that cursed mace head. “You’ve hurt yourself.”
She looked at him, her face suddenly pale.
He frowned, seriously worried now. “You’re limping. What happ—"
“Enough.”
The word cut him off as cleanly as a sharpened knife, her shoulders so stiff that he caught himself before he spoke again. “I’m sorry. Have I said something wrong?”
She continued to move away from him, toward the line of chairs near the wall which he’d just left. When she reached the chair holding his papers, she turned to face him, and he saw the struggle on her face.
After a long moment, she grimaced and said in a flat tone, “I limp. It is not an injury. That’s all you need to know.”
He thought back to when they’d met in the woods. She’d walked with an uneven gait then, he realized with some surprise, but he’d blamed it on the uneven forest floor. Aware she still watched him, he threw up his hands. “I won’t ask you any more questions. If you don’t wish to speak about it, then don’t.”
“Fine. I won’t.”
Yet he could see that she still struggled with herself. Was she wondering how much she should tell him? How much he deserved to know? Very little, he decided regretfully. “Miss Harrington – Charlotte, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I was just worried about you. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been.”
Some of the tension left her face. “You were just being kind. I know that, and I should have been politer. I—I don’t normally speak of this, but I suppose there’s no harm in it.”
“You don’t have to sa—”
“My spine is crooked.” The words ripped from her lips like wine from a too tightly stoppered bottle, quickly and with the rat-a-tat-tat of a hard rain. “I was not born this way, but as I grew, my back began to curve. My parents brought doctors and physicians and even charlatans to Nimway.” There was a haunted look to her eyes. “But nothing helped.”
“The treatments were difficult.” He didn’t ask, for her expression said it all.
She nodded. “They tried potions, oils, braces, and – Oh God, everything. It got a little worse each year until I stopped growing. That put an end to it. It has gotten no worse for years now, and the doctors have left. So I am what I am and I can live with that.”
She lived with it very well, he decided. “You didn’t need to tell me all of this, but I appreciate your trust.”
She gave him a curious look. “I’m not sure why I told you,” she admitted. “But perhaps it’s better that I did. People notice, of course. Most of the time they won’t ask, which I prefer. Some of them stare when they think I’m not looking, which I hate. Meanwhile others avoid looking at me at all, as I were invisible.”
“I can see you perfectly well, even when you’re telling me my toe is not broken, when I know it is.”
She chuckled, humor washing away her irritation. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not saying a bunch of endless platitudes or pitying me. I can’t stand either.”
“I could never pity you. I’ve seen you ride that brute of a mare you call a horse.”
A hint of satisfaction warmed her smile. “Angelica can be a handful.”
“Not for you. I’ve watched you ride out each and every morning since I arrived, and you never falter.” He leaned forward. “You see, I know your secret.”
“Secret?”
“Oh yes. You might sedately trot that beast from the stables with you looking like a veritable maiden of meek and proper manners, but as soon as you’re out of view of prying eyes, you set her to a wild gallop and ride until it must feel as if you’re flying.”
Her eyes sparkled. “It does. I don’t limp when I ride.”
“No one does. If we’re to be honest, I must admit that I hadn’t noticed this curve you’ve mentioned. But then I was busy admiring other parts of you. Your eyes, your hair, the boldness of your nose—”
She slapped her hand over her nose.
He chuckled. “Don’t cover it. I find your nose fascinating or I wouldn’t have mentioned it. There are more parts of you that I admire, but sadly, as they were involved in a kiss that never happened, I can say no more.”
This time she was the one who laughed. God, but it was good to see the sadness disappear from her eyes.
Still chuckling, her gaze dropped to the discarded papers he’d left crumpled on the floor which were now at her feet. She bent to pick one up, but he was quicker, scooping up the crumpled pages and carrying them to the fire. Soon they were sputtering in the flames.
“Why did you do that?”
“If they were good ideas, they wouldn’t have been wadded up on the floor.”
She watched the pages turn to ash. “There were a lot of them. That doesn’t reflect well on your muse.”
“My muse is a vengeful wench who finds it amusing to mislead me repeatedly.“ Satisfied his ruined sketches were where they belonged, he crossed his arms and watched them waft up the chimney, nothing left but glowing ashes.
“You have no idea what you’re going to do with these pillars, do you?”
“Not yet, but I will.”
“I’m surprised Mama gave you so much leeway.”
Arms still crossed, he addressed the ceiling. “Do you hear the way this one insults me? She doubts me openly and will not even pretend she thinks me capable.”
“Are you talking to your muse?”
“No, to God. No one else would believe what nonsense I must put up with for my art.”
Her eyes twinkled with suppressed laughter. “I didn’t mean to suggest you were incapable in any way, especially not the son of a famous painter.” She shot him a curious glance. “Is that how my mother found you? Through your father?”
“Not at all. I met your mother a few years ago when she was traveling through Venice with your father. I’d just installed a number of statues for a garden, along with a large fountain. She admired them very much, although I didn’t hear from her until several months ago when she wrote to offer me this commission. If she likes my work, she will recommend me to the Queen. That is why I accepted the offer, although it was generous enough on its own. Such a recommendation will lift my reputation to a new level. And if I can fulfill a commission for the Queen, then I am made.”
“You are ambitious.”
“I have dreams,” he admitted. “And a family that depends on me.”
“Oh yes. All those brothers and sisters.” Her smile slipped, and her gaze dropped to the fireplace. A log shifted, the noise echoing in the silence as a large ember landed on the hearth.
She moved away, keeping her skirts a safe distance from the flames.
He watched, admiring her slender, graceful hands where they held the blue silk of her gown. Something about this woman pulled at him, something beyond a heated kiss shared in a mystical wood. The way she moved and spoke, both impulsive and quick, contradicted the caution he saw in her blue gaze.
There were many layers to this woman, and to his chagrin, he wanted to know them all. “Come to my workshop, I’ll show you the pieces I’ve already finished.” The words slipped from him as if pulled by a golden thread.
Good God, why had he offered that? He never allowed anyone to see his work until it was in place and perfect.
“I would like that, but I mustn’t slow you down. The fireplace must be installed by—” Her lips closed over the words as if they refused to be spoken aloud. After a strained moment, she said, “Soon.”
“Your mother gave me a month.”
She nodded. “We’ve an event, a formal breakfast. Hundreds of people have been invited.” With a sudden burst of restlessness, Charlotte turned a
way, her skirts rustling with each step. “I should go.”
“Charlotte?”
She stopped and then slowly turned to look back at him.
“What is this purpose of this breakfast?”
She smoothed nervous hands over her skirt, her eyes haunted. “It’s to celebrate a wedding.”
The words echoed in the large, nearly empty room. “Whose wedding?” he asked, although he already knew.
“Mine.” Her answer was almost a whisper. Without another word, she turned and left, closing the door behind her with cold finality.
He stared at the door, shocked at what she’d said, and even more shocked at his own reaction. His chest ached as if someone had kicked it. Who is this woman to me that I ache at such information?
He didn’t know, but even more than that, he couldn’t ignore the despair that had darkened her eyes. Was she being forced into this marriage? He couldn’t imagine that to be true, for he’d already witnessed her spirit. But shadows hung about this woman like silk scarves, and he knew there was much he had to learn before he understood her.
She was a conundrum, he decided. An enticing, beckoning, inspiring conundrum.
Sighing, he picked up his charcoal and paper, and resumed his seat. He stared at the fireplace for a long time, the forgotten moonstone no longer catching the light.
After a while, he forced his mind to empty, and he closed his eyes and drew. The charcoal raced across the page, the image blooming to life as his hand moved faster and faster.
Finally, his hand stilled and he opened his eyes.
The paper didn’t contain a magnificent design for the pillars. Instead, a young woman stared out at him, her lips soft, her eyes the saddest he’d ever seen.
Chapter 5
Pietro squinted against the bright afternoon sun. “You are not working.”
“I worked all morning and much of last night. Now, I am resting.” Marco leaned against the doorframe of the wide door, crossed his arms, the fresh breeze tugging at his shirt. “Besides, the dust was making me cough.”
THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1794 - CHARLOTTE Page 6