River of Fire: Book 6 in The Fallen Angels Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  "Occasionally," he admitted, thinking back. "That is what you feel when you paint?"

  "Yes, though nowhere near all the time. I think the feelings must be similar for all creative work, whether it is writing or music or teaching, or even raising a child." Her tone switched from pensive to brisk. "When there is no creative flow, the oils reflect that and fight you every inch of the way. The colors are muddy, the shapes are wrong. There's no harmony."

  He grimaced. "That part I recognize."

  She studied him narrowly. "You have the talent. The trick is to find a way to release it. Part of the problem is boredom. It was a mistake to try to teach you like a novice when you're already an accomplished artist in many ways. You're simply not that interested in painting a still life. You must choose a subject that you care about—something that excites you so much that you can forget about your problems with the medium and get swept up in the river of fire."

  "I wouldn't miss that blasted bust of Zeus," Kenneth admitted. "But I can't imagine getting carried away by creative excitement when every brushful of paint is struggling like a company of French grenadiers."

  She gave him a mischievous smile. "True. So we'll make the oils behave like a medium you've already mastered."

  She turned and squeezed a dollop of azurite blue onto an empty palette. Then she slowly mixed in oil of turpentine, adding more and more until the paint was oozing like syrup. When she was satisfied with the consistency, she took a sheet of heavy paper and used a wide brush to lay a smooth wash of blue across the surface. "Thinned down, oils can be used almost like watercolor. You can work much more quickly and freely than when the oils are thick. Try it."

  Doubtfully Kenneth accepted the brush and dipped it into the dilute azurite. Though the paint was heavier than watercolor, it flowed across the canvas with sensuous ease. Without conscious thought, he dipped and stroked again, creating shadings of blue like those he would use for the sky of a watercolor landscape.

  He set down the brush and flexed his fingers wonderingly. "Interesting. My hand acted instinctively, as if I were working with watercolor." For an instant, he had not thought about the fact that he was using oil paint. His carefully honed manual skills had taken over.

  Becoming intrigued, he squeezed burnt sienna onto the palette and thinned that. A few swirling strokes created a silhouette of Rebecca, her hair dancing about her shoulders.

  She laughed. "You see the advantages?"

  He frowned at the paper. "It's too easy. There has to be a reason why all oil painters don't work this way."

  "The colors won't have the same depth and richness," she explained. "They'll also fade sooner than oils that have been built up more thickly."

  "No matter." He added white lead to the burnt sienna and thinned it again. "I'm trying to learn, not create masterpieces for eternity." He used the tip of the brush to sketch a sleeping feline form, shadowing it with darker paint.

  She gave an approving nod. "Another advantage is that dilute oils dry more quickly and can be worked over sooner. I suggest that you combine techniques. Lay in the background and general shapes with thinned paints. Then add details with thicker pigments. Wonderful oil sketches can be done that way. It's particularly good for informal portraits and landscapes."

  Excitement began rising in him. He could do this. And if it wasn't classical technique, it was a long step in the right direction. "Ginger, you're wonderful."

  Without thinking, he leaned over to give her a swift, grateful kiss. But as soon as his lips touched hers, the physical awareness that had been pulsing between them all afternoon crackled to life. He could no more have ended the kiss than he could have flown to the moon. Her lips opened and their tongues touched, sliding sensually together.

  Her scent was intoxicating, a blend of rosewater and oils and woman, a fragrance as unique as Rebecca. He was hungry, famished, for the yielding warmth of female strength and mystery. She nourished him with her mouth as her fingertips curled into his back like a kitten's claws.

  He wrapped one arm around her slim waist and held her close. His other hand skimmed her bodice until he cradled the gentle weight of her breast. He moved his palm in a circle. She gasped and arched against him, supple and seductive.

  Their mouths worked slowly, rich with subtle nuance. His hands molded her like a sculptor reveling in clay, learning the fertile swell of hips and the slimness of her waist. The delicacy of her nape and the strength of her graceful arms. The gentle curve of her belly. She gave a small cry as his hand slid lower, stroking the female tenderness hidden beneath layers of fabric. Then, chillingly, in his mind he heard Sir Anthony saying, "I'm sure you could be very persuasive."

  Bloody hell, he was perilously close to the seduction Sir Anthony had suggested! The fact that he was not doing it in cold blood didn't mean the consequences would be any less profound.

  Kenneth lifted his head and straightened, transforming his embrace from passion to protection. For an instant he felt the protest in Rebecca's body. Then she stilled, resting her head beneath his chin. She was so small. Fragile, almost. She deserved the strong, honest man that Sir Anthony thought he was, not the flawed, deceitful reality.

  "If we aren't careful," he said unsteadily, "we might end up at the altar in truth."

  "Heaven forbid that we fulfill everyone's expectations." Though her tone was acid, when she pushed away from him her expression was vulnerable.

  Her hair was loose again. He was unable to stop himself from stroking his fingers into the thick tresses. Auburn silk, cool fire. "If I kiss you again, Rebecca, kick me. My willpower is nonexistent where you're concerned."

  She gave a slow, pleased smile. A few feathers in her mouth and she would look like the Gray Ghost after a successful hunt. "My willpower isn't much, either. Remember, I've spent the last ten years as a ruined woman."

  She lifted a hand to draw his head down. Hastily he caught it and pressed a kiss into the palm, maintaining his hold as a gentle way of immobilizing her. "We've rehabilitated you. Try to remember that you're respectable now."

  She laughed and shook her head, sending her heavy hair tumbling down her back like rippling silk. The sensuality that he had sensed when they first met was no longer latent but scorchingly visible. As her father had said, she was not a seventeen-year-old virgin.

  "Do I look respectable, Captain?" she asked with a touch of mockery.

  His aching gaze went over her. Every time they kissed, he learned more about the body beneath her muslin gowns. His right hand, the one that had caressed her breast, involuntarily clenched. "You look like Lilith, the demoness sent to steal the souls of men. Wicked and irresistible." His mouth curved ruefully. "I'm sure she was a redhead."

  Rebecca tilted her head, deliberately provocative. "Then you had better go before I steal your soul."

  He kissed her hand again, then released it. As he started for the door, she said, "Better take this. You'll need more." She held out a jug of oil of turpentine.

  He took it with a nod of thanks. But on his way out, he paused in the doorway for one last glance. She was lounging against the worktable, her hands resting on the edge as she studied him with a sultry gaze that was half artist, half woman. He had the sudden, unnerving thought that she might already have stolen his soul.

  He turned and left, walking slowly down the stairs. Of one thing he was sure: He had found the subject for his next painting. A subject that excited him, and might sweep him into the burning depths of a river of fire.

  * * *

  Long after Kenneth left, Rebecca remained leaning against her worktable. She had wanted him to desire her, and he did. She did not trust love or marriage, could not see a future in which she and Kenneth would be together. He would certainly not be a secretary forever. If he managed to save his estate, there would be no room for someone like her in the life of a landed gentleman.

  But for a little time, before Kenneth left Seaton House, she might be able to taste the forbidden fruits of passion. She wanted him,
and the prospect of conceiving a love child did not frighten her. Indeed, she would welcome having someone to love, and love her in return.

  And even if that didn't happen, at least she would have memories to warm her nights.

  Chapter 20

  Kenneth spent the evening and most of the night in his little studio, experimenting with dilute oil paints and burning a small fortune in candles. By the time he retired for a few hours of sleep, he had made a good beginning to the picture that had blossomed in his mind while talking to—and kissing—Rebecca.

  The basic drawing was done and he'd laid in the underlying colors of the figure and background. The real challenge still lay ahead. He tried not to let himself hope too much. Nonetheless, he was beginning to feel a cautious optimism about his ability to become a real painter.

  That morning it was hard to concentrate on secretarial work when his mind was buzzing with ideas and images, but he managed, eventually. He was working in the office in the early afternoon when Sir Anthony's friend Lord Frazier strolled in.

  "Good day," Frazier drawled. "I saw in the newspaper that congratulations are in order." He raised his quizzing glass and examined Kenneth with exaggerated care. "So you're a viscount. Pray forgive me if I ever went through a door ahead of you. I didn't know you bear a title that has precedence over mine."

  Though the remark was apparently intended as humor, there was a definite bite to the words. Kenneth suppressed a sigh; he had known that mentioning his rank would elicit this kind of response. It was the first time Frazier had ever addressed him as an equal rather than a menial. Kenneth would have preferred to stay a nonentity in the older man's eyes. "The title hasn't been mine for that long," he said peaceably. "Like a new pair of boots, it will take time to become comfortable."

  Frazier tapped the quizzing glass against his palm. "So little Rebecca will become Lady Kimball. Have you introduced her to her future stepmother-in-law?"

  Kenneth tensed inside. "We chanced to meet Hermione at the Candover ball. You know my stepmother?"

  "Oh, yes." Frazier's knowing smile implied that he knew her very well indeed. "She has the most wonderfully wicked humor. Of course, you would know that."

  "Absolutely," Kenneth said dryly. "Whenever I think of Hermione, I remember her wonderfully wicked humor."

  Frazier lounged against the door frame. "You don't get along with your stepmother?"

  Kenneth shrugged. "After so many years in the army, I don't really know her well. She was in good looks at the ball."

  "Widowhood becomes her." Frazier's eyes narrowed. "You've done well to win Rebecca. She's quite a prize for a man who is down on his luck. A stroke of good fortune that you came to work for Anthony. Or was it chance? You never did reveal who sent you here."

  Kenneth said coolly, "The next time someone hints that I am marrying Rebecca for her money, I will break him in half."

  Frazier blinked, as if surprised to find that the tabby he had prodded was really a tiger. "Sorry, no insult intended. Rebecca is so quiet that I really don't know her, even though we first met when she was a babe in arms. Tell me what she's like."

  Uncertain how to reply, Kenneth said, "Shy but definite. Intelligent and talented." Thinking that Frazier might not know of her painting, he did not elaborate on that. "An excellent studio assistant and art critic. Her skills and comments are very valuable to Sir Anthony, I think."

  "I had no idea she was so involved in his work," Frazier said with genuine surprise.

  "As you said, she's quiet." Kenneth smiled involuntarily. "And lovely as a forest sprite."

  "There speaks a man in love," Frazier said thoughtfully. "It sounds as if her marriage will be a great loss to Anthony." He glanced at the mantel clock. "Time I was going. Please give Rebecca my best wishes on her betrothal." He sauntered off.

  With a shrug, Kenneth returned to work. He'd asked Rebecca to be excused from posing that afternoon. When he finished Sir Anthony's accounts, he would go to his studio and paint. Next to that, malicious aristocratic painters were of no importance.

  * * *

  As soon as Rebecca saw Kenneth at breakfast, she knew that his new approach to painting was going well. He positively vibrated with excitement. Understanding his mood, she was happy to allow him to skip their afternoon session.

  His absence didn't interfere with her work. She spent the day on the shadowed background of the corsair picture, adding rich hangings in subtle Oriental patterns to enhance the exotic atmosphere. She also made the Ghost larger than life size and transformed him into a sleek Asiatic hunting cat with tufted ears. The result made her chuckle. She wondered what Kenneth would think of the painting when she finally showed it to him. He would be self-conscious at seeing what she had made of him. But the picture was good, the best work she had ever done.

  She dined alone. Her father was attending some kind of Royal Academy function, and Kenneth did not appear at all. She considered going to the attic and reminding him that the house rule was that everyone must attend dinner, but she decided against it. If he was reveling in the first heady joys of successful painting, he should not be disturbed.

  After eating, she returned to her studio and worked on the falling woman picture. Though the subject was emotionally draining, she felt driven to finish it. Perhaps when it was done, something dark and difficult would be exorcised from her soul.

  Kenneth's studio had a wall in common with hers, and once or twice she heard faint sounds. But never an opening door. The man must be obsessed. Not sure whether she was worried or merely infernally curious, she finally decided to take him some food. Though his mind might have lost track of time, his stomach would surely welcome nourishment.

  She went to the kitchen and piled a platter with sliced meat and cheese, added half a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, and two glasses. Then she made the long climb to the attic again.

  Balancing the tray with one hand, she tapped on his studio door. Nothing. Beginning to feel real concern, she quietly turned the knob.

  She needn't have worried. The light of half a dozen candles showed Kenneth working at his easel with utter absorption. Since he and the canvas were at right angles to the door, he did not notice her entrance. His brow was furrowed and his hair fell across his forehead as he wielded a narrow brush that looked absurdly small in his massive hand.

  She smiled at the smudge of paint on his cheek. Red ocher, at a guess. He had taken off his boots, probably to avoid making noise that might disturb the servants sleeping in the rooms at the other end of the attic. He'd also removed his coat and cravat, and his open shirt revealed an inviting glimpse of chest. She studied him with frank pleasure. The muscular body and athletic grace made him a fine pirate or warrior. But the real Kenneth was far more complex and interesting than a Byronic hero. Aloud she said, "I thought you might want something to eat."

  He pivoted with a soldier's swiftness, then smiled ruefully. "Sorry. You startled me." He glanced at the darkness outside the window. "I missed dinner, didn't I?"

  "To say the least. It's about eleven o'clock." She set down her tray. "I gather the picture is going well."

  "You were right. I needed a new way of working with oils, and a subject that interested me." He laid down his palette and brush and began to pace, the room too small to contain his brimming energy. "It was slow at first, but once I got going, it was exactly as you said—getting swept up in a river of fire. I've never experienced anything quite like it, even during my best moments of drawing. I love the richness of oils, the effects that are possible. I love the spring of the canvas under the brush, the slap of the paint."

  She added a shovelful of coal to the fading fire. "I've been painting so long that I take things like that for granted. Hearing you reminds me how sensual painting is."

  He laughed buoyantly. "It's everything I dreamed. For the life of me, I can't remember why yesterday it seemed impossible."

  He was like a victorious soldier after a hard-fought battle, and his enthusiasm made her laugh wi
th him. Curious to see his work, she crossed to the easel.

  When he saw what she was doing, he spun about. "Christ, Rebecca! You can't look at that."

  "Teacher's privilege," she said breezily. Then she came face-to-face with his painting and stopped dead in her tracks.

  It was a nude picture of her.

  She stared paralyzed at the canvas. He had used the diluted oil technique to loosely create a magical woodland glade in shades of green. In the foreground was the full-length figure of a woman. One of her hands rested on the trunk of a tree while the other held out an apple invitingly.

  The woman's slim, naked body had been rendered with loving detail. Her peachy warm skin cried out to be touched and shining auburn tresses cascaded to the ground like dark flame. A few wisps made a teasing concession toward modesty in a way that reminded Rebecca of Botticelli's Venus when the innocent newborn goddess emerged from the sea.

  But there was nothing innocent about Kenneth's vision. His naked lady radiated carnality. Her lips were full and wanton, her gold-flecked hazel eyes promised mysterious, dangerous delights to any man who dared accept the forbidden fruit from her hand. And she had been unmistakably modeled after herself.

  Rebecca managed to wrench her gaze away and look at Kenneth. His face was starkly vulnerable, as if he expected her to shriek or faint or attack. Beyond that fear, he was also a newly fledged painter who desperately needed validation.

  She had to swallow before she could speak. "It's... it's extremely good. You've done an excellent job of combining the different weights of paint. I supposed this is Eve?"

  "Lilith," he said, his voice almost a croak. "The first woman God made, before Eve."

  "Ah. Of course. You did say Lilith was a redhead. I think of her not as a demoness but the first independent woman, created as man's equal rather than his servant. Of course Adam hated that." She looked at the canvas again, trying to sound detached. "It works well as an idealized, mythic figure, though it wouldn't do as a portrait. Your Lilith is far more beautiful than I."