“Marvelous idea, Caldwell,” Harrison said. “I’ll ask the grooms to ready the horses.”
Meeting his stare dead on, battle lighting in her eyes, Syrian answered tightly, “And I’ll ask cook for the picnic.”
The men waited as Syrian walked from the dining room. Harrison saw Thomas’s small smile and knew he’d purposefully given him the opportunity to spend some time alone with his sister. Harrison almost felt guilty for the trust Thomas had in him.
Thomas sat back down, taking a sip of tea without touching his plate. Then, looking at Harrison, he shook his head sadly.
“You still haven’t given up your dream?” Thomas asked. “I had hoped the portrait would show you the truth. I see I was mistaken.”
“The portrait has shown me plenty,” Harrison murmured enigmatically. Thomas didn’t catch his tone. “You only must ask it the right questions.”
“You mean ask yourself the right questions when looking at it,” corrected Thomas.
Harrison grinned, coming out of his thoughts. He didn’t know how the painting worked or to what end, but the magic of it was helping him to woo his heart’s desire and he wouldn’t question it. It was what it was and he would leave it at that.
“Yes, naturally,” Harrison said with ease, unwilling to reveal the painting’s secret to his friend. “I meant you must ask of yourself. Whoever heard of talking to a painting?”
“What exactly do you think you are doing?” Syrian snapped when they were mounted and well away from the earshot of the grooms. Her dark green riding dress splayed over the horse’s back, her legs crossed properly to one side. The gown was simplistic, fitted tighter to her body for ease of movement. For some reason, she had chosen the gown carefully that morning. On her hands were thick leather gloves, to protect her delicate skin from callusing against the reins. Her eyes flashed with hot fire when she glanced at Harrison.
“What?” Harrison asked dryly, though his bright blue eyes sparkled with devilish mischief. “Am I not seated as a proper gentleman?”
He looked down to where his large thighs gripped the horse’s saddle. Syrian’s gaze automatically followed downward to look at his strong legs strained against his tight breeches. Catching herself, she forced her gaze over the distance, leading her horse slowly up the drive to the side gate.
“You know what I speak of,” she said under her breath, as if the passing shrubs could hear them. She rode beside him along the edge of the garden to the nearby field that would take them to the ruins. The horse’s hooves clopped steadily on the cobblestone, mingling with the sweet songs of birds and the hum of insects.
“No, Miss Syrian, I’m afraid I don’t,” he responded, his face keeping under the mask of pleasant confusion. “Pray tell, explain it to me.”
“Why did you volunteer to ride with me today?” she inquired, letting the horse guide itself over the tall grasses. Her cold stare gave nothing away. “And I know it was you who left those bluebells by my door this morning.”
“I don’t deny it,” he answered lightly, his gaze full of ease and charm. Harrison smiled, letting his gaze roam over the back of her neck, clearly loving the way she shivered at his attention. He lazily let his hand drift through the air as he barely gripped his reins. “What sort of gentlemen wouldn’t thank a lady for—?”
“Don’t you dare to think that last night meant aught—” she tried to interrupt.
“Last night?” he inquired in forced amazement. His bright eyes lit with teasing, as he said nonchalantly, “I meant your hospitality in letting me stay in your home. Oh, I see, you refer to when you were on your back, begging me to kiss you?”
Her cheeks flamed. In her anger, she spurred her mount slightly faster. “That’s not what happened and you know it.”
“Are you afraid I’ll kiss you again?” he inquired, his eyes shooting sparks in her direction.
“You won’t,” she proclaimed, giving him her most haughty look.
He ignored her words, grinning like a devil. Neither one of them noticed the beauty of the fine spring morning nor the warmth of the rising sun as it shone over the distant hills, dancing within the rolling grasses and wildflowers. His hot eyes pierced her with meaning as he looked to her mouth.
“Are you afraid you’ll want me to kiss you again, Miss Syrian? Do you not trust yourself to be alone with me?” Harrison lowered his voice into a seductive murmur, meant to send chills over her spine. It didn’t fail.
She gasped, turning her eyes forward, away from the heat of his bold stare. It wasn’t fair. No man should have eyes such as his or lips that still burned her with their memory. “If you can’t speak politely, my lord, you shouldn’t speak at all.”
Syrian kicked her dark brown mare firmly in the side, spurring it forward. Her cheeks were flushed with heat and her heart pounded wildly. She didn’t know what promises Harrison’s gaze spoke of when he looked at her, but to her everlasting shame she was more than curious to find out.
Harrison chuckled to himself, urging his horse behind hers. He stayed slightly back, only to watch her round bottom as it bounced in steady rhythm on her seat. A smile came to his lips and he groaned inwardly. He couldn’t help himself, knowing she responded as she did. This morning she was shaken. He’d seen her try to draw away when he’d offered his hand to help her mount. He affected her. Harrison couldn’t let such a sweet revelation go. It gave him hope.
His body was on constant fire, made worse by her nearness. His lids dropped lazily over his eyes, as he thought, if only she would seat me as easily she does her mare. What I wouldn’t give to have her ride me in such a way.
His sigh was audible. Syrian directed him a withering glare. Then, shaking her head in noticeable exasperation, she leaned forward, racing across the field to get as far away from him as possible.
Syrian never really managed to get very far ahead of the earl as she galloped over the field to the cottage ruins. Harrison watched her backside with delight, mesmerized by the movements of her hips, her arms. Such wickedly sinful thoughts came to mind as they rode. A smile came to his lips, lingering with a longing that reflected in his gaze. By the time the ruins came into view, a half of an hour later, his body was hard and his mind was fogged with many indelicacies.
Syrian reined her horse, sitting tall as she slowed it to a stop. She looked over the clearing, waiting for Harrison to join her. The sky was bright and blue with little puffy clouds forming like cotton. A small stream cut through the field, flowing under an old stone bridge overgrown with ivy. Flowers dotted the landscape and, in the distance, just beyond the small wooded grove were the black spots of cows out to pasture.
“So, where is this cottage?” he asked, looking around. He didn’t see aught but nature and the beauty of the woman next to him. His gaze stayed with the woman.
She nodded to the grove, edging her horse forward until she saw a dilapidated wall of stone marking the backside of the abandoned home. Motioning her gloved hand in the direction of the trees, she said, “There.”
He eased his horse inappropriately close to Syrian’s mount. Leaning forward, he said, not looking to where she directed. “Ah, I see.”
She shivered, jolting away from his voice. When she faced him, he leaned so close to her that her lips nearly brushed his cheek. Her breath caught in her throat, as he felt her warmth hovering near his lips.
Harrison pulled away, seeing the goose bumps he’d drawn over her smooth skin. His tone low and soft, he asked, “Shall we explore it?”
Syrian blushed slightly as she turned back to the cottage to avoid looking at him. “It wouldn’t be wise.”
“Because it’s falling to ruin?” he inquired, still not looking at the stone wall. The way the sunlight shone atop her dark hair made him desperate to touch it. He wanted to run his fingers over her sunbathed skin—every inch of it as he parted her from her very proper clothes. He wondered what it would be like to make love to her on the grassy field, surrounded by such beauty. When he closed his eyes,
he could almost imagine what his name would sound like passionately moaned from her trembling lips.
He saw the desire in her, the need for something more. So help him, he was going to help her find that something more. It may be the only way he’d help her to come around and finding some sort of feeling for a man like him. He had tried, but he would never be molded into her idea of a perfect gentleman. Sure, he was respected and well liked. Rumors surrounded his name, but were never taken too seriously, and if they were, he was forgiven for them.
He’d longed desperately to hold her, needed it so much. He knew for certain that she belonged forever in his arms, just as he knew she didn’t realize it yet. He knew that opening her up to new possibilities would be the only way they could be together. If he didn’t, she’d marry the most proper, most insufferable bore she could find and she would live out her days miserable and yearning. He couldn’t stand for her to make that mistake. She deserved happiness and laughter. She deserved to smile. She had such a lovely smile, a smile that could cause the beating in his heart to skip. But she never used it, never turned its radiance on him. So help him that was going to change.
Syrian didn’t need to look at him to bring every detail of him to mind. He was again dressed carelessly, as if he just tossed his clothes over his all-too-fine body while walking out the door. He didn’t wear gloves to protect his hands. She couldn’t help but wonder if his palms would be callused. And just what would they feel like pressed against her skin?
His smell had somehow drifted over her and now she could breathe in nothing else. She normally loved the freedom of a spirited ride. However, as Lord Wrotham had ridden behind where she couldn’t keep a wary eye on him, but could only hear him, she found herself stiff. She wondered what he looked at, what he thought about as he looked. The very idea unnerved her greatly.
She knew she should ride away, but her legs wouldn’t move, her waist wouldn’t bend. Her legs tensed along her mount’s side. The horse’s head bounced slightly, as if he sensed her discomfort.
He’s a rogue, she scolded herself, wondering how one kiss could keep affecting her judgment. It’s not like he meant aught by it. He’s only toying with me, trying to seduce me out of boredom because there is no one else.
The thought strengthened her resolve. Belatedly, she answered, “No, because it’s said to be haunted.”
“Oh, how very intriguing,” he said, his eyes sparkling as they always did when he was around her. His eyes were finally on the stone and not her back. “Now we simply must go in.”
“Have you no sense of caution?” she asked him, surprised by his eager tone. His gaze seemed to devour her. Had his gaze always been like that? Was she just now noticing it because of what happened between them?
“Have you no sense of adventure?” he demanded in return. “How many times have you been riding out here?”
“Countless,” Syrian answered guardedly, wondering what he was getting at. “Ever since I was a young girl, Thomas and I would venture here. My father used to bring us riding along this very path before he died.”
“And in those countless times, how many times have you explored that little cottage?” he inquired.
“Never,” she said, almost ashamed. “I have never been in it.”
“You can’t tell me it’s because in all that time you’ve never wanted to see it,” Harrison declared. He swung off his horse, leaving the reins hanging free so that the animal could graze. Coming around to her side, he lifted his arms to help her down.
“What are you doing?” she asked, nervous excitement shooting through her like stout liquor.
“I simply can’t sit back and allow you to be so careful all your life, Syrian.”
“Miss S—” she began to correct him. His look stopped her. He frowned gravely at her.
“So help me,” he stated as if to himself, before letting go of a heavy sigh. “It’s now my sworn duty to make sure you experience more of your world and we are starting with that cottage.”
“But my brother,” she began, as he kept her gloved hand forcibly in his large palm and began dragging her to a narrow path in the woods. Syrian felt a strange sensation coming over her at his words, though she knew better than to take anything he said seriously.
“Ah, hang your brother and hang your stubborn sense of propriety,” Harrison mumbled good-naturedly. Suddenly, he stopped. Syrian was propelled forward by his pull and she landed close to his solid chest. When she tried to push back, his arms wrapped around her narrow waist and held her still.
She gasped, her eyes instantly rising to his steadfast gaze. He was so close. His muscles moved along the backs of her arms. She smelled his fresh, clean scent. He was warm, so warm, and suddenly she was very cold and in need of his heat. One dip of his head and his mouth could claim hers. Oh, how she wanted it to. A rush jolted through her as if she was struck by lightning. If he didn’t hold her up, she would’ve swooned at his feet.
A slow smile found his lips, as he said to her, “Whether you like it or not, I’m your friend, Syrian. As your friend, I say life is too short to live in fear as you do. You are so young, so lovely. There is no reason you shouldn’t experience that loveliness and youth while you have it. If you don’t live a little, I fear that one day you will regret never having enjoyed these years. By then it will be too late. Your body will be old, your looks gone. What will you do then? Pine away for lost chances? I refuse to let that happen to you. I simply wouldn’t be able to bear it.”
“I’m not afraid,” she protested, swallowing nervously. “I don’t live in fear.”
“Ah, but don’t you see, you are afraid,” he said. He touched her and she liked the feel of him against her. “You hide behind your mask of propriety, only doing what you’re told you must do. Don’t you ever wish to do what you want to do? Don’t you ever want to break free and fulfill your own desires? Don’t you want to feel every feeling there is? Don’t you wish to realize and enjoy every desire, every whim?”
Syrian trembled. It was as if he was reading a part of her that she didn’t dare look at until that moment when it was pointed out. The breeze blew her gown up over her ankles. A draft worked its way up her skirt to give her a heady caress.
“If people see you as that portrait, let them. But it doesn’t mean you are that portrait,” he said. “You don’t have to be the woman your brother painted if you don’t want to. We all wear masks to the world, Syrian. They don’t define us. Only we can define ourselves. I say to hell with society and their double standards. They don’t have to know anything we don’t tell them. So long as you’re discreet, you can truly have everything.”
“How can I trust you?” she asked, stirred beyond measure by his seductive words. “Your speech sounds practiced.”
“You probably can’t trust me.” Keeping her hand in his, he continued on to the cottage.
She shivered, thinking of all he had said. He was right. Life was too short. She wasn’t an emotionless painting, she never had been. It was her mother’s constant nagging and tutoring that had drummed her reserved nature into her being. Something clicked within her, a wildness that surged with delight that she had finally stopped to listen to it. It was her heart, beating frantically, trying to escape her chest with the burning desire to do as Harrison urged.
She could have both the painting and the life. Let the world think what they must, she wanted them to. What better ruse for society to embrace than her as a prude? What better cover for all the misdeeds she could discover and learn? Eyeing Harrison’s backside with a renewed sense of purpose, She knew she’d found the perfect instructor.
Chapter Four
The ruins of the old cottage were set in the shadows of the woods. Syrian confessed to never having been so close to the old stone and her body jolted with a sense of alarm and excitement. She pulled closer to the earl, who stiffened to feel her next to him. Looking down over his shoulder, he saw her worried face, but also the newfound sparkle to her eyes.
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
“Yes.” Licking her lips, she added, “Go inside.”
Harrison kept his pace slow as he walked over the overgrown forest floor to the front door. The piece of wood hung on the frame, eaten away by weather and time. When he touched it, the door fell inward. Syrian jumped at the loud noise and started to giggle. Harrison shot her a boyish grin over his shoulder.
“Shall we wake the ghosts?” he asked, his eyes narrowing in mischief. Syrian nodded, gleefully. Harrison looked down over the threshold. The old door was in the way and he stepped onto it. “Watch your step.”
She let him lead her into a small, dusty room. Their boots creaked on the old floorboards. An antiquated stone fireplace with a collapsed chimney sat along the back wall of chipped stone. There was a broken table, an abandoned pot and some shattered plates. Cobwebs danced in the rafters, drifting in the slight stir their presence caused.
Thin rays of sunlight managed to filter into the dim atmosphere of the one room cottage. Out of all her daydreams of it, Syrian never thought it would look so ordinary or plain. She frowned.
Harrison, seeing the look, asked, “Disappointed?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Ghosts aren’t very tidy creatures, are they?”
He chuckled, nodding in agreement as he eyed the rafters. He could detect a dusty nest but no birds. He turned around to look at her again as he spoke. “Shall I escort you back outsi—?”
She couldn’t stop herself, as she acted on pure instinct. When she saw his lips, parted in speech, she leapt forward and pressed her mouth to his. He inhaled in sharp surprise, but instinctively wound his arms around her to keep them from tumbling over to the dirty floorboards. She moaned lightly against him. She pressed her fingers into his shoulders, gripping him for support. When he was too stunned to return her hard, closed mouth kiss, she pulled back.
Portrait of His Obsession Page 4