Portrait of His Obsession

by Michelle M. Pillow

  “Get in the bed,” she murmured shyly. Her eyes dipped.

  Harrison pulled back to look at her. He grinned, turning to do as she bid.

  When he glanced back, Syrian let her gaze roam freely over his naked backside. Longing shot through him. Then, when he crawled onto the mattress, he again turned. His smile fell as he found an open door and no Syrian. On instinct, he jumped up and ran after her. He was too late. All he saw was the tail end of her nightgown as she rounded a corner. Knowing he couldn’t very well go chasing after her naked, he had to let her go.

  Syrian shut her bedroom door as quietly as she could in her haste. That’s not how she wanted him to remember her. That’s not how she wanted him to see her. She wanted him to remember her as adventurous and wild, as surely no one else would.

  Her heart beat heavily in her chest. Her lungs gasped for air. What did she just do? Was she insane going to a rogue’s bedroom late at night? But oh, it had felt so good to be touched by him. His hands, his lips, his delicious body—all could easily melt her. She hurt deep inside where he’d touched her, but, strangely, she wanted him to do it again.

  Rushing to the mirror, she looked to see if she was changed. Her features were flushed pink. Her hair was a wild mess around her shoulders. Then, leaning forward in the soft glow of the gas lamp, she pulled her nightgown to the side. There, on her chest, was a mark where Harrison’s lips had sucked too long and hard. She shivered just thinking about it, touching it lightly, secretly liking that she had it. Briefly, she wondered if it would always be there, like a birthmark or if it would go away with time like a bruise.

  She laid down on her bed, snuggling beneath the covers. Turning to look at her bedroom door, part of her wished Harrison’s naked body would come barging through demanding that she make love to him again and again like he had said. Then, remembering what he said about being with other women recently, she frowned. Hardening herself to him, she turned her back on the door. He was merely an adventure, nothing more. And, surely, what they did together had nothing to do with making love.

  Harrison went over to the portrait in disappointment, swinging the blanket off of it. He gasped to see a small glimmer of light had been added to its painted eyes. They seemed almost playful. He swallowed, staring into them, as he fell to his knees to kneel naked before it. He didn’t know what exactly had sent Syrian away from him, but he would find out.

  He could still feel her on his body, taste her on his mouth. He lifted his hand to caress the paint, only to fall back without meeting the canvas. Moaning, he closed his eyes and shook his head. “Tell me, portrait, what other adventures shall I give to her? What will make her happy? What will make her fall for me as I have her?”

  Slowly, he opened his eyes. Almost instantly, he saw a gun in her hands, pointed down. He gasped, pulling away in fright.

  “What is this?” he asked, almost anxious. “She wishes for my death?”

  The painting seemed to quiver in the moonlight, rippling with a life of its own. He blinked, in a daze. Nothing changed on the surface. The gun was very real and in her hands. He forced his heart to slow from the initial shock.

  “Surely if she wanted me dead the gun would be pointed at me, not down,” he reasoned. A light chuckle left his lips, as he pushed himself up to standing. “That’s it. I’ll teach her how to use a pistol.”

  Getting Syrian to talk to him, let alone listen to him proved harder than Lord Wrotham could’ve realized. The next morning, he found her in the dining room, speaking to her brother and Mr. Turner. Neither man looked as if they had been to bed the night before. They contrasted greatly to the reserved, rested beauty at their side.

  Syrian wore a very proper gown of pale yellow and cream, the bodice pulled high on her chest hiding her very soft breasts from his view. All too well he remembered the feel of them. Harrison couldn’t help but smile as she acknowledged his entrance. But she merely nodded briefly, and turned back to her conversation with the others. She didn’t deign to speak directly to him.

  His temperament only grew dismal as the meal went on. Not once did Syrian look at him. When he asked her a polite question, her words were curt and to the point. In fact, to Harrison’s jealousy, she showed the studious Mr. Turner too much flattering attention. So much attention, that even Thomas took note of her interest in the man. He directed a brief look of pity on Harrison, before rejoining Syrian and Mr. Turner’s conversation once more.

  After breakfast, Syrian excused herself. She nodded briefly at the three men, who rose as she stood from the table. Then, taking her leave, she strode from the dining room.

  Harrison watched after her with heated eyes. Then, turning to Thomas, he said, “If you gentlemen would excuse me.”

  Thomas waved him away. When he was gone, Mr. Turner turned to the Viscount, and said, “Tell me, Caldwell, has he asked for your sister’s hand yet? I daresay the way Harrison looks at her, it won’t be long.”

  “No, but I have no doubt he will eventually.” Thomas nodded.

  “But I must wonder why,” Mr. Turner mused. “She hardly seems his brand of woman, no offense to your lovely sister.”

  “None taken,” Thomas chuckled.

  “And she hardly seems to return his affections,” Mr. Turner finished.

  “Ah, perhaps that’s the attraction,” Thomas answered. “We always want what we can’t have.”

  “No,” Mr. Turner denied with a small, thoughtful smile. “Not always.”

  “Syrian,” Harrison yelled, chasing after her.

  Syrian’s shoulders stiffened and she looked around the front hall to make sure they were alone before facing him. Her gaze hard, eyed him in dispassion.

  “Oh,” she grumbled, keeping her voice down. She swatted her hands frantically in his direction. “Do go away. Not now.”

  “What?” he asked. A frown marred his brow.

  “I just know you’ve come to tease me,” she said. “I’m in no mood for it, my lord. Go away. Quick, before you’re seen talking to me.”

  Syrian tried to walk away from him. He grabbed her elbow, stopping her. She blinked in surprise that he would dare so much in the front hall. She jerked her arm away. Harrison grinned sheepishly.

  “Come with me,” he urged, trying his best to ignore her ill-humor. Maybe she was just insecure. It was doubtful by the irritated look on her face, but he could still hope.

  “Where?” she asked, suspicious.

  “I want to take you on another adventure,” he said, his lids dipping leisurely over his handsome blue eyes.

  Syrian looked him over, as if seeing his cream waistcoat for the first time that morning, when in actuality she hadn’t seen anything but him since he walked into the dining room. Oh, but he made a fine figure to look at. The linen of his shirt rose above his knotted tie, though the knot was loose with his usual carelessness. His hair appeared slightly damp, though it was drying in fantastically devilish waves.

  “What? Now?” she inquired, surprised. Her eyes again took him in, journeying with a feminine interest she didn’t realize she should hide from him.

  Harrison licked his lips, grinning at her assumption. His voice dipped with meaning, as his gaze leisurely moved over her neck and chest. “That’s not what I had in mind, Miss Syrian. But if you insist, I can change my plans.”

  He reached forward to touch her chest hidden beneath the pale yellow. She froze, waiting for it. Her eyes rounded.

  The dining room door flung open before he ever reached her. He took an automatic step back. To Syrian’s dismay, he announced loudly, “Well, here is your brother now. Let us ask his permission.”

  Syrian’s jaw dropped slightly at Harrison’s audacity, though she was partly excited by it, too. She hated to admit his bold confidence attracted her on many levels.

  “What’s this?” Thomas asked, pausing in his theological debate with Mr. Turner to look at his sister.

  “I—” Syrian began, ready to denounce the earl as a fool.

  “I was go
ing to take Miss Syrian out to shoot a pistol. It’s a bit unrefined, but I believe her reputation will recover,” Harrison said, smiling widely.

  Thomas blinked at the request, leaning over to study his sister who quickly came around Harrison’s back to study him. To her own surprise, she said, “Yes, Thomas, do let me learn. With all those…indelicacies on the road to London as of late, I should like to be able to defend myself.”

  Mr. Turner nodded thoughtfully, turning to Thomas. “Yes, Caldwell. It’s quite terrible. Some of our fine ladies feel trapped indoors with that scoundrel of a thief on the loose. I remember reading something of it in the paper.”

  “I see no real harm in it,” Thomas answered at last. “Turner and I have to go over some more of my paintings so we can’t join you. But please, feel free to use my dueling pistols in the library. They were Father’s and a bit old, but they should work fine. I believe there is some gun powder around here somewhere. Mayhap one of the servants would know. They are sure to know where I keep everything.”

  As soon as Thomas and his friend left, Syrian frowned and moved to study the earl. “What are you up to, my lord?”

  “I want you to come out shooting with me,” Harrison murmured.

  His gaze turned so innocent that she knew the look was a lie. Her body shivered, remembering all too well the feel of him. She was still angry at him for taking her portrait and not telling her about it. Before she could respond, he turned away from her, striding into Thomas’s study to gather the pistols.

  She shook her head, trying to pretend she was more vexed than excited. But shooting her father’s pistols was always something she dreamt of trying. She couldn’t hide her excitement in the plan for long—even if she was going to do it in the company of the all-too-roguish earl.

  Chapter Seven

  Syrian grabbed the flintlock pistol with both hands, feeling the heavy weight of it in her fingers. A slow smile crept to her features and she bit the corner of her lip to hold it down. Harrison watched her, enthralled beyond words by the joyful look she tried to conceal from him.

  “Now, cock back the hammer like I showed you,” Harrison instructed. He dropped his voice to a soft whisper, using his instructions as an excuse to come near her. They were close to the house, out in the side field. The servants had set up targets stuffed with hay. Letting his breath hit delicately on the back of her sensitive neck, he murmured, “Now aim.”

  Syrian shut her eyes as the target blurred before her vision. His nearness was doing wicked things to her self-control. His breath whispered along her nape. She loved it when he’d caressed the back of her neck with his lips. It gave her goose bumps just thinking about it. Her whole body tingled with memories of his touch. She shivered again.

  “I won’t hit anyone walking by, will I?” she asked, looking into the far off horizon line.

  He chuckled. The shot wouldn’t reach a quarter of that distance. His low voice rumbled over her shoulder, as he answered, “No.”

  She nearly swooned in delight, only at the last minute remembering to catch herself. Pretending to hate him got harder by the minute until she barely remembered why she even tried. Was it such a big deal he had her portrait, anyway?

  “Fire when ready,” he instructed. Her shoulder trembled as the pistol dipped lightly to the ground only to pull back up. He stepped back.

  She aimed and squeezed the trigger. The gun went off with a light cloud of smoke, jolting lightly in her arms. Syrian gasped in instant pleasure. Grinning widely, she exclaimed, “Oh! Did you see that?”

  Harrison merely grinned. She looked at him, reluctant to hand him back the pistol as she gripped it in her fingers.

  “Did I hit it?” She beamed happily.

  “I believe you nicked the corner. Not bad for your first time.”

  When he held out his hand for the pistol so he could reload, she finally released it. Her smile faded and she pretended not to care for his compliment.

  He frowned, saying lightly, “It seems you do many things well your first time.”

  It took Syrian a minute, but she finally got his meaning. Her cheeks paled and her eyes rounded in horror. “How dare you mention such a thing to me?”

  Harrison grinned. Her eyes darted around as if they were being watched. There was no one around for miles, except the servants in the house and they couldn’t hear a thing. Thomas and Mr. Turner would be cloistered with the paintings and there weren’t any windows in the studio showing the side field.

  “Why do you insist on taunting me?” she grumbled, seeing his impossible look.

  “Why do you insist on ignoring me in front of your brother?” Harrison asked. His tone was light, as was the expression on his face, but Syrian felt a chill to his clipped words. He busied himself with the gun, refusing to look at her directly.

  “We have been through this, my lord. Ours is a private arrangement. I shouldn’t care if we are strangers in public.”

  He flinched. “I know you like me a little, admit it.”

  “I’ll admit,” she began carefully, studying him. She tried not to let her heart flutter in her chest. He was just too handsome. She really wished he had some sort of defect to his features. Maybe then he wouldn’t occupy so many of her thoughts. “You’re diverting.”

  “Ah,” Harrison laughed. He handed the loaded pistol back to her. He let his hand run over her wrist as she took it. She shivered at his touch. “It’s not a declaration of affection, but I’ll gladly take it. At least you’re no longer accusing me of overstaying my welcome.”

  “It did no good to remind you of the fact, my lord, so why bother repeating myself?” Syrian countered, quite serious when she looked him over.

  “I thought you just liked to hear yourself speak,” Harrison said with great flair. “Please, if it makes you happy to denounce me, then by all means, denounce.”

  Syrian dropped her arms. Turning to him, she said, “Can’t you ever be serious?”

  “Why?” he murmured, letting his gaze dip to her full lips. “You’re serious enough for the both of us.”

  “Oh, you’re incorrigible.” she growled, cocking back the hammer and aiming at the target. For a moment, she thought about aiming it at him.

  “Thank you, Miss Syrian,” he murmured, coming to stand too close behind her. She could feel the heat from his body soaking into her skin.

  “It wasn’t a compliment,” she said wryly.

  “And, yet, I shall take it as such.” Looking at the lowering weapon, he demanded, “Take your shot.”

  “However did you become friends with Thomas?” Syrian snapped. She stepped closer to the target, just to get away from him. She pulled the trigger, firing. She again jolted in giddy excitement as the smoke cleared. Lowering the weapon, she handed it over to the earl’s awaiting hands. “No doubt he keeps you around merely as an artistic amusement.”

  “However did you become a sibling to Thomas?” He countered. “I don’t see how you could’ve sprung from the same—”

  “Really, my lord.” she broke in to stop his words. “The things you say.”

  “What?” he shrugged, unaffected by her scolding. “You wish for me to be silent?”

  “I don’t think it possible for you not to speak. I have tried to quiet you on many occasions without success.”

  “There is one way to silence my tongue.” He grinned, his dimple peeking out at her.

  “Pray tell,” she said matter-of-factly in her obvious doubt.

  “You can kiss me again,” he announced. His gaze dipped over her waist. “Or let me kiss you.”

  “You promised never to breathe a word of that,” she grumbled, turning red, although the prospect of another kiss wasn’t all that unwelcome.

  “I promised not to tell anyone else about kissing you. You already know about it,” he answered. Coming near her back, he lifted his arm by her side and aimed using one hand. Syrian gasped, darting around him. He waited until she was safely behind his back before firing. The shot was dead on.
“What do you say? Would you like another secret to write about in your diary?”

  “I don’t keep a diary,” she answered, awed by his skill.

  “Well, now you can,” he laughed. “You’ll have something to put in it.”

  “Really, how you do go on,” she scolded.

  “You wouldn’t let me go on, though I tried.” He looked at her, piercing her with meaning.

  She suddenly felt very vulnerable. “I don’t understand you. Now, be quiet and reload. It’s my turn.”

  Harrison obeyed, reloading in silence. When she aimed to pistol and cocked the hammer back, he leaned close to her ear and said hotly, “Do you want me to make love to you again? Right now? Right here? I can barely contain myself. Who cares if the servants see us?”

  She gasped. The pistol shot wildly to the right, missing the target altogether. Strange sensations threatened her limbs and her sanity. With a huff, she turned to him. Her mouth opened but no sound came out. She shoved the pistol into his chest, giving it back to him.

  “Argh!” She muttered under her breath, stalking away without a backward glance.

  Harrison watched her leave, a small smile on his face. Grabbing the pistols and their supplies, he moved to follow her. She was already to the side gardens when he caught up to her. Setting the pistols down on a table near the house, he said, “Syrian, wait.”

  She jolted, but didn’t stop walking. She quickened her pace, disappearing around a shrub.

  “Syrian.” He frowned, following her. “Stop.”

  He jogged once he was out of eyesight of the house. Grabbing her arm, he pulled it firmly.

  “Please, stop,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re just so…impossible sometimes.” she countered heatedly. “Why must you mock me at every turn?”