by Nichole Van
She really should leave. What was she accomplishing by being here anyway? Other than distracting the rugged Highlander from his work while ogling him like a lovesick school girl?
But Ewan shifted sideways, finally giving her a clear view of the painting on his easel.
Violet froze.
It was a woman.
A beautiful woman with a heart-shaped face—broad forehead and pointed chin. Her dark hair was unbound and fell in tight ringlets around her face, the curls painted in shades of black with shimmery blue-black highlights. Eyes of nearly colorless silver peeked out. The woman had a mischievous look to her, as if all the world were a lark, and she simply could not wait to embark upon it.
Dahlia had displayed such a spirit.
Violet noted the tartan draped around the woman’s shoulders and found herself looking between the woman on the easel and the clifftop canvas with the female figure carrying the basket.
Were the tartans similar? Was this the same person? The woman who put shadows in Ewan’s eyes when he spoke of loss?
And if so, who was she to him?
It took several more minutes of quiet observation before Violet realized that Ewan watched her watching.
Violet stepped back, startled.
To her disappointment, he had pulled the length of his great kilt back across his chest, pinning it with an enormous brooch at his shoulder. The mass of plaid effectively covered that distracting V of skin.
“Pardon my intrusiveness,” she said. “I became a little lost there.”
“Nae bother.”
“She is beautiful, so full of life.” Violet motioned toward the painting. “Is it an accurate likeness?”
He shrugged, the mass of his shoulder momentarily outlined under his shirt linen. “I like tae think so.”
Violet had to ask further. Her curiosity was too strong. “Is she a client of yours?”
“No. She was . . .” A long pause. “. . . someone I used tae know.”
“A lost love?”
He gave a faint smile. “Something of the like.”
Ah.
“She was . . .” Violet lingered on the word. “She was lost to you in the same way Dahlia was lost to me?”
Wordlessly, Ewan looked at the painting and then nodded. “Aye. She is gone. I paint her from memory.”
Heavens. “Your recall must be formidable.”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged, eyes still on the canvas. “Or maybe it is simply the power of her memory.”
Well.
That was . . . illuminating.
And perhaps somewhat humbling.
It underscored, yet again, how little she knew about this man.
Heaven help her, though . . . she wanted to know more and more.
So instead of taking her leave—like good sense and propriety insisted she should, like Lady Graham and other sticklers would require—she continued to ask questions.
“How did you know this—” She waved a hand to indicate the canvases stacked around the greenhouse. “—was what you wanted to do?”
Perhaps his answer could help guide her own decisions.
Or, at least, that was the excuse she told herself.
“Painting?” He raised his eyebrows. “I cannae say that I knew. It was . . . simply impossible tae do anything else.”
Violet frowned. It sounded too simplistic. “Yes . . . but certainly there was a point at which you had to make a choice, correct?”
“How so?”
“Well,” she floundered for a moment and then settled on bare truth. “When we first met, all those years ago, you claimed to be running from your past.”
Was she a fool to be revealing how precisely she remembered that conversation? His panicked desperation? Her curiosity to know what had driven him to such extremes?
She looked away, taking a few steps toward the bank of glass windows and the endless ocean beyond, willing her blush to Cease! with only minimal success.
She could feel him behind her. The sibilant shush of wool rustling. The slight hitch of his breath.
Gooseflesh flared to life across her shoulder-blades, as if her very skin itched for him.
“Aye.” His voice rumbled, hesitant. “And you said you were running from your future.”
Oh!
She turned back to him in a whirl.
How could she have forgotten that bit?
She so clearly remembered him stating he was running from his past. But she had neglected her own response—
She ran from her future. Or rather she wished to run from it.
She had not, of course. Yet another thing she could not decide upon.
He met her gaze, eyes saying what his words had not.
I remember you. That meeting lingered with me, as well.
He had his hands clasped behind his back. Light from the skylights washed down from overhead, raking his shoulders and hair, casting the rest of him in shadow.
“Were you a painter then?” she nearly whispered.
He nodded slowly, eyes never leaving hers. He shifted, hands still behind his back, the motion pressing one massive shoulder into the fabric of his shirt.
“Why?” Her voice came out on a broken breath, shocking even her with its baffled confusion.
“Why fight when I could paint?”
Now it was her turn to nod.
“What was it Lord Graham called me at dinner last week?” He glanced upward, as if trying to recall exactly, but they both knew the gesture was merely for show. The words still rang in Violet’s ears. “Something about brawn being wasted on daubs of paint, I believe. Lord Graham isnae the first man tae voice such an opinion of what I should or shouldnae be doing with my own body.”
He leaned back against the stone wall opposite the windows, moving entirely into shadow, though his autumnal eyes continued to glitter in the low light. He folded his arms across his chest, his body appearing relaxed. Only the flex-and-release of his right fist testified of inner turmoil.
“I wanted tae stop fighting. I dreamed of it,” he continued, swallowing. “But this may come as shock tae ye, I didnae grow up in the lap of luxury. Becoming a painter, as it turns out, isnae something a poor lad can easily aspire to.”
His tone had a hint of steel in it. As if he dared her to acknowledge the lowliness of his upbringing, the giant gulf between them socially.
She lifted her chin, meeting his challenge.
I would never think less of you, she willed her eyes to say.
“How then?” she asked. How did you become a painter? What was your path?
A cloud flitted across his face and then he relaxed, scrubbing a hand over his jaw.
“Prizefighting led me tae painting.”
“Pardon?”
“’Tis true.” He shot her a rather grim excuse for a smile. “I have a natural ability tae fight. It isnae anything I ever wished for, but it simply happened. You were born a countess. I was born a prizefighter. As a youth I quickly learned I could earn more in an hour with my fists than a month’s work in a field. At the time, prizefighting seemed a preferable way tae provide a living.
“I also discovered it wasnae the only way for my body tae earn me money. As you know, artists constantly need models from which tae draw. Prizefighters are ideal subjects. A local vicar, who fancied himself something of a painter, asked if I would model for him. That first afternoon, watching him sketch . . .”
Ewan paused and looked beyond Violet, eyes gazing out over the endless blue of the sea beyond her shoulders.
He shook his head. “It was as if someone had struck a match in a dark room. The world flared tae life. Line. Shadow. Light. And color. So much color.”
He waved a hand, as if the sheer astonishment of it were too breathtaking, too miraculous to explain in mere words.
“I was . . . overcome. I begged the vicar tae repay my modeling efforts through lessons and supplies. He agreed.” Ewan took in a shuddering breath. “Picking up charcoal for the first time . . .
putting it tae paper and breathing form tae life . . . I realized that, up until that moment, I had been merely existing. Drawing and sketching and creating . . . that was living.
“I was voracious. I took on more fights so’s I could earn more coin tae purchase art supplies. I paid for lessons by modeling for more skilled painters, tolerating being viewed as more animal than man. It all culminated in the fight that day outside Warwick.” He pinned her with his golden hazel eyes, reminding her of those minutes so long ago. “I used the money I won that afternoon to travel to London, as I’ve mentioned before. I bought myself as fine a set of clothing as I could and begged my way into the Royal Academy.”
He spread his arms wide.
And here I am.
So few words for such a monumental journey. Surely there was much he omitted.
Violet dared a glance at the dark-haired woman resting on his easel. How did she fit into his story? Why was that blackhouse on the ocean meaningful?
“I’ve outpaced my past, for better or worse,” he said, drawing her attention back to him. “But if I may be so bold, my lady, ye have the look of a woman who is still running from her future.”
Violet barely stopped a sharp inhalation.
They stared at one another for a long moment.
Thoughts warred in her head.
Denial? Hah! What nonsense. I have embraced my future.
Distraction? So . . . when will you leave for Aberdeen?
But . . .
The man was practically a prophet.
She looked away, reaching to run her index finger along the row of paintbrushes neatly laid on the work table. The bristles were soft overall but prone to prick if turned just the right way.
Very much like this moment in their conversation.
She was running from her future, was she not? Or rather, running from what society and her parents expected her future to be. Was it not the source of all her indecision?
“I was a born a countess, as you said. A countess!” She gave a disbelieving laugh. “My path has been laid for me from the cradle. Privilege. Wealth. And yet . . .” She swallowed and then uttered the words she had never dared say aloud. “And yet, I am so desperately lost. I am not running from my future, per se . . .” She paused, thinking for a moment. “It’s rather . . . that I cannot envision my future. And because I cannot envision it, I cannot make decisions. And, as a countess, that is a problem.”
Violet was mortified to feel tears pricking her eyes.
Ugh.
She turned away, giving him her back, staring out of the bank of windows. The ocean was calm today, a sea of white-speckled blue.
Silence hung. The call of seabirds drifted in. The soft crash of waves on the cliffs below the greenhouse sounded.
“How can I be nearly six and twenty and still not know the shape of my own life?” She meant the words to be calm, but they spooled out in an agonized breath.
“What is it Polonius says tae his son in Hamlet? . . . To thine own self be true.” A beat. “What is your truest self, my lady?”
“My truest self?” Her reply was swift. Immediate. “I am simply Violet Kerr. Nothing more. Nothing less. Not Lady Violet. Not Lady Kildrum. All the rest of it . . .” She waved a hand over her head. “All the rest feels like so much window dressing—frills and bows and faradiddle that has very little to do with reality. So . . . perhaps that is why, no matter how hard I try, I cannot force my mind to accept the decoration as my own.”
A pause.
She did not say her other truths.
That in her naive thinking as Violet Kerr, she had encouraged Dahlia to follow her heart. That she had made decisions based on desire when she should have been thinking of the dedication to duty her station required.
Violet swiped at an errant tear that escaped.
Enough.
“You must think me the veriest ninnyhammer,” she huffed a laugh, turning to face him. “Weeping over my life as if it were some dreary thing.”
But saying the words did not banish her tears.
“Dinnae discount your tears, my lady.” Ewan took three steps to his work table and retrieved a white handkerchief, extending it toward her. “Sometimes a good greit is necessary.”
Violet shot him a watery smile and reached for the handkerchief, but in her bleary-eyed state, she reached too far, and ended up wrapping her palm around his fingers.
She nearly flinched at the shocking heat of the unexpected contact. The rough smoothness of his skin scalded her fingertips. Worse, she lingered in that moment, palm resting atop his, gazing at their hands like some crazed ninny. As if she could somehow store the scalding heat of him in her bones.
He moved his hand, and she all but snatched the handkerchief and turned aside to dab at her cheeks.
The handkerchief smelled of heather and called to mind a barren moor after rain.
Mortification scalded her lungs. What he must think of her?
“I am such an ungrateful fool,” she sniffled. “I, at least, have choices. So many women do not. ’Tis absurd to cry over my poor decision-making abilities—”
“No. I cannae leave ye to believe such a thing,” he said. “I’ve watched ye make plenty of wee decisions. But I can well understand how large choices would feel overwhelming given the stakes involved.”
She paused and looked back to meet his eyes. And then swallowed over the intensity she saw there.
He continued, gaze softening. “Ye lost your mother and sister in back-to-back blows . . . the kind of battering hits that take a fighter down and out.” He would know. Hadn’t she witnessed him doing that exact thing to the Hammer all those years ago? “Ye’ve been grieving, lass. Of course it’s difficult tae understand what your path should be, particularly when so many are relying on ye. Ye’ve been living crisis to crisis for years, wandering in the dark for so long, you’ve lost sight of the path. Have some care for yourself.”
“Were it possible, I would have walked away years ago, I think.” She hiccupped. “But my sisters . . . despite my father being their guardian, they do require a woman’s care. And I cannot abandon the tenants and tradesmen who depend upon the earldom. I may have not wanted to be a countess any more than you wanted to be a prizefighter, but in my case, I cannot give it up.”
“Ah, lass.” His voice thrummed with feeling. “Your sense of duty is tae be commended. I admire ye for it. But perhaps ye’ve been Lady Kildrum for so long, ye’ve lost a bit of yourself in the duty of the title. That isnae a bad thing. But ye’ve forgotten to consider the wishes of your own heart.”
She stilled, pondering the truth of his words.
Was this true?
Had the guilt and grief over encouraging Dahlia to follow her heart actually had the opposite effect of stifling Violet’s own?
And if so . . . what was she to do about it?
“Perhaps.” She wiped her cheeks again. “I just wish I knew how to proceed forward.”
“If ye were lost in a wood and couldnae find the path, ye would not assume that the path existed, but ye were simply too blind tae see it. No, that would be madness. Instead, ye would assume that if ye could not see it yet, then ye had not found the path. Ye would keep looking.” He pondered her for a moment and then swept a hand toward the open door. “I often find a walk helps me sort through problems. Would ye care tae join me? I would gladly listen, if ye’d like to talk it out.”
Violet looked out the open door. The coastal path snaked along the clifftops, wind rippling the grasses into waves mimicked by the ocean beyond.
To walk and talk with him. To step into the wild sea air and divulge the more intimate thoughts of her heart.
Duty insisted that she leave righthisinstant.
That was the correct course. The Lady-Graham-approved course.
But . . .
Her heart wanted the wind in her hair and the fresh scent of ocean and gorse buffeting her skin. She ached for his voice in her ear. To confide in him. To leave another piece of herse
lf in his gentle care.
The choice stretched before her . . . two paths from which to choose—duty or desire?
These were not metaphorical routes she contemplated.
No.
The paths literally forked right outside the greenhouse door—
One path retreated back over the hill to Kilmeny Hall. The other ran straight ahead, winding its way along the cliffs.
Go straight on, she could practically hear Dahlia urge her. Spend time with the delicious Highlander.
The wind and waves drowned out any other thought.
And so . . . Violet Kerr made a decision.
She smiled, nodding.
Ewan motioned for her to pass through the doorway first before falling into step beside her.
Violet took in a deep breath, letting the ocean air chase the cobwebs from her lungs.
“Now, my lady, tell me what troubles ye,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back.
And so, Violet did.
As the fresh ocean air tugged at her bonnet and the shush-shush of waves blended with the call of gulls, she told him about the looming Manna Loan and the possible solutions. Though she may have left off the bit about marrying Lord Graham.
And as they jumped across a small burn running down to the sea and waded through sea grass that clutched at her skirts, she discussed her worries about managing her own lands . . . should she choose to keep the large southern tack.
When they paused to study a particularly picturesque view of waves crashing against sea stacks lining the cliffs, she mentioned the tension with her father and her concerns for her younger sisters, their need to have a London Season and be properly married off.
Ewan listened attentively, the weight of his attention fully upon her.
He asked questions and prodded her to open up more.
By the end, when they stopped to watch a group of puffins squabble over a choice cliff ledge, Violet was nearly hoarse from speaking.
But her burdens felt lighter somehow . . . more surmountable.
“So you’re trying to decide whether tae manage the lands yourself, is that right?” he asked, turning his attention away from the quarreling puffins.
“Precisely.”
“So . . . do ye like managing lands? Do ye ken to agriculture?”