Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (38 page)

How she had enjoyed those perfect summer days spent in quiet companionship with a man who had seemed like nothing more than a warm and considerate gentleman of moderate means and gentle nature. God, how she wished he had never come to Chatham, never stepped into her studio that fateful afternoon in his rain-soaked clothing, with his sensual gray eyes glinting, his long booted legs striding across her floor.

She had been alone for so long, yet she had been content. Then he had come to disturb her peace and make her want things she could not have. And just when she had begun to indulge in foolish fantasies, the ultimate betrayal had come. As a result, Evangeline had lost her focus, her drive, and, worse still, her serenity.

*   *   *

Elliot arrived at Chatham in record time, his black Arab having chewed up the ground between Richmond and Essex. The highly strung horse was now a foaming bundle of bare nerves, and Elliot felt little better. Nonetheless, he was a driven man. The portrait had become a symbol that represented the blossoming of his relationship with Evangeline. Beyond that, it was a representation of how Evangeline had once seen him, and despite his frayed nerves and smoldering wrath, Elliot realized that it was a vision he wanted to cling to.

Dropping the reins of the exhausted animal, Elliot pounded on the door, which was thrown open by the wide-eyed housekeeper. To her credit, she was as cordial as ever, though clearly stunned to see Elliot. His hat in hand, he strode into the long hall. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Penworthy.” Elliot bowed neatly, shot her his brightest smile, and watching her instantly melt. “I wonder if I might have a word with Miss Stone?”

The housekeeper’s warm eyes quickly reglazed. “Ooh! Well, now . . . as to that, I’m sure I couldn’t say, Mr. Rob—er, I mean, my lord!”

“Mr. Roberts or Mr. Armstrong will do just fine, Mrs. Penworthy,” he reassured her gently.

“Aye, p’rhaps!” answered the housekeeper, peering at him skeptically, “but I’m not a’tall sure miss will see any of you, by any name! Howsoever, it cannot hurt to ask, I dessay.” She smiled weakly.

Elliot strode back and forth across the width of the hall until an agitated Mrs. Penworthy returned, her keys bouncing merrily against one ample hip. Her expression, however, was anything but cheerful. “Very sorry, Mr. Roberts—I mean,
my lord!
Miss says—I mean, Miss Stone is not at home, I’m to tell you.”

“Oh? Wishes me at Jericho, does she?” Elliot answered, then dipped his head closer to the housekeeper’s ear. “But if you could tell me where she is?” he whispered conspiratorially. “Please?”

The housekeeper pursed her lips and looked about nervously. “In the studio,” she furtively replied. “On the south gallery.”

Elliot nodded, then gave a little wink. “Thank you, ma’am,” he answered loudly. “Do tell her I called.” Abruptly, he turned and made toward his horse. As soon as he heard the heavy front door thump shut, however, he spun on his heel and strode through the side gardens, making his way around to the back of the house. Soon he reached the upper terrace, which ran from the studio across the back of the house. His booted heels rang resolutely across the stone terrace as he approached the row of French windows.

“Evangeline!” he roared up at the gallery windows. “Let me in! We must talk.”

There was no response. Angrily, he waved a slip of paper high above his head and stared up at the gallery. “Evie, I know perfectly well you are listening. Now, come out and take back this bloody bank draft.”

Silence. From the corner of one eye, Elliot saw Theo poke his head out of the rhododendron. The lad tiptoed up the terrace stairs to stand behind Elliot and was soon followed by Nicolette, then Frederica. Elliot shrugged and shot them a weak, embarrassed smile, then returned his attention to the upper windows. Despite the fading light of early evening, he caught a glimpse of movement near the center window.

Elliot decided to try a different tactic. “Evie, darling! I am sorry. I swear it! Do not force me to make a spectacle of myself here in front of the children. Let me in, please?”

“What do you care about the children, Rannoch?” she finally called, opening the rusty casement just an inch. “You attacked an innocent boy and very nearly broke his nose!”

Nicolette and Theo burst into giggles behind him as Elliot snorted derisively. “Oh, aye! An innocent boy, Evie? I’ll tell you true, Weyden’s no boy, and he blacked both my eyes proving it.”

From the corner of his right eye, he saw the allegedly innocent boy step out onto the terrace, distracting his attention just as the upper casement flew wide open. Too late, Gus shouted out the alarm. A small clay pot crashed to the sidewalk mere inches from Elliot’s feet. He cursed under his breath as bright orange pigment splashed across his top boots and up the thigh of his buff pantaloons. The children fell into peals of hilarity until Elliot shook his fist at the window and roared, “Evangeline! I want my bloody portrait! You struck a bargain in good faith, do you hear? Stop this foolishness, take this money, and give me my painting!”

In the dead silence, Elliot heard nothing but the wind rustling through the late-summer leaves. Elliot swiveled his head to survey the amused quartet now standing just behind him. He turned back to face the window. “Oh, this is grand, Evie! Is this what you shall do when Lady Trent returns?” he bellowed. “Throw paint pots at her? ’Twill be a rather poor defense, Evangeline! She’ll not leave empty-handed this time! I think you know what I mean!”

In response, another pot—bright blue this time—soared through the air just as the rapid clippety-clip of a lady’s boot heels sounded up the steps. Elliot turned to see Winnie Weyden, her hand looped beneath her brother-in-law’s elbow, hurrying onto the terrace. “Good God, Elliot!” she said breathlessly, the other dainty hand clasped to her heaving bosom. “Peter and I could hear you from the river. Whatever is this unholy commotion?”

Elliot jabbed his finger repeatedly up at the windows. “ ’Tis that stubborn woman upstairs!” he raged. “And she’ll not be giving me my money back! We struck a deal, fair and square, and the least I am leaving with is my painting.”

“I think, my dear,” answered Peter Weyden, sagaciously eyeing the splash of orange that marred Elliot’s otherwise flawless garb, “that his lordship has come to plead his case with Evangeline.”

Elliot brusquely nodded his agreement, then exhaled a sharp breath of exasperation. “Damn it, Winnie! Talk some sense into the bloody woman, can you? Look! She’s resorted to throwing things,” he hissed, pointing to the broken paint pots.

Eyes wide, Winnie pressed her fingertips to the perfect
O
of her mouth just as a giggle escaped. “Indeed? I hardly know what to say, Elliot,” she squeaked. “Will she not speak with you?”

He steeled his voice and redirected it loudly toward the windows. “No, ma’am, she will
not
speak with me! And for my part, I’ve decided I should infinitely prefer to speak with someone sane. Aye, someone”—he raised his voice another notch—“who is not possessed of an artist’s irrational temperament!”

“Indeed?” Winnie repeated, her eyes widening, just as another pot sailed wide, crashing onto the flagstone near the rear door. A sickly shade of green this time.

“Yes,” he finished, returning his gaze to Peter Weyden. “You, sir, for example.”

Mrs. Weyden nodded her head vigorously, looking relieved to have the issue settled. “A wise choice, my lord. I shall take you both into the library.”

Evangeline stood in the dim light of the library, biting back tears and staring out the window into the night which now enveloped Chatham’s gardens. Suspended above, in a cloudless sky, a brilliant sliver of moon twinkled as Evangeline wished fervently that she were on it. Oh, that she could be anywhere other than this house, trapped with the marquis of Rannoch! Her forced meeting with Peter—that bloody turncoat!—had been almost too much to bear. Her avuncular guardian had suddenly begun to treat her as if she were a petulant child, while Winnie had offered no support at all, insisting that the marquis be permitted to have his say. Worse still, as if Evangeline’s opinion counted for naught in her own home, Winnie had insisted Rannoch stay the night at Chatham Lodge.

Repeatedly goaded by Peter’s sharp, reproving glances, Evangeline had finally stalked out of their heated discussion, only to spy Elliot in the drawing room, splayed upon her sofa, chattering with the children as if he had never been ejected from her home in shame. As if
he
had been innocent and
she
had been unreasonable. Now the devil was here, ensconced in her own library, and Peter had told her in no uncertain terms what was expected of her.

She drew a deep, resigned breath. “My guardian has reminded me, my lord, that I must do you the courtesy of hearing you out,” she began.

Peter had confirmed something else, too, though she was loath to confess it to Elliot. Her commission really was to have been a Mr. James Hart, a London gentleman of Peter’s acquaintance who had been unexpectedly jilted by his fiancée just before his portrait sitting. Peter was convinced that Elliot could not possibly have known of Mr. Hart’s situation, so if Elliot had indeed pulled off an elaborate ruse, he had been very nearly clairvoyant in doing so.

Her back turned to Elliot, Evangeline struggled to still the trembling that edged her voice. She was not yet prepared to surrender her martyrdom. “He is right, of course. So pray tell me, if you will, what it is that you have come for?”

She gasped as Elliot’s warm hand came to rest lightly on her arm. In her attempt to maintain her aplomb, she had failed to hear him rise from his chair to cross the room. “Ah, Evie! How you wound me with your cool composure,” he whispered. “This odd, restrained civility; it has not always been thus between us—”

“It is thus now,” she interrupted, her soft voice laced with wariness. Roughly, she dropped her hands from the windowsill and stepped back to distance herself from his touch. “I ask you again, Lord Rannoch, what do you want?”

Elliot watched through narrow, assessing eyes as Evangeline crossed to the opposite side of the narrow chamber and took a seat behind her desk. With deliberate languor, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the bookshelves, studying her. “First, Evie, I should like to have the portrait I commissioned,” he answered quietly. “I paid gold for it, and I agreed to no alteration of our terms.”

Abruptly, Evangeline bounced from her chair and tugged upon the bell pull. The elderly butler entered. “Please ask Gus to fetch Lord Rannoch’s portrait from my studio,” she commanded. Bolton nodded, then pulled the door carefully shut behind him.

“And secondly,” continued Elliot, “I ask that you listen to my explanations of the regrettable misunderstanding that has transpired between us.” He watched as anger, and perhaps pain, flared in Evie’s eyes. Before she could retort, he interrupted. “Evangeline, however angry you may be, I think you owe me that much, given all that we have shared. Indeed, we owe it to each other, do we not?”

Again, Evangeline rose haughtily from her chair and began to pace the room. “I cannot think that I owe you anything, my lord. Nor you me. But by all means, speak your piece and have done with it.”

Elliot drew a ragged breath and struggled to summon the magical words that might convince Evangeline of his penitence. She whirled again, moving nervously about the room, revealing a flash of the petticoat beneath the hem of her emerald-green gown. Tonight, she was as beautiful as ever. No, more so, with her flaming eyes and high color. Lord, but she was angry. Moreover, it was a cold, controlled anger, just the sort of defense Elliot found difficult to attack. In his impatience, he burned to dispense with all the foolish explanations, to pull Evie into his arms and kiss her into submission.

Elliot had no experience in justifying his behavior. Indeed, in the last ten years, he had never bothered to explain himself to anyone. But was that not, in large part, how he had trapped himself in this wretched excuse of a life? Pride and temper had most assuredly contributed to his downfall. And now, Evangeline deserved an explanation, pathetically weak though his might be. He drew a deep, unsteady breath.

A sharp rap sounded on the door, and Gus carried in the portrait while Theo followed with a sturdy easel. Without comment, they reassembled the pair, then promptly quit the room, leaving Elliot to stare at the amazing work before him. He had seen glimpses of it before, in varying stages of completion, yet the piece that stood before him now was wholly dissimilar to the one he had seen.

The pale marble stairs on which the late Elliot Roberts had stood, with one knee elegantly bent to the step above, had been transformed to a rocky Highland outcropping darkly etched against a gathering gray storm. His blindingly white linen was similar, but his black wool coat was greatly altered, his shoulders widened. Gone, too, were the buff riding breeches and glossy black topboots, now obliterated in favor of thick woolen stockings and an opulent kilt of black on emerald, the Armstrong tartan. It tossed about his thighs as if caught in some hellish gale. His hair, too, tossed dark and wild on the wind. A thin silver sword hung from his hip, and a fur sporran completed the clan regalia. His eyes glittered, black and wicked. Aloft and pointed heavenward, he held a long, heavy claymore.

“Mother of God, Evie!” In light of the painting, the rest of Elliot’s ill-prepared speech of contrition vanished like smoke.“When . . . why . . .?” he stuttered,his queries fading as he gaped at the portrait. The man in the painting stared coldly back, his expression immutable and unforgiving. The broad hand at his waist was sinewy and taut, as were the lean, solid muscles of his legs. In the flickering lamplight of the library, the canvas sprang hauntingly to life, exuding enmity and tension, as if the observer should be wary lest the subject pounce from his craggy perch in attack. The stubborn, bladelike nose, the wild dark hair, the overly strong jaw . . . it was unmistakably Elliot.