River Of Fire (12 page)

"If you like." She flipped to another page of the sketchbook. "I have a frame that will suit it nicely."

"Before you continue, do you mind if I take a break?" he asked. "I'm not used to sitting still for so long."

"Oh, of course. I'm sorry." She smiled ruefully. "When I work, I forget how much time is passing. Would you like tea? I usually make a pot about this time every day."

"That would be much appreciated." Kenneth stood and stretched to loosen the tightness in his shoulders.

Rebecca rose and went to the fireplace, bending gracefully to hang the kettle over the fire. "Give thanks that you're modeling for me instead of my father. He's even more ruthless than I am." She examined him with eyes that seemed to slice through to the bone. "Father was right—you would make a wonderfully formidable sergeant in the prebattle picture."

"I should look the part. I was a sergeant for years."

"A sergeant? You?" She stared at him.

"I took the king's shilling and enlisted when I was eighteen," he explained. "Later I was promoted from the ranks."

"For conspicuous bravery," she said softly. "That's always the reason, isn't it?"

"That's part of it, but a certain amount of luck is involved." He smiled a little. "One must be brave within sight of an officer who will recommend the commission."

"You're a man of surprises, Captain. From your speech, I assumed you were…" She paused, disconcerted.

"You assumed I was a gentleman," he said helpfully.

Her eyes dropped. "I'm sorry. Obviously you are a gentleman, and all the more credit to you for earning what is usually an accident of birth."

He shrugged. "Actually, my birth is respectable, but I was estranged from my father, so I had no money to buy a commission. That meant enlistment."

"What caused the estrangement?"

Feeling uncomfortable, he began strolling the length of the attic, staying in the center to avoid banging his head on the angled ceiling. He was supposed to be probing Rebecca; how had things gotten reversed? "A year after my mother's death, my father took a seventeen-year-old wife. We… didn't get along."

"It would have been hard to accept any stepmother so soon after your mother's death," Rebecca said sympathetically. "A girl your own age in her place must have seemed indecent."

Far worse than indecent. For an instant, remembered rage and revulsion reared their ugly heads. Kenneth clamped down on the feelings, reminding himself that he had not been without fault in what had happened. "It didn't help that she wasn't a particularly nice person. However, my father was in love. Or in heat, to be more accurate. I could not stay under his roof." Turning the conversation, he continued, "Do you think your father will remarry? And if he does, how will you feel about it?"

She looked startled, as if she had not yet considered the possibility. "That would depend on whom he marries," she said without enthusiasm. "I'll have to wait and see."

"Is Lavinia hoping to be the next Lady Seaton?"

Rebecca bent to take a jar of tea from a small cabinet. "I doubt it. Under her brash exterior she's really quite sweet, but I think she's too fond of a widow's freedom to give it up. Father will probably remarry someday, though. He likes having a wife to pamper him." The kettle began steaming, so she lifted it from the fire and poured hot water to warm the teapot. "There's a picture of Lavinia behind you."

He turned and quickly found Lavinia among the un-framed canvases leaning against the wall. Clad in revealing classical draperies, she reclined on a Greek sofa, her gaze a cool invitation. In the eternal struggle between the sexes, Lady Gaxton would be hunter, not quarry. "Let me guess," he said. "She's portrayed as Messalina, the Roman empress who defeated the chief prostitute of
Rome
in a fornication marathon that exhausted half the men in the city."

Rebecca chuckled as she spooned tea leaves into the pot and added boiling water. "Actually, she's supposed to be Aspasia, the most beautiful and learned courtesan in
Athens
. I've painted Lavinia several times. She enjoys modeling."

But she would probably not be Sir Anthony's next wife. If that was true, who was the mistress that might have been the cause of Lady Seaton's death? Thinking he had asked enough questions for the time being, Kenneth strolled toward the far end of the long attic. Small windows opened onto the street, bright southern light illuminating a utilitarian table and chairs.

This was Rebecca's workshop, with rolls of canvas and stacked frames in the corners. The Gray Ghost slept on the table between a picture frame and a mortar and pestle. The cat opened its eyes a slit at Kenneth's approach, then resumed snoozing.

To the left, an alcove contained a massive piece of furniture that resembled an elaborate Italianate building. Faint lines showed where drawers had been cunningly concealed among pretend pilasters. He stroked the curve of an arch, which framed a pigeonhole containing brushes and small tools.

Seeing his interest, Rebecca called from the other end of the attic, "That storage cabinet was made specially for a seventeenth century Flemish artist called Van Veeren."

"I'm afraid I've never heard of him."

"No reason why you should have." She assembled a tea tray, then brought it to the workshop. "He was a not-very-talented painter of portraits and genre still lifes."

Kenneth grinned. "Vegetables and dead rabbits?"

"Exactly. But he must have made a good living at it." She set the tray on the table. The Gray Ghost instantly rose and came to investigate. "There are some rather nice currant cakes in the tin, if you can get them before the Ghost does."

She gently pushed the cat away from the tray. The Ghost hunkered down like a stone lion, his avid gaze fixed on the cake tin while Rebecca poured tea. She handed a cup to Kenneth, then sat in one of the well-worn wooden chairs.

He had not expected this quiet domesticity from Rebecca, but it suited her well. Very well. His willingness to model for her had changed their relationship, putting her more at ease with him. He should feel satisfied; he'd wanted her trust and confidence so he could extract information from her. A pity that success was tempered with shame.

The army had taught him to set aside what couldn't be helped, so he might as well enjoy his tea. Between his legitimate tasks and his visit to Lord Bowden, he'd not eaten since breakfast. He added an irregular chunk of sugar to his cup and settled in the other chair.

There was silence as they ate the excellent currant cakes. When Rebecca leaned over to pour more tea, he said, "I gather that you stretch your own canvases here?"

She offered a fragment of cake to the Gray Ghost, who daintily nipped it from her fingers. "Yes, and most of my father's as well. I also make our pastel crayons and mix some special pigments that the regular colorman doesn't make."

He looked at her quizzically. "Surely Sir Anthony could find someone else for such menial tasks."

"Ah, but would the tasks be done as well? Though painting is now called art, it was first of all a craft. The better one understands the materials, the more effectively they can be used." She caressed the smooth stone mortar. "There is something wonderfully satisfying about blending the pigments and medium together to the perfect consistency, in the perfect color. It's the first step in creating a picture that successfully captures one's inner vision."

The sensuality so clear in her mother's portrait was now visible in Rebecca's dreamy face. He wanted her to touch him the same way she touched the mortar. He wanted her…

He looked away, not completing the thought. "When did you start to draw?"

She made a wry face. "According to family legend, one day in the nursery I broke a soft-boiled egg and used the yolk to draw a recognizable cat on the wall."

He smiled at the image. "So you were always an artist. I assume Sir Anthony taught you?"

"Not really. Father was always so busy. Whenever I could escape my nanny, I would slip into his studio and watch him work. He didn't mind as long as I wasn't in the way. Soon I had my own pastel crayons and charcoal." She chuckled. "Mother made sure I had paper so I wouldn't ruin any more walls. When she had time, she sometimes gave me lessons."

"Did your mother have artistic ability beyond the standard accomplishments of a lady?"

Rebecca gestured to a small watercolor hanging in a corner. "She did that of me when I was four years old."

The picture showed Rebecca as a happy, laughing child, her baby curls a shining copper. She looked open and eager for life, not like the wary woman she had become. He wondered if her disastrous elopement had been the cause of her losing that openness. "It's lovely. With both parents artists, it's not surprising you have such talent."

Rebecca shook her head. "Mother had talent—her watercolors were exquisite—but she wasn't really an artist. Marriage got in the way, I think."

"What does it take to be a real artist?" he asked curiously.

"Selfishness." Rebecca gave a self-mocking smile. "One must believe one's work is the most important thing in the world. Putting other people and their needs first can be crippling."

He wondered if her statement was an oblique criticism of her father. A painter as successful as Sir Anthony might have had little time for his family. "Must an artist always be selfish?"

"Perhaps not quite always, but most of the time." She brushed an unruly lock back from her cheek.

He watched, thinking that artifice might counterfeit that rich auburn hair, but no cosmetic could ever duplicate her complexion, which had the translucent fairness of a true redhead.

With sudden anger, he wished they had met in some other time and place, where she was not the daughter of a murder suspect and he was a gentleman of means, not a penniless spy. A place where he could explore the complexities of her mind and spirit. A place where he could kiss her, and persuade her to kiss back.

He drew a deep, slow breath. Anger at the unjustness of fate subsided, but not his powerful desire to touch her. He leaned forward and took her hands in his, turning them palm up. They were capable hands, the fingers long and elegant, like those of a Renaissance saint. "Such strength and skill," he murmured. "What splendors will these create in the future?"

Her hands quivered within his. "The real skill lies in the mind, not the fingers," she said huskily. "The spirit must see the picture before the body can create it."

"Wherever it comes from, you have a great gift." He traced the lines in her palm with his fingertip. "I wonder if it's really possible to read the future in a hand. Will your talent bring you fame? Wealth? Happiness?"

She pulled away, her fingers curling shut. "A creative gift guarantees none of those things. If anything, it interferes with happiness. The work itself is the only sure reward. It is a shield against loneliness, a passion safer than human love."

He raised his head and their gazes met. The tension that had been slowly building rose to choking intensity. He sensed that they were both vulnerable, terribly so,and on the edge of doing something that could not be undone.

Fearing her hazel eyes would see into the depths of his deceitful soul, he got abruptly to his feet. "I really must return to my regular work. Do you want me to model tomorrow?"

She swallowed. "Not… not tomorrow. The day after." He nodded and left, wondering how the devil he would survive more such intimate sessions. Rebecca might be the best source of information about her mother, but he might not be able to keep his hands off her long enough to learn what he sought.

Rebecca managed to remain impassive until she heard the door shut behind the captain. Then she closed her eyes and pressed her right palm to her cheek. Where he had touched her, the skin tingled as if she had stroked fur in winter.

Damn
the man! What right did he have to come here and crack the shield that had protected her for so long? She had been in control of her life, grateful for the freedom to paint as she chose with few distractions. She'd needed nothing else.

Exhaling roughly, she got to her feet and stalked the length of the attic. She'd always loved the slanting ceilings because she could walk erect where most people would have to bend. The captain had been able to stand straight only in the center. His vitality and powerful frame had filled the room to overflowing. Everywhere she turned, she saw him.

She had been wise to admit few people into her sanctuary. Even wiser would have been not to allow Kenneth in.

Allow? She'd practically dragged him up the stairs.

She ran a hand through her hair, inadvertently loosening the pins so that the heavy mass fell loose to her waist. Impatiently she tied her hair into a knot and resumed her pacing.

Kenneth's military past intrigued her, as did the contrast between his rugged form and his keen, perceptive mind. He was a magnificent subject for painting. Yet what drew her most was the way she could talk to him. No one had ever been so interested in what she had to say. The time with him had affected her like spring rain on flowers. She had not realized how lonely she was.

No, perhaps not lonely, but certainly alone. She and her father shared a ruling passion and a house, and they understood each other well. Yet he was a famous man with a full life, and she was only a minor part of it.