“Beautiful,” he whispered.
The sound of Ophelia’s charcoal suddenly ceased, and she looked back at him with wide eyes.
“Are you goading me?” She asked.
Tristan shook his head, his face set into a serious expression. He was starting understand her talent now, and it laid more inspiration than anything else.
“Not at all. This one, even as a sketch, far exceeds the first painting you did earlier. I want it.”
A look of pride took over Ophelia’s face, and she gave him a single nod.
“Now, for the next-”
Her words were cut off by the sound of knocking at the door. Ophelia stiffened, but Tristan flew into action. He picked up her mask and slid it over her face, then put on his own.
“Stay right there,” he ordered, going to the door. “Do not move.”
He slid the lock away from the door and opened it a crack. He and the guard talked in hushed whispers for a moment; his nerves tingling as he heard the news he’d just been delivered. Tristan gave his instructions to the guard, then shut the door.
“Your time is up for the evening,” he stated, walking past Ophelia and toward his desk.
“But you said we were to discuss the concepts,” she replied, her eyes following him.
He heard the annoyance in her voice but this time he did not goad her on it. Far more serious matters were at stake and he could not give in to toying with her now.
“This was an excellent start,” he stated, counting out two-thousand pounds.
He heard Ophelia gasp, and he looked up. Even with the mask on, he knew that her eyes had gone wide and her mouth had drawn agape. It annoyed him instantly.Had she thought he would welch on her?
“Here is for the first painting and the promise of the second,” he stated gruffly, putting the small fortune in a cloth bag. “You need to leave now. The guards will escort you out and take you home as we discussed. I will let you know when you are to come back.”
He walked back around his desk and offered her the bag. Ophelia hesitated for a moment, but eventually she reached out and curled her trembling fingers around it and drew it to her chest.
“One more thing,” he stated, watching her as she put the bag in the pocket inside of her jacket, “No more dressing like a man. It is not necessary. I will arrange another disguise for you to wear.”
“I need to protect my identity,” she insisted.
“I will do that for you,” he commanded, growing impatient. “Remember, Ophelia. You are not in control here.”
Her eyes glimmered with hatred behind her mask, but this time instead of feeling amused, a surprising slash a pain moved through his chest.
“If you do not like it then there is no need for you to come back,” he told her.
Ophelia’s expression was hidden by her mask, but even so he could imagine her rage twisting her beautiful features.
“Fine,” she bit out.
“Good,” he said with a nod, then took her arm with one hand and put the strap of her case on his shoulder with the other. “Now get out of here.”
He all but pulled her toward the door and thrust her into the guard’s arms. He handed the other the case. Guilt twinged in his chest as he watched the ever-proud and independent Ophelia be taken down the hall. She was no doubt fuming over being grabbed like that, but he could not think about that now.
“Bring him in in two minutes,” he told the third guard.
The man nodded, and Tristan shut the door again. He carefully moved Ophelia’s sketch to the other blank canvasses, facing it toward the wall. He then went to his chair behind his desk, adjusted his mask and his jacket, and waited. A moment later two guards entered, dragging a masked, white-haired man in between them.
“What is the meaning of this?!” The man snarled, “I have broken no rules!”
“We will see about that,” Tristan stated flatly as the man was forced to take a seat. “Now, remove your mask.”
