But his fears had been for naught, as he was rapidly discovering. As they moved down the corridor, all of the doors were open for Alec’s scrutiny save one. Peyton led him past the closed cedar panel en route to the master chamber, but he stopped curiously and put his hand on the latch.
“What is this room?”
Peyton gazed at the closed door as if she were considering that very question. “A chamber like all the others. The master chamber is this way.”
He did not reply, nor did he follow her. Instead, he opened the chamber door and stepped through the archway.
Color greeted him. Rainbows of vibrant hues were all over the room. Several easels were placed in various spots, vellum nailed to frames hung upon them. Pictures of brilliance and talent kissed the parchment; flowers, birds, landscape scenes.Other pieces of vellum were strewn across the room in various stages of completion. Paints, neatly grouped, graced a large cherrywood table as well as several brushes of different shapes and sizes.
The entire room cried of spirit, of life, of happiness. As if a whole magical world had opened up before him, Alec was enchanted.
He peered curiously at the painting closest to him, a scene depicting wildflowers. Illustrated from watercolor on parchment, they were realistic and he shook his head in wonder.
“These are magnificent,” he exclaimed softly. “Who painted these?”
Peyton stood at the door, her gaze combing the room. “I did.”
His eyes snapped to her. “You? Peyton, they’re remarkable. I have never seen such talent.”
She shrugged, not answering. This room reminded her too much of James; her painting and her ale had been the only diversions to keep her going after his death. The room brought solace, but it brought memories as well. This was her private haven and she was unhappy with Alec’s invasion.
But he was oblivious to her discomfort. He moved from easel to easel, inspecting each painting thoroughly. Peyton folded her arms protectively across her chest as he scrutinized her most personal works, feeling open and vulnerable. He paused by a group of paintings near the window and crouched down, observing them closely.
“When did you paint these?” he asked.
She glanced over at him, noticing the cluster of paintings he was regarding. A chill of sorrow ran through her. “Last year.”
He examined the vellum panels portraying dark scenes; a knight entirely in black standing on what looked to be a background of blood. The depths and shading that composed the figure of the knight were extraordinary and it appeared that atany moment he would stroll from the confines of the parchment. But for all the realism, Alec saw a good deal of hopelessness to the paintings. He remembered her mentioning that she had been betrothed once before and he suspected these paintings had something to do with her grief. As his eyes trailed up to a painting on the window sill, a splash of bright color caught his eye.
A joust pole stood in the corner, broken in half. Its twelve foot length was bent, twisted and dirty. The faded yellow and white colors were still bright, still proud, and he felt a strange tug at his heart as he beheld the bent pole. It reminded him of the days when he was unbeatable on the tournament field, the days when he and Peter would fight side by side, encouraging and assisting one another. Between the dark pictures and the broken pole, his mood rapidly dampened.
On the floor next to the pole was a scabbard. It was plain but well-kept, not nearly as ornate as some of the scabbards he has seen. It looked lonely and stark with the broken pole and Alec found himself rising to his feet, pacing toward the forlorn tokens.
“Who did these belong to?” he asked softly.
Peyton stared at the two items, her face pale and drawn. “They belonged to James, my betrothed.”
Alec continued to look at the reminders, feeling her grief as it mingled with grief of his own. He couldn’t help himself from asking. “How did he die?”
Peyton closed her eyes and turned away. “He was speared last year at a tournament in Norwich.”
“And you were there?”
“Aye.”
Her voice was barely audible. She had tried so desperately to forget that terrible day, but his questions brought the memoriesback like a stab to her heart. The words came spilling out before she could stop them.
“It was the first tournament I had ever attended,” she went on, softly. “James had been competing for years and had amassed an excellent reputation and a good deal of wealth. He promised me it would be his last competition before we were married and my father allowed me to attend. It was exciting until the very last, when he was gored by a spear-tipped joust pole. I am told that spear-tipped poles had not been used since the days of the Lion Heart, but the knight that competed against James had broken his crows-foot pole earlier in the day and was forced to use his spare. He did not mean to do it; it was an accident.” She drifted over to a bright painting of roses and touched it absently, tears spilling onto her cheeks. “I held him while he died. The pole you see leaning against the wall was the pole he was using that day. It broke when he fell.”
Alec stared at the mementos a moment longer and turned away. Hearing her story and seeing the bleak reminders brought back his own pain of losing a brother and he refused to be swept up by the black grief. The coldness of self-preservation consumed him, turning his demeanor to ice.
“The paintings are beautiful,” he muttered. “Show me the master chamber now.”
He quit the room hastily, nearly bumping Peyton in his urgency. Immediately, she sensed his change in mood and it did nothing to ease her anguish. Wiping her tears away with a shaking hand, her sorrow became something deeper, darker, and far more disruptive. It was an emotion she was coming to readily associate with Alec.
Obviously, her future husband was insensitive and uncaring and she felt the powerful return of her self-protection. Embarrassment filled her. What had she expected from him as she spilled her innermost feelings? Compassion, sympathy atthe very least? Mayhap an apology for her sorrows? Instead, he had brushed past her without a word, and she was deeply hurt.
But the hurt ignited an unsettling loathing and she vowed that her confession in the chamber would be her very last. Never again would she give him the opportunity to rebuff her feelings.
