Swallowing her embarrassment, she shook her head.
“I’m quite all right,” Faith said with a nod. “I just wish to be excused.”
“Shall I go with you?” Grace asked, coming to stand, but Faith held out her hand to stay her.
“No. No, I would just like a bit of time. Please,” Faith said, noting the pity in the collective faces that stared at her.
“Of course, dear,” Belle said, nodding as she looked around the company. “Take all the time you need. We shan’t bother you.”
“Thank you.”
Turning on her heel, Faith exited the ancient dining room, her leather boots clicking loudly against the flagstone floor of Lismore Hall. She couldn’t bear the idea of being cornered by one or both of her sisters who would try and force her into talking about things she could not speak of. She needed to escape, to leave the hall for a bit to sort all this out.
Oh, why had she ever posed for that painting?
As a footman opened the front door for her, Faith nodded her thanks and hurried down the stone steps. She, of course, knew the answer to her question. She had fancied herself in love with Donovan and would have done anything to please him.
The long-forgotten humiliation of their relationship resurfaced in her mind. The memories of all their encounters spilled over her as she headed for the forest path that lay to the west of Lismore Hall. Donovan had always been so warm and kind, yet he’d held her at arm’s length always, insisting that anticipation of their love would shine through his work. Faith had believed him. She had believed Donovan to be a worldly, poetic soul whose talent far surpassed that of anyone Faith had ever met, and though he’d never so much as kissed her, she had believed that they had shared a genuine and honest love.
Faith had trusted him completely. She had been nervous when he asked to paint her, but had consented when he’d promised never to sell it, explaining that he only wanted a piece of her that he could keep forever. Faith had thought the entirething terribly romantic. Yet their brief time together, while exceptional, had amounted to little. And when it had ended—abruptly and with no notice—Faith had been left shamed and brokenhearted, while Donovan had packed up his entire life in London and snuck away to Paris.
A gentle thunder rumbled overhead, and Faith’s gaze rose to the sky. It was overcast, and the faint gray hue promised rain.Fitting, she thought as her feet left the crushed stone drive that veered off onto a wooden path around the walled garden.
She tucked her hands into the pockets of her gown, only to feel the envelope stuffed full of banknotes that Donovan had sent with his letter. A heartless gesture, even though she supposed it was his way of apologizing. For a poor painter to part from any money was at least some sort of sign—
No! No. She wouldn’t make excuses for him. It had been difficult enough suffering in silence for months after his unannounced departure. She had barely begun to recover from her heartbreak before she and her sisters had become embroiled in the scandal that had brought them to Scotland last year. Now, twelve months later, her life was completely different from what she had always expected it would be like, but even so, Faith had always slept soundly, believing that Donovan wouldn’t break his promise.
She kicked a stone on the path before her. What a fool she had been to trust him and all his flowery, pretty words. He had said that she was the loveliest creature he had ever seen, and what a shame it would be to hide such beauty from the rest of the world.
Vanity, thy name is Faith.
Perhaps she could write him and ask who had purchased the painting? Or ask Aunt Belle for a loan to try and repurchase it? But no. No, she wouldn’t be able to bear to tell anyone how stupid she had been. She could threaten legal action perhaps,but then she’d have to confess to things she would never willingly admit to—and anyway, she didn’t know any solicitors.
Faith kicked the stone again as she walked between the tall pines, the scents of heather and impending rain in the air. It was useless. Even if she could find the new owner of her painting, she wouldn’t ever have the funds to buy it. And beyond that, she wouldn’t have the backbone to meet the owner, knowing they would probably instantly recognize her as the model in the portrait.
She sighed, concluding that she simply had to pray that she wouldn’t see recognition in the eyes of every new person she met.
Oh, good Lord, it was going to be a long life.
A cool breeze blew across the grassy meadow that opened up beyond the scope of pines, shaking her from her internal suffering. Faith looked up and caught sight of Loch Fyne stretched out beneath the rolling mountains of the Highlands. Grace had come to this spot weekly to gather bog myrtle and tormentil, medicinal herbs that Dr. Barkley paid her to collect. Gazing across the choppy water, she tilted her head back as her eyes lifted. Rough rock sheared through the green ground further up the slope, and she was briefly taken away from her misery as she stared in awe at the harsh yet stunning landscape.
At least she would never run into that horrible painting out here in the wilds of Scotland.
“Blasted hell!” a man’s voice suddenly called out, startling her.
Faith glanced around but saw no one. Her brow pinched together as a smattering of curses continued to echo around her. She knew that voice, was certain she had heard it plenty of times before, but she couldn’t quite place it.
Peering down by the loch’s edge where a large, partially flat boulder the size of four men stood, she heard a scuffle of whatsounded like a stick hitting the ground. Picking up her yellow skirt, she moved a few paces to the left to peer around the rock, only to frown at who she saw.
Logan Harris stood on the bank of the loch, apparently beating the ground with a long stick. A tall, blackish-gray dog sat near his feet, short, stumpy tail wagging in the dirt as he watched his master.
Instantly displeased, Faith sent up a silent curse herself. Was this to be a day with uncomfortable shocks at every turn? Logan Harris was one of her least favorite people, as he had made her and her sisters’ arrival in the Highlands anything but pleasant. Not only was he unbearably rude, but Faith had never met someone so argumentative in her entire life. And if he wasn’t arguing with her, he ignored her, which only added to her dislike of him.
Unfortunately, Logan Harris was Graham McKinnon’s oldest and dearest friend, and he was a frequent guest at Lismore Hall, though Faith had done her best to avoid him during his visits.
She watched him for another moment as he fought with what looked like a fishing rod and a wicker basket slung around his chest. She smirked, enjoying the sight of this usually self-possessed man letting his frustration get the better of him. She was convinced that she was witnessing all she needed to know about him at that moment. He often demonstrated a calm, cool, and collected exterior to everyone, but Faith knew he had a simmering temper bubbling just below the surface. This simply proved it.
Having seen enough, she was about to turn back, hoping to avoid him altogether without her presence being discovered, when he suddenly stopped flailing about and stilled, causing her to pause.
