Rather than answering, Harlowe gently took her arm. It was smooth as silk beneath his touch. He led her to the next work: a harsh rendition of a London neighborhood. Each of the doors were painted a vivid cobalt, deepened with the slightest mixture of black, though it was obvious the scene was nighttime. A line of streetlamps were lit, their subtle glow reflected in the metal pieces that held each globe fixture in place. Scythes. Each and every light up the entire lane as far as the eye could see. “Notice anything interesting?”
He didn’t wait for her reply, drawing her to the next one. A coastal scene of soldiers.
“Dover?” she asked gently.
He concurred with a short incline of his head.
“I-I don’t understand.” She peered closer at the scene, then moved away. “The woman, she’s saying farewell to her beau—ah, there it is, within her skirts.”
“Yes, another scythe.” Bitterness roiled like bile over his tongue. “This is why I require your assistance. I can’t remember why, Lady Alymer—”
“Maeve.”
His head came up. “What?”
“My name is Maeve. If we are to work together, I give you leave to call me by my name. In private, of course. We would not want to give anyone the wrong impression, my lord.”
He smiled, one of relief that he felt from the flats of his feet. He took her hand and bowed low over it, brushing her bare knuckles with the lightest touch of his lips. “Brandon, my lady—Maeve. You shall return the favor.”
“Of course… Brandon.” Heat infused every limb Maeve possessed. His name on her tongue felt decadent to the point of indecent.
Harlowe dragged his eyes from her, turning to the Dover work he’d showed her moments before. He reached up to touch one of the strings, stopping just short. He tipped his head to one side, his gaze on the picture. “She said I used too much paint, but she’d said it with affection.”
“Corinne? Oh—forgive me, I mean Lady Harlowe.”
He didn’t seem to hear her. He turned, and his eyes glittered with some dark, seething emotion.
Maeve’s heart fluttered in her breast like the wispiest gossamer, strands so fragile, she dare not inhale too deep. She managed to shift her focus to each of the paintings Har—Brandonhad pointed out to save him any embarrassment. “I seem to detect a common theme,” she said in a husky voice she didn’t recognize.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, the scythes.”
“Not just the scythes. You said it yourself when you explained the Brutus painting. Wait. Did you paint these?” She moved to the next one past the Dover. “This is Judas, kissing Christ. The colors are remarkably stark.” She located the scythe immediately within the folds of Judas’s robe. “They’re all traitors.” She moved back to the Dover work. The woman kissing her beau had her eyes open, peering at someone over his shoulder. Another man, perhaps. She found the scythe in the folds of her skirts.
“Yes, traitors.”
She spun slowly, studied him in the dim lighting. His eyes caught hers and refused to release their hold. “Didyou paint these?”
“I… did.”
“They are quite spectacular.” The rich hues, the thickness of paint that allowed another layer of texture. The passion in the strokes reached deep and touched her soul despite the harsh nature of their subject matter. It felt… erotic, for lack of a better word. Her skin itched.
“But what do they mean?” He seemed to be speaking more to himself.
She shook her head, at a loss for an answer. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” The anguish in his eyes decided her, and something more became clear. “I can’t help but think that your painting again would do more for your memory than penning your memoirs, but, of course, I would be honored in helping you.” She smiled. “Anything to keep me free of Ingleby House.”
In the minutest shift, he loomed closer. Close enough she feared he would kiss her. Her lips tingled in anticipation. Her skin seemed too tight for her body, and for certain her corset.
He straightened and stepped back as if he’d caught the smell of something odious.
Humiliation flooded her, she spun and dashed for stairs before he could further witness her shame.
“Lady Alymer—Maeve, please.”
She knew he couldn’t reach her, not when she was running for her life. But it wouldn’t stop him from trying. She reached the second floor and pulled up.
“There you are, Maeve.” Lorelei was poised in the crosshairs of the main hallways. She glanced past Maeve. “I would think Nathan already nestled, and sleeping soundly, in his bed.”
“Yes. I was holding him when he fell asleep without a peep.” It wasn’t a lie. Her heart pounded. She was terrified Harlowe would make his appearance, skewing her version of recent events.
