“A silly game.” She straightened the metal frames on her nose. “A fun little game, like anapres-dineramusement.”
“Perhaps I shall suggest it to Cousin Amy, who loves after-dinner games. She will have everyone scrutinizing each other over coffee and brandy. Mrs. Blackburn, you did not share your assessment of the earlier and later versions.” He tipped a brow expectantly.
“One is a painted rendition of a sleeping beauty,” she said crisply. “A vision of innocence and untried passion. The other… is a plain and dull little woman. All they have in common is the shape of the face, the color of the hair.”
“You do not see it, do you,” he murmured.
“See what?”
“How lovely you are. How intriguing. How intelligent, I might add. There is sharp awareness in her eyes—and in yours.”
She glanced away. “She is a confection, a fictional image, made from pots of paint and the artist’s imagination. But just for a moment—she made me seem beautiful, when I am not. It was—that part was nice, I admit.” She shrugged.
His steady gaze, the crinkling around his eyes, showed how carefully he listened. She saw his subtle expressions—a tilt of the head, a tightening of the lips, a flicker in the eyes. He seemed bemused and yet sympathetic.
“You need a new mirror, Mrs. Blackburn. You are far finer than that painting, now I see you. And I have looked at that painting for years. I greatly admire that woman. Damn,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That did not come out right.”
She laughed reluctantly. “I asked my husband to never exhibit or sell that painting, and he gave me his word. But he showed it and sold it. I cannot change that now—unless you would agree to sell it to me. Though I doubt I could afford it.”
“I would never sell it. The briar maiden belongs here.”
“I see. Let me pass, sir.” She gathered her skirts, but he took a step to block her way.
“Before you storm out, all righteous fire and indignation, hear me out.” He frowned down at her. “I do not keep the painting just to look at her, Mrs. Blackburn.” He stood so close that she tipped back her head as he spoke. “And I do not question your morals or modesty because you were the model. She belongs here,” he finished.
She felt that righteous fire rise in her. “Why hide her in your private rooms? She is as captive in your possession as she is in that painting. In those—briars and roses.”
“Exactly. One reason is that it is a beautiful painting, and I appreciate that. The other reason,” he went on, “has to do with a local legend about a girl in a briarwood in ancient days. A sleeping beauty, if you will. It simply reminds me of that. So I have always felt that she belongs here at Dundrennan.” He shrugged as if it were incidental rather than important. But his eyes, blue stars, were dark and keen, and Christina felt the pull again.
“A legend? I would—sir, why do you look at me so?” The words burst out.
“How is that?”
“As if you care for me and would…”
“Kiss you?”
“Devour me.”
He laughed softly at that. “Not at all. Just—fascinated to see the likeness. That is all.”
“Is it?” She could not move, but she did not feel entrapped. She felt—enraptured. Keenly, oddly drawn, as if something desperate in her wanted to reach out to him.
“Just that, Mrs. Blackburn,” he murmured. For a moment she thought he might indeed kiss her, as if she saw the thought flash in his eyes, in his downward glance, the sweep of his eyelids and long lashes as he half closed his eyes.
Feeling as if dreamy power took her, she leaned toward him, closing her eyes.
“Mrs. Blackburn,” he whispered. Just that.
Without answer, she lifted her chin in unconscious assent. She did not know whose lips touched first, but when his brushed hers, warm and tender, she melted. Her hands slid up his arms, tightly muscled under his sleeves as his lips caressed hers. The kiss was dreamlike, magical, swift as sunlight spilling out and vanishing.
Then logic overtook whatever wild force stirred. She pushed him away, and he stepped back, hands raised for an instant.
“Sir,” she said. “I do not know—”
“Nor do I,” he said. “We must get you upstairs to rest.”
“Aye. But—I am not—please do not think me—wanton because of the painting.”
