“Aye, so it is,” he said cheerfully. “Above yer bed, if I recall.”
“You went in my room without my knowledge?”
“I was lost.”
“You weren’t lost,” she said, exasperated–and a tad amused. “Furthermore, it’s notourmeadow.”
“Then why is it the first thing ye see when ye go tae sleep and the first thing ye awake tae in the morning?”
Her mouth opened. Closed. “Because I–”
“Who’s this one by?” he asked, pointing at a larger painting in a gilt-edged frame.
“William Hogarth, who was renowned for his Rococo style. Do you see how the brush strokes are flowing in nature, and there are high ridges of paint on the canvas?”
Lachlan shrugged. “All I see is that the lady isna very impressed by the bloke who’s grabbing her hand.”
“This is part of a series titledBefore and After. This is the Before, and that”–she nodded at the painting beside it, showing the same couple albeit in a much more…intimateposition–“is the After. It was deemed too risqué for public viewing at The National Gallery, which was how the Duke of Oxford was able to attain it through private auction.”
“Aye,” said Lachlan, tilting his head. “I can see why he wanted it. From this angle, ye can all but look up the lady’s skirts at her–”
Brynne’s face heated. “As I said, it is very risqué.”
He slanted her a grin. “Ye have tae admire the bloke’s persistence. It won him the lady’s affections in the end.”
“Or maybe,” she countered, “the woman acquiesced against her better judgment.”
“Dinna know about that,” said Lachlan, scratching his chin. “She looks quite pleased with herself.”
As Brynne imagined she had worn a similar expression after making love with her husband on the eve of their wedding, she possessed no valid counterpoint other than to move on to the next painting which was, thankfully, a landscape scene.
“This was done by Charles Bernard, a French impressionist who employs primary colors to–”
“Do those hills appear strange tae ye?” Lachlan interrupted.
“Strange?” She frowned at the painting. “Strange how?”
“The way they’re shaped. And the single tree on top of each one. Almost makes them look like–”
Breasts.
The hills resembled breasts.
“Over here,” she said hastily, “we have another Frenchman, Nicolas Poussin, renowned for his mastery of the Baroque style. As you can see, his paintings are exceptionally detailed.”
“Aye, I’ve never seen more realistic buttocks. Would ye say those are more muscular or less muscular than mine?” He patted his backside. “Ye can feel for comparison, if ye’d like.”
If her cheeks were hot before, they were positively burning now. “Is there any painting you won’t sexualize?” she hissed.
“Not if it makes ye blush like that.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Thank ye.” Then he sobered. “Ye never painted at Campbell Castle. Why? I know ye had everything sent tae ye.”
“I did, but…” She hesitated as she searched for an answer to the question that she’d already asked herself to no avail. “I am not sure, to be honest. Had you asked me a month ago, I would have said it was because I was too busy with the children, but that’s not completely true. I suppose…I suppose I was lacking for inspiration. Or maybe I didn’t want to go in search of it.”
“Why is that?”
