Page 44

“I see.” She crossed her arms. “Women find it difficult to take lovers, far more difficult than men do. You haven’t given up that practice.”

He cleared his throat. “I don’t claim to have made any systematic renunciation.”

“Oh, so you’re not England’s Gautama Buddha?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “You want to remain a wealthy, pleasure-seeking rake, just not one who plies a brush?”

He smiled with clenched teeth. Perhaps this was all going rather worse than he’d expected.

“Solidarity with womankind,” she mused. “How do you square that with refusing a woman’s commission?”

“I don’t.” He held her gaze and spoke quietly. “I refused your commission because accepting did not feel possible.”

She must have heard his sincerity. She bit her lip. One of her hands crept up, curled fingers nestled in the notch of her throat.

“There is a physical element.” He admitted it stiffly. “These days, when I contemplate painting, I get headaches—like someone is twisting screws into my skull. A blank spot opens in my vision. It’s not darkness. It’s nothingness.”

Her eyes were widening.

“My hands go numb.” He shoved his hands under his biceps, two tight fists. “I chose to set aside my brush. Picking it up again won’t be as easy.”

She looked shaken, either by the disclosure itself, or by the fact that he’d made it, that he’d spoken to her in a voice rubbed raw. They were inches apart, face-to-face on a lonely rock, the sea rushing past on both sides.

He felt shaken too.

She recovered more quickly. Her brilliant eyes cleared, and the set of her jaw showed her resolve.

“You must talk to James,” she said, with firm decision.

Longing produced a sudden cramp in his heart. She trusted Raleigh absolutely. His closest friendships had once been characterized by that same unwavering assurance.

“I did,” he said hoarsely. “We talked last night. Not about that, about other things.”

“So, you are responsible for his state.” Her brows lowered. “I went into his room this morning and found him snoring on top of the bed with his shoes on.”

“He shares the responsibility.” Kit eased back, putting more distance between them. “If he knows how to cure a hangover, I hope he shares that too.” A rueful smile edged his lips. “I feel like hell.”

She was quiet.

“Wouldn’t you rather he cure whatever keeps you from painting?” she asked after a long moment.

He tipped his head. “The social ill?”

“Your particular complaint.” She seemed to be trying to look inside him. “It could have to do with the nerves.”

“I’ll manage on my own.” He flicked his wrist, dismissive. “Nerves can be steeled.”

“Indeed, they cannot,” she said. “That’s a figure of speech. You need a doctor.”

Frustrated amusement crinkled his brow.

“You are relentless,” he told her. “I need that. I need you. That’s what I came here to say. I’m ready to paint again. Ride with me on that bicycle tour, and I’ll paint anything you please.”

—

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Muriel was staring at Griffith’s face. Usually, when she spoke with people, she stopped actively seeing them. That was how conversation worked. You didn’t watch someone’s mouth move. All the fleshy details faded away, so you could concentrate on the animating intelligence.

But Griffith never faded. His wicked beauty announced itself over and over, like a bloody trumpet. It was vexing in the extreme.

Too many parts of her felt too aware. Her damp forearm was rippling with gooseflesh, but then so was the dry, sleeved one.