“You cannot rush inspiration,” he said shortly, sitting forward as if he were tempted to launch from his chair. “You do not snap your fingers and it comes running like a trained dog. You have to wait for it, coax it.”
“I wasn’t—” She bit her lip. “I shouldn’t have spoken. I sometimes say things without thinking. I don’t know why, but it just comes out and it always sounds far worse than I meant, and— Well, I’m sorry.”
His gaze never wavered from her face, but some of the tension left him. After a long moment, he said thoughtfully, “It is not often I meet someone who will admit their flaws.”
“Oh, I have plenty,” she said with a rueful smile. “Shall I list them?”
His eyes warmed with humor. “Do we have the time? I’ve only three weeks to finish this project.”
She laughed, and lowered the moonstone to her hip, resting it there. “I’ll spare you, then.”
He leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking as he did so.
She suddenly realized that he hadn’t stood when she’d entered the room, which was basic courtesy. But she rather like his casualness, for it allowed her to be the same. “I hope you find your inspiration soon.”
“I will. You mother was quite thorough. Before I came, she sent the measurements of the existing fireplace. I’ve already completed the mantelpiece, header, and trim panels. I carved them at my studio at home, and had them brought here. Now, all I have left are the pillars. I wanted to see the room before I made any decisions, as they require the most artistry.”
She had no idea what any of those things were – a header, trim panels, pillars – but she knew what a mantel was, so she nodded as if she understood. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how do you find your muse?”
“You don’t. She must find you. All you can do is surround yourself with things that inspire her to speak.”
Charlotte absently ran her thumb over the moonstone. For some reason the simple gesture soothed her jumpy heart. “I hope you find it soon, for this fireplace is sadly insufficient. Will the pieces you’ve already completed fit?”
“Easily, but now that I see the room and have studied the light, I realize the pillars must be larger than I’d originally thought.”
The moonstone weighed heavily, so she shifted it forward so it would no longer dig into her hip.
Her movement caught Marco’s gaze. “What is that?” he asked.
“I have no idea. I’ve never seen it before.” She raised her brows. “It’s not yours?”
“It was on the mantel when I came in. I’d never seen it before today.” His eyes shimmered with humor. “You, meanwhile, were talking to that stone while staring into it as if finding life’s secrets.”
“It’s pretty.” She looked down at it now, noting that the moonstone still glowed softly. “It could be a paperweight.”
“That base would not work. It would mark papers.”
She curled her nose. Practical people were so annoying. “So it’s not a paperweight. And I know it’s not a candlestick, as there’s no place to hold a candle. Maybe it’s a—Ah! Perhaps it’s a finial for a bed or something.”
“A finial?”
“For the posts. Although it’s so heavy, I can’t see how it would remain fixed in place.” She tilted her head to one side and squinted at it, hoping another view might help. “It could be an ornamental end for a staircase railing, but moonstones are notoriously delicate, so I doubt that. Maybe it’s a—”
“For the love of God, woman.” He arose with a lithe movement and strode across the rug to where she stood. He held out his hand. “Let me see that blasted thing.”
It was an imperious gesture and she was tempted to refuse, but for some reason, his impatience amused her, so she handed him the stone.
He took it, hefting it one hand. “It could be a doorstop.”
“Does it weigh enough?”
“No,” he said reluctantly. “Not for the size of doors in this house.”
She nodded. Like many very old houses, the huge oak doors had been designed to make enemies quake as they imagined giants walking the halls.
He flipped the object over and examined the base. “The carving is ornate.” His brows knit, he peered closer. “It’s old. Ancient even. As many carvings and sculptures as I’ve examined, I’ve never seen this particular style before.” He brushed his thumb over the gold claw, rubbing it back and forth.
She tried not to look at his hands and failed, her mouth going dry. His hands were large and calloused, beautifully formed and yet strong. As an artist’s hands should be, she decided. She hadn’t paid Robert’s hands much attention, but she was certain they didn’t look like these.
Until now, she hadn’t realized how disappointing that was.
Marco held the object up to the light and the moonstone gleamed anew, casting a warm shadow over his stubbled face. “I wonder . . .” He held it out, as if to visualize it in use. “Ah! I know what it is. It’s the head of a royal mace or scepter.”
A royal mace. Fascinating. She looked at it with wonder. “It’s beautifully made.”
“It’s well done.” He shrugged. “But I’ve seen better.”
As if it had been bumped by an invisible hand, the mace head flipped to one side, falling from Marco’s grasp. He tried to catch it, but it slipped through his fingers and landed squarely on his foot.
She winced at the solid thud of metal hitting his leather boot. Marco cursed through clenched teeth, muttering a string of Italian invectives that made her glad she only knew the barest rudiments of the language.
He left the mace head on the floor and limped a few steps away, shaking his foot as if to shed the pain. Every step or two, he’d cast a furious glare at the stone, still muttering vivid curses.
Fearful for the safety of the unruly moonstone, Charlotte scooped it up and returned it to the mantel where she’d found it.
“That thing should be tossed into that lake you’re so fond of riding around,” he declared, his teeth still clenched.
She shot him a curious look. “How do you know I’ve been riding the lake path?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped. “Just get rid of that cursed thing!”
“I like it. You should be more careful how you handle it. It’s an antique, as you said, and moonstones are fragile.”
“That ‘fragile’ moonstone broke my toe.”
She cocked a disbelieving look at him. “You think it’s broken?”
He moved his foot in a careful circle. “Perhaps not,” he admitted reluctantly, though his scowl remained in place.
“Keep moving it,” she ordered. “A few more minutes and your toe won’t even hurt.”
Reluctant amusement softened his ire. “You don’t know that.”
“No,” she admitted. “But I’m hoping it’s true.”
“Hope has never cured a broken toe.”
“As far as you know,” she retorted. She glanced at the mace head where it sat on the mantel. “I wish I had three more to use as finials. I’d rather have them mounted on my bedposts than the carved pineapples Mama has put there.” She made a face. “It’s a wonder they haven’t given me nightmares.”
“You think four scaled claws holding oddly gleaming stones would give you fewer nightmares than some harmless pineapples?”
“At night, the pineapples look like angry faces. Compared to them, this is a beautiful piece of art.”
“Yes, well, you didn’t even know what that bloody thing was before I figured it out, so . . . .” He shrugged.
“I know now. It’s a mace head,” she said in a smug tone. “A royal mace head. I know because an art expert told me.”
Marco’s toe hurt too much for him to laugh, but he couldn’t help a reluctant smile. She was as charming and fresh as the morning sun. She was quick witted, this intriguing woman, flashing between awkward pronouncements to good-humored teasing so quickly that it was dizzying. Her spirit was a heady mixture of cautious pride and mi
schievous innocence, and the combination was shockingly potent.
Even now, he found himself wondering what she’d do if he pulled her to him and kissed her smile from her soft lips, drinking from them like sweet wine.
“Admit it,” she said. “The mace head is beautiful.”
No, you are beautiful, not that ridiculous carving. “I am no expert on random metal and stone objects. All I know is this: I don’t trust that blasted claw, and with reason.” He eyed it now. Right before it fell on his foot, it had twisted from his grasp as if leaping on its own power. Almost as if it hadn’t liked what he’d just said—
Good God, I’m conjecturing on what a vexatious hunk of metal thinks. What madness is this? What was it about this place, this woman, that made his mind leap to the most impossible thoughts?
Unaware he was now questioning his own sanity, she mused aloud, “I’ll ask Simmons how it came to be here. He knows everything that happens under this roof, so—” Her own words seemed to catch her, for she stopped and looked at Marco. “Simmons knew you were here.”
“Of course he does. Surely you didn’t think I’d snuck in through a window like a thief?” He could see from the pink rising in her cheeks that she’d thought exactly that. “I’ve been visiting at different times of the day so I can observe how the light moves through the room. Your butler’s only request was that I shouldn’t wander into the rest of the house, which I was more than happy to promise.”
“If you’d dressed the way I first saw you, I daresay he would have allowed you to go wherever you wished.”
God, but he loved it when she let her gaze roam over him, as warm and intimate as a touch. He found it especially gratifying when he remembered that she’d ignored him for nigh on three entire days now.
His pride had been wounded by that. After their kiss in the woods, he’d wrongly believed she would use her assigned task of overseeing his progress on the fireplace as an excuse to visit him. Like a fool, he’d even attempted to keep his workshop clear of annoying dust in preparation of her visit. But she’d made no effort to see him.
To make matters worse, every morning since that day, he’d watched from his workshop window as she rode out into the misty morning forest on the back of her white mare.
He’d come to hate that blasted window. Thank God I’m not home or my brothers and sisters would recognize my folly and tease me mercilessly.
They would be right to do so, too. The sad fact was that he was spoiled. Women loved an artist. And as an artist, he had an endless appreciation of the beauty of the female face and body, of the hollows and shadows, of the soft lines and graceful curves. He loved their shy and seductive smiles, their soft laughter, and – when the mood suited him – their heated embraces in a rumpled bed. Women, young and old, vied for his attention and never had one ignored him.
All except this one, who chose instead to eye him with all the enthusiasm of a lamb facing a rabid wolf.
She tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear. “I should leave you to your work.” She turned from the mantel and walked away, limping toward the door.
He’d noticed that limp when she’d come into the room, but had forgotten it while examining that cursed mace head. “Wait.”
She turned to look at him.
“You’re limping. Did you—"
“Don’t.”
The word cut him off as cleanly as a sharpened knife, her shoulders so stiff that he caught himself before he spoke again. “I’m sorry,” he said cautiously. “Have I said something wrong?”
She took several steps away, and he could tell she was now painfully aware of her uneven gait, as it worsened with each step. Face red, she stopped by the line of chairs near the wall which he’d just left, her hands trembling where she smoothed her skirts. “I limp,” she said shortly. “It is not an injury.”
“You don’t need to say more.”
“I won’t.”
He thought back to when they’d met in the woods. She’d walked with an uneven gait then, he realized with some surprise, but he’d blamed it on the rough forest floor. Aware she still watched him, he shrugged. “Whatever it is, I don’t give a damn. Not one.”
Her gaze had grown shadowed and she watched him with her lashes lowered.
Was she wondering how much she should tell him? How much he deserved to know? Very little, he decided regretfully. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he said quietly. “I was just concerned.”
Her expression darkened instantly. “I don’t need more people worrying about me!”
“Then I won’t.”
Her gaze narrowed.
“I mean it.” He spread his hands wide. “If you say you don’t need me to worry about you, then I’ll stop.”
She looked at him a minute, an array of emotions flickering over her expressive face. Finally, her shoulders slumped, and she grimaced. “I’m being ridiculous. I’m just tired of people acting as if I’m unable to care for myself.”
“I never—”
“My spine is crooked.” The words ripped from her lips with the rat-a-tat-tat of a hard rain. “I was not born this way, but as I grew, my back began to curve. My parents brought doctors and physicians and even charlatans to Nimway.” A haunted look entered her eyes. “But nothing helped.”
“The treatments were difficult.” He didn’t ask, for her expression said it all.
She nodded. “They tried potions, oils, braces, and – Oh God, everything. It got a little worse each year until I stopped growing. That put an end to it. It has gotten no worse for years now, and the doctors have left. So I am what I am and I can live with that.”
She lived with it very well, he decided. “You didn’t need to tell me all of this, but I appreciate your trust.”
She rubbed her forehead. “I’m not sure why I told you. But perhaps it’s better that I did. People notice, of course. Most of the time they won’t ask, which I prefer. Some of them stare when they think I’m not looking, which I hate, while others avoid looking at me at all, as if I were invisible.”
“I can see you perfectly well, even when you’re telling me my toe is not broken, when I know it is.”
She chuckled, humor washing away her irritation. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not repeating empty platitudes or pitying me. I can’t stand either.”
“I could never pity you; I’ve seen you ride that brute of a mare you call a horse.”
A hint of satisfaction warmed her smile. “Angelica can be a handful.”
“Not for you. I’ve watched you ride out each and every morning since I arrived, and you never falter.” He leaned forward. “I know your secret.”
Her expression shuttered, though her smile remained in place. “Secret?”
“Oh yes. You might sedately trot that beast from the stables with you looking like a maiden of meek and proper manners, but as soon as you’re out of view of prying eyes, you set that animal to a wild gallop and ride until it must feel as if you’re flying.”
Her eyes sparkled. “It does. I don’t limp when I ride.”
“No one does. If we’re to be honest, I must admit that I hadn’t noticed this curve you’ve mentioned. But then I’ve been too busy admiring other parts of you. Your eyes, your hair, the boldness of your nose—”
She slapped her hand over her nose.
He chuckled. “Don’t cover it. I find your nose is fascinating or I wouldn’t have mentioned it. There are more parts of you that I admire, but sadly, as they were involved in a kiss that never happened, I can say no more.”
This time she was the one who laughed. God, but it was good to see the sadness disappear from her eyes. He felt as if he’d accomplished something worthwhile. Something exquisite.
Still chuckling, her gaze dropped to the discarded papers he’d left crumpled on the floor which were now at her feet. Curiosity flickered over her face and she bent to pick one up, but he was quicker, scooping up the crumpled pages and carrying th
em to the fire. Soon they were sputtering in the flames.
“Why did you do that?”
“If they were good ideas, they wouldn’t have been wadded up on the floor.”
She watched the pages turn to ash. “There were a lot of them. That doesn’t reflect well on your muse.”
“My muse is a vengeful wench who finds it amusing to mislead me repeatedly.” Satisfied his ruined sketches were where they belonged, he crossed his arms and watched them waft up the chimney, nothing left but glowing ashes.
She slanted him a look. “You have no idea what you’re going to do with these pillars.”
“Not yet, but I will.”
“I’m surprised Mama gave you so much leeway.”
Arms still crossed, he sighed and addressed the ceiling. “Do you hear the way this one insults me? She doubts me openly and will not even pretend she thinks me capable.”
“Are you talking to your muse?”
“No, to God. No one else would believe what nonsense I must put up with for my art.”
Her eyes twinkled with suppressed laughter. “I didn’t mean to suggest you were incapable in any way, especially not the son of a famous painter.” She shot him a curious glance. “Is that how my mother found you? Through your father?”
“No. I installed a number of statues in the garden of a convent in France, along with a large fountain. Your mother and father visited a few years later and admired my work. The abbess gave my name to your mother. Eight months ago, she wrote asking if I’d accept this commission.”
“So you’ve never met?”
“Sadly, no. But if she likes my work, she’s promised to recommend me to the Queen. That is why I accepted the offer, although it was generous enough on its own. Such a recommendation will lift my reputation. And if I can fulfill a commission for the Queen, then I am made.”