The sight of her easel set up beneath the tree, ready and waiting for her like an old friend, hit Lenora harder than a punch to the stomach. Everything else faded: Margery and Mr. Nesbitt fussing over her things, even Mr. Ashford’s arm under her fingers. She took a deep breath, let her hand slip from the crook of his elbow, and stepped up to the easel. Dread snaked under her skin as she considered the blank paper ready and waiting for her.
The scene, the tools, were all so reminiscent of her youth on the Isle. No setting in London had ever affected her to such a degree. Once again temptation swirled. She had never once wanted to reclaim her joy in creating art since giving it up three years ago. Now, however, the desire surged in her with an intensity that stunned her.
But how could she, when she had so broken Hillram’s heart?
When she had been the one responsible for his death?
As she continued to stare unseeing at the easel, Mr. Ashford came closer. Not close enough to touch, but she felt it all the same, a kind of electricity that scorched the very air between them, sending rivulets of sensation skittering across her oversensitive skin.
“Do you require assistance?” he asked, his voice deep and uncertain.
“No! That is,” she amended with much less force, “I don’t believe so.” Drawing in a breath, she considered the gathered supplies. Her painting box stood at the ready on a small portable table, already propped open. Water was at hand, her brushes and pencils laid out. Even her smock was there, draped over a low stool. And the view itself was impressive, the valley laid out before her like a blanket of green grass and trees, that most important part of Ashford history at the center of it all.
Goodness, but Lady Tesh had thought of everything.
Lenora took up the smock and shrugged into it—only just realizing she could not do up the back herself. She turned Margery’s way, intending to ask for help. But her friend had stepped away and was currently explaining the view to Mr. Nesbitt.
As she was trying to come up with a polite way to interrupt their exchange, Mr. Ashford spoke.
“Please, allow me.”
He was at her back before she could react. There was a pause, the air heavy with anticipation. Lenora didn’t so much as draw breath as she waited.
Suddenly the faintest touch, his fingers a whisper as he grabbed at the tapes on either side of her rib cage. The material pulled against her breasts, the gentle tugging as he did up the back a torturous friction. She drew in a shaky breath, closing her eyes, her head falling forward of its own accord. Soon the tugging stopped, his hands fell away—yet he stayed where he was. She could hear the faint rasp of his breath over the sound of the leaves rustling in the breeze, feel the warmth of it stir the hairs on the nape of her neck.
Heat pooled low in her belly, a warm rush that spread outward, filling her body with a heady need. She swayed back, straining for something, wanting his touch like she needed air to breathe.
With a soft curse, he stepped back and away. She felt it immediately, the loss of him. A chill wind seemed to sweep over her.
A light laugh reached her then. Jolted back to the present, she cleared her throat and managed a quiet “Thank you.” Picking up a pencil, she sat on the stool before the easel. Shaken, she was unable to put pencil to paper for several moments, her hands trembled so. She knew what it must be, though she had never felt it herself: it was desire, plain and simple.
But why him, damn it? Why did she have to feel this for him, the very last man she should have wanted? A cold, unfeeling man who wore a scowl like others wore a ring or a watch fob.
She refused to want him. It would be as easy as blowing out a candle.
Looking at the paper once more, she straightened her shoulders. It should be as easy to paint without emotion. She had done it for the past three years, after all. Pressing her lips tight, she raised the pencil to the waiting paper and began to sketch.
* * *
Why in hell had he offered to tie that damn apron? The sight of the graceful curve of her neck had been torture. As it still was. He eyed it in a haze. How he longed to press his lips there, to run his tongue over the sensitive flesh.
He tugged at his cravat, turning away from the sight of her. Her gown was a bit overdone and ostentatious, with the ridiculous flounces at the hem and the fussy puffed sleeves. Even so, she looked as fresh as spring leaves in the pale green concoction, her hair in cunning curls that danced enticingly against her throat. He would take a walk, he decided. He would take a walk, and not stop walking until he came to the sea.
Maybe not even then.
Before he could take a step, Mrs. Kitteridge, who had returned to her own easel, spoke. “Mr. Ashford, my grandmother bid me to tell you the history of the place, if you’re amenable.”
What could he do but acquiesce? With minimal grumbling, he moved closer to her, as far from Miss Hartley as he could manage. The shade was pleasant where they stood, the grasses green and fragrant. From here he could barely discern a rectangular-shaped indention in the valley below, several holes marking its perimeter. He settled in against an obliging tree and gave her a curt nod to continue.
She turned back to her easel. Beside her, Miss Hartley was already at work, her pencil scratching against her paper.
“You know, of course, that this island is called the Isle of Synne,” Mrs. Kitteridge began, squinting out over the valley. “What you may not know is that it was named after our ancestor, an Anglo-Saxon maiden. She lived on this very spot; those markings in the ground below are the only thing left of her former home.”
Peter had not felt an ounce of connection to this Isle since arriving. Yet he felt a tremor go through him at Mrs. Kitteridge’s words. His eyes traced the depression, seeing now the outline of a house, the deeper holes no doubt the remains of where posts once stood.
“How long ago was this?” he found himself asking.
“Oh, I’d say nearly a thousand years ago. There are no official records, of course. Just stories passed down from generation to generation.”
“A millennium?” Quincy whistled, even as he looked over Mrs. Kitteridge’s shoulder at the sketch she was making. “That’s an impressive lineage to be able to trace, even without the title.”
“You think that because you’ve been in America for half your life,” Peter drawled, “where everyone is as bright and new as freshly minted pennies.”
“D’you think they dropped out of the sky then?” Quincy countered. “You’ve been there with me for the past thirteen years, old man. I’d think you would be better informed than that.”
“Thirteen years? Is that when you left England?” Miss Hartley’s musical voice broke through the good-natured banter. When Peter looked her way, there was a faint flush to her cheeks.
“Yes,” he said. “My mother died and I left for America.”
“You must have been very young. Just a boy.”
“I was young, yes,” he replied quietly. “Too young.” A moment later, he wondered why he’d said such a thing. It was her eyes, perhaps. There was a compassion there that touched his very soul. That made him want to open up in ways he hadn’t with anyone before.
Unnerved by the direction his mind was taking, he turned back to Mrs. Kitteridge. She had stopped to stare at him as well. “You were saying, madam,” he prompted, eager to let the strange moment pass.
She jerked in surprise and flushed. “Ah, yes. Synne.” She cleared her throat and turned back to her easel. “This was the time of the Viking colonization, you know, of Danelaw. The Norsemen were not welcome here, though the land was theirs by right. The villagers had a long memory, and did not forget the raiding of their monastery a century before. And so, when the Vikings came to settle the island, they were met with barely banked hostility. Synne was no different. She despised the Norsemen. She might have gone the way of many others in history, forgotten over the intervening years, a mere stepping-stone in the grand scheme of it all.”
Here she stopped, frowned, and erased a section of her drawing. Peter nearly growled his impatience. “What happened then?” he demanded, pushing away from the tree. Mrs. Kitteridge, however, was not listening. Instead she was talking quietly to Quincy as she attempted to fix whatever muddle her sketch had become mired in. Peter blew out a frustrated breath.
“One of the Vikings fell in love with her,” came Miss Hartley’s quiet voice.
He spun to face her. “I’m sorry?”
Her gaze darted to him for a moment before returning to her paper. “Synne dared to stand up to the Norseman Ivar. He resented being on the island, wanted to be sent to the mainland and the Jarldoms there, where the Danish political centers were located.”
Now that was something he understood only too well, Peter thought acidly, being forced someplace you had no wish to be.
“But Synne captivated him,” Lenora continued. “Despite himself, he fell in love with her.”
Her voice had taken on a magical cadence, drawing him in. Without knowing he was doing so, he stepped closer to her. “How do you know the story so well?”
She shrugged. “I came to stay with Lady Tesh often as a girl. This island is like a second home to me.” Her lips quirked, softening her face. “Margery and I begged her to tell us the stories every chance we got. And how could we not be fascinated? The Viking warrior, a brave maiden, true love.” Her smile wavered for a second, like a flame in a gust of wind, before it vanished, casting her face in shadows.
Was she thinking of Hillram and their doomed engagement? A sour feeling sat heavily in his gut at the thought. Confused—for it was unlike any emotion he had ever felt before—he slid his gaze from her profile to her drawing.
The valley was laid out on the paper, the minimal lines of her sketch imbuing a perfect—if strangely emotionless—sense of the place. Peter had the sudden desire to ask what had happened to Synne. Had she and her Viking lived happily together? At the last minute, however, he stopped himself. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to ruin this moment with the truth of it. For he knew, in his gut, that things could not have ended happily for the couple.
Perhaps there was a curse on this place if that was true. He looked at Miss Hartley’s downcast profile. For wasn’t she suffering through her own failed chance at love?
Again that sour feeling in his belly. Surely this wasn’t jealousy. He could not be jealous of the hold some dead man had on Miss Hartley’s affections.
Perhaps that walk wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Without a word, Peter turned and strode away, down the back of the rise. Leaving his confusing feelings back in the grass at Miss Hartley’s feet.