‘Might we do that again?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ he said, curling her in an embrace.
He held her on his shoulder and interlaced his fingers in her hair. He kissed her forehead.
‘When did you fall in love with me?’ he asked.
The Emilie that appraised him was not the girl from the trees, but a woman.
‘I didn’t love you when I married you,’ she said. ‘But when you brought me here and gave me the forest, and gave me all that I could ever want, and watched and didn’t try to take it from me, but tried to give me more, then I knew that if I loved, it could only be you. And, even then I do not know if I loved you for sure, but I drew you and could barely sleep because I couldn’t stop examining the likeness of you... Each night before I fall asleep and each morning, the first and last things I must do is to study the drawing of you. I don’t know if I can let you be.’
‘I am fine with that, Emilie. I plan to be a man you can’t leave alone. But I may have the same problem with you. Show me the sketchbook of drawings.’
‘My watercolours?’ she asked, hazy, as his arms captured her.
‘No,’ he whispered, moving closer. ‘The portfolio. The other one. The last one you purchased in London.’
‘It’s for me only.’ She tensed. ‘No one else. No one.’ She curled against him. ‘Lying here with you is so peaceful.’
‘Go and get me the sketchbook, Em,’ he whispered.
She ignored him and he moved and began to gently push her out of bed. ‘Book,’ he insisted.
Groaning, she pulled herself up, found her chemise, donned it and explained, ‘You mustn’t be angry. Or sensitive... To natural beauty.’
Then she slipped away.
Marcus accepted that Emilie might bring the wrong portfolio. He pushed himself out of bed with a sigh and followed her, pulling a sheet snug to cover himself. He knew the kitchen woman or the maid would not come upstairs if they had heard him arrive, but he didn’t want to be surprised.
She retrieved the portfolio from behind her washstand and he found he had lost interest in it temporarily, and pulled it from her hands to toss it to the floor. He enveloped the sheet around the two of them and eased her, with a slight stumble, back on to the bed.
When she lay beside him, he rolled to the edge of the bed and, while on his stomach, reached to the floor and pulled the sketchbook closer. The pages were sturdy and he had to pull the thing almost against the bed before he could get the cover open.
The first drawing, his face half in shadow, half out. The mischievous face of a rake.
He hesitated. The person he didn’t want to be.
Several more sketches followed. Some more like musings on the same page.
Then, one gripped him.
He was perched aloft on the rooftop. Viewing the drawing, if she had captured him accurately, he didn’t comprehend how he kept from falling.
‘Is this a true representation?’
‘My heart was in my throat. I had to turn away. I couldn’t bear to watch you so close to the precipice.’
‘I remember nothing like that.’
‘I gave Mary direction to tell Jonas privately that he was to take greater care because he would receive no payment if you were damaged in any way.’
Marcus remembered the sly laughter of Jonas one day when he’d asked Marcus to leave the edge work to him as he’d not want Lady Grayson to be a widow.
He flipped the page over and felt as she turned to raise above him enough to press her body against his back. He felt her chin between his shoulder blades and her arm at his side.
Another image captured his chest, contoured with muscle.
The next drawing, himself at a distance, jesting with one of the crew members.
One of him shoving a timber into place, finishing the job. The dirt on his trousers had been sketched and the tension in his back.
Then, he opened to the next page and his face stared back at him, life-sized. A man’s likeness—not a youth’s or a reckless spirit. But a representation of determination and strength. He touched the page, aware of the intensity in the portrait.
This was no rake, but a man he’d hesitate to anger.
The next drawing didn’t take the whole of the page, but portrayed him laughing. He’d never seen himself that way.
He leafed forward. His head darted back and he examined the page in front of him. Naked.
One of her fingers trailed along his side. ‘I said I wouldn’t paint you naked. I didn’t say anything about not sketching you. For myself. To calm me. To help me relax at night.’
The next drawing captured him asleep, his torso draped by a sheet. Another one. Without the sheet.
He continued through the book and each page was of him, none alike. One more sketch of his hand holding a glove.
She’d made a drawing of the back of his head, lifted to the sky, his hair curling at his collar. With each flip of paper, he saw a part of himself captured.
These were no drawings of a boy. This was a person who understood the road he travelled. He viewed the countenance of a man following the journey he had planned. A man he would be proud to know and a man who would lead his children into adulthood.
Emilie might some day paint the portraits of their children, but she would not place her own existence on the other side of the room. She would be in the middle, next to him, and surrounded by family.
He closed the book and could not move without dislodging the woman using him as a bed.
‘You draw well. Even the naked ones. You’ve a good memory.’
‘I need another portfolio. That one is almost full. You are my muse, Marc.’
‘Move, then,’ he said, wriggling so that she would, ‘and I will try to give you more inspiration.’
When he had her back safely in his arms, he hugged her tight. ‘And you are my muse and Stormhaven is my artwork. You inspired me to return to a place of happy childhood memories and live in a way that I had not fully imagined and did not believe possible.’