Chapter 6
The next morning Honoria studied the eyes on the canvas she spent over two hours painting. Something still bothered her about the lines. She was missing an important detail. The color was perfectly captured, and the creases at the corner of his eyes painted to perfection. Still, there seemed to be an element missing.
Essence. Soul.
She tapped the paintbrush against her chin, considering her work. She had never been a painter of note. Calling her work paintings was perhaps overstating her creations. And the only people who saw her art were her family.
Honoria bit back a smile.
Her brothers’ expressions were mostly looks of barely disguised horror when confronted with her art.
However, eyeswereher forte. If she could paint nothing else, she could paint them. And she always captured the person’s essence. Except for now. Except with Lash. And she couldn’t figure out why.
It was remarkably frustrating.
She peered over her canvas to the man, who lay sleeping on the big canopy bed, oblivious to her internal struggle. Perhaps it was something about his face that obscured the element of his eyes. A shadow or the grimace of pain crossing his features whenever he moved.
Her gaze roamed over his bare chest, a shiver of awareness sparking up her spine before she lifted her gaze . . . And locked onto pools of green.
“Oh!” Startled, Honoria dropped the paintbrush. “You are awake!”
His eyes pierced straight through her. “What are you doing?”
“Painting you,” she murmured, bending to snatch up the brush. “More precisely your eyes.”
“I’m pretty sure my eyes were closed when you snuck into the chamber.”
“I do not have to sneak anywhere, I am your healer, and I came to heal. Besides, it’s better to be in the presence of the person you are painting.”
“Have you ever healed anyone from painting their portrait?”
“Nay.”
“But you have healed a stab wound?”
She lifted her chin. “Of course.”
“Before me.”
Honoria blushed at his obvious skepticism. “Nay, but I’ve read tons of books on herbs and healing methods.”
“And that makes you an expert?”
“How else does one become an expert at something if not by studying the text and applying that knowledge on a subject?”
“So I’m your subject?” he muttered, shifting into a sitting position.
“Do not sound so put out. You are still alive are you not?”
He grunted in response. “I don’t recall commissioning a portrait.”
“Nay, that is why I’m not charging you for my work.”
“How lucky for me.”
Honoria waved his beastly tone aside. She was used to men and their moods and turned her attention back to her work. She brushed a few strokes on the canvas, her eyes darting to him after a moment. Then down to his chest. “Your tattoo . . . is it a dragon or a snake-like beast?”
“Both,” he answered. “It’s a symbol of strength and power. I acquired it on my travels.”
