“Hamish?”
He nodded. “He reminds me of a fellow I went to school with who had just such a lugubrious expression. Hardly ever cracked a smile. Always looked gloomy.”
“He’s not at all gloomy,” she objected. “He’s perfectly sweet.”
Perfectly sweet?The dog was huge, shaggy and grim-looking, the kind of dog you’d go down a dark alley to avoid. Anything less sweet you’d be hard-pressed to come across.
“At least he’s clean.”
“Yes, and I have some very good ointment that my sist— I mean a girl I know made, which will help heal those nasty sores where the chain rubbed him raw.”
Reynard hadn’t missed the slip of the tongue. So there was a sister, was there? And she’d said she was all alone in the world.
“So,” he said, changing the subject, “what did you get up to today?”
She jumped, flinching at his words, and gave him a look that was a curious mix of horror and guilt. “Oh no. I quiteforgot. In all the excitement of meeting Hamish, I forgot to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
She bit her lip, almost chewing on it. “I did something today. Something bad.”
“Did you, now?” He hid a smile. No doubt she’d bathed naked in the stream or something of that sort. Nothing could dampen his good mood—actually, the thought of her naked in the stream only added to it, especially since their frolics there with the dog. The way her damp dress had clung to every curve…
Even before he’d rescued the dog, he’d been well pleased with his day’s work. He’d run into Gaudet at the village tavern, where the man was telling anyone who’d listen that he was having his portrait—and that of his prize pig—painted by a famous artist.
Reynard had then explained to Gaudet’s audience his “old for new” arrangement, where they would retain the ornate, gold-leafed frames—for many, the frames were the best part, he knew—and they would exchange their unwanted painting for a painting of whatever subject they desired. Two men had immediately hurried home to fetch their old paintings, and after a cursory glance—and careful not to show his excitement—he’d agreed to accept them.
This trip was proving to be very successful. Miss Vita-from-the-Latin had brought him luck.
His painting would need to be left for a day or two to dry thoroughly before he put it in the frame. He bent to check the soup that was heating and stirred it, saying, “So, are you going to tell me what you did that’s so bad?”
“I did something to your painting.” She swallowed convulsively. “I painted over it.”
He jerked his head up, frowning. “You painted over my painting?”
She nodded.
He swore under his breath. “Where is it?”
“In the wagon.” She was almost in tears, he could see, but dammit, so she should be. If she’d ruined his work…
He hurried to the wagon, grabbed the painting and stepped outside with it to examine the damage in the fading light.
And froze, staring. It most certainly wasn’t the painting he’d left to dry the previous night. It was…amazing. The skin tones—he’d painted them pink, but now they were…flesh, with texture and depth. And how she’d done it, he had no idea, but somehow, the personality of each person was now there, on the canvas: Gaudet with his pride in his pig, and Madame Gaudet with her caution and her kindness. All kinds of tiny details had been added that made it look as though the people, as well as the pig, could step out of the frame and walk away.
“Youdid this?” he said eventually.
“Yes. I’m so very sorry.” Her voice was husky. “I only meant to touch up a few small things, but then I…got a bit carried away.”
He stared at her, his little maidservant traveling companion, then back at the painting, then back at her. “You painted over my people?”
Dumbly she nodded, the picture of remorse.
He carefully set the painting down, then swooped on her, picked her up and twirled her around. She clutched at his shoulders. The dog barked, but he took no notice. “It’s brilliant! Utterly brilliant. And you did it?” He still could barely believe it.
When he finally put her down, letting her slide down his body, she gaped up at him. “You don’t mind?”
“Mind? Does it look like I mind?” He stared down at her, amazed at the difference she had made to his painting. He’d always known that portraits of people were his weakness, and she’d just demonstrated why.
