She didn’t move, didn’t push him away, just stood there, gazing up at him, flushed, a little doubtful, a little shy, herrosy lips parted. Soft, satiny, inviting lips. Without thought he kissed her. He’d meant it to be just an exuberant buss of a kiss, but after the first brief taste of her, he stopped, stared down at her for a long moment.
In the distance he heard the shriek of a fox. She didn’t react. He bent and brushed his mouth lightly over hers. The barest brush of skin against skin. She didn’t move. Her eyes were in shadow; he could not read her expression.
But she made no move to escape, so he did it again, grazing his mouth over her lips. He could feel her breath. A sweet tremor of heat. A wisp of sensation.
She shivered against him, but still she made no move to step away.
He was only human. So he kissed her again. Properly.
Her mouth softened under his, and her lips parted. She twined her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, returning his kiss with shy eagerness, loosing a ravening hunger deep within him. He pulled her hard against him, deepening the kiss, inflamed by the taste of her, the feeling of her in his arms.
Heat spiraled through him, and he drew her closer, feeling her softness pressing against him, against the hardness of his arousal.
He was brought to a realization of what he was doing when the dog thrust his damp nose in between them and shoved. Heart pounding, Reynard forced himself to release her and step back. Thank goodness for the dog’s intervention. If he hadn’t, they would have ended up taking things too far.
She was an innocent, he reminded himself, a girl who’d sacrificed her secure job in defense of her virtue. Who was he to seduce her on a whim?
Although, was it a whim, or something more? He didn’t like to think about it. It simply wasn’t possible.
Shaken by the strength of his reaction, he turned away and bent over the fire again, piling on twigs to get theflames burning—though there were enough flames burning inside him.
He busied himself tending to the soup, then feeling that he’d finally gained control of himself, he turned to her.
She hadn’t moved, just stood there, her hand resting on the dog’s head—she didn’t even need to bend—gazing at him with an expression he couldn’t read.
“I’ve never been able to paint people,” he said, deciding to be matter-of-fact. “I normally travel with a partner, and he does the people and I do the animals and the backgrounds. But he got married last year, and his bride wasn’t willing to take to a wagon, and he wasn’t willing to leave her, so I thought I’d try to do it all myself. I know it wasn’t very good, but for Gaudet the pig was the thing, and the pig turned out well. But what you did—”
“You really don’t mind?”
“Not in the least.” He grinned. “In fact, I think you should marry me. We’ll make the perfect painting partnership.”
She laughed. “And become your fourth wife? I don’t think so.”
“No, but seriously, I’m delighted with it. You can really see Gaudet and his wife now, and you’ve managed to make them really look like themselves—I mean their personalities show through, not just their appearance. How did you do that?”
“Oh, well…” Blushing, she made a self-deprecatory gesture.
“No, I mean it, there’s not just talent in what you’ve achieved, there is skill and real technique. So how did a maidservant learn to paint like that?”
She wrinkled her nose, looking uncomfortable. He waited. “I’m curious.” He really wanted to know. She’d been an enigma from the start, and now she was even more of a mystery.
The dog suddenly pricked up his ears. Then like a wraithin the night, he disappeared into the scrub surrounding their campsite. She gazed after him, then turned to Reynard with a question in her eyes.
“Shouldn’t we—?” she began.
He shook his head. “If he wants to leave, I won’t make him stay.” He squashed a sense of disappointment at the dog’s abandonment. “Now, you were about to tell me how you learned to paint like that,” he reminded her.
“Oh, yes.” She squirmed a little under his gaze. “Well, I’ve always liked drawing, but of course, I never had a chance to practice it. And even if I could get pencils and paper—let alone paints—orphanages find that kind of thing frivolous, even sinful.”
“So what changed?”
She frowned at him, then sighed and looked away. “In my first position the daughter of the house was getting lessons; the upper classes consider painting—mainly watercolors—a desirable ladylike accomplishment. I was sent to sit with her as a kind of chaperone, even though I was quite young—the artist engaged to teach her was a handsome young man. The young lady had little interest in painting and no skill, but she did like the young man—she was a terrible flirt—and she wanted to prolong the lessons as long as possible. So she got me to do her paintings while she flirted with the tutor. The artist said I was talented, and he taught me a great deal.”
“Fortunate for you,” he said dryly.
“Yes, wasn’t it?”
He served up the soup in silence. He wasn’t sure he believed her story, though it could explain her ability, at least some of it. But the techniques she’d demonstrated in bringing the Gaudets to life were the result of advanced study and skill with oil paints, not merely a few happenstance lessons in painting pretty scenes in watercolors.
