Part 33 (1/2)

If only she could start her visit to the nursery anew. Perhaps she could've said the right things, kept Rebecca from crying, saved the lovely doll from destruction.

There'd been more than rage in Mr. Lioncroft's eyes. There had been pain. He'd taken Rebecca's rejection of his gift as a rejection of himself. And he'd no doubt interpreted Evangeline's clumsy handling of his niece's question as the worst kind of betrayal. He'd trusted her. Trusted her to believe in him when n.o.body else did. Trusted her to help him.

Instead, she'd made everything worse.

Evangeline pressed her ear against the wall and listened.

Mr. Lioncroft wasn't in his office. He wasn't in the dining rooms, the drawing rooms, or the library. And from the sound of it-or lack thereof-he wasn't even roaming the secret pa.s.sageways between his walls.

How was she going to apologize, to explain he hadn't heard what he thought he'd heard, if she couldn't even find him?

She'd almost given up altogether when she recalled his studio.

Her knock on the closed door went unanswered, as did her tentative, ”Gavin?” and her somewhat more forceful, ”Gavin!” Either he was not inside, or he had no wish for her company. Too bad.

Her fingers curved around the bra.s.s doork.n.o.b. The cold metal sent ripples of gooseflesh along her arms. Or perhaps the gooseflesh was due to her impending confrontation with the man within. If he were within. There was but one way to be sure.

With a twist of the handle, she eased the door open.

Large windows graced the far wall. A maze of tall wooden easels cluttered up the interior. Layer upon layer of canvases tilted against all four walls, some bare, some with breath-stealing landscapes. A thick, pungent smell permeated the air with a sharp, strange scent. Paintbrushes, color-smudged palettes, and half-rolled tubes lay atop a table covered in stained cloths. A jumble of wood stacked in one corner next to an unfinished frame.

On the opposite side of the room stood a lone long-limbed figure, feet at shoulder width, thumbs hooked into his waistband, gaze fixed at the sprawling view of wild blackberry fields below.

Evangeline cleared her throat.

He remained motionless.

”I know you're innocent,” she informed him softly. ”I know you've never killed anyone in your life.”

He smiled grimly.

”Rebecca heard rumors, that's all,” she tried again, taking a hesitant step closer. ”I had already told her you didn't do it.”

He didn't respond.

”I apologize,” Evangeline said. ”I didn't mean to hurt you.”

He said nothing.

”Do you want me to leave?”

His jaw tightened.

”Do you want me to stay?”

His muscles twitched.

”May I see Jane's portrait?”

He whirled to face her.

”What would be the point?” he demanded, eyes bleak. ”It's half-finished. It'll never be finished. Now that they're terrified I killed their father, they'll be too frightened to suffer my company, much less sit for me. Rose will take them away and I'll never see them again. Not even on canvas.”

Before she could respond, he strode to an easel facing a small chair. He grimaced at the canvas perched on the crossbar. His hand lifted above his shoulder, then came flying down toward what was no doubt Jane's unfinished portrait.

”No,” Evangeline cried and launched herself across the room.

She tried to throw herself between him and the still-wet canvas-and succeeded.

The edge of his palm barely glanced against her, but a horrified expression engulfed his face.

”Oh, my G.o.d.” His voice was strangled, his face ashen. ”I hit hit you. Oh, my G.o.d.” you. Oh, my G.o.d.”

”You didn't.” She shook her head frantically. ”I swear you didn't. It was me. I didn't want you to ruin the painting. You love your niece. She loves you. Don't look at me like that, Gavin. You didn't hurt me. I'm fine. I'm fine.”

”I didn't mean to hurt you,” he whispered, his voice hoa.r.s.e and raw. ”I would never hurt you.”

”I know. You didn't. I swear.”

He hauled her to his chest and crushed his lips to hers.

She clung to him and opened her mouth to his. He tasted like shock, like fear, like desperation. She gripped his forearms, dug her fingers into hard muscle. His tongue swept across hers, needing, searching. She licked, bit, suckled. He growled and held her closer, tighter, as if afraid to let her go, as if afraid she would would go. She welcomed the pa.s.sionate fury of his kisses, tried to tell him with her tongue and her mouth and her body that she could never leave him alone and hurting, that she couldn't bear to see him in pain. She needed him, trusted him, loved him. go. She welcomed the pa.s.sionate fury of his kisses, tried to tell him with her tongue and her mouth and her body that she could never leave him alone and hurting, that she couldn't bear to see him in pain. She needed him, trusted him, loved him.

Her breath caught. She loved loved him. him.

As if she'd spoken the thought aloud, his embrace gentled, his kiss became sweeter, less demanding. After a moment, he gave her lips a final soft kiss and rested his overly warm forehead against hers.

”I'm sorry,” he said. ”I was...scared.”

The admission sounded as though it had been tortured from his lungs.

”I'm sorry, too,” she said, leaning her cheek against the rapid beating of his heart. ”I didn't mean to scare you.”

He scooped her up, reached the portrait chair in two long strides, cuddled her onto his lap. He kissed her again, hungrily, urgently, as if he couldn't bear not not kissing her. She hoped he never stopped. His hands cradled her face, stroked her hair, nestled her closer. His shaft was hot and rigid against her thigh. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s ached above her stays, the nipples chafing against the unyielding cloth. kissing her. She hoped he never stopped. His hands cradled her face, stroked her hair, nestled her closer. His shaft was hot and rigid against her thigh. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s ached above her stays, the nipples chafing against the unyielding cloth.

”Touch me,” she whispered into his mouth.

For a moment, she thought he would refuse, that she'd been too forward, that he was shocked at her request.

Half a heartbeat later, he sucked in a deep shuddering breath and slid his hand from the back of her neck to her shoulder.

”Here?” he asked, his voice teasing, his eyes dark with pa.s.sion. ”Should I touch you here, on your shoulder?”

”No.” Her nipples tightened in antic.i.p.ation. ”Lower. Please.”