Chapter 5 #2
Bonnie gasped again, her fingers tightening around his.
“Oh, Lyon…they are beautiful,” she eventually whispered.
And she was right.
Rose had been the most talented painter he’d ever met.
Her landscapes had managed to not just capture the appearance of the Highlands around Oliphant Castle, but the essence as well.
When he studied her paintings, Lyon could smell the heather and feel the wind off the loch ruffling his hair.
He could almost hear the crossbills and the geese, and he knew this was what he loved most about his home.
Hesitantly, Bonnie lifted her hand and brushed her fingers across one of the frames. “These are Rose Oliphant’s, are they not? The paintings you told me I could not use for my book?”
Mutely, he nodded. But the silence stretched, awkward now, and he felt compelled to fill it up.
“She was my wife.”
Bonnie whirled to face him, her blue eyes wide with shock, and he dipped his chin in acknowledgement. He should’ve told her sooner.
His gaze crept to one of his favorite paintings, that of a lone oak tree on a hill. It was mainly done in greens and blues, but somehow, the feel of the image was haunting, not cheerful. It was an old, silent tree, used to being alone…and he understood its pain.
“Rose was a Mackenzie, and our fathers arranged the match. She didnae particularly want to marry me. I’ve been gruff and harsh and cruel since before—this.”
He gestured weakly to his ruined face, but her fingers tightened around his.
“You are not cruel, Lyon. You are stoic and gruff, yes, but not harsh or cruel.”
Let her believe that.
“All she wanted was to paint, and once I saw her work, I was determined to allow her any opportunity she craved. She asked for a separate building to work, and I had the stables renovated for her use. I believe, once she saw I appreciated her talent and wouldnae keep her from using it, she began to soften toward me.”
She squeezed again. “I am glad,” she said softly. “So your marriage was happy?”
He shrugged. “Happy enough. We were married for three years, and I loved her. How could I no’ feel something for someone who could produce such splendor?”
Bonnie was silent for a long moment, gazing up at the paintings. “I think I understand.”
And he thought maybe she did.
Taking a deep breath, she tilted her head back to stare up at the highest framed artwork. “I also understand why you did not want to share this with me. If this is all you have to remember your wife, I understand not wanting to share it with the world.”
He was already shaking his head. “Last night—” Nay, that was not how he wanted to start this. “I kenned ye’d appreciate this library. I kenned ye’d understand her paintings.”
There. That much was true.
“Thank you,” she breathed, turning to face him. She reached out and took his other hand so they were standing facing one another. “Thank you for sharing all of this with me. It—”
Was it his imagination, or did her voice catch on some thick emotion?
“Thank you for trusting me,” she said.
“I do,” he whispered, before he could think better of it. “Last night—” Nay, not that again. “I want ye to ken ye have access to anything in this library for as long as ye’re at Oliphant Castle. Longer.” He shook his head, knowing he sounded like a fool. “I mean, for yer writing, yer books.”
The joy which bloomed over her face nearly took out his knees.
“Thank you,” she repeated. “But…”
When she trailed off, and glanced up at the paintings again, he was the one to squeeze her hands. “What?”
“I came here hoping to find one or two paintings I could reproduce for my manuscript. You know, a view of Highland history from the paintbrush of a woman. But…” Sadly, she shook her head and met his eyes, one side of her lips curled wryly, drawing his attention to them.
“But what?” he demanded, knowing his voice was harsh. He couldn’t help it—not with her lips so close, and so goddamned kissable.
“She deserves better. I know the technology exists, the printing presses exist, to do her paintings justice, to faithfully reproduce them…but I do not own any. When I bought Mr. Grimm’s publishing company, I had no idea I would still mourn what I did not have.
” She shrugged. “But to sketch one of Rose’s paintings to reproduce it in my book would be a travesty.
Besides, I am not nearly good enough at sketching reproductions. ”
“I am.” When her brows twitched in surprise, Lyon didn’t have time to wonder why he was volunteering. “I’m verra good at sketching designs and schematics. I could reproduce artwork for yer book.”
She cocked her head to one side and stepped closer. “You would do that for me?”
I would do anything for ye.
Where had that thought come from? He’d only just met the woman, so why did it feel as though he’d known her forever?
“Aye,” he croaked.
And suddenly her smile bloomed. God Almighty, had he ever thought her plain? Not a beauty? When she smiled like that, he felt it in his chest. He felt it in his bollocks, certainly, his cock stiffening beneath his kilt.
“I will take you up on your offer, Lyon,” she said his name softly, her gaze traveling along the highest shelves. “This is the most wonderful gift anyone has ever given me.”
He didn’t answer. He wasn’t certain he could.
Go, he told himself. Find Keith. Hit something until yer head is clear.
He stayed.
She began to move through the shelves, and he watched her the way he’d been watching her for days now, with the helpless attention of a man who had… Well, frankly, a man who had forgotten there was anything worth looking at in this dark world.
She trailed her fingers along the spines, pulled volumes out and put them back, made those soft sounds of discovery which he told himself he shouldn’t silently catalogue.
The little exhale that meant she’d found something unexpected.
The hum that meant she was already composing questions.
The occasional murmured fragment of a sentence, talking to herself, or to the book, or to no one at all.
He became aware, distantly, that he hadn’t moved in quite some time.
The fire, he thought.
He ought to light it—the room was cold, the winter light through the small window doing nothing to warm the stone. But lighting the fire meant staying, and he was already pretending he wasn’t doing that.
Still. The room was cold. She’d been sleeping in his old shirts because she hadn’t the clothing for this weather, and the least he could do—
He crossed to the hearth and began to build the fire.
He was aware of her noticing, and of her not commenting, and found he was grateful for both.