Dragon Rose (16 page)

And she went to him, and pushed back the hood, and smiled, seemingly untroubled by the ruin of his face. Then she kissed him, and kissed him again. Alende was so startled he made no protest at first, but at length he took her hands and pushed her away, saying she must be mad to do such a thing.

In reply she only laughed, and told him it was the madness of love, that she had grown to love him without knowing what his face looked like, so what difference could it possibly make now? He stared down at her in wonder, and realized she spoke only the truth, and cared little for his disfigurement. Joy filled his heart, and he drew her to him and kissed her back, before asking if she would stay with him forever, and be his wife.

They lived a long and happy life together after that, and although her love did not cure what the curse had done to his face, it did heal the blight in his soul, for he had found someone who could look past his scars to see him as he truly was. And their love became a beacon for all around them…

I closed the book. Was this what Theran was trying to tell me? Did he want me to see the story of Alende and Allaire so I might learn from her courage?

It seemed odd to me, though, that I had already tried to reach out to him, and had been rebuffed. Theran’s did not seem to be the actions of a man inviting a woman to love him.

A puzzle, and one for which I appeared to have no answers. My common sense told me I should go to bed and think on it anew the next morning. The world’s troubles could not be solved in a day, as my mother used to say. So I got to my feet and set the book down on the low table next to the divan, then put myself to bed.
 

Even as I did so, I thought of Theran, alone in his rooms, tinkering with those lovely little instruments he had devised as a way of filling the empty hours. What would he do if I arose from my bed and went to him now, asked to stay? Would he laugh, or would he let me in?

I feared I wasn’t quite brave enough for that yet. I closed my eyes, and willed myself to an uneasy sleep.

Chapter Nine

Perhaps it was simply because I had kept myself up so late, and was so much wearier than usual, that my sleep that night was black and dreamless. When I awoke, however, I felt curiously unrefreshed, as if I had not really slept at all.
 

The pot of bracing tea Melynne brought up for me in the morning helped a little, although my mood was not improved by the view I caught of the lowering day outside my windows. I’d had some notion that perhaps a walk in the garden might help to clear my head, but the storm clouds I saw told a different story. I was barely into my second cup of tea before the rain had begun to stream down the glass.

Melynne seemed quieter than normal that morning; perhaps she had caught something of my ill humor. At any rate, she laid out my clothes in silence, and was equally quiet as she gathered up my breakfast dishes and prepared to leave.

“Do you like it here?” I asked abruptly, and she paused on the threshold, brown eyes wide. She seemed alert and wary, rather like a young doe perched to flee.

“
Like
it, milady?”

“Does it suit you, being in service here? Or would you rather have stayed in Greyton?”

Once I had put the question in those terms, she seemed to relax a little. “Oh, it’s much better here than in Greyton, milady.”

“How so? Isn’t your family in the hamlet? Your friends?”

“My ma died when I was born, milady, and my da a few years after. I lived with my aunt until I was old enough to come here. I think they were glad of having one less mouth to feed.”

She spoke simply, with no apparent design of eliciting my sympathy, and yet my heart went out to her. How hard to be left alone, and with relatives who saw you only as a burden. I thought then how lucky I had been in my own family, despite their little faults and foibles.
 

“I see. But your friends?”

“I have all the friends I need here, milady. Besides, Mat and I—” And she broke off, blushing a little. No doubt the servants were not supposed to admit their liaisons to their masters.

“That’s good to hear,” I said, smiling so she would know I did not disapprove of her relationship with Mat, whatever it might be. “Having someone special makes the day go by more quickly, I would expect.”

She answered only with another blush, and some downcast eyes. I began to understand why Sar sometimes complained about Melynne not being quite as quick to answer the bell as she should…no doubt she was stealing a few moments with her young man.

Since it seemed clear that she did not wish to reveal any more than that, I thanked Melynne and let her make her escape before I could embarrass her any further. After she had gone, my smile faded. Yes, there might be a bit of romance hiding in Black’s Keep…but not for me, apparently.

My mother would have told me that self-pity was a most unattractive quality in a young lady, but she was not there to scold me. And although I had begun to develop some sort of rapport with Sar, I guessed she would be properly horrified if I tried to discuss anything of my nascent feelings for Theran Blackmoor with her.

I knew I should shake off my dark mood and go back to my easel, but the paints and brushes oddly held no allure for me that day. And although I did go to my painting alcove, I ignored the tame landscape that was my “public” work in progress. Instead, I pulled out my half-finished portrait of the strange young man, then sat there, staring at it for a long while.
 

The sea-colored eyes seemed to gaze back at me, holding their own secrets. I had neglected the painting for several days, although at that moment it scarcely seemed to matter. It was only a diversion, a foolish fancy. A waste of good canvas, really, for a portrait of someone who lived only in my own fevered dreams. Didn’t I have enough to worry about without allowing myself to be consumed by visions of a man who didn’t even exist?

A strange humor possessed me, and I set the painting down on my worktable and seized my largest brush, then mixed up a quantity of paint, pale as new cream. A fitting tint to cover his enigmatic features, to blot out the knowing eyes and the mouth with its quirk in the corner, to make the canvas blank again so it could hold a more worthy subject.
 

I held the brush over the canvas for a long moment. My hand began to tremble.

No
.

The voice was as clear in my mind as if the speaker were in the room with me, although I was quite alone. I even glanced over my shoulder, thinking perhaps Theran had entered the suite while I was preoccupied, but of course I saw no one. He had never come to my rooms during the daylight hours.
 

Shaking, I set down the brush on the easel. A drop of paint had fallen before I did so, and it gleamed like a tear on the young man’s cheek. Without thinking, I lifted a piece of gauze from among the oddments on the table and blotted the errant drip away before it could do any further harm. It still left behind the palest of smudges, but I knew I could fix that.

And I realized then I could never destroy the portrait. What it meant, I did not know, but I had already poured too much of my soul into it. Perhaps it would never be finished—perhaps it would stand as mute testimony to my obsession when I was gone from this place. But stand it would.

With a sigh I turned and plucked my apron off its hook, then pushed up my sleeves. No point in dripping paint on my fine gown of green wool. I had not thought I would have any set occupation that morning, but obviously the portrait had other ideas.

I hadn’t dreamed of him, and yet my brush moved with an alacrity I’d only seen before on those mornings when his face was still fresh in my mind. His hair filled in under its quick flashing strokes, painting in what had only been a sketch before, bringing to life the heavy dark waves as they flowed back from his high brow. Not black, but the deep, rich hue of earth new-turned in the spring, unlike my own hair, which gleamed with shades of mahogany in the sunlight. From there I moved on to his dark, straight brows, the lines of lashes that framed the gleaming blue-green eyes.
 

Another brush, another tint, and this time I traced the light shadows under the high cheekbones, along the jaw line and the slightly pointed chin. I dipped my brush back into the paint, frowning as I studied my handiwork and tried to determine whether I had made those shadows too pronounced, whether I should go back and lighten them ever so slightly—

“My lady?” came Sar’s voice from the outer room.

I started and nearly dropped my paintbrush, but luckily none of the paint spattered. “I’m working,” I called out, even as I laid aside my brush and gathered up the portrait so she could not catch a glimpse of what I was doing. The canvas was far too wet for me to slide it between two other paintings, and so I had to settle for slipping it under the table. I could only hope Sar would not look too closely; she tended to avoid the alcove, as she still could not seem to abide the smell of the linseed oil.

Perhaps that was why she did not come in immediately, but remained in the sitting chamber as she replied, “It’s past noon, my lady. I’ve brought you a tray.”

“Oh,” I said vaguely, my gaze straying to the windows. The rain still beat down, so there was no sun to give an indication as to the passage of time. Had I really been consumed in my work for almost four hours?
 

It came upon me like that sometimes, only not usually for quite so long. I wondered what had possessed me then. Perhaps I had only needed that moment of indecision, that brief space where I thought I would destroy the portrait, to rouse my passion and invest myself fully. Odd, because I had tossed aside sketches with impunity in the past. Perhaps it was only the value of the canvas that troubled me, although Lindell had told me he often painted over works he wasn’t pleased with, not exactly being overburdened with wealth himself.
 

I didn’t have time to puzzle over the conundrum any longer, however, for I knew if I lingered much longer, Sar would be sure to come into my sleeping chamber, linseed smell or no. Better not to risk her sharp eyes seeing the portrait in its not-so-secret hiding place under my worktable. So I wiped my hands on the rag I kept for that purpose, then untied my apron before setting it aside and going out to meet her in the outer room.

Sure enough, a tray with a large bowl of soup and a small loaf of bread waited for me there, accompanied by a flagon of cider. Usually it was Melynne who brought my luncheon, but perhaps she was occupied elsewhere.

“Thank you, Sar.”

Her dark eyes looked sharper than usual this morning, but perhaps that was just my guilty conscience. Why precisely I should feel so guilty, I couldn’t quite say. For some reason, the portrait felt so secret…so
illicit
, somehow…that I knew I would stumble over my words like an adulterer admitting a transgression if I ever had to explain its presence.
 

“You can paint well enough, in this sort of light?” she inquired, with a lift of her shoulder toward the charcoal-colored skies outside.

“Oh, yes,” I replied, grateful that she had broached a more or less neutral subject. The finer points of technique were always something I liked to discuss—and if she were inquiring about that, less likely that she would ask to see what precisely I had been working on. “Sometimes it’s almost better, you know…no glare to contend with, no harsh shadows.”

“Hmph.”
 

By this time I knew her well enough that I understood her non-reply as her way of saying she wouldn’t presume to contradict me, but that she also didn’t quite believe my statement. Well enough; I wasn’t going to bother explaining myself to her. I thought she liked me but also thought I might be a trifle touched in the head, at least when it came to my painting. I guessed none of my predecessors had quite the same all-consuming passion for any of their avocations…at least, mine were the only Bride-painted works hanging about the castle, unless Theran took them down whenever a new wife arrived.

Deciding a new tack was probably wise, I asked, “Is that beef and barley soup? It smells wonderful.”
 

No doubt she noticed the deflection, but she only nodded. “Cook made up a new batch this morning. Thought it might be a warming antidote to a gloomy day.”

“It is.”

Another nod, but this time I caught her giving me a searching look, as if she found something amiss in my expression or my manner. I tensed a little, even though I told myself I was being foolish. After all, I was the lady of the castle. It was not her place to question me. Never mind that her no-nonsense manner reminded me a little too much of my own mother. Even after several months in the castle, I had to school myself not to snap to Sar’s commands the way I would have if I still lived at home and they had been delivered by my mother instead of someone who was in fact one of my servants.

A hesitation, and then she said, “Well, enjoy your luncheon, my lady. His lordship says you will be taking your dinner in his rooms again this evening?”

“This evening, and for the rest of the winter, I don’t doubt, unless we have an unexpected warm snap.”

“Very good, my lady.”

And then she took her leave of me and went. I stood there, staring at the shut door for a long moment, wondering at the diffidence I had seen in her aspect. Truly it couldn’t have been that much of an imposition for Theran and me to dine in his chambers, as he must have his other meals brought there anyway. Perhaps it was just that Sar did not like to have her routines disturbed. Yes, that must be it.

Satisfied that I had explained away any oddness I might have noticed in her manner, I sat down to my meal and ate hungrily enough. Painting can be hard work, even if that which one paints is seen only through the mind’s eye, and has no true substance in this world.

I spent much of the rest of the afternoon in the same manner, working quickly and without stopping. This time I created nothing that I thought I might have to paint over later, and when I finally stopped a little after sunset—or at least what I guessed must be sunset, as I could see nothing of it through the sullen rainstorm that seemed to have descended on the castle—I was much farther along in the portrait than I had ever dreamed I would be. True, I was not done, and still some weeks off from being done, but for the first time I thought I might reasonably finish the portrait sometime this winter.