The Truth about Love

6

I hope you won’t read too much into Matthew’s behavior.”

“Brisenden?” Gerrard caught Jacqueline’s eye. It was late afternoon, and they were heading out to the gardens. He had a sketch pad under one arm, and three sharpened pencils in his pocket. “Why do you say that?”

“Oh…because he appears so intense, so focused on me, but he isn’t, or rather he means nothing by it, not really.”

“Not really?” He shot her a sharp glance. “He acted too familiarly, as you-and the others, too-recognized perfectly well.”

Her lips formed a small moue. “Perhaps, but he always behaves like that.”

“As if he owns you-has some claim on you?”

“He’s not usually that bad. He seems to have taken it into his head that it’s his personal duty to protect me and keep me from all harm.”

“Hmm.” Gerrard kept to himself the observation that to Brisenden, him painting her portrait might well constitute “harm.”

Reaching the steps leading to the Garden of Athena, Jacqueline led the way down. “His whole family’s quite…well, intense, if you take my meaning. About religion and God and all the rest. And he is their only son.”

Gerrard digested that as he followed. Reaching the gravel, he stepped out in her wake. “Be that as it may, Mr. Brisenden needs to keep his hands to himself, at least when their assistance isn’t required.”

They’d ridden back without further incident. Jordan and Eleanor had cantered with them all the way to the Hall; Tresdale Manor lay farther on-the way through the Hall lands was a shortcut. To Gerrard’s relief, the Frithams hadn’t lingered, but had left them at the stable arch and ridden on.

Barnaby had parted from them when they’d reached the terrace; by then Gerrard had confirmed that the light in the gardens was perfect, and had declared that Jacqueline had to sit for him, at least until the light died. She’d met his eyes, hesitated, then agreed, but she’d insisted on changing out of her habit. He’d permitted it only because he’d had to go and fetch his pads and pencils.

He glanced at her as she walked beside him. It hadn’t occurred to him to specify what she wore, yet the gown she’d chosen was perfect for the late afternoon light, a soft, very pale green that complemented her hair and eyes. He had an excellent memory for color; a few jotted notes in his margins would be enough to bring his sketches alive, vibrant in his mind.

The gardens spread out before them; he glanced around, pulse quickening with the familiar lift of energy, of eagerness, that came with the start of a new project. He pointed to the bench where they’d sat the previous night. “Let’s start there.”

She sat on the stone bench built out from the square fountain. “You’ll have to instruct me in how one sits for an artist.”

“At this stage, the requirements are not arduous.” He sat at the other end of the bench, swiveling to face her. “Turn to face me and get comfortable.” While she did, he placed his ankle on his knee, opened his sketch pad and balanced it on his thigh. Quickly, he laid down a few strokes, just enough to give him setting and perspective.

“Now.” Glancing up, he met her gaze, and smiled with his usual easy charm. “Talk to me.”

Her brows rose. “About what?”

“Anything-tell me about your childhood. Start as far back as you remember.”

Her brows remained high as she considered, then slowly lowered, her gaze growing distant. He waited, his eyes on her, his fingers smoothly moving lead across the paper. She wasn’t looking directly at him; he didn’t think she would. Like most people relating such things, she’d fasten her gaze to the side of his face, giving him precisely the not-quite-direct angle he wanted. His suggestion of topic hadn’t been as idle as he’d intimated; thinking of childhood elicited all sorts of memories, memories that showed in his subjects’ faces.

“I suppose,” she eventually said, “that the earliest moment I can remember clearly is being set atop my first pony.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Oh, yes! His name was Cobbler. He was a tan and black cob, and had the sweetest nature. He died years ago, but I can still remember how he loved apples. Cook always gave me one when I went out for my riding lesson.”

“Who taught you?”

“Richards, the head stableman. He’s still here.”

“Did you go walking through the gardens?”

“Of course-Mama and I used to walk every day, rain or shine.”

“When you were a child?”

“And later, too.”

For a moment, he let silence claim them. She didn’t move, either because she was held by her memories, or because she knew how fast his fingers were moving, how rapidly he was re-creating the expressions that had flowed across her face-the simple delight of childhood happiness shadowed by more mature sorrow.

Eventually, he flipped over the page; without looking up, he said, “It must have been quite lonely when you were young-the Frithams weren’t here then, were they?”

“No, they weren’t-and yes, I was lonely. There weren’t even children among the staff or the nearer workers, so I was entirely on my own except for my nanny and later my governess. It was wonderful, the start of a new and exciting life, really, when the Frithams came.”

Again, the happiness in her face shone clear; Gerrard worked to get some sense of it down. “How old were you then?”

“Seven. Eleanor was eight and Jordan ten. Their mama, Maria, and mine were childhood friends, which was why they came to live close. Overnight, I had an older brother and sister. Of course, I knew the area much better than they did, especially the gardens, so we were more equal, so to speak. Later…well, Eleanor is still my closest friend, while Jordan treats me much as he does Eleanor, as an older brother.”

He was tempted to ask how she viewed Jordan; instead, he asked about their youthful exploits. She described a number of incidents, the process occasionally bringing a smile to her lips, a laughing glint to her eyes.

After twenty minutes had passed, she glanced at him. “Is this working?”

He added a few more strokes, then lifted his gaze and met her eyes. “You’re doing wonderfully. That’s all there is to this stage of sitting. Just chatting and letting me get acquainted with your face, your expressions.”

Finishing his latest sketch, he flipped back the earlier sheets and critically reviewed them. “During the next days”-he scanned what he’d caught so far, various expressions all from the same angle-“I’ll do a lot of these, but as I become more certain what expressions I want to work more deeply with”-and what topics elicited the emotions in her that gave rise to those expressions-“I’ll do fewer sketches but they’ll be in greater detail, until I have enough practice in re-creating exactly the effect I want to show.”

Looking up, he met her gaze. “Until I can draw you as we need to portray you.”

Jacqueline held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. “It seems far easier than I’d thought, at least for me.”

“This is the easy part-the further we go, the more time I spend on each sketch, the longer you’ll have to sit in one place, in one pose.” Shutting the pad, he smiled. “But not yet. By the time we get to the final sittings and you need to sit perfectly still for an hour, you’ll be trained to it.”

She laughed, conscious of a tightening in her chest, of a tension she was coming to recognize as more akin to excitement and anticipation than fear.

He rose; sketch pad in one hand, he held out the other.

She looked up at him, then laid her fingers across his palm. Steeled herself as his long fingers closed over hers.

Felt, for one finite instant, her heart skip, still, then start beating again, more rapidly.

His eyes were locked with hers; he didn’t move.

And she suddenly saw, realized, understood that what she was feeling, sensing between them…it wasn’t just her alone.

He felt it, too.

She saw the truth in the shifting planes of his face, the sudden tightening of his jaw, the almost imperceptible flare of something behind the glowing brown of his eyes.

He drew her up and she rose. He hesitated, then released her hand.

Looking down, she smoothed her skirts; glancing up from beneath her lashes, she saw him look away, saw the rise of his chest as he drew in a breath-one that seemed as tight as hers.

He waved deeper into the gardens. “Let’s walk. I want to see you against different backdrops, in different levels of light.”

They walked into the Garden of Diana, but after two quick sketches, he shook his head. Dappled shade, he declared, wasn’t appropriate. They strolled on into the Garden of Mars, which met with his approval. He had her sit by a burgeoning bed while he sprawled nearby. Again he asked questions and she answered; it was odd for he didn’t expect her to meet his eyes. From his sudden silences, filled with the swift scratch of pencil on paper, she realized he wasn’t really listening but watching, that it was her expressions he was reading.

A curious communication.

A strange catharsis-she quickly realized she could say almost anything, and he wouldn’t react; he wasn’t there to judge what she said, but to see how she felt about the subjects he raised, to explore her feelings as she allowed them to show.

It had been a long time since she’d spoken her thoughts freely; the exercise, focusing on her reactions, allowed her to examine them, to know and recognize what she felt and how she felt.

After a while he rose, drew her up briskly and waved her on into the Garden of Apollo. He had her sit before the sundial; this time, he sketched from her other side. “Given we’re here,” he said, “let’s talk about time.”

“Time how?” she murmured, cheek on her updrawn knees as he’d requested.

“Time as in, do you feel, living down here, that it’s passed you by?”

She thought about that. “Yes, I suppose I do. There’s very little to do down here. I’m twenty-three and I feel my life-my adult life-should have started by now, yet it hasn’t.” She paused, then added, “What with Thomas disappearing, and then Mama’s death, I feel as if I’ve been placed in limbo.”

“You need to free yourself before you can move on.”

“Yes.” She nodded, then remembered and repositioned her head. “That’s it exactly. Until Mama’s killer is caught, time for me will stand still. I can’t go away and leave it-the suspicion-behind; it’ll follow me wherever I go. So I have to shatter it, disperse it, eradicate it, before I’ll be free to start living again.”

He said nothing. She slanted a glance his way. He was rapidly sketching. A small, beguiling smile played at the corner of his lips.

“What are you smiling at?”

He looked up, met her gaze-and she was instantly aware of a sense of communion, a connection of a sort she’d never shared with anyone else.

Looking down, he continued sketching, but the curve of his lips deepened. “I was thinking I ought to call this ‘Waiting for Time to Move.’ ”

She smiled, turning her head fractionally so she could direct that smile at him.

He looked up; his gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t move-stay just like that.” His fingers had already whipped the page over and he was furiously sketching anew.

Mentally raising her brows, she did as he asked. “Sitting” was tiring, but also strangely relaxing.

They’d been sitting in perfect peace for ten or more minutes when a firm step on the path approaching the stone viewing stage, not far away, had them both turning to look.

Gerrard got to his feet, closing his sketchbook. “I’ve got enough of that pose for now.”

He crossed to where she sat and reached for her hand; he ignored their mutual sensitivity-that odd, concerted leap of their pulses-and drew her to her feet. Her hand locked in his, he held her beside him and turned to face whoever was marching along the path; it wasn’t Barnaby, and no gardener walked with such an assured tread.

“It’s Jordan,” Jacqueline said, as if sensing his alertness.

Sure enough, brown hair ruffled and nattily dressed-a trifle overdressed for Gerrard’s taste-Jordan came into view, stepping onto and then off the stone viewing platform. Straightening, he saw them.

It was instantly apparent he hadn’t come looking for them, yet it wasn’t just surprise that showed in his face. A petulant expression came into being, but as Jordan approached, Gerrard got the impression it wasn’t disapproval of him and Jacqueline being alone, but the fact they were there at all that had irritated.

Jacqueline tugged; unobtrusively, he released her hand.

“Good afternoon, Jordan.”

Jordan nodded. “Jacqueline.” His gaze moved to Gerrard. “Debbington.”

Gerrard returned his nod. “Fritham. Are you looking for Lord Tregonning?” If so, that was odd, for Jordan wasn’t coming from the house.

“No, no-just out for a constitutional.” Jordan glanced at the gardens around them. “I often walk here-Eleanor and I were made free of the gardens a long time ago.”

Turning back to him, Jordan looked at his sketch pad. “Making a start on the portrait?”

“Indeed.”

“Good, good.” Jordan shifted his gaze to Jacqueline. “The sooner that’s done and all can see the result, the better.”

The comment-in tone as well as words-was ambiguous. Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline, but could detect nothing in her expression to guide him; her inner shield was up. Whatever Jordan thought wasn’t going to be allowed to touch her, yet she’d said Jordan was one of the few who believed in her innocence. Perhaps he was one of those who thought portraits were inherently false, revealing nothing real.

“Well.” Jordan shifted; Jacqueline had given him no encouragement to dally, but he didn’t seem to wish to. “I’ll leave you then. Don’t want to delay the great work.”

With a nod to them both, he continued on, heading up the garden to the northern viewing stage.

Gerrard turned to look in the direction from which he’d come. “How did he get here?”

Jacqueline’s inner reserve melted away. “He walked. The Manor’s in the next valley-although it’s a considerable way by road, the house is much closer as the crow flies. The ridge”-she nodded toward the southern ridge bordering the gardens-“is only ten minutes’ walk from the Manor’s side door, and there’s a footpath that leads down through the woods to join the gravel walk in the Garden of Diana.”

“Does he often just turn up like that?”

“Sometimes. I don’t know how often he walks here. The gardens are so large, I doubt anyone would know.”

“Hmm.” Jordan had gone through the wooden pergola and then disappeared into the Garden of Dionysius. Looking down the long valley to the west, noting the angle of the sinking sun, Gerrard waved Jacqueline on. “Let’s try the Garden of Poseidon. Water’s an interesting element at sunset.”

When the day before he’d set eyes on the spot where the stream flowing out from the Garden of Night emerged into the light, cascading over shallow stone steps to pour into a narrow rectangular pool, he’d suspected he’d found the perfect setting. Now he knew what his painting had to achieve, there wasn’t a skerrick of doubt left in his mind. It had to be here. He’d paint her in the studio, but the setting in which, in the final portrait, she stood, would be this.

“I want you over there-sit on the edge of the pool.” At the bottom of the stone steps, the water gathered into a channel, then flowed into the pool through a spout.

She went to do as he’d asked. From beneath his lashes, he watched for any sign of unease, and was relieved when he detected none.

“Like this?” She sank gracefully onto the stone coping beside the spout, facing him.

He smiled. “Perfect.”

It was; the golden light of the westering sun flowed up the valley to carom off the pool’s surface and bathe her in soft gilt. Her skin took on a shimmering glow; her hair came alive, rich and sheening. Even her lips seemed to hold a touch of deeper mystery, and her eyes were full of…dreams.

He felt something inside him still; she looked past him, down the valley, into that golden light. The expression on her face…

Without further thought, he drew.

Furiously fast, yet exact, precise, he transferred all he could see in that brief, shining moment onto the white page. He knew the instant he had enough, when one more line would ruin it. He stopped, leafed over the page, and looked up, pencil poised.

Her lips curved lightly. “What next?”

“Just stay there.” What next was for him to get the first rendering of the setting he wanted. The lower entrance to the Garden of Night, an archway of deep green leaves and vines beyond which dark shadows drifted, lay behind her-ten good paces behind her, but perspective in an artist’s hands was a tool, a weapon. When he finally drew her, she would stand framed in that archway; the Garden of Night was the perfect symbol of what held her trapped, of what she wanted to and needed to escape, and from which the portrait would release her. The rectangular pool would lie before her feet, reflecting light up over her, a symbol of her emergence from the darkness into the light.

Perfect.

The essence of the Garden of Night came to life beneath his pencil, created with deft strokes of his fingers.

When he finally paused and truly looked at what he’d done, he was satisfied.

More, he was moved; it was the first time he’d attempted to meld the artistic halves of himself-the lover of Gothic landscapes, and the observer and recorder of people and their emotions. He hadn’t consciously realized he would, but he had, and now he knew.

He couldn’t wait to dive deeper into the challenge.

Turning over another leaf, he looked at her. “Tell me about your mother.”

“Mama?” She’d learned not to look directly at him; she continued to stare down the valley.

A moment passed, then she said, “She was very beautiful, quite vain in fact, but she was always so alive. Enthused by life. She truly lived every day-if she woke up and there wasn’t something to do, she’d organize some outing, some event however impromptu. She was something of a butterfly, but a gay, giddy one, and there was no unkindness in her, so…”

He let her talk, watched, waited until the right moment to ask, “And when she died?”

Her expression changed. He watched the sadness close in, dousing the happy memories, saw not just loss of a loved one, but loss in a wider sense-a loss of innocence, of trust, of security.

She didn’t reply, yet his fingers flew.

After a very long moment, she murmured, “When she died, we lost all that-this place and all who lived here lost our wellspring of life.”

“And of love?” He hadn’t meant to say the words; they just slipped out.

After another long silence, she replied, “More that love became tangled and confused.”

He continued sketching, very aware-elementally aware-when she drew in a deep breath, and shifted her gaze to look at him.

For some moments, her expression was unreadable, then she asked, “What do you see?”

A woman trapped through others’ love for her. The words rang in his mind as his eyes held hers, but he didn’t want to reveal how clearly he saw her, not yet. “I think”-he closed his sketch pad-“that you saw her more clearly than she saw you.”

She tilted her head, studying him, examining his words-and, he suspected, his motives. Then she inclined her head. “You’re right.”

He looked steadily back at her. His comment, he felt sure, was also true for others-like her father, Mitchel, Jordan, even Brisenden. Their view of her was of a weak female; they were the type to assume that females were inherently less able, less strong than themselves on any plane. He’d grown up too close to too many strong women to make such a mistake. Jacqueline was nothing if not strong, and commitment only strengthened her resolve.

If he were the killer, he’d be very wary of her.

The thought came out of nowhere, and chilled him. Suppressing an inner shiver, he looked down at his sketches, flipping through them, rapidly evaluating what he’d done.

Released from his scrutiny, Jacqueline watched him. For this pose, he’d stood to sketch her; he’d fallen into a comfortable wide-legged stance, broad shoulders square, his long-limbed, lean body loose and relaxed. While in the throes, he didn’t seem to feel the urge to move, as if all his vitality, all the intensity that was so much a part of him, were concentrated in his fingers and his eyes, and the brain that connected them.

He was fascinating, compelling. To her, yes, but she wouldn’t be the only female so affected. Eleanor would find him attractive, too. He had such a high-handed tendency to command, to order…she felt her lips curve; she wasn’t even sure he was aware of it, so focused was he on his goals.

It was that focus, intense and powerful, that would draw Eleanor-she’d want to force him to turn it on her. To surrender it to her.

For a moment, Jacqueline wondered-did she feel the same, for the same reason? An instant’s reflection returned the answer: no. That’s where she and Eleanor differed. Eleanor would delight in using force, yet for her, the conquest would be in his willingly lavishing on her the intensity of devotion she saw in him as he sketched, as he viewed her as his subject.

Not as her.

A ripple of awareness skittered through her as she recalled his “price” and the reckless promise she’d made in the moonlight, that she’d meet it whatever it might be. Had he been viewing her as his subject then, or as her? At the time she’d assumed the former, but now she’d realized there were moments when he was as physically aware of her as she was of him…

She’d thought his attentions, the hot kiss he’d pressed to her palm, had been to learn how she responded to such things, that he’d wanted to know as a painter. What if he’d wanted to know as a man?

The idea left her feeling as if she were teetering on the brink of a precipice, unsure whether to step forward or back. Back would be safe, yet forward…as fascinating and compelling as she found him, if he beckoned, would she go?

Another shiver, this time one of anticipation, coursed down her spine. She let her gaze slide over him again, felt the compulsion rise.

Closing his sketch pad, he looked up. His eyes fixed on hers.

After a moment, his gaze drifted up. “Your hair…”

“What about it?”

“When I paint you, it needs to be different. Can you unpin it? It’ll help if I see how we need it to be, then you can wear it that way from now on.”

Her hair was secured in a neat chignon; raising her hands, she started removing pins. The chignon unraveled; she set the pins down, shook the long strands free, then threaded her fingers through them, drawing them out, letting them fall across and over her shoulders.

He frowned. “No, that’s not right, either.”

He closed the space between them in a few long strides. Setting his pad and pencils down, he sat on the coping, facing her.

She felt her lungs constrict, but she was growing used to the effect.

His gaze was locked on her face, gauging. He reached for her chin, turned her face to his, then reached for her hair, long fingers sliding into the unruly mass.

She caught her breath, prayed she wasn’t blushing, prayed she’d be able to hide her reaction.

His frown remained as he bunched her hair, shifting it this way, then that, clearly unsatisfied. Then he twisted the tresses and set the bunched curls on the top of her head. Looking into his face, she sensed him still…

With his other hand, Gerrard reached for her chin, fought not to notice the delicacy of bones and skin as he gently gripped and turned her face first to the left, then to the right, then to the precise angle he thought was best suited for the portrait, all the while holding her hair atop her head.

There. Angle right, and hair up, a neat knot with a tendril or two trailing down on the right, a subtle highlight to draw attention to the exposed curve of her throat.

That was the line he wanted to capture, vulnerability, grace and strength combined. Youth, yet with intrinsic wisdom, instinctive and true. A pose that had clarity, that resonated with truth.

Again his gaze skimmed the line of her throat, skin white and flawless, tinted by the fading golden light. Raising his gaze, he took in the medley of browns, vibrant and earthy, worldly, too, of her hair; he would capture that and use it.

He lowered his gaze to her face.

Met her eyes, the mossy shade darker, the gold more intense as they widened, darkened.

Her lips were lush, edged with rose gilt.

Time stood still.

He raised his gaze to her eyes, saw a curiosity the counterpart of his own staring at him from the hazel depths.

What would it be like?

Lowering his head, tipping her face up, he touched his lips to hers.

Felt them quiver. And took, seized, albeit gently, with all the expertise he’d learned over the years. He increased the pressure beguilingly, seductively, brushing lightly, tantalizing and tempting.

He wanted to devour, yet it was she who captured him with a tentative response so slight it was like gossamer, a fleeting moment of innocence and pleasure. For one fraught instant he felt completely caught, taken captive-then reality returned, and he realized what he’d done.

Realized he’d gathered her into his arms.

Realized he’d taken the step he hadn’t yet made up his mind he would take. He’d been tempted, not solely by his own desires but by hers, too, yet the feel of her in his arms, of her lips beneath his-the feelings those sensations evoked-assured him at some elemental level that this was right.

Yet if he was wise, he’d go slowly.

Lifting his head, he looked down into eyes the color of woodland moss. He drew in a breath, surprised to discover his lungs parched and tight. “I’m sorr-” He broke off, unable as he looked into her eyes to utter the polite lie. He felt his jaw firm. “No. I’m not sorry, but I shouldn’t have done that.”

She blinked up at him. “Why not?”

He searched her eyes; she was asking with her usual candor, an open honesty he’d grown to treasure. “Because it’ll make it that much harder not to do it again.”

The truth. She heard it; he saw comprehension widen her eyes, followed swiftly by calculation.

“Oh…”

He looked into her eyes, was drowning in them…With a mental curse, he shut his. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

He gritted his teeth, and kept his eyes shut. “Look at me as if you want me to kiss you again.”

She didn’t reply. Three heartbeats passed.

He was debating whether to open his eyes when her soft whisper reached him.

“I’m not good at lying.”

Five words, and she vanquished him. Overthrew that part of his mind that was fighting to maintain control, and cast him adrift. Into the sea of desire that welled in her eyes as they met his when he lifted his lids.

She searched his eyes, hesitated for a heartbeat, then lifted her lips to his. Touched lightly.

He could no more resist the explicit invitation than stop the sun from sinking beneath the sea.

Summoning what restraint he could, he kissed her back, then, unable to deny her or himself, he pressed the caress further, aware that, just as he had expectations of the kiss, so, too, would she. He wondered what they were, why…but then he traced her lower lip with the tip of his tongue, her lips parted, and he stopped thinking.

Jacqueline quivered as his tongue slid between her lips, held her breath as he shifted and gathered her deeper into an embrace that, no matter how alien, felt safe. His arms were steel bands, caging her, but protectively, his chest a muscled wall of comforting solidity against her breasts. His lips moved on hers, impressing, engaging. Tentatively she met his questing tongue with hers, lightly stroked-and sensed his encouragement, his appreciation.

She relaxed, secure in his arms, and mirrored his actions. There was heat in the exchange, persuasive and tempting, beguiling yet contained, not overwhelming but tantalizing, a promise of more, later. For now, she was content returning his caresses. Raising one hand, she lightly traced his cheek, the angular planes quite different from her own, cloaked in abrading stubble lacing firm skin.

By subtle degrees, he deepened the kiss and she, knowingly, followed. With growing confidence she kissed him back-and gloried in his response, in the continuing exchange that spun out in delight and mutual pleasure.

The reciprocity, for she knew it was so, caught her, and held her enthralled.

She tasted like summer wine, heady and sweet, potent and warm. Faintly illicit, carrying the promise of dark sultry nights and stirring passion. Now he’d learned, now he’d savored, he should draw back, yet still Gerrard lingered. The question of what she sought from the kiss returned; he now knew she’d shared few kisses, if any, before, not like this.

The reluctance he felt to end the interlude was not solely on his own account.

And that surprised him. Who was leading whom, and was that safe? The question gave him the strength to act, to gradually draw back and lift his head.

He watched as she opened her eyes, as she blinked and refocused on his. He’d kissed many ladies in far more illicit encounters, yet this time his charm didn’t come to his aid. No glib words sprang to his tongue, no suave smile to his lips. This time, he didn’t want to end the moment, didn’t want to let her go; despite his experience, he couldn’t pretend he did.

Looking into her eyes, a glorious medley of greens and gold, he could only hold her, and wonder…

Jacqueline saw his equivocation, felt it in the arms surrounding her that didn’t ease. She comprehended something of what she read in his eyes; she, too, felt…distracted. As if she’d just experienced something that was important to explore further, but…the moment was already slipping away.

Her hands had come to rest against his chest; she found a half smile and gently pushed back. After an instant’s hesitation, his arms eased, and he released her.

“The sun’s almost gone.” She looked down the valley to where the burning orb of the sun was disappearing below the horizon. Shifting along the coping, she glanced his way. “We should go inside. It’ll soon be time to change for dinner.”

He nodded and stood. He picked up his sketch pad, stuffed the pencils in his pocket, then he looked at her, and held out his hand.

She met his gaze, then placed her fingers in his and let him help her to her feet.

He released her once she was steady. Together they turned, and, side by side, without words, walked up through the gardens.

With one long, shared glance, they parted on the terrace.