The question made the lassie start. Fergus had a suspicion that her thoughts weren’t much different to his own—and no jollier. After all, she’d admitted she wanted him, despite having no intention of yielding. “I’m making progress, Papa.”
“That’s good. Are you finding plenty of scenes to please His Grace?”
When Marina looked shifty, Fergus was surprised. While they were out on the hills, she kept her head down and sketched diligently. “I’m making the preparatory drawings. Once I’ve decided on my final subjects, I’ll do the color studies.”
Ugolino turned to Fergus. “This is how she works, painting a draft from life, then finishing the picture in her studio in Firenze.”
“How interesting.” Though he was sincere, Fergus’s flat response sounded like sarcasm. A couple of days ago, Marina would have called him on that. Now she didn’t seem to notice.
“Can I see what you’ve done?” her father asked. “Perhaps I can help you choose.”
Her hands tightened on the sketchbook, as though she feared Ugolino might rip it away. “There’s plenty of time yet, Papa.”
Her father looked puzzled. “You always show me your work.”
“Not this time,” she said with a hint of sharpness, rising to her feet. She wore the pink dress again, the one that showed her bosom. All night, the display of satiny olive skin had taunted Fergus.
Now that bosom was heaving with disquiet. He wondered why.
Preparing to escort her as he did every night, he stood, too. More torture. Saying a polite goodnight on the threshold of her room highlighted the futility of all his hopes.
He crossed the room to take her arm, waiting for her to stiffen under his touch. Be damned if he’d give up what few miserly contacts propriety allowed him. The chance to hold her arm, to lift her onto a pony, to pass her a glass of wine when, with luck, fingers might brush.
Hell, it was like a slow death by starvation.
He and Marina said their goodnights to Ugolino, then they were outside in the corridor.
“You don’t have to walk me to my door.” She pulled away, clutching her sketchbook to her chest like a shield.
Fergus stepped back, because the temptation to grab her became too powerful. “It’s all ye permit me.”
She looked stricken, and her knuckles whitened. “Oh, Fergus, I hate how things are between us.”
He braced to hear her say she wanted to leave. In truth, he was surprised she’d stayed this long. His heart felt like a stone.
“Is your work going well?” he asked, when she didn’t fill the pause with a request for his traveling coach.
“Dio, you know it’s not.” Her eyes were dark with suffering. For God’s sake, if resisting him made her so distressed, she knew how to cheer herself up. He was keen to cooperate.
He waited again for her to announce her departure. After all, painting was her reason for living.
“You havenae looked happy with what you’ve done since that first day.” When her pencil had flown so fast across the page, it was like she raced time to get the details down. Afterwards she’d glowed with satisfaction.
Over the last days, the glow had gone. He wished he could take her in his arms to soothe her roiling unhappiness.
Except they both knew that if he started with comfort, that wasn’t where he’d finish.
“I haven’t been.” Another reason for her to move on. The smile she summoned was a mere shadow of what it used to be. “Perhaps tomorrow will be better.”
“Perhaps.” He sounded as convinced as she did, which wasn’t very. Then he realized what she’d said. So he faced another day of this hell. He was in such a confused state, he was delighted to hear it.
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Aye.” He stared at her, willing her to give the smallest sign that she wanted his touch. The heat rising in his blood threatened to incinerate him.
This was always the worst part of the day. The time where he left her without a caress, and she retired behind a stout oak door to sleep alone. When in any correctly ordered universe, she’d lie in his arms until dawn.
Those fathomless black eyes met his, and he wondered for a flaring instant if this might be the night she relented.