The Theft (Thornton 2)

"Agreed." Ashford's grin widened. "Sparring with you is quite a challenge, you know."

"Is that a complaint?"

"Not at all. However, let me issue

a word of warning: get used to frequent standoffs and an occasional loss. You've met your match. Me."

"As have you, my lord," Noelle responded, inclining her head to regard him thoughtfully. "The difference is, you have yet to realize it."

* * *

Noelle had yet to realize it, but she'd found her destiny.

On that profound note, André smiled, walking back to his easel and rearranging the sketches he'd finished on the railroad trip back to London. He pressed his forefinger to his lips, pacing about as he pensively studied his own depictions.

Exquisite.

Of course, they were just pencil sketches, mere hints of the beauty that was Noelle. Without detail, texture, and—most important—color, they were but rough, deficient outlines; preliminary, one-dimensional allusions to the vibrant, passionate woman they portrayed.

But fitting tributes nonetheless.

He walked forward, gathered the sketches together, and carried them to his bed. The lighting there was poor, but that didn't matter. He preferred viewing her by the glow of a candle, anyway, the way she'd be when he finally had her here beside him, her lustrous hair spread out on his pillow, her body gloriously naked and arching for his.

And those eyes—those mesmerizing sapphire jewels—would be alive, blazing with the flames of passion, seeing only him, knowing only him, wanting only him.

Not like the others.

Violently, André struck a match, lighting the wick of the sole candle that sat on the floor beside his cot.

A muted golden aura surrounded him.

There. That was perfect.

He lay on his side, angled the sketches towards the light. First came the one he'd showed Noelle; the one in which she was curled up on the shore, craggy peaks surging up around her, water crashing at her feet. How vulnerable she looked. How alone.

He put the first sketch aside, turned to the next. Here she was walking into the waves, her arms outstretched as if to embrace the horizon. Her gown was damp and clinging to her skin, her sable hair dotted with diamond-droplets of water. She looked fragile, uncertain of her fate.

How he longed to reassure her, to tell her she was safe, that he'd take care of her.

That would come. Soon.

The final three sketches were more intimate, and he smiled as his gaze caressed them. He'd sketched these last, as he sat in the cove, savored every minute of their birth. Then he'd gazed at them for hours before reluctantly tucking them away in his portfolio, leaving them there until the studio door shut behind him and he was alone.

Alone. Just him and Noelle.

He spread the three sketches out on the floor, trying to decide which one he favored most. In the first she was draped in a chair. In the second, she was sprawled on the floor. And in the third, she was lounging on the bed. His bed. She was naked in all three of the sketches, and he could almost picture the creamy tones of her skin, the perfect curves of her breasts.

The bottomless blue of her eyes.

He was half-tempted to ready his palette and begin painting now. After all, it was the only way to determine which image was the most erotic. But no. André squelched the urge to do so. He'd spent so much of today creating her, gazing at her, even tasting her for the first time. Now was the time for dreaming, for reaping the rewards of his labor.

And for remembering.

Remembering the way her lips had softened beneath his, the way her breath had rushed against his mouth, mingled with his—even the way her body had tensed in surprised awareness. Ah, such innocence was more arousing than even he had imagined. He could hardly wait to feel her under him, begging him to take her, to teach her, to love her.

Yes, now was the time for dreaming. And for envisioning an ecstasy that would soon be his … hers … theirs.

Emotionally moved, he rose to his feet, taking the candle with him and crossing over to the corner of the studio that embraced his portraits. He held up the taper, watching its glow flicker across the row of canvases, noting that, even in the weak shaft of light, he could make out the vivid colors that defined his subjects, particularly the magnificent hue of their eyes. Soon, Noelle's painting would hang beside these. No—at the head of them. She alone had proved herself worthy. She alone deserved a place of honor. And she'd have it.