She wanted to know everything about him.
Helen returned her gaze out over the stream, self-conscious now.
How did he see her ? How would he draw her?
The breeze picked up a curl and whipped it against her lips. She tucked it back behind her ear and resisted the urge to re-pin the entire messy mass of her hair atop her head. She must look a fright. “You ought to be drawing the water instead.”
She glanced at him when he didn’t reply. He studied her with warm brown eyes as if she were beautiful, as if, muddy and undone and exposed as she was, she could still be pretty. Her nervousness fled. In its place rested a blooming sense of calm and a bone-deep feeling of elegance. She felt her body on the rock, the way her back arched with the curve of stone, her breasts lifted up and her belly dipped in.
Was this how other women felt as they sat for their portraits with their long faces and sharp collars? Was it the unwavering gaze of the artist that warmed them?
No. It was Roane.
It was his gaze.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice quiet and distracted.
“Er…” She wracked her brain. “I haven’t been in the countryside in some time. Years, really.”
“No? You don’t leave London?”
“Oh, I do, but I am hardly in the countryside. I might look out the window of a travelling coach, or sit on the veranda overlooking the park. But it’s hardly the same.” She dropped her head back and looked up at the sky.
“Hmm-mmm,” he murmured in agreement, and she knew he understood.
They did not talk again. Helen looked out over the stream and tried to count as many shades of green as she could. But her mind was on the paper. She wanted to know how he drew her. What he thought of her.
And what he thought about their kiss.
A soft mewling sound, rather like a kitten, pricked her ears. Helen peered over her right shoulder.
“Did you hear that?”
“Hmmm? The water?” he asked, distracted.
“No. A meowing.”
“I’m done. You can move.” His tone was dry, considering she was already sliding off the rock. “I didn’t hear anything. I’ll see you back at camp, don’t get lost.”
Helen waved over her shoulder and wandered upstream a few paces to investigate the branches of a poplar. A little orange tabby cat, tiny as a bird, sat at eye level on a small branch.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” Helen cooed. “Come on down now.” She clicked her tongue. The cat twitched at the sound but did not move.
“Poor thing. Are you stuck up in that tree?”
The kitten turned and regarded her with wary eyes.
“Where is your mother, hmm?” Sad little kitty, it was tiny. Ten weeks old at the most. Helen wove her hands through the lower branches and grabbed him around the ribs. He proceeded to sink his teeth and claws into her fingers.
“Didn’t anyone teach you not to bite the hand that feeds you?”
Meow .
“Are you hungry?”
Meow .
“I am sure you are. I think I have a bit of cheese for you.”
Helen stroked the kitten until he relaxed his tiny body in her palm. She carried him back to their camp, plunked him down beside Roane’s pack, and offered him a small morsel of cheese.
“Not too fast,” she murmured as he devoured the cheese. “You are hungry, I see.”
“What the hell is that?” Roane blurted from across the clearing, as if she were feeding a wild tiger rather than a tiny kitten.
“A wee lost kitty.”
“No.” She could hear Roane shake his head. “Definitely not. Put him back.”
“Put him back?” She gave the kitty more cheese and looked up at Roane. “I found him in a tree. I am not returning him there.”
“Well, then, find a nice spot of sunshine and leave him—”
“Do you think he is lost?”
Roane’s head fell back and he groaned to the darkening sky.
Helen ignored him and gave her attention to her new friend. “Where is your mama, Mittens?”
“You gave him a name?”
“Yes, Mittens. See, he has little white paws.” She picked up the kitten
Helen returned her gaze out over the stream, self-conscious now.
How did he see her ? How would he draw her?
The breeze picked up a curl and whipped it against her lips. She tucked it back behind her ear and resisted the urge to re-pin the entire messy mass of her hair atop her head. She must look a fright. “You ought to be drawing the water instead.”
She glanced at him when he didn’t reply. He studied her with warm brown eyes as if she were beautiful, as if, muddy and undone and exposed as she was, she could still be pretty. Her nervousness fled. In its place rested a blooming sense of calm and a bone-deep feeling of elegance. She felt her body on the rock, the way her back arched with the curve of stone, her breasts lifted up and her belly dipped in.
Was this how other women felt as they sat for their portraits with their long faces and sharp collars? Was it the unwavering gaze of the artist that warmed them?
No. It was Roane.
It was his gaze.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice quiet and distracted.
“Er…” She wracked her brain. “I haven’t been in the countryside in some time. Years, really.”
“No? You don’t leave London?”
“Oh, I do, but I am hardly in the countryside. I might look out the window of a travelling coach, or sit on the veranda overlooking the park. But it’s hardly the same.” She dropped her head back and looked up at the sky.
“Hmm-mmm,” he murmured in agreement, and she knew he understood.
They did not talk again. Helen looked out over the stream and tried to count as many shades of green as she could. But her mind was on the paper. She wanted to know how he drew her. What he thought of her.
And what he thought about their kiss.
A soft mewling sound, rather like a kitten, pricked her ears. Helen peered over her right shoulder.
“Did you hear that?”
“Hmmm? The water?” he asked, distracted.
“No. A meowing.”
“I’m done. You can move.” His tone was dry, considering she was already sliding off the rock. “I didn’t hear anything. I’ll see you back at camp, don’t get lost.”
Helen waved over her shoulder and wandered upstream a few paces to investigate the branches of a poplar. A little orange tabby cat, tiny as a bird, sat at eye level on a small branch.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” Helen cooed. “Come on down now.” She clicked her tongue. The cat twitched at the sound but did not move.
“Poor thing. Are you stuck up in that tree?”
The kitten turned and regarded her with wary eyes.
“Where is your mother, hmm?” Sad little kitty, it was tiny. Ten weeks old at the most. Helen wove her hands through the lower branches and grabbed him around the ribs. He proceeded to sink his teeth and claws into her fingers.
“Didn’t anyone teach you not to bite the hand that feeds you?”
Meow .
“Are you hungry?”
Meow .
“I am sure you are. I think I have a bit of cheese for you.”
Helen stroked the kitten until he relaxed his tiny body in her palm. She carried him back to their camp, plunked him down beside Roane’s pack, and offered him a small morsel of cheese.
“Not too fast,” she murmured as he devoured the cheese. “You are hungry, I see.”
“What the hell is that?” Roane blurted from across the clearing, as if she were feeding a wild tiger rather than a tiny kitten.
“A wee lost kitty.”
“No.” She could hear Roane shake his head. “Definitely not. Put him back.”
“Put him back?” She gave the kitty more cheese and looked up at Roane. “I found him in a tree. I am not returning him there.”
“Well, then, find a nice spot of sunshine and leave him—”
“Do you think he is lost?”
Roane’s head fell back and he groaned to the darkening sky.
Helen ignored him and gave her attention to her new friend. “Where is your mama, Mittens?”
“You gave him a name?”
“Yes, Mittens. See, he has little white paws.” She picked up the kitten
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