reason to breach the silence.
As if suddenly remembering him, she turned back. "Yes. Does that surprise you?"
"A little," he admitted, leaning forward to focus the lens on her eyes.
Wasn't it the American philosopher, Mr. Thoreau, who'd said the eyes are the window to the soul? If that were even half the truth, Caledonia Rivers must have a beautiful soul indeed. A less cautious man might find himself falling headfirst into those smoky green pools, so earnest and so sad.
"Because motherhood is womankind's sacred calling, no doubt?" The edge to her tone told him that he'd struck a nerve, that on some level she was hurting.
He thought of his mother, who'd spent half her time drunk on gin and the other half spreading her legs for any man with the requisite quid to spend. If motherhood had been her calling, sacred or otherwise, she'd hid it well.
Slipping out from under the cover, he shook his head. "Watching you with that lot, I couldn't help thinking what a wonderful mother you'd make."
She dropped her gaze to the frozen ground. "I rather think it's a bit late for a family. I'm coming on thirty." She gave up her age as one might reveal a dirty secret or at least something of which to be more than a little ashamed.
"That's not so very old."
Looking off into the distance, she shook her head. "A family would be a distraction if not an outright obstacle to continuing my work. It wouldn't be fair to anyone, the children especially."
The cold-blooded practicality of her response grated on him, perhaps because his own mother had made him feel nothing but a nuisance. "Ah, the noble cause for which no sacrifice is too great."
He'd anticipated another of her sharp-tongued retorts but instead she regarded him for a long, quiet moment before asking, "What of you, Mr. St. Claire? There must be something you care about, something for which you'd sacrifice almost anything?"
Her assumption that he harbored some innate nobility was so far off the mark he was moved to laugh. Surely those canny eyes of hers could see through him to who and what he really was?
He made a point of taking out his handkerchief and using it to dust his camera's lens. "Sorry to disappoint but I'm afraid my own survival consumes my every selfish waking moment."
"There must be something or someone you care for?"
Her steady-on gaze had him scouring his brain. Gavin and Rourke were more blood brothers than friends; certainly the closest he had to family. He cared for Sally, too, though the boyhood ardor he'd felt for her long ago had faded to friendship. Beyond that . . .
"There was a time when I fancied myself a future Roger Fenton, but that was a long time ago." Catching her questioning look, he added, "Fenton was the photographer who documented the Crimean War; but my idea was to make a photographic record of the poverty in England, London particularly."
He didn't miss how her eyes lit up. God, those eyes, they had a way of catching at the light, at a man's heart, at
his
heart, as no others ever had. "You still could, couldn't you?"
He shrugged and tucked the handkerchief back in his pocket. "Commissioned work pays, charity doesn't. At any rate, the world has martyrs aplenty. We self-interested sorts exist to keep things in balance."
She shook her head, looking not so much angry as disappointed, as though he were a hopeless case indeed. "Why is it I suspect you are baiting me?"
He grinned. "Why, Miss Rivers--or Caledonia, if I may be so bold--I'm sure I cannot say."
"If you must call me by my given name, call me Callie. The only time I am called Caledonia is when I've got myself into mischief of some sort."
She smiled then, a soft, easy smile that had him going undercover again, not because capturing the image would bring him any closer to bedding her but because for whatever reason he wanted to hold this moment for all time.
"Very well, then, Callie it is. Should you mean to go on plumbing the depths of my black-hearted soul, best call me
As if suddenly remembering him, she turned back. "Yes. Does that surprise you?"
"A little," he admitted, leaning forward to focus the lens on her eyes.
Wasn't it the American philosopher, Mr. Thoreau, who'd said the eyes are the window to the soul? If that were even half the truth, Caledonia Rivers must have a beautiful soul indeed. A less cautious man might find himself falling headfirst into those smoky green pools, so earnest and so sad.
"Because motherhood is womankind's sacred calling, no doubt?" The edge to her tone told him that he'd struck a nerve, that on some level she was hurting.
He thought of his mother, who'd spent half her time drunk on gin and the other half spreading her legs for any man with the requisite quid to spend. If motherhood had been her calling, sacred or otherwise, she'd hid it well.
Slipping out from under the cover, he shook his head. "Watching you with that lot, I couldn't help thinking what a wonderful mother you'd make."
She dropped her gaze to the frozen ground. "I rather think it's a bit late for a family. I'm coming on thirty." She gave up her age as one might reveal a dirty secret or at least something of which to be more than a little ashamed.
"That's not so very old."
Looking off into the distance, she shook her head. "A family would be a distraction if not an outright obstacle to continuing my work. It wouldn't be fair to anyone, the children especially."
The cold-blooded practicality of her response grated on him, perhaps because his own mother had made him feel nothing but a nuisance. "Ah, the noble cause for which no sacrifice is too great."
He'd anticipated another of her sharp-tongued retorts but instead she regarded him for a long, quiet moment before asking, "What of you, Mr. St. Claire? There must be something you care about, something for which you'd sacrifice almost anything?"
Her assumption that he harbored some innate nobility was so far off the mark he was moved to laugh. Surely those canny eyes of hers could see through him to who and what he really was?
He made a point of taking out his handkerchief and using it to dust his camera's lens. "Sorry to disappoint but I'm afraid my own survival consumes my every selfish waking moment."
"There must be something or someone you care for?"
Her steady-on gaze had him scouring his brain. Gavin and Rourke were more blood brothers than friends; certainly the closest he had to family. He cared for Sally, too, though the boyhood ardor he'd felt for her long ago had faded to friendship. Beyond that . . .
"There was a time when I fancied myself a future Roger Fenton, but that was a long time ago." Catching her questioning look, he added, "Fenton was the photographer who documented the Crimean War; but my idea was to make a photographic record of the poverty in England, London particularly."
He didn't miss how her eyes lit up. God, those eyes, they had a way of catching at the light, at a man's heart, at
his
heart, as no others ever had. "You still could, couldn't you?"
He shrugged and tucked the handkerchief back in his pocket. "Commissioned work pays, charity doesn't. At any rate, the world has martyrs aplenty. We self-interested sorts exist to keep things in balance."
She shook her head, looking not so much angry as disappointed, as though he were a hopeless case indeed. "Why is it I suspect you are baiting me?"
He grinned. "Why, Miss Rivers--or Caledonia, if I may be so bold--I'm sure I cannot say."
"If you must call me by my given name, call me Callie. The only time I am called Caledonia is when I've got myself into mischief of some sort."
She smiled then, a soft, easy smile that had him going undercover again, not because capturing the image would bring him any closer to bedding her but because for whatever reason he wanted to hold this moment for all time.
"Very well, then, Callie it is. Should you mean to go on plumbing the depths of my black-hearted soul, best call me
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