River of Fire by Mary Jo Putney

Kenneth resisted—barely—the impulse to empty his tankard on the other man's head. "I've found Miss Seaton to be a remarkably interesting and intelligent young woman."

  Morley's brows rose. "She must talk to you more than she did me." He leaned forward confidentially. "I considered trying to fix her interest. After all, someday she'll be a considerable heiress, and with her age and reputation she can't be too choosy about a husband. But I decided against it. She would not make a suitable wife for a man with ambitions."

  Presumably Morley's idea of a perfect mate was a simpleminded doll who knew how to pour tea and not ask questions. Deciding he'd better begin serious probing before he lost his temper, Kenneth asked, "How long were you with Sir Anthony?"

  "Three years. I went to him a month after coming down from university."

  "Three years," Kenneth repeated as if he hadn't already known the answer. "Then you must have been well acquainted with Lady Seaton. What was she like?"

  Morley's amiable expression went rigid. "She was a charming and beautiful lady," he said after a long silence. "Her death was a great tragedy."

  Suspecting that the younger man had been at least half in love with his employer's wife, Kenneth asked, "How did she die? No one will speak of her, and I've been reluctant to ask."

  Morley stared into his tankard. "She fell from a cliff while walking near their country home, Ravensbeck House. I'll never forget that day. My office overlooked the drive. I was working on Sir Anthony's correspondence when George Hampton, the engraving fellow, came galloping up to the house." A spasm crossed his face at the memory.

  In the pause that followed, Kenneth asked, "What was Hampton doing in the neighborhood?"

  "He was on holiday. It's the Lake district, you know. Very popular with the artistic set." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Hampton looked frantic, so I went out to find what was wrong. He said he'd seen someone falling from Skelwith Crag, so he'd come to Ravensbeck for help." Morley swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I asked what the person was wearing. As soon as Hampton said green, I knew. Lady Seaton had worn the loveliest green gown that morning. She looked so beautiful..." His voice broke.

  Kenneth gave the other man time to compose himself before saying, "So you collected Sir Anthony and the male servants and a rope and went to investigate."

  "More or less, except for Sir Anthony. He was out. So was Miss Seaton, so it was up to me to deal with what had happened."

  "Sir Anthony and his daughter were together?"

  "No, they'd gone off separately. Miss Seaton had been out walking. She joined us as we were... were bringing up her mother's body."

  "How ghastly for her," Kenneth murmured. "And for you. Having a weeping female on your hands must have made everything more difficult."

  Morley shook his head. "Miss Seaton didn't weep. Her face was bone white, but she didn't say a word or shed a tear. Seemed damned unnatural to me."

  "Very likely she was in a state of shock." Kenneth poured more ale into the other man's tankard. "When did Sir Anthony learn about the tragedy?"

  "When he came home to dress for dinner." Morley's face twisted. "I think he'd been with another woman. It's common knowledge that he has a roving eye."

  "Were you the one who had to break the news to him?"

  Morley nodded. "It was the strangest thing. He snarled, 'Damn her!' Then he pushed by me and went to Lady Seaton's bedroom, where we had laid her out. It was as if he didn't believe she was dead. I went with him. She... she looked as if she were only sleeping. He told me to get the hell out. He spent the whole night there. The next morning he emerged as calm as you please and began giving orders for the funeral." Morley's fingers whitened around his tankard. "The selfish bastard never showed any sign of caring that his wife was dead."

  Kenneth had seen enough of grief to know that it took many forms. Spending a night by a dead wife's side did not sound like lack of caring. "How did Lady Seaton come to fall? Was there a storm, or did the earth at the edge of the cliff crumble away?"

  Morley looked troubled. "Neither. There was a wonderful prospect from Skelwith Crag. It was a favorite spot of hers. It's hard to understand how she could have fallen."

  Putting shock into his voice, Kenneth said, "Surely foul play was not suspected."

  "Of course not," Morley said, a little too quickly. "The inquest was merely a formality."

  "If everyone is so sure Lady Seaton's death was an accident, why the universal reluctance to talk about it?" Kenneth said, trying to look innocently puzzled. "What is the mystery?"

  "There is no mystery," the other man said sharply. "Merely regret, that her life was cut off too soon." He got to his feet. "I must return to my work now. It was a pleasure to meet you, Captain. Sir Anthony will be in good hands with a secretary who is so thorough." He made a brisk exit from the tavern.

  Kenneth finished his ale slowly, considering what he had learned. Morley's uneasy manner supported the possibility that Helen Seaton's death was not a simple accident. If George Hampton and the mystery mistress were in the area at the time, perhaps other members of their social circle were also there. He made a mental note to find out.

  What could Sir Anthony have meant when he said "Damn her"? The curse might have been the anger of someone who felt abandoned by a loved one's death. But he might also have been damning another woman. Could the mystery mistress have murdered her lover's wife in the hope that Sir Anthony would marry her? If that had happened and Sir Anthony suspected it, that would explain why the affair had ended. It would also explain guilt if Sir Anthony knew who had committed the murder, but could not bring himself to give the evidence that would send his paramour to the gallows.

  Reminding himself that such thoughts were highly speculative, Kenneth finished his ale and left the tavern. Using their mutual interest in horses, he had been cultivating the longtime Seaton groom, Phelps. Sometime in the next few days, he would start asking serious questions of the man.

  As for Rebecca, he hoped that in the intimacy of the studio she could be persuaded to tell him her version of her mother's death.

  Chapter 9

  Rebecca set her sketchbook on her desk and leaned back, stretching her arms over her head. Though she was no stranger to obsession, sometimes it was a damned bore. It was not uncommon for her to spend days or weeks trying to decide how best to paint a subject. Images would fill her mind by day and haunt her sleep at night until she found the right solution. Though she often felt like a dog gnawing at a bone, the pleasure of a good idea compensated for the tiresome process of getting there.

  No idea had really possessed her since her mother's death—until she'd seen Kenneth Wilding. Now, she was a woman obsessed. Such intensity made it hard to decide the best way to do his portrait. She wanted something special, something that would capture his unique qualities of body and soul. Then in a small way—a safe way—he would be hers forever.

  It didn't help that he slept in the room next to hers. She glanced across her bedroom at the common wall. She'd scarcely ever been aware of the other secretaries who had lived there, but she thought of Kenneth often. Did his sternness relax in sleep? How did he spend his private time? In reading and correspondence, she supposed. He was almost spookily quiet.

  With a sigh of irritation, she rubbed her stiff neck. She'd done literally dozens of sketches showing the captain in different poses and costumes. Nothing seemed right. Tomorrow he was going to sit for her for the second time. If she didn't have a good concept by then, she would have to cancel the session rather than waste his time.

  The Gray Ghost, who was lying at the foot of her bed, opened its eyes and gave her a look of feline contempt. "It's easy for you to criticize," she said accusingly. "But I notice you don't have any useful suggestions."

  Treating her remark with the disdain it deserved, it gave a weary sigh and closed its eyes again. "You think I should go to bed?" she asked. "I doubt I would sleep." From experience, she knew she would lie awake for hours while visions of Kenneth Wilding d
anced in her head. Perhaps a glass of sherry would help. She'd get one from the dining room.

  After lighting a candle, she opened her door and stepped into the hall—and almost crashed into the object of her obsession, who was emerging from his own room. She stopped just short of banging her nose into Kenneth's collarbone, almost losing her balance in the process.

  "Sorry!" He steadied her with a hand on her elbow. "I was heading to the kitchen to find something to eat. I didn't think anyone else was awake at this hour."

  He'd removed his coat and cravat and undone the top buttons of his shirt. Sharply aware of the strength in the hand holding her arm, Rebecca raised her gaze from the solid wall of his chest to his face. The candlelight cast dramatic shadows across his strong features. There was something about the lighting, the way he was dressed... the white line of his scar. His mesmerizing eyes. Damnation, she almost had it....

  His brows drew together. "Is something wrong?"

  Her fragmented ideas coalesced into sizzling unity. "The Corsair!" she burst out. "Come here."

  She grabbed his wrist and towed him into her bedroom. He'd always reminded her of a pirate, and Byron's corsair was the quintessential pirate, brave and bold and wildly romantic. She'd been a blasted fool not to see that right away.

  After setting down the candle, she put her hands on Kenneth's shoulders to press him into a sitting position on the sofa. Intently she studied the rugged planes of his face. "A little too civilized," she muttered to herself.

  She ran both hands through his hair, loosening the dark waves. The texture was thickly silken on her palms. After brushing a length rakishly across his forehead, she reached for his shirt and unfastened two more buttons. The white fabric fell back to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of bare flesh and dark, curling hair. "Perfect," she said with satisfaction.

  "Perfect for what?" he inquired.

  There was humor in the smoky depths of his eyes. Humor, and something more. Abruptly she recognized the wild impropriety of dragging a man into her bedroom and attacking his clothing. A good thing she didn't have a reputation to lose. "I've been toying with how to do your portrait, and inspiration just hit," she explained. "Lord Byron wrote a poem called 'The Corsair' three years ago. It was a great success—all about a dashing, Oriental, wildly romantic pirate. A perfect way to paint you."

  "Surely you're joking. I'm neither dashing nor romantic, and certainly not Oriental." He smiled suddenly. "If I were a real pirate, I'd do this." He slid a hand around her neck and pulled her down for a kiss.

  His tone was teasing, but the meeting of their lips was deadly serious. She felt a physical shock as his mouth moved against hers. The blaze of creative energy she'd been experiencing transmuted into fierce desire. Her hands were still resting on his chest, and her fingertips tingled from the accelerating beat of his pulse. She wanted to climb into his lap and rip off his shirt. She wanted to explore every inch of his powerful, masculine body. She wanted... she wanted...

  He released her and pulled his head back, ending the kiss. She saw in his eyes that he was as stunned as she.

  After a long moment, he said with a credible attempt at calm, "But I am not a corsair. Merely a secretary."

  "Once a captain, always a captain," she said, as eager as he to pretend that nothing important had happened.

  She dropped her hands from his chest and stepped unsteadily away. "You positively radiate romance and dashingness. When I've finished with your portrait, you'll look at it and see yourself for the first time."

  "I'm not sure I want to see myself that clearly."

  "You don't have to look at the results if you don't want to." Her eyes narrowed as she retreated into the safety of professional judgment. "I want to play with this for a bit. Lean back. Relax. Lay your arm along the back of the sofa."

  She gave a nod of satisfaction when he obeyed. A pose like this, languid but latent with power, would be exactly right. What else should be used? She didn't want to clutter the painting with an elaborate costume, so she must create a sense of Oriental mystery more subtly.

  She paused, then gave a crow of triumph and seized a small carpet that lay by the far side of the bed. "This will make a perfect background. I'll drape it over the sofa behind you."

  He turned to examine the carpet as she spread it over the sofa back. "This is superb." He ran his palm lovingly across the lustrous, exquisitely patterned surface. "I suppose it's Persian, but I've never seen a carpet with such rich burgundy colors. And the texture... it feels like the Gray Ghost's fur."

  "It's made from silk. A gift from the Persian ambassador."

  Kenneth's brows rose. "Surely there's a story behind that."

  She shrugged. "Nothing terribly exciting. Mirza Hassan Khan decided that while he was in London he would commission a European-style portrait, so he came to Father. He liked the results so much that he also wanted a picture of the two wives he'd brought to keep him company. Since a strange man could not be allowed to see their unveiled faces, Father suggested me for the commission. The carpet was Mirza Hassan Khan's gift when I refused to accept money for the portrait."

  "He must have been very pleased with your work. This is worth a king's ransom." Kenneth caressed the luxurious pile. "And I get to touch it for however long it takes you to paint me. I feel privileged."

  The carpet provided exactly the sensual richness that she wanted. Her pulse quickened, fueling the exhilaration that came when the pieces began to click into place.

  Now to find the right pose. Usually she directed her subjects, but she suspected that Kenneth would need no more than a suggestion. "Take a comfortable position that you can maintain for long periods," she ordered. "I want you to look relaxed but alert. A lounging lion rather than an upright soldier."

  He leaned back and drew his left leg up so that his booted foot rested on the edge of the sofa seat. Then he draped his arm casually across his raised knee. The effect combined the ease of total confidence with a menacing sense that he could spring into action on an instant's notice.

  "Excellent," she said. "Now look at me as if I'm a lazy, insolent soldier in your company."

  His expression hardened, the scar becoming more prominent. He looked every inch the pirate captain who would loot or love with equal ease.

  She bit her lip as she studied the overall composition. She would use dramatic lighting on his features and leave the rest of the scene shadowed to add to the air of mystery. So far, so good. Yet there was still something missing. Making Kenneth look fierce would be easy. But how could she convey the perceptive, contemplative side of his nature?

  She stalked around him, trying to find the perfect angle. A shimmer of movement caught her eye. It was Kenneth's reflection in the mirror on her dressing table. Her eyes flicked from him to the mirror as an idea crystallized.

  Eureka! Her excitement blazed higher. She would do a double portrait. The focus would be on him staring challengingly from the picture. But on the right side would be a reflection of his profile. There she could convey his haunted, weary intelligence. The reflection could not be as bright as if it were in a real mirror—that would be too strong, too distracting. She would use a wall of polished black marble so viewers would have to look closely to see the captain's hidden side.

  As she reached for her sketchbook, the Gray Ghost came awake and leaped from the bed to the sofa, landing with an audible thump. Then it sprawled alongside the captain's thigh. Kenneth began idly stroking the cat's head. "Will the Ghost interfere with your drawing?"

  Rebecca laughed aloud, intoxicated by the rightness of it all. To think she'd just told her pet that he'd never given her any good ideas! "On the contrary, the Gray Ghost is the crowning touch. I'll make him larger and turn him into some kind of wild Asiatic hunting cat. Just the kind of barbaric pet one would expect of a pirate chief."

  She bent her head and set her charcoal flying across the page. It was going to work. It was going to work well.

  The ensuing silence was broken only by t
he rasp of charcoal and the faint, distant sounds of a sleeping city. She had finished the main figures and was roughing in background when Kenneth said wistfully, "Will I ever be allowed any food?"

  Startled, she glanced at the clock and saw that it was after one o'clock. "I'm so sorry—I had no idea how much time had passed. I'm afraid I got carried away."

  "An understatement. If a fire-breathing dragon had fallen down the chimney, you wouldn't have noticed." He stood and rolled his shoulders to loosen them.

  She watched the fabric of his shirt tighten over his taut muscles and made mental notes of how to imply that power in her painting. Then she set aside her sketchbook and got to her feet. "You're going to make a splendid corsair, Captain."

  "If you say so." He lifted the sketchbook and studied her work, his brows knit. "Do I look that ferocious?"

  "Sometimes. It's no accident that the household staff has become so well behaved." She yawned, suddenly tired. "They're terrified you'll sell them into slavery in High Barbary."

  He began flipping through the earlier pages. "You certainly tried a variety of different compositions." He paused at a drawing that portrayed him as a weary soldier in a shabby uniform, his expression stark as he gazed over a harsh Spanish landscape. "Are you sure you aren't clairvoyant?"

  "Just an artist's imagination." She regarded the sketch thoughtfully. "Is the sunlight really different in Spain?"

  "There's a bright clarity very unlike England. We're much farther north here, and the moist air makes the light softer, almost hazy." He began paging through the sketches again.

  Content with her progress, Rebecca picked up a fresh stick of charcoal to set into the holder. Then the silence caught her attention. She looked up to see that Kenneth had stopped again and was staring at the sketchbook.

  Feeling her gaze, he raised the book to show the drawing of a woman tumbling headlong through the air, her expression a silent scream of horror. "What's this?"

  The fragile stick of charcoal snapped between Rebecca's fingers as her elation crashed into grief. She had forgotten the drawing was in this particular sketchbook. "It's... it's a study of Dido hurling herself from the towers of Carthage when Aeneas abandoned her," she improvised, her mouth dry.