“Ye like it?” he asked, wanting to be certain she did and wasn’t just saying so.
She halted, holding his gaze. “This is the most remarkable thing I have ever seen! If I owned a library like this, I would never leave.”
Aye, that’s what he was afraid of.
He shrugged. “I nae longer come here.”
Her mouth opened, her lips forming the word, but she stopped herself from askingwhy, thank God. Shaking his head, Lyon stepped into the room. He meant to move around Bonnie, toward the wall where Rose’s art hung, but instead, he went right to her, lifting her hand in his again.
As he turned her, Bonnie made a little noise of question, but he didn’t look at her. Instead, he stepped up to the window and pulled open the heavy velvet curtain with his other hand. Although the window was small by modern standards, it still let in enough light to illuminate the wall of oil paintings hanging on either side.
Bonnie gasped again, her fingers tightening around his.
“Oh, Lyon…they are beautiful,” she eventually whispered.
And she was right.
Rose had been the most talented painter he’d ever met. Her landscapes had managed to not just capture the appearance of the Highlands around Oliphant Castle, but theessenceas well. When he studied her paintings, Lyon could smell the heather and feel the wind off the loch ruffling his hair. He could almost hear the crossbills and the geese, and he knewthiswas what he loved most about his home.
Hesitantly, Bonnie lifted her hand and brushed her fingers across one of the frames. “These are Rose Oliphant’s, are they not? The paintings you told me I could not use for my book?”
Mutely, he nodded. But the silence stretched, awkward now, and he felt compelled to fill it up.
“She was my wife.”
Bonnie whirled to face him, her blue eyes wide with shock, and he dipped his chin in acknowledgement. He should’ve told her sooner.
His gaze crept to one of his favorite paintings, that of a lone oak tree on a hill. It was mainly done in greens and blues, but somehow, the feel of the image was haunting, not cheerful. It was an old, silent tree, used to being alone…and he understood its pain.
“Rose was a Mackenzie, and our fathers arranged the match. She didnae particularly want to marry me. I’ve been gruff and harsh and cruel since before—this.”
He gestured weakly to his ruined face, but her fingers tightened around his.
“You are not cruel, Lyon. You are stoic and gruff, yes, but not harsh or cruel.”
Let her believe that.
“All she wanted was to paint, and once I saw her work, I was determined to allow her any opportunity she craved. She asked for a separate building to work, and I had the stables renovated for her use. I believe, once she saw I appreciated her talent and wouldnae keep her from using it, she began to soften toward me.”
She squeezed again. “I am glad,” she said softly. “So your marriage was happy?”
He shrugged. “Happy enough. We were married for three years, and I loved her. How could Ino’feel something for someone who could produce such splendor?”
Bonnie was silent for a long moment, gazing up at the paintings. “I think I understand.”
And he thought maybe she did.
Taking a deep breath, she tilted her head back to stare up at the highest framed artwork. “I also understand why you did not want to share this with me. If this is all you have to remember your wife, I understand not wanting to share it with the world.”
He was already shaking his head. “Last night—” Nay, that was not how he wanted to start this. “I kenned ye’d appreciate this library. I kenned ye’d understand her paintings.”
There. That much was true.
“Thank you,” she breathed, turning to face him. She reached out and took his other hand so they were standing facing one another. “Thank you for sharing all of this with me. It?—”
Was it his imagination, or did her voice catch on some thick emotion?
“Thank you for trusting me,” she said.
