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She cast a worried glance at Donna before turning. “I’ll get it sorted.”
He focused his attention on his housekeeper. Her hair was down today, and the soft morning light brought out the deep strands of red. Her hair fascinated him. It wasn’t wavy, but wasn’t straight either, and so thick a man could get lost in it. He could fill a canvas just with her hair alone. A bizarre abstract study. He cocked his head as he considered it. Maybe another time.
First, he wanted to paint her sitting in one of the picture windows, with the early morning light washing softly over her. Oh, aye, he could use the sunbeams to break up the canvas. It would be as though you were looking at her through the light. Excitement washed over him. It was like coming home. As though he’d put on a pair of perfect, worn-in jeans that felt like butter to the touch.
Suddenly, his anxieties fled. Fiona had known he was an artist when she married him. She’d understand his need to work even though she was gone, of that he was certain. And that certainty flowed through his body, calming his over-active heart and steadying his nerves. He was an artist. And he wanted to paint. Right now. Without delay. He’d lost interest in eating. All he wanted to do was get to the studio he hadn’t set foot in for two long years.
But first, he had to get his model onto the same page. She was still staring at him as
though he’d grown two heads overnight.
“You want to paint...me?” she said, her eyes on his, searching for something, he wasn’t sure what.
All he could do was give her the truth. “Yes.”
And then she asked the question he’d been dreading. “Why?”
He didn’t have an answer. He didn’t know why it had to be her, exactly. It was a combination of the colours that made up her skin tone—the peaches and pinks that blended perfectly—and the soft curves that made up her form. The way the light hit her, changing the colours and luminosity of her skin and hair, was fascinating to watch. She was a walking Pre-Raphaelite painting, and he had to capture it for himself, in a way he knew only he could.
“Why, Duncan, why paint me?”
There was no explaining to her how the sum of her drew him to her. That he wanted to get that essence on canvas. It sounded stupid, even to him. There was something elusive about Donna that he wanted—no, needed—to try to capture in paint. But he couldn’t say any of that. How could he explain something he couldn’t even understand himself? So, he told her the first thing that came to mind.
“Because you’re here and Fiona isn’t. I need a subject if I’m going to paint again.” It was a minuscule part of the whole reason, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were the wrong ones.
For a second, she looked like she’d been slapped, and then her face cleared and a plastic smile appeared. “I’m flattered, but I have a lot to do today.” She pushed away her half-eaten food and stood. “But you should definitely get back into painting. A talent like yours shouldn’t be wasted. If you need anything for your studio, let me know and I’ll order it in for you. The art shop in Glasgow does overnight delivery now.” She turned to Grace. “Thanks for breakfast.”
With that, she walked from the room.
A plate thudded down on the table in front of him. He looked up into the glaring eyes of his cook.
“You are a bloody idiot,” she snapped at him.
“Is that any way to talk to your boss?”
“It is when he’s being clueless and cruel.”
“What did I do?”
“Men.” She shook her head as she untied her apron, then after dumping it on the counter, she followed Donna out of the room.
Leaving him alone in the huge kitchen. He eyed his food. She’d made him an egg white omelette, filled with spinach. He was obviously being punished. He reached over the table and nabbed the last piece of bacon from Donna’s plate. While he chewed, he tried to figure out what he’d said that was so bad.
Maybe he should have explained that he’d been thinking about painting more often over the past few weeks and felt it was time to try again, and that she was the perfect subject. But then she would demand to know why she was the perfect subject. Women always wanted to know the why of things. And men never had an answer for them. All he knew was he’d spent the past few nights lying in bed, planning paintings in his head.
And each one of them was of Donna.
Chapter 8
Because you’re here and Fiona isn’t. I need a subject if I’m going to paint again.
Donna strode down the corridor towards her office, her head held high and her shoulders back, but his words still rang in her ears.
Because you’re here and Fiona isn’t.
A sharp pain hit her in the vicinity of her heart. Of course. What more could there be to it? If Fiona were here, he wouldn’t want to paint anyone else. She’d been his go-to model. Not that he was a portrait artist, he just liked to use figures in his canvases to tell the stories in his head. And Fiona had been the perfect muse. Anyone else would be a poor substitute.
Because you’re here and Fiona isn’t.
