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“It is a memory,” she said, her voice soft. “Winter will come and take the blooms away.”
“They will return next summer.”
“Not these ones. There will be new life then.”
Harry felt his chest tighten. She saw light in the darkest places, and he feared he would corrupt her view in time.
“You say such a thing, yet you deny being a philosopher,” he observed.
Bridget looked up at him. “Perhaps I am.”
He reached into his pocket and retrieved the paintbrush, proffering it to her. “May this help you paint many memories.”
Her eyes widened when she saw the brush. She took it and traced the carvings with slender fingers. “Harry, this is wonderful.” When she looked up at him, his breath almost ceased for the gleam he saw in her amber eyes. They glittered almost gold with how impressed and delighted she was with his gift.
“My aunt told me that you love to paint, and I realized this would make a good gift,” he said, in awe of how a paintbrush could make her happy. She was so beautiful he ached!
“I love it,” she said, still admiring it. “Where did you find it?”
“I obtained it two years ago from a Belgian antique collector.”
“Are the carvings Aztec?” she asked, raising her eyes to his, and he nodded. “Thank you!” she whispered.
“You are most welcome, Bridget.”
“Belinda told me that you also love to paint.” She grinned.
“Belinda is more loquacious than I thought. What did she tell you?” His paintings were of an obscene nature, and he wanted to know if his aunt had told her about them.
“Only that you are very skilled,” she replied. “Will you show them to me?”
He could not allow her to see them because she would then learn of the demons that had provoked him to paint such images. She was too kind, too lovely to be subjected to such.
“You do not wish for me to see them, do you?” She correctly interpreted his thoughts. “I will not judge your skill, I promise.”
Harry began to laugh. She thought he was insecure about his skill. He supposed he was safe and could tell her that he was not as talented as Belinda had told her.
“I fear my work would pale before yours. I cannot show you.”
She was going to protest when he pointed at something on her painting. “What is this supposed to be?”
“That tree.” She pointed in the distance at an oak. “I am yet to paint it.”
“Your Graces,” Lander interrupted them, his expression grave. “Mr. Meyer is here.”
“Is there something the matter?” Harry asked.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Lander replied.
Chapter 13
Mr. Meyer was pacing the hall when Harry and Bridget arrived. “What happened?”
“The barrels arrived this morning, Your Grace, but…” Meyer looked about the hall. “It would be better if you come with me to the brewery.”
Harry turned to Bridget. “I will see you at dinner.” She nodded, her fine brows furrowing with concern.
Meyer refusing to tell him what was happening worried him, and he began to suspect foul play. When they arrived, he saw the reason why Meyer had been reluctant to reveal the truth.
