Page 25 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin
"Don't we all have our monsters?" she replied, but her tone suggested the conversation was moving into territory she wasn't ready to explore.
"So ye daenae think I'm damned?" he asked, only half-joking.
"I think ye're a man who's suffered more than most and survived when others wouldnae have." She reached out as if to touch his arm, then seemed to think better of it. "I think the fact that ye can create somethin' like this—" she gestured to the phoenix "—proves there's more light in ye than darkness."
"Even knowin' what I've done?"
"Especially knowin' what ye had to do." Her voice was soft but certain. "Anyone can be good when they've never been tested. But ye... ye were broken down and chose to build yerself back up into somethin' better than what tried to destroy ye."
For a moment, Lachlan couldn't speak. No one had ever looked at his past—at his moment of greatest shame—and seen strength instead of weakness. Hope instead of damnation.
"Why did ye paint it as a phoenix?" she asked quietly.
"Because that's what I am," he said, the words surprising him with their honesty. "Somethin' that died in fire and was reborn from the ashes."
"And what were ye reborn as?"
He looked at her. This brave, intelligent woman who could see beauty in his darkness and strength in his scars.
"I'm still figurin' that out," he admitted.
They stood there, their gazes on each other for a long moment. "I'm jealous," Erica said suddenly, still staring at the phoenix with obvious admiration.
"Of what?"
"That ye can create somethin' like this. I wish I could paint, but I have nay artistic talent whatsoever."
She wants to learn?
The idea intrigued him more than it should have.
"How do ye ken if ye've never tried?"
"Oh, I've tried. Ada attempted to teach me when I was younger. The results were... tragic."
"That bad?"
"Worse. I once painted what I thought was a beautiful Highland landscape. Ada took one look at it and asked if I was feelin' ill, because surely only a fever could explain why I'd painted purple cows."
"Purple cows?"
"They were supposed to be heather bushes."
"Here, let me show ye how it's done," he said, moving to set up a fresh canvas on another easel.
"Ye'd do that? Teach me?"
"Why nae? We're supposed to be spendin' time together anyway." He picked up a clean palette and began squeezing out paints. "Besides, I'm curious to see if yer purple cows have improved with age."
She laughed—a sound that did strange things to his chest—and moved to stand beside him. But when he gestured for her to take the brush, she hesitated.
"I daenae want to waste yer good materials on me terrible attempts."
"Erica." He caught her chin gently, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. He felt her stiffen, but she remained still. "Art isnae about perfection. It's about expression. Whatever ye create will be worth the cost of the paint."
Sweet Christ, her skin is soft.
The thought hit him unexpectedly, and he found himself studying the delicate line of her jaw, the way her lips parted slightly in surprise.
