Page 55 of Lyon of Scotland
She stirred her chocolate, frowning. “Charley. I was just hoping—I was just wondered—if you might have been desperate to have the painter and designs you needed, and so….”
“Good God!” He stood, pushed his chair back, took a long step toward her, and all but picked her up by her shoulders. He pulled her so close that she craned her head. “Well, wonder no more.”
She sighed, regretting now her impulse, the fears that led her to speak out too quickly. “Oh dear. I am sorry. I just—do not know a lot about you yet. But I am learning.”
“Then know this, Hannah Gordon,” he said fiercely. “I would never marry you just to make my life or my work easier. I would never trap you because I might need you to draw pretty wee pictures of lions and helmets and such. What sort of man would I be then?”
“Not the sort I would marry.”
“Nor the sort you should.” He released her. “If I wanted an artist that badly, I would not have to marry to get one,” he snapped.
“If you wanted me, you might.” She twisted her mouth, hoping he would laugh, hoping to bridge the gap she had made. She did not know him completely yet—but she saw that his sense of honor and integrity was strong and sure.
He gave a rueful huff. “Well, are you that good?”
“Sir George gave me work that he would not give to others.”
“Even so, if I wanted you to work with me, I would simply have asked.”
She shook her head. “I am so sorry. I should have known.”
“We are learning each other, aye? But you have to trust me, Hannah. And as long as we are being forthright, I confess I was not sure why I wanted to marry you, other than to get you out of there, and make up for some compromise. I only knew I had to help you and wanted to do this. Wanted it, and still do. Understanding why came later.”
“Understanding it is coming later for me, too. I am sorry—”
He lifted her chin with a crooked finger. “Do not apologize for honesty. This has not been easy for either of us.”
She looked up at him. His eyes were dark, warm pools she could have fallen into, full of depth, caution, passion, swirling in dark irises. “The coats of arms I designed,” she said. “Do you want them?”
“I would like to see them. Not now.”
“Do you want me to be a herald painter?”
He huffed again. “I want you to be my wife. You decide if you want to paint.”
She nodded, letting out a tense breath.
“Better? Is there more you need to settle?” He drew her close as he spoke.
Feeling mollified—she had been wrong, born of expecting trouble, perhaps—she shrugged. “Nothing more.”
“Shall we talk of crests and coats of arms, blazonry and cadence, and the whole blasted catalogue of components to decorate a shield?”
She shook her head. “Not just now.”
“Listen to me, Hannah.” His fingers slid slowly down her arms, raising gentle shivers in her. “You are safe with me, aye?”
“I know.”
“And loved.”
“I know.” She leaned forward, half closed her eyes, filled with bliss for an instant. “Oh, I know. And so you are.”
“Good, then. Good. Would you like to see the rest of the house?”
“I would,” she breathed. In answer, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Shivers cascaded through her. She realized she leaned so far toward him that she was nearly off-balance, trusting him, her body deciding and her heart catching up. “But I should clean the kitchen. There is no maid to do that.”
“We can straighten it together. Quickly, please.”
