“That is why you wish for your younger brother to manage the estate you are to inherit.”
Sebastian nodded. “And he enjoys it. He and I discuss all of it often. We correspond incessantly when we aren’t able to talk in person. We think similarly on this. I’m having a ship built for my purposes, a special ship. Her name is The Diana, after our mother.” The expression he sent her was a charming combination of sheepishness and pride. “We’ve run into a few snags, but I’ll sail in the springtime at the latest. And after I return, in a year or five, or a dozen, Andrew and I will instigate some long-awaited changes.” He shook his head. “I want to make our estates not only profitable but… humane.”
Oh, but how she had misjudged him. “I believe, Sebastian, that you will accomplish a great deal, if not turn the world on its head.”
He studied her as she smiled at him. She was not joking.
“I will take you out on The Diana someday.” His words could not have surprised her more if he had promised to take her to the moon. “And then, you can fly. We will fly across the waves, the wind in our sails. You will fly with me, Maggie.”
He envisioned the future with such great optimism. She hoped he never lost it, but one did not go through life without meeting storms or pirates. And then there would be the times when his ship drifted aimlessly because the wind refused to catch those sails.
“I would love to,” she answered, feeling utterly relaxed. “But if I do not, you must write to me so that I can share in your adventures.” Although that would be wildly inappropriate.
Oh, but the wine would make her sleepy if she did not move. “Let’s pack up this food, shall we, and begin working on our masterpieces before I settle for a nap instead.”
He stared back at her. “I believe that I would like that, writing to you.” And then he smiled and offered up the plate he’d emptied as she stacked the dishes back into the basket.
“But I have no doubt that you will fly, when you are ready.” His gaze captured hers for just long enough to steal her breath before she busily went about moving the contents of the basket into some semblance of organization. When she set it aside, her heart beat once again at its normal pace as she reached for the case she used for her art supplies.
“I have charcoal for you, here. And a sketch pad.” She’d brought a small canvas for herself and noticed that he’d set her easel up already. “Would you mind moving it closer to the edge?” She knew exactly what she wanted to paint. And she wanted to paint it well so that she could refer to it and summon the odd emotions the two of them shared today.
You will fly.
As she extracted her palette, a shiver rolled through her.
She chastised herself for being foolish and then stepped over to her easel and stared at the empty canvas. She would stand while she painted. She’d tried painting while sitting but doing so hadn’t allowed her the movement she needed.
Sebastian had returned to the blanket and was picking out a charcoal. He was only joking, flirting. Of course, he would never take her on the ship named after his mother.
The confusion she’d felt the night before had returned—not only returned but doubled and tripled. Why? One moment she felt like she was seven and ten again, and in the next, she felt like she was sixty.
Why now? Why, after she thought she had everything figured out? In frustration, she let out a huff. She most certainly was not going to summon any answers by staring at a blank canvas. She tilted her head and imagined where to begin.
Waves crashed loudly below, and the wind stirred the loose tendrils from her coiffure. At the same time, a few clouds drifted lazily across the sky.
Her purpose invigorated, she applied the colors she would need to the palette, selected her favorite brush and knife, and went to work.
She could lose herself here, in her painting, in her oils, and in her mind. She brushed and smoothed and dabbed. Sometimes, she wiped the results away and other times she allowed them to remain. Eventually, she covered the canvas with the glossy paints. The effects were not always exactly what she wanted, but she could pour out her emotions onto the canvas and give them a place. The waves, the sky, the rocks… Whites and all different colors of blue: indigo, cerulean, sapphire… And grays. Steel gray, stormy gray, and silver, like the moonlight…
“It’s stunning.”
She startled at his voice just behind her and then stepped back. She had no idea how much time had passed since she’d set to work but the sun burned almost hot on her skin and hair now. “Do you think so?”
She’d hoped she would be painting and picnicking with George today, but as she gazed at her creation, she was glad George was not here. The painting, much as a poem or a song, revealed the creator’s emotions.
Perhaps with George, she would have painted an entirely different landscape.
An elegant but masculine hand reached around her to point at the bottom half of the canvas. “So much light here, and then darkness… beneath it.”
His breath warmed the side of her face as he bent forward to examine her work.
“The waves seem ferocious,” she explained as she set her brush and pallet aside. “They are treacherous when they crash into the rocks. But beneath them, it is quiet and dark. Water can be dangerous but also peaceful.” The sea had successfully lured her into its depths the day before. She’d been invigorated by it but had also known not to swim out too far. She furrowed her brow.
“It can also be calm on the surface and yet deadly beneath—in a whirlpool or an undercurrent—like people,” he added.
She smiled over her shoulder at him. He understood! For the second time that afternoon, their faces were very close to one another’s. His lashes fell as his gaze dropped to her lips.
This afternoon had been magical so far.
He retrieved my hat from the sea.
Without stopping to think what she was doing, Margaret reached one hand up to the back of his neck and pulled his face down.
She did not have to pull hard as his mouth was already descending.
And with this kiss, her entire person sighed in relief. Her body remembered the sensations from that first night he’d arrived.
As she turned, he wound an arm around her waist, tugging her against his hard ridges and planes.
She was unaware that he had pulled the pins from her hair until a gust of wind swirled long strands of it around them both. Strands blocked out the light and tied them together like a silken rope. This part of her, today, in this moment, was wild and wicked and unruly.
You will fly.
He tasted of optimism and sunshine and all the romance of hopeful youth.
She pressed herself against him and edged her mouth to the corner of his, memorizing the feel of gentle stubble on his jaw and the taste of his skin. His neck was warm beneath her hand. This was not real. It could not be.
He groaned and buried his face in her hair as she clung to him.
The two of them stood like that, in a lover’s embrace, and time stood still. She breathed him in, savoring the moment. Only when a gull squawked overhead did she move, the sound jarring Margaret back to sanity.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled against the material of his shirt. She had kissed him!
“I would have done it if you had not.” His chest rumbled beneath her skin when he spoke.