Chapter 6

December 20, 1890

A quiet sound made Octavia blink sleepily. For a brief moment, she thought she was in her room at Stapleton Hall, until her cold nose said differently. One hand slipped out from beneath the bedcovers to rub the sleep from her eyes.

Gasping at the chilly air sweeping over her arm, she immediately tucked it back under the thick layer of blankets. Covers up to her chin, she raised her head to look over at the fireplace. All she could see were embers glowing in the grate and remembered she'd not put another log on the fire before going to bed.

"And you have the audacity to call others half-wits, Octavia."

Warm and cozy beneath her covers, she snuggled deeper into the bed. She wasn't ready to brave the cold room just yet. Turning her head toward the window, Octavia gasped with dismay at the snowflakes spinning madly outside. Thick and white, the snow had completely blocked out the countryside, normally visible from her bed.

Scrambling out of her pleasant cocoon of warmth, she hurried to the window to confirm her fears. Octavia uttered a low groan of dismay at the thick, white curtain of snowflakes blocking her view. Christmas Eve was in three days, and the hope of spending the holiday with her family was fading with every falling snowflake. Octavia closed her eyes to block out the image of the white powder blowing hard against her window.

Resigned to nature's refusal to end the storm, she reached for her robe. She tied the garment closed, she winced at the memory of how inappropriately she'd been dressed last night. She'd been so discombobulated by Atticus's arrival that she'd forgotten all about the fact she'd been dressed for bed. It wasn't until he'd had stepped into the room she'd been making up for him that she'd realized the scandalous nature of her dress.

Tension etched its way through her muscles as she remembered the way his gaze had roved over her. There had been an odd gleam in his eye that had made her heart race. She shivered at the memory and banished the image from her mind.

Another tremor rippled through her, and Octavia glanced at the brass bin full of wood. While she was trying to be conservative with fuel, allowing the fire to die out completely meant the room would be freezing by nightfall. Setting the fire screen to one side, she added two of the smaller logs to the embers.

Huddled in front of the fireplace, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Despite the thick wool dressing gown, she was still cold. She'd be warmer if she dressed, but that meant venturing out of her bedroom and at some point, encountering Atticus. Arms wrapped around her, Octavia stared bleakly at the small flame running across the bark of one of the logs she'd added to the fire.

Sleep had eluded her last night. She'd done nothing but toss and turn, and when she had slept, Atticus had haunted her dreams. Ever since Octavia had seen him standing on the back stoop, she'd been reeling.

Dumbfounded by his arrival, she'd stared in disbelief as the man had stepped into her kitchen. Silence had been her best weapon of defense as she'd sat opposite him to finish her dinner before retreating to the kitchen. By the time Atticus had finished eating, Octavia had recovered enough of her wits to question his reason for being here.

Atticus had stunned her a second time when he'd included himself in having been worried about her. Not only that, she'd been dumbfounded that the man had volunteered to come ensure she was safe. Octavia had still been grappling with the question of why he was concerned, when he'd surprised her once more.

The revelation that he'd not told his sister that Octavia had overheard their conversation had sent shock waves rippling through her. But it was his apology that had changed everything. The sincerity and remorse in his quiet request for forgiveness had made it impossible to refuse him.

After several seconds of debating whether or not to forgive him, Octavia had accepted his heartfelt apology, then fled upstairs to ready his room. The entire time she was making his bed, she'd struggled to grasp the significance of everything he'd said.

She'd also been forced to admit the dangers of being trapped with him in the close confines of the cottage. She'd just finished spreading out the last layer of covers on his bed when Atticus had stepped into the room, satchel in hand.

Instantly, the room had shrunk in size. The instant his gaze had swept over her, she realized how vulnerable she was in his presence, especially considering how she was dressed. Cheeks burning at the wicked gleam in his dark blue eyes, Octavia had moved even faster in order to flee his room.

Everything about those few moments emphasized just how dangerous it was to be alone with the man. Twice she'd been forced to come within inches of him as she'd circled the bed to pull a pillow from the wardrobe. The fresh, cool smell of the outdoors wafting off of him had mixed with warm notes of spice to create a tantalizing aroma.

The moment Atticus's male scent had filled her senses, breathing had proven difficult. She sniffed with derision at her attempt to convince herself last night had been the only instance the man had affected her. Any time Atticus was near, it was difficult to breathe normally. But it was the tension charging the air between them last night that had made her heart pound wildly.

It had been an energy just as potent as the day she'd fallen into his arms outside her father's study. Instinctively, Octavia knew it would take only a small spark to ignite something uncontrollable inside her, and that would mean disaster. What man would reject a woman willing to throw herself at him?

Worse, Atticus's stormy gaze had narrowed as she'd looked up at him. It was almost as if he knew what she was thinking. With difficulty, she'd averted her eyes from that hypnotic gaze of his before mumbling goodnight, then hastily retreating to her room.

The fire snapped and crackled as it engulfed the logs she'd added to the fireplace moments ago. The small blaze began to strengthen, and the room's temperature was slowly rising, but she was still cold.

Octavia muttered a few choice words beneath her breath and chided herself for being afraid. It would be easy to avoid the man. She could paint while he fended for himself. Although her library was small, there was a wide selection of books. It wouldn't be her fault if he couldn't find something to do with his time.

Pulling a wool gown from her wardrobe, she began to dress. As always, it took her several minutes, and a few choice words, to do all the buttons up the back. She had a few dresses that buttoned down the front, and other than the one hanging near the salon's fireplace, they needed laundering.

When she'd finally managed to secure the last button, Octavia breathed a sigh of relief. As she drew in another breath, she caught the whiff of something pleasant drifting beneath her nose.

Coffee? Did Atticus know how to make coffee or was something burning? Without thinking, she hurried toward the door and tugged it open, ready to race downstairs. In her haste, Octavia almost stepped on the wood tray sitting in front of her door.

She recovered and took a small leap backward. Amazement made her jaw sag as she stared down at the food-ladened tray. The aroma she'd smelled was stronger now. The small pot on the tray had to be filled with freshly brewed coffee as she saw the swirling smoke of steam floating out into the chilly air.

Several scones she'd stored in the pantry two days ago sat on a small plate. Beside it was one of the small jars of jam she'd purchased from Mrs. Barton weeks ago, as well as a knife. Even though there was only one person who could have set the tray in front of her door, Octavia shook her head in disbelief.

Somewhere close by, she heard Atticus whistling a Christmas song with cheerful exuberance. Octavia tipped her head to one side before she poked it out into the hall. She looked in both directions along the corridor, expecting to see Atticus strolling toward her. The instant she saw light spilling out of the studio into the hallway, panic spiraled through her.

Octavia was certain she'd closed the door last night, but she knew Atticus was in the well-lit room. When his whistling came to an abrupt stop, her chest constricted in fear. Dear God, he'd seen the painting.

Terror chilling her blood, Octavia leapt over the tray and raced down the hall. Flinging herself through the studio's open doorway, she slid to a halt and froze in horror. Arms folded across his chest, Atticus stood in front of the painting she'd completed yesterday. Dear Lord, how was she going to explain this?

"You're quite talented," he said without looking in her direction, his attention focused on the portrait.

Startled by the admiration and respect in his sinful voice, Octavia didn't move. Everyone in her family had expressed similar compliments, but of all the ones she'd ever received, Atticus's words of praise warmed her heart. Head tipped to one side as he studied his portrait, his strong, masculine profile made her fingers itch to grab a brush and paint him again.

Octavia's stomach lurched with dread. It was madness to even think about painting him for a fourth time when she couldn't explain her reason for painting this portrait or the other two. No, a voice in the back of her mind murmured. She knew the reason, but she had no intention of confessing her soul to the man—or herself.

Heart pounding in her chest, Octavia glanced toward the canvas paintings in the corner that had been done for several weeks. Relief sped through her when she saw none of the canvases had been moved. She'd turned them to face the wall after they were dry in an effort to avoid seeing Atticus's face staring out at her every day.

It was bad enough he'd seen this portrait of himself, heaven help her if he found the others. Her mind a muddled whirlpool of incoherent thoughts, she fought hard to think of a plausible explanation for the painting. Somewhere in her head, there had to be a logical reason as to why there was a portrait of him in her studio.

"I suppose the question to ask is why."

"Why?" she choked out, her voice hoarse.

"Yes. Why did you choose me as your subject, Octavia?"

Atticus slowly turned his head in her direction, and her heart slammed into her chest at the curious glint in his eyes. But it was his smile of pleasure and the gleam of an emotion she couldn't define that confounded her. Octavia wasn't sure what she'd expected his reaction to be, but delight would never have even occurred to her.

Ignoring his question, she hurried across the studio to throw a painter's cloth over the finished portrait. The instant she turned away, Atticus's fingers wrapped around her arm to stop her. Electricity crackled its way through every cell in her body, and she drew in a quick breath at the fiery sensation.

"No, Octavia, I'll not let you walk away without an explanation. Why did you choose me as the subject of your portrait?"

Rough with an emotion she couldn't identify, Atticus's voice rubbed across her senses with the strength of a tidal wave. Something in the sound had her on the verge of a confession she didn't dare make. The knowledge reinforced her conviction she'd made the right decision to leave London and not risk receiving him the morning after the Ealing affair.

Legs wobbling beneath her, Octavia stared up at him, struggling with emotions that reminded her she was already on the edge where this man was concerned. When she didn't answer him, one eyebrow quirked upward. It reminded her of his sister, who possessed a similar trait. Without hesitating, she accepted the unexpected gift of inspiration.

"You…you weren't…supposed to see…see it until…Christmas," her voice hoarse as she uttered her lie. "Elizabeth asked me to paint it as a gift for your mother."

"My mother?" he murmured with frustration. It was as if her explanation had made him feel thwarted somehow. "Elizabeth must have forgotten she gave our mother miniatures of us last year."

Bewildered, she stared up at him in confusion. Why in heaven's name would the man be disappointed? The air in her lungs vanished as his statement pushed its way through the chaos in her head. He didn't believe her explanation. Strong fingers still wrapped around her arm to keep her next to him, she flinched as with a sharp tug, Atticus removed the cloth she'd used to cover the canvas mere seconds ago.

With gentle force he turned her to face the portrait, while his hard male frame pressed into her back. The warmth of him sank through her clothing, then down through her skin to heat her blood with alarming speed. Seconds later, a slight tremor rocked her as Atticus dipped his head to press his mouth against her ear.

"Did you do this from memory?"

The soft question vibrated in her ear with an emotion that almost sounded like hope. Another shiver shot through her, and she sought to pull an answer out of the pandemonium and turmoil embroiling her thoughts, but it was difficult to focus.

"I…yes…it was something…I…have…I have an excellent memory."

"Indeed," he whispered in that wickedly sinful voice, his mouth pressed intimately against her ear. "Your memory must be quite exceptional. The detail in this portrait is quite extraordinary, considering the few brief moments we spent in each other's company in a dark garden. One would almost think you'd been observing me for a long time."

Octavia's throat closed up as he turned her around and eyed her with intense scrutiny. Pinned beneath his dark-blue gaze, she remained silent. Atticus rolled his shoulders in a small shrug of acceptance at her refusal to elaborate on her motivations for painting his portrait. Relieved he didn't probe any further, Octavia's heartbeat slowed. Atticus's attention shifted away from her to windows.

"The lighting in here is excellent," he said with what sounded like excited anticipation. "Would you, by chance, have an extra easel?"

"Extra easel?" Baffled by his question, Octavia nodded and pointed toward the far corner of the studio. "Why?"

His stride filled with purpose, Atticus didn't answer her. Instead, he retrieved the a-framed wooden tripod from the corner of the room and carried it toward her work space. Grinning with obvious pleasure, he set up the second easel back to back with hers. Speechless, Octavia stared at him in confusion. Hands on his hips, Atticus looked around the studio.

"Where are your blank canvases?" His gaze fell on her collection of finished works that were turned toward the wall, and she scurried toward the opposite side of the room.

"Here," she choked out, her fingers fumbling to grab one of the spare canvases she kept on hand.

She handed him a wood frame with a piece of lightweight canvas stretched tight over it and held in place with tacks pounded into the side of the frame. His grin broadened as he accepted the canvas and kissed her cheek with a word of thanks. Stunned by the almost affectionate gesture, Octavia could feel flames cresting over her skin. What on earth had possessed the man to do such a thing?

"I don't understand," she said in bewilderment.

"We have several things in common, Octavia, one of which is painting." Atticus rummage through the dry brushes lying on the table next to the easel holding his portrait.

"You paint ?"

Flabbergasted, Octavia stared at him with a look of incredulity. The pleasure lighting his face as he examined her paints indicated Atticus didn't just enjoy the prospect of applying paint to canvas. He reveled in it. A grin of anticipation on his lips, he glanced at her then fixed his gaze on her fully, raising his eyebrows at her astonishment.

"I've enjoyed painting since I was a child, but I never spent much time at it until I was in America. The scenery out west is stunning, and I wanted to capture some of its beauty." Atticus shrugged almost sheepishly. "I'm not as talented as you, but painting relaxes me."

"I see," she murmured, still in a state of shocked disbelief. He chuckled before he grew solemn.

"I can see I have my work cut out for me when it comes to making you believe I'm not like the men you've known in the past, Octavia." Atticus studied her for a long moment before a frown furrowed his brow. "Forgive me, I didn't ask if you would object to my using your studio."

"I…I don't have any objections."

The grin directed at her made her heart skip a beat. His expression reminded her of the portrait she'd done of him with a small child. It was one of sheer happiness. Unable to resist, she smiled back. Curiosity furrowed his forehead as he arched an eyebrow.

"Did you enjoy your breakfast?"

"I…I didn't eat…I heard you in the studio…"

"And you raced down here to stop me from seeing my portrait?" The calculating gleam in his eyes made her shiver.

"It's a present, and I wasn't sure if Elizabeth had mentioned it to you." The lie flowed with relative ease past her lips, but Atticus's expression said he didn't believe her.

"No, she didn't mention it to me," he said softly.

It was as if he'd caressed her skin with a piece of velvet. It made her shiver. Atticus must have seen her tremble, and he circled the workspace between them. The speed with which he moved made her heart lurch before it struck a hard blow to her chest, then sent her pulse spiraling out of control. He stopped inches away from her, making it impossible to avoid breathing in the warm, spicy scent of him. Octavia shivered again, trying to control her racing heart.

"You're cold." Concern tightened his mouth.

"A little." The lie was difficult to choke out while fire spread over her skin in reaction to his close proximity.

"Then I suggest you take your breakfast tray down to the kitchen, where it's much warmer. In the meantime, I'll add wood to the fire in here," he said pragmatically. "It will be much more comfortable by the time you return. I doubt you can paint when your fingers are stiff with cold, anymore than I can."

The fact he'd assumed she wanted to paint today alarmed her. It had been her intention to do just that, believing it would keep distance between her and Atticus. Now that she'd agreed to let him use her studio, the idea of being in the same room with him for any great length of time alarmed her. She'd only been in his presence for a few minutes now, and in that short amount of time, he was wreaking havoc with her senses.

"Actually, I was…I am not…painting today," she stammered. "But you're welcome to stay and use whatever supplies you need."

"Not painting? Why?" Atticus arched an eyebrow, his sensual lips twitching with amusement. "Are you afraid to be alone with me?"

"No, of course not." Flustered, she shook her head, irritated at how hastily she'd denied the question. It made her appear guilty, which she was.

"Why do I think you're lying?" The mischievous note in his voice made her bristle.

"I am not lying." Octavia glared up at him, hoping her fierce look hid the fact she was doing precisely that. His eyebrow quirked upward, and Octavia realized the habit was a trait that indicated when he was either amused or skeptical.

"I see." Atticus nodded. "Perhaps I need convincing."

"Convincing?" Panic made her heart pound wildly as she saw his blue eyes flash with an emotion that made her heart beat even faster.

"Yes," he murmured as he lowered his head. The warm scent of coffee lingered on his breath, and a tremor of what she knew was anticipation skimmed through her. "If you don't run after I kiss you, then I'll be convinced."

Air fled her lungs, and she struggled to breathe as he bent his head and his mouth teased hers in a light caress. Unable to move, her eyelids fluttered closed as Atticus deepened the kiss. His mouth teased hers until she pressed herself into his hard muscles. It was the most heavenly caress she'd ever experienced.

Strong arms wrapped around her to pull her tight against him, and she breathed a sigh of pleasure. At the sound, he raised his head with what she thought might have been reluctance. Disappointment crested upward into her breast, and her eyes fluttered open to meet his gaze. Beautiful, dark blue eyes burned with desire as he studied her. It was a look that held a promise of wicked pleasure if she dared to accept the silent offer of scandalous passion.

Never in her life had she ever wanted to surrender to a man's touch as she did Atticus. The strength of the desire he aroused in her wasn't just powerful. It created a desperate need to be possessed by him, and she shuddered at how close she was to accepting his unspoken invitation. A hard, masculine thumb rubbed over her bottom lip.

"So, you aren't afraid to be alone with me?"

Quiet amusement mixed with an undefinable emotion threaded his sinful voice, and Octavia fought not to press herself even deeper into the hard chest her fingers were splayed over. Her breathing ragged, she fought to control her reaction to him. With a small shake of her head, Octavia fought to keep her voice serene.

"As I said…I'm not afraid to be alone with you."

The lie made her mouth go dry. She was terrified to remain in his presence, and it was only her determination not to show fear that held her in place. Almost as if he could tell she was lying, his mouth brushed over hers again, and she quivered at the light caress. Octavia was afraid, not of him, but of herself. She was only one kiss away from encouraging him to enter her bed. The thought was emphasized even further the moment he released her, and her body screamed a soundless protest.

"Hmm, so if you're not afraid of being alone with me, why aren't you going to paint today?"

"I…it has nothing…to do with you." Octavia winced at her breathless response, then forced herself to meet his gaze steadily. "When I finish a painting…I need to clear my head. So I do something else for a couple of days while I contemplate what to paint next."

"And what type of activities would those be?" His question was filled with simple curiosity, but there was an undefinable gleam in his eye that threw her off-kilter.

"On nice days, I enjoy riding Napoleon across the countryside, or sometimes I'll read…but I've decided to do some baking today since the snow…" The instant her voice trailed off, Atticus nodded with a sympathetic expression.

"So you've realized it's more than possible that I might be unable to have you home in time for Christmas if the weather doesn't begin to cooperate."

"Yes, I thought that might be a strong possibility." She hesitated for a brief moment as she tried to discern Atticus's odd expression. Unable to decipher the emotion on his handsome features, she continued. "But…if we're forced to spend Christmas here, we can at least have a small holiday feast."

"The perfect example of a pragmatic mindset." Atticus chuckled as his mouth curved in a now familiar roguish, wicked smile. Fearing he might offer his assistance, Octavia waved her hand toward the second easel.

"However, as I said, you're welcome to make use of the studio."

Indecision clouded his expression as Atticus turned his head toward the easel he'd set up for himself. With a slow nod, he turned back to her. "Then if you have no objection, I've had an image in my head for a few weeks now that I'd like to work on."

Grateful he wouldn't be underfoot while she was in the kitchen, Octavia nodded her understanding with great relief. The tension easing out of her must have been discernable, because Atticus's mouth twitched, while a mischievous twinkle was reflected in his gaze.

"Although, if you require my assistance in the kitchen, I'm happy to offer my services."

"Somehow, I don't think you would be of much help," she said with a relieved laugh as she rejected his offer with a shake of her head.

Atticus pressed his hand to his chest in a playful gesture that suggested she'd inflicted a mortal wound. This time Octavia's laugh was one of amusement as she turned away from him and left the studio.