She blew out a long breath to steady her hands and picked up one of the brushes he had bought her. Perhaps she risked revealing emotions of which she was still unsure, but she had no choice. The Masquerade needed her captain at the helm.
And she knew exactly how he must be—as she had sketched him that morning he took her to the stationer’s. His feet braced on the pitching deck, spyglass in hand, eyes sparkling with fascination with the world around him. His nose a strong line leading to his lips, quirked in that way of his. One side raised and the other steady. Not quite laughing in the face of the encroaching storm, but showing clearly that his respect for it gave no way to fear.
Finally, that pulsing surrounded her, each thump of light in time to the strokes of her brush. The Masquerade danced upon the waves, partially hidden by the froth and the coming tempest, but still bathed in sunlight that lit fire upon the water. So sure of her triumph, because her captain could take her through any storm, against any enemy.
She lifted her brush away from the black it had been headed toward, shook her head. No, no thought of enemies. Not now, not in this painting.
A curl fell into her face, obstructing her view. She shoved it aside and dabbed a bit more brown onto her brush. Just a touch, enough to add that depth, that texture to his hair.
Hers fell again, and again she shoved it aside. If she had to put her paints down to fasten her frustratingly unruly mane…
The mass of it lifted from her back, came away from her face, and cool air caressed her neck. She drew in a happy breath as she felt it twist and coil against her scalp. She reached out to stop his hand from grabbing the brush nearest him. “Not that one, I will need it in a moment. Use the bigger one.”
A low rumble of laughter tickled its way across her as he secured the knot of hair with the larger brush and then rested his hand on her shoulder. He circled his thumb across her nape.
She made one more dab, so minuscule it could scarcely be seen, and then paused. Her next stroke must be even more precise, and so she had better wait. Wait for his arm to come around her waist, wait for him to pull her back against his chest, wait for his lips to whisper from her temple to her jaw. Wait for…for…
“Oh!” She fumbled her brush, heat scorched her cheeks. What if he realized the thoughts that had flitted through her mind? And why, why had they so flitted? Why would she be waiting for something she had never experienced, never even dreamed of? Certainly never dreamed of. Those would be far sweeter images than the ones that visited her in the night.
She put her brush upon her palette and splayed a hand over her frantic heart. “You were not gone long.”
Thad chuckled again as he soothed and frazzled her simultaneously with another sweep of his thumb over her neck. “An hour, which was sufficient for verifying that Alain was home.”
Though her cheeks still felt warm, they no longer stung. She risked turning her head, tilting it back to look up at him. He was studying the painting. “Verify?”
His gaze fell upon her face, warm enough to make her cheeks flame anew. He grinned. “I awoke with an intuition and thought to see if it was accurate. Though I daresay Alain, who had only stumbled into bed two hours prior, would have preferred I had waited until noon to investigate.”
Her lips couldn’t help but mirror his. “I for one am glad I heard you leave. The light is ideal this morning.”
“So it would seem,” he said with a nod toward the painting. “It is perfect, sweet. I cannot fathom how you manage it. The sun glistening off the water, the mounting clouds on the horizon…” He shook his head, gave her neck an encouraging squeeze, and then stepped away.
Disappointment whispered until she saw him reaching for two steaming mugs on the small table near the door. He handed one to her and raised the other to his lips, his gaze still upon the canvas.
“Thank you.” Gwyneth took a sip and found the tea exactly as she preferred. The thought warmed her more than the beverage. Whether he had fixed it or Rosie, either way it was evidence of her welcome.
Thad folded his arms over his chest, his mug still half-raised as he studied the painting. “Is it finished?”
She moved beside him, trying to examine her work as a critic might. “It is hardly perfect. That section of the water there… But mostly finished, yes, except for the figure, which I just began.”
“Well.” He straightened and lifted his chin. “From what you have thus far, I can tell it is a most dashing figure indeed. You have already perfectly captured your subject’s poise and good looks, and the charm he oozes with every—”
“Oh, stop it.” Laughing, she gave his arm a shove as she would one of her cousins. “I obviously still have quite a bit of work to do to capture his insufferable arrogance.”
His laugh seemed to wind its way through hers, making it richer, deeper, fuller. Even when it faded to a smile, still it echoed within her. He tilted his head to the side. “Over the mantel, do you think?”