Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(9)

She looked up, pleased, and found his gaze firmly on her.

Mr. Finn was sitting completely still, his amusement gone. His eyes were hard, flat, almost angry, and at the same time, full of fire. The fire was banked for now, but what must it be when it blazed?

Celia saw a man holding himself back, hiding himself behind bluster and sudden smiles, neither the bluster nor the smiles the real person. Ansel Finn was not his name. The words were too tame to contain this man.

Not a man. A warrior.

Mr. Finn was no more a poor Irish artist struggling to make a living than Celia was. He’d seen war and death; his eyes had looked upon tragedy.

His bearing, looks, height—all told her he was Scottish, one of the mad Highlanders. The fact that he pretended to be a harmless artist, using a false name and nationality, suggested that he must be one who’d followed Prince Charles Stuart, the Young Pretender, in his march against England.

A traitor to the crown, a crazed fighter—Celia’s brother, Edward, had told her about the terrifying Highland soldiers screaming like banshees as they charged the British lines. Their wild cries and fearless attacks had broken the spirits of even the most courageous of Englishmen.

This man had fought and killed, then watched his fellows die and die in the aftermath of Culloden Field. She’d heard all about Culloden from Edward, who’d witnessed the mass slaughter. No quarter given. That had been their orders. No matter that the men surrendered, no matter how much they begged for their lives, the evil Highlanders were cut down even as they raised their hands and pleaded for mercy. The field had been stained red with their blood.

Edward had declared it a great victory. Celia’d had nightmares about it.

She should be frightened to be in the room with a deadly Highlander, and furious with Lady Flora for allowing him near her. There was no doubt that Lady Flora knew exactly who this man was—she was the sort who would find out everything about him.

But then, he must be harmless, because Lady Flora would never, ever give comfort to an enemy. She was working hand in glove with Celia’s father to make Britain the most powerful empire in the world. She’d been furious about the Jacobite Uprising, happy that the Duke of Cumberland had rushed to Scotland to beat them down.

Ergo, Mr. Finn must not be dangerous.

But the man who looked at her with intense amber eyes, was obviously quite dangerous. It was most puzzling.

Celia cleared her throat. “Shall I continue?”

Mr. Finn lifted his red-gold brows. “Ye came for a drawing lesson, didn’t ye? So we go until it’s done. Let me see where you are.”

He slid his chair around so that he was next to her. Mr. Finn didn’t touch her, but the heat of his skin warmed her through the many layers of her robe à la Fran?aise. Celia glanced sideways at the well-muscled shoulder near hers, hard under satin skin. A bead of perspiration gathered at the back of her neck and trickled under her bodice.

Mr. Finn leaned forward to study her drawing, putting his clean-smelling hair in its neat queue nearly under her chin. His hair was dark, but it wasn’t brown or black—a definite red hue ran through it like rich mahogany.

“This is well done.” He tapped the line she’d made of his finger, which exactly matched the finger that touched it. Then he brushed at the squares and oblongs as though he wanted to erase them, and his fingertips came away black. “These are for students who’ve never drawn before. So that drawing masters can pretend to teach them something. You already know much.”

He turned his head to look at her as he spoke, casually, as though sitting next to her half unclothed was nothing unusual. He had no embarrassment about his bare flesh, as if he didn’t even notice it.

Celia couldn’t cease noticing. The length of his leg rested against her striped skirt, the pressure of it making her heart pound. He was so close she felt his breath on her neck.

She flicked her gaze to his eyes, inches from hers, his stillness returning. The man changed from movement to quietude so fast it was unnerving. Perhaps that unpredictability was what had made the Highlanders so frightening to her brother and his soldiers.

“Edward had a good teacher,” she said with difficulty.

Mr. Finn returned to her drawing. The drop in temperature when he no longer focused on her was palpable.

“You’ve learned much on your own, then,” he said. “With more practice, and a better teacher, your talent will shine forth.”

“My brother’s drawing master was a famous painter,” Celia said, suppressing her sudden pleasure at the word talent. He must be flattering her so her mother would continue to pay him, but it was nice to hear anyway. “He’s done portraits of the king.”

“A famous painter doesn’t equal a good teacher. They are full of their own genius and have no idea how to convey to others the basics of art. I have no genius, and so I instruct.”

Good humor flashed in his eyes, wicked and self-effacing, like a schoolboy who’d made a joke. He’d become warm and friendly again, his distance evaporating. The Highland warrior was gone; the father who soothed his daughter with song had returned.

“What have you painted?” Celia asked. “Anything I would have seen?”

Mr. Finn shrugged, muscles moving beneath his shoulders. “Most of my better paintings are in France. But …”

He snatched the pencil out of her hand before she could squeak in protest. Mr. Finn slid Celia and her chair away from the easel with alarming strength, turned the easel to him, and started scribbling on the drawing paper. He peered at her around it, his arm moving swiftly.