More admiration sparked in his eyes, and she resisted the urge to bask. Marina was much more comfortable with praise for her work than her feminine appeal. She was proud of what she’d achieved in her career. In the early days, many people had dismissed her as yet another woman who dabbled in watercolor, the medium every genteel lady learned from her governess.
The Mackinnon went on. “Clarissa’s husband did the Grand Tour as a young man, and he bought a set of your pictures when he was in Italy. Views of Naples. They’re exquisite. Forgive me, I assumed they were done by a man.”
Her lips firmed, although she, more than anyone, knew the prejudice against female painters. It was why she used her initials and not her Christian name when she signed her work. “Many people believe women have no real talent with a brush.”
“Well, ye disprove that,” he said shortly. “What does the R stand for?”
She’d been geared up to defend herself. When she didn’t need to, she felt winded, as though he’d punched her in the belly.
“Repton. Mamma’s maiden name.” Because his partisanship disarmed her, she said more than she usually did when she described her beginnings as an artist. “Mamma was the one who fostered my talent and fought tooth and nail until the best drawing master in Florence took me as a pupil.”
Even then Marina hadn’t been allowed to attend the school’s life classes along with the male students. A reason she confined herself to landscapes, now she earned her living as a watercolorist.
“And is there a Signor Lucchetti?”
Did she imagine that the question held a particular intensity? Up until now, she could almost dismiss the conversation as an exchange of harmless pleasantries, if her heart wasn’t lodged high up under her ribs and her blood wasn’t fizzing like champagne. “Yes, there is.”
Was that disappointment in the silver eyes, or was she reading too much into his expression? Did the Mackinnon find her as intriguing as she found him? Did she want him to?
Common sense and self-preservation said no, she didn’t. She had her life arranged as she wanted it, and an inconvenient liaison was the last thing she needed. Some hitherto unsuspected female impulse wanted to see where this unprecedented reaction to a man would take her.
“And where is he?”
“Upstairs in bed. Papa will be horrified when he realizes you’ve given us shelter without a proper introduction.”
Definite relief. “You’re no’ married?”
“No, I’m my own woman.” Marina spoke the words deliberately, because she guessed the concept wouldn’t please him. She needed to remember how patronizing he could be before she melted into a puddle of longing at his feet.
He frowned. “I’m not sure the world recognizes such a creature.”
Marina shrugged. “Then it should. I live off my talent. As long as people are willing to buy my pictures, I’m independent.”
Those expressive brows rose in inquiry. “Yet ye travel with your father as your chaperone?”
Diavolo, she should have known he’d pick up on that point. “I must bow that far to social convention. There are some battles I can’t win. If I traveled alone, I’d be called a—”
He broke in before she could pronounce the unflattering words. Loose woman. Meaning “whore.” “So you do need a man for some things.”
“For the sake of appearances.” She met burning silver eyes. She’d been wrong. This conversation extended past polite platitudes after all, and they both knew it. “But Papa works for me. He travels at my direction. I pay the bills. I make the decisions. I’m in charge.”
The Mackinnon set his glass on a side table with a distinct click. “It’s unnatural.”
“No.” His reaction shouldn’t disappoint her. It wasn’t as if he sought to hide what an autocrat he was. And it was clear from everyone else she’d spoken to at the castle that his word was law. “What’s unnatural is one half of the population believing it has an inalienable right to control the other half.”
“Signora Lucchetti, you’re dangerous. You preach revolution.” His gaze uncompromising, he rose and stood in front of the hearth. “Men have always been in charge.”
“That doesn’t make it right.” She spoke with some heat.
All her life she’d fought against the uncritical acceptance of masculine superiority. She’d seen male painters with half her talent end up twice as successful, in a world that believed no woman could compete with a man when it came to art.
“You needed my help tonight,” the Mackinnon pointed out in an odiously superior manner.
She should be grateful that he’d started to act like a blockhead. His attitude might serve to tear the net of attraction strangling her common sense. If only his sheer physical magnificence didn’t draw her. It was so difficult to dismiss him as an ignorant brute, when every turn of his head had her itching to capture that male beauty on paper.
But his jibe reminded Marina that she enjoyed this man’s hospitality, and she owed him her courtesy, if not her respect.
Oh, who was she trying to fool? He’d rescued her father from deadly danger. How coul