Chapter Twelve
September 18, 1818
Caroline tilted her head back. Sunlight filtering through the leaves of the oak tree she sat beneath warmed her face. The slight breeze cooled her skin, and since she was only clad in her shift, the contrast in temperatures was glorious. For long years while stuck in the asylum, she’d yearned for such freedom as she had now, to go about in the fresh air and sunshine with nary a care in the world.
Today, John had decided to take her to a different pond. It was bigger than the duck pond from the other day, and he aimed to teach her how to swim. She didn’t particularly want to, but he had a stubborn streak, and swimming was apparently something he adored doing.
For now, she was content enough to paint him within the landscape. The acreage surrounding Hadleigh Hall was nothing less than spectacular. Beauty peered back at her from all directions. From the rolling hills dotted with late season wildflowers to the bits of forested areas to the fields turning golden in anticipation of the coming harvest, everywhere she looked delighted her artistic soul. The blue green of the pond’s water contrasted nicely with the flower-strewn meadow beyond.
And of course, her husband once more featured heavily in her rendition.
She smiled as he propelled himself through the water, as acclimated to it as if he’d been born a fish instead of a man. The more time she spent with him, the more that tingling awareness for him came over her. Their last kiss in the Hadleigh maze had surprised her, but it had also chipped away at some of the defenses she’d erected about her heart as protection from being hurt. To see him so exuberant that afternoon, so whimsical and funny as he’d raced through the maze against Brand with her in his arms had called her own sense of humor to the forefront.
That big bear of a man possessed such gentleness and earnestness that it sometimes brought tears to her eyes. Had she never met him last December, she would even now still be hiding in her room in London, languishing beneath her cousin’s best intentions.
But he was here, and they were married besides. What was more surprising, she enjoyed sharing kisses with him, and though the more intimate touches frightened her with sensations too overwhelming to process, there was a certain craving inside of her for more of that. She wished to know what true relations between men and women consisted of, what it would feel like when John pressed his large form atop hers, when he would put his manhood inside her…
Heat seeped into her cheeks. Such thoughts were naughty, but they’d bedeviled her more frequently since that day in his rooms. Especially when he insisted on swimming if the day was hot. A splash in the water wrenched her from the musings, and instead of focusing on her canvas, she watched her husband as he came out of the water.
“Merciful heavens, he is quite a work of art.” The rustling leaves overhead disbursed her whispered words, and she continued to stare. Again clad in breeches—brown today—and nothing else, the sun and shadows showed his form to perfection. Water plastered his blond hair to his head, and when he raked his fingers through it, slicking it backward out of his eyes, a tremble went down her spine. Rivulets of water, more evident as he came closer, followed each other along the muscled girth of his chest; some glittered as they clung fleetingly to the tattoo on his right pectoral. That lightly golden tanned skin beckoned, and her fingers itched to chase those water droplets. “Grow tired I’ll never seeing you be.” She didn’t care that her words were out of order. He always understood.
“It’s nice to have a lady admire me.” John shook himself as if he were a dog. Water droplets flew everywhere. A few landed upon her canvas, smudging the paint. “You promised to come in the water with me.”
“I will.” Caroline dabbed at the drops with paint-stained fingertips. “I was…” Oh, what was that long, interesting word for lost in thought? “Ah, woolgathering. Thinking.”
“About?”
“You.” She had never been good at dissembling or playing coy. Those were things Isobel excelled at, but Caroline found no point or purpose in.
“That’s always good to know.” He took possession of one of her hands and brought it to his lips then kissed the back of her wrist where her pulse hammered wildly. “If you continue to paint me in various stages of undress, we’ll soon be the talk of society. There are only so many places we can hang your paintings before folks wish to drop by to view the scandalous gallery.”
Though the whisper-soft touch of his lips as he dragged them up the inside of her arm was highly distracting, she frowned. “Should I stop painting you?”
“Absolutely not.” At the bend of her elbow, he drew the tip of his tongue over her skin. When she shivered, he chuckled. The sound sent need between her thighs with memories of his fingers on that part of her the afternoon he’d sent her flying. “If painting me makes you happy, by all means continue. We shall find room for the canvases.”
“All right.” She breathed a short sigh of relief when he released her arm in favor of picking up the sketchbook she’d dropped at her feet. Surging to her feet, she attempted to snatch the book from his hand. “Private.”
“You always show me your drawings.” He held the book out of reach while wrapping his other wet arm around her waist and pulling her against him. “What about this one don’t you want me to see?”
His warmth and proximity temporarily distracted her, but she huffed. “It’s me.”
“Let’s have a look and you can explain the reasoning behind it.” John settled upon the tree stump she’d used as a seat then encouraged her to sit on his lap.
Caroline frowned. She tapped the sketch with a finger when all she wanted to do was draw her touch along the breadth of his shoulders, explore the tattoo on his chest, possibly lick at some of the clinging droplets of water. Did women do that to men? At the moment, it sounded like a fine idea. “This is me.” She pointed to the drawing she’d done of herself last night when she couldn’t sleep. “See? Blue gown.”
“You are quite the portrait artist, even when doing yourself.” The praise in his voice was unmistakable. The bulk of the paper had been given over to a large, twisting storm. “Why are you holding the tail of this storm in your hand?”
“Promise you won’t make jest?”
“Of course I won’t.”
She nodded. “The storm represents…” What exactly did it mean now that she had to explain it aloud? “It means the chaos in my mind all the time.”
“Why are you holding it?”
“When you are near me, when you are here,” she waved a hand to represent the general world she lived in, “I feel I can contemplate that chaos.” No, that wasn’t right. She bit her bottom lip as she delved into her mind for the correct word. “I can conquer it. That what is inside my brain,” she touched her forehead, “and my heart,” she laid her fingers over that organ, “is not as frightening as it is when I am alone.”
Would he think her too needy, too odd?