My Heart Stood Still Lynn Kurland (some good books to read TXT) 📖

expression on his face, digest it, then watched the realization dawn in her eyes. He wouldn't have been surprised if she'd turned away either in dismay or disgust.

But she didn't.

He saw, for a brief moment, his own longing mirrored there, and the sight of it floored him.

And then, before he could move, speak, or breathe, the painter squawked.

"Don't move!" he said urgently. "Keep that exact look on your face. Don't change a thing!"

The man began to paint frantically. Thomas wondered if that was such a good idea, slapping that paint around so vigorously, but who was he to tell the man his business? Iolanthe wasn't moving, so neither did he. He found he couldn't look away from her. The longer he stared at her, the more she was all he could see, until he felt the oddest sensation. It was as if he'd left the trappings of his mortal frame behind, and he was looking at her, spirit to spirit. Time ceased to exist. If he could have made that moment go on forever, he would have been a happy man.

How long he stood there staring at her, he couldn't have said. It had to have been quite some time, because when the painter sat back and drew his hand over his eyes, Thomas realized he was so stiff he could hardly move. He shifted on his feet and heard his bones creak.

"Incredible!" the painter exclaimed.

Thomas went to stand behind the man and look at the portrait.

And he closed his eyes in self-defense.

"Bugger, but she's a stunner," the painter breathed.

He couldn't have agreed more.

"Thomas?"

Thomas opened his eyes and looked at Iolanthe, still sitting on the bench. "You should come look," he said. "I think."

"I've just begun," the painter warned. "I've still the background to add."

Thomas couldn't have cared less about the background, but he supposed he shouldn't say as much.

"I daresay I'll want you back to capture more of the dress," the painter added.

Thomas watched Iolanthe come around to stand next to him. She looked at the painting, rough as it was, and caught her breath.

"By the saints," she whispered. "Is that how you see me?"

The woman on the canvas was not only breathtaking, she was haunting. Thomas wasn't sure how the man had done it, but in a few brush strokes he'd captured every bit of passion, poignance, and desire that seemed to vibrate in the air around his subject.

"Yes," Thomas said simply. He took a deep breath and spoke to the artist, to whom he planned to give a big, fat bonus. "You've done an amazing job. What else do you need from us?"

"Nothing more today," the man said, picking up his brush. "I'm going to just work on the background. I need time to recover."

"Don't we all," Thomas muttered.

"And what is that to mean?" Iolanthe asked sharply.

He smiled briefly at her. "Nothing. Let's go for a walk."

She looked at him closely but came with him just the same. Thomas found that words were simply beyond him, so he walked with his love out of the castle and down the road. And when they could have stopped at the inn, he continued to walk. Thoughts churned inside his head. He knew he had to get them out, but he had no idea where to begin.

"Are you planning to walk to London?" she asked.

He stopped, turned, and looked at her. "I love you."

She blinked. "What?"

"I love you."

She spluttered for a moment or two, then stammered out a reply. "You... you're daft."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because ... because you cannot mean it."

"Of course I can. I do." And then an unpleasant thought occurred to him. "Are you trying to tell me that you don't care for me?" he asked. "That I didn't see in your face what I just saw five minutes ago?"

She started to speak several times, then simply shut her mouth and glared at him.

"Well?"

"If I did tell you I loved you, what would it matter?" she asked plaintively.

"It matters."

"It's hopeless!"

"That, Iolanthe, is where you're wrong," he said with all the conviction in his soul.

"I'm a ghost!"

"You're a woman."

She stomped around in a circle, then came back to face him. "You've lost what little wits you had left after listening to that compressor of yours."

"Actually, I think I've finally had the most coherent thoughts of my life in the past few minutes." He looked at her searchingly. "Can you love me?"

She took a step backward. "I don't want to speak of this."

"Can you love me?"

She took another step backward. "There is nothing to be gained by discussing this."

Thomas ground his teeth. "Running away will not solve anything!"

That at least stopped her.

"I wasn't running away."

"You were thinking about it."

"Ah, I see," she said. "Now 'tis my mind you know as well as your own."

He sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair. "Iolanthe, we need to talk about this."

"And I say we do not," she said stubbornly.

He turned and walked away, blew out his breath, and then returned. He stopped in front of her.

"We have to talk about how we're going to make this work," he said wearily.

"Make what work?"

"Don't be obtuse."

She blinked as if he'd slapped her. "You forget that I have no learning. I've no idea what that means."

He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. A person is being obtuse when they refuse to look at what's right in front of them. I think we need to talk about how we're going to make this relationship work. I think you're ignoring the fact that we need to. That's being obtuse."

He watched her walk away and stare out over the fields. She wrapped her arms around herself and stood there for quite some time in silence. He would have given much to have been able to go to her, put his arms around her, and tell her that everything would work out.

He wished he could have been sure it would.

"Iolanthe," he began, taking a step or two toward her. "I'm sorry. Please—"

"Thomas! Oh, Thomas McKinnon!"

He looked to find Mrs. Pruitt