Page 2 of Finding Faith (Seduced in Scotland #2)

L ogan leaned against a large boulder as he began to shiver from the cold. His eyes focused on the path that led to Lismore, waiting for Jaco to return. The dog had followed Faith back, and he was once again grateful for having been talked into getting the dog by his sister, Arabella, last fall. Jaco was some sort of German/Scottish mutt of no great pedigree, but he was exceedingly intelligent, not to mention useful—particularly in this circumstance, as Logan himself didn’t want to accompany Faith back home, but he couldn’t let her go alone.

It wasn’t because he didn’t like her—although it was very true that he didn’t. Faith Sharpe was one of the most annoying women he had ever had the displeasure of knowing. She was constantly giving her opinion when no one asked for it, and when, rather than upbraiding her as she deserved, he would ignore her, the end result was to be seethed at by her for any number of hours. She was prickly and haughty, as any granddaughter of an earl would be. Not to mention that she was beautiful, and it grated Logan’s nerves that he found her so attractive.

But having held her, wet and shivering in his arms, just moments after experiencing the beginning of one of his episodes, his emotions were a bit jumbled. Logan shifted his weight against the boulder, wondering why he felt so out of sorts.

Ever since returning home from the Second Burmese War, he had suffered bouts of crippling anxiety. It would manifest after becoming frustrated, which was why he had been prompted to take up fishing in the first place. Except that the sport only seemed to cause him more grief, particularly on mornings such as this one when his mood was already low from another restless night.

Sleep had long since evaded Logan. When the sun went down, his nerves would fire, and he would become more awake than he was during the day. It didn’t help that he lived with his father and sister, who were aware of his midnight wanderings. They always tried to soothe him with suggestions and new crackpot ideas on how to sleep when what he really needed was to be left alone. His sister had even suggested sleeping with certain gemstones beneath his pillow, to supposedly sooth away his insomnia.

Which was ridiculous, to say the least.

It was why Logan had left Harris House so early. Pretending that fishing brought him joy and required an ungodly number of hours gave him some distance from his family. So, every morning, he would leave before the sun rose, head down to the loch just over the hill from his home, and paddle out into the water with only Jaco for company.

The rain was still pouring down, and Logan folded his arms across his chest. His clothes were already soaked, and the wind that came along with the rain chilled him. He whistled for Jaco, hoping the dog would return soon.

The wind had been fiercer that morning than usual, which was why Logan and Jaco had ended up on this side of the loch. The fishing gear had gotten tangled after only a few casts, and as the clouds rolled over, threatening his already dark mood with rain, he had gotten lost in a fit of frustration.

Only to be brought out of it by a woman who set his teeth on edge.

Just thinking about Faith made him irrationally irritated. Her personality was her greatest fault, but being English didn’t help either. Thanks to his English mother who abandoned him and his family shortly after his sister’s birth, he detested the English. And Faith was the definition of an English lady. Self-important, self-righteous, with a conceit that tried his nerves. He had disliked her from the moment he first laid eyes on her.

Or at least, he should have disliked her at first glance. The truth was rather more uncomfortable to admit. The very first time he saw Faith had been at a clan banquet. She stood out from her sisters, dressed in a silver gown that had so much beadwork she practically shined like a hundred stars. Her curly hair was only a shade or two lighter than her sisters’, but her green eyes and arched brows had caused an unwelcome stirring in his stomach. She was pretty, far prettier than any woman he had ever seen before—but then she spoke, and the fact that she was English had promptly turned him sour against her. The beauty that had charmed him a moment ago only repelled him after that. He was sure she was proud of her beauty, and that that pride fed her arrogance.

Just then, Jaco’s bark echoed through the rain and in the next instant, he appeared beneath the crest of the hill let led into a pine tree grove. He stalled a moment before spotting his master, after which he ran straight to Logan. Jumping up, he searched for affection as his reward for a job well done. Logan grinned in spite of himself and tussled his head back and forth.

“Yes, yes. Good boy. And I know. She’s not the nicest person, is she?”

The dog whimpered and dropped back to his hind legs. He tilted his head as if questioning Logan.

“Do you disagree? Surely not.”

The dog whimpered again.

“Look here, I’m not having another conversation with you. I’ll be sent off to the city’s Parrish Asylum.”

Jaco barked twice and then moved around Logan down to the boat.

“Oh no. It’s too dangerous to row back in this weather. We’ll have to walk.”

Feeling confident that the long walk home would aid in his sleep that evening, Logan left his fishing supplies in the dingy and began walking along the southwestern shore. The rain had let up somewhat, coming down in a drizzle. As he walked, his mind began to wander. Had Faith seen him during his bout of anxiety? He hoped not. No doubt in her dislike for him, she would tell everyone she met what she’d seen.

The whole English lot wasn’t to be trusted.

But then he knew he wasn’t to be trusted either.

No . No, he didn’t need to let his thoughts turn down that dark path. Instead, he tried to focus on anything else. His drenched clothes, for one. That should have been distraction enough, except that he could still feel the weight of Faith’s body pressed against his. As he’d guided her out of the frigid waters, the softness of her waist and the flare of her hips beneath his hands had caused him to consider what the rest of her body might feel like under his hands.

Logan stopped and shook his head.

What the devil was wrong with him? He didn’t even like the sharp-tongued woman. He certainly wouldn’t entertain fantasies about her.

Deciding to hum a Bothy ballad to keep his mind from wandering, he continued his walk, whistling the high parts loudly as he went. Soon, he was in his familiar part of the world, where he had played as a child and where he had built his home not five years ago.

Harris House had been built in a Gothic Revival style, with Scottish red granite; it had four turrets, large oval peaked windows, and a three-story, blackwood greenhouse built on the right side of the house. A peculiar feature but one his sister had asked for when he had first been gifted the land by the Crown in return for services during the war. He had shied away from the spoils granted to him for some time, mainly because he felt like he hadn’t earned them, but his father had convinced him that it wouldn’t do anyone any good if Logan turned his back on his fortune out of spite. The war was over and there was no changing the past. It still took Logan some time to accept that—especially since he hadn’t been able to bring every soldier home.

Duncan’s bloody face flashed in his mind, causing him to stall. Logan took a deep breath and forced the memory away. Not today . Not again.

Sighing, he continued walking up the slight incline of the hill that overlooked the loch. Harris House stood nearly a field back, flanked by pines. To Logan’s surprise, a carriage stood before the front entrance of his home, and several servants seemed to be struggling with a large, square package wrapped in brown paper and twine. His sister stood off to the side dressed in a heavy cloak. Upon seeing Logan, she waved her hand. He waved back, grinning his first genuine grin all morning.

It seemed his painting had finally arrived from Paris.

Long strides carried him across the lawn as his sister came forward.

“There you are,” Arabella said, her blonde hair covered with a lace cap. “I was wondering what took you so long.”

“The rain made it unsafe to cross in the boat. I had to walk,” he said, coming forward. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Another one of your paintings?” she mused. “I suppose. It’s quite large though, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“What’s the subject of this one? Another equine?”

Logan smirked at her sarcastic tone. He had quite an extensive art collection, having decided to become a collector in recent years. He had started off with landscapes and moved on to horses and animals, only recently becoming transfixed with portraits. This particular piece had been suggested to him by none other than Lady Belle Smyth when she had overheard his desire to purchase a pair of Marchelies. She had advised him that Marchelies was overpriced and not a good investment, while a new and upcoming artist out of Paris, a man known as Donovan, had recently begun making a name for himself in the art world. He was a portraitist and was rumored to have painted the most stunning courtesan, though it had been announced that that particular painting was not for sale.

Intrigued and eager, Logan had offered him a king’s ransom for the piece, taking Belle’s word to not be dissuaded. Eventually, the young artist had been persuaded to sell the piece after all, and now the portrait was his.

“It’s a woman,” he said, nodding to the house as the servants moved the piece up the front steps.

A short man with a prominent bald spot and a thin, brown mustache bowed. Evans, the butler, had come from an aristocratic household in Fife. He had been let go when the earl had suffered some poor investments. Logan hadn’t even wanted to hire him, particularly because he was so stringent, but he had proven to be a loyal servant.

“Where would you like it, sir?” he asked.

“Bring it to my bedchambers, Evans,” Logan answered before returning to Arabella.

“A woman?” she asked. “Who?”

“Well, that’s the interesting part,” Logan said as he waited for his sister to enter the house, followed by Jaco. “Rumor has it that the model for this piece is some member from the ton.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Possibly a member of the royal family, but who knows if that rumor is to be believed.”

“Is that why you bought it?”

“Partly. And Lady Belle suggested this up-and-coming artist as a good investment.”

“What’s his name?”

“Donovan.”

Arabella made a face.

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“He’s still rather new to the art world, but his talent has been discussed at length in the periodicals. He’s a strange artist, however.”

“Aren’t they all?”

Logan smirked.

“I suppose so. But he is even more so. Apparently, he only works on commissioned pieces. When his clients wanted evidence of his talent before hiring him, they would be invited to his studio where he would reveal one painting.”

“Only one?”

“Yes, but apparently this painting was so beautiful that it was enough to secure ten years’ worth of commissions.”

Arabella’s eyes widened.

“Goodness! That’s rather impressive, I suppose.”

“That’s what I thought,” Logan said. “So, I bought it.”

She gave him a look, as a maid helped remove her cloak. A golden teardrop-shaped stone hung from a pendant around her neck, giving him pause. Many years ago, Arabella had given Logan a circular piece of amber stone, with a hole drilled through it. It was a small custom in their area, to give stones to people for protection. As a child, Arabella had been convinced that amber was lucky. She had been sad when he’d returned from Burma without her good luck charm, but she had held fast to the belief that it had saved his life.

“You’re quite like a dragon, you know,” Arabella said, shaking him from his thoughts. “Piling up your coffers with treasures.”

“And you read too many fairytales,” he said as he followed her into the parlor where their father sat in the corner, sleeping in an oversized, overstuffed chair. “You should try being more practical.”

She rolled her eyes as she sat across from their father.

“And become boring and disillusioned with life? No thank you.”

Just then, the old man woke, startled by the noises.

“Eh? Helen?” he said before his eyes opened, causing the siblings to pause.

Helen had been their mother’s name, and though she had abandoned them fifteen years prior, their father had never stopped loving her. It was rare for him to say her name, though it did happen, particularly when he was tired.

“No, Father,” Logan said, his voice somewhat strained. “It’s just us.”

“Hmm? Oh yes. Ah,” he said, rubbing one eye. “Late morning today. Did you catch anything?”

Their father had suffered a nearly fatal bout of typhoid several years earlier while Logan had been away. Arabella miraculously hadn’t become sick, but their father had suffered greatly. Ever since, his health had been delicate, and he was prone to taking long naps with occasional bouts of bedrest during the cooler months. He was a far cry from the robust man they remembered from their childhoods, and they had fallen into a tentative relationship with him.

“No,” Logan said, reaching for a newspaper one of the servants brought in. “No fish today.”

“Ah, well, you were always terrible at it. I remember I used to take you when you were younger. Never had the patience for it.”

“You should go with him one morning, Father,” Arabella tried, earning her a pointed look from Logan. “Perhaps you could teach him.”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “My fishing days have long since passed.”

“I don’t know about that,” Logan said, reading the newspaper. “Fishing is an old man’s sport. I’d say you’ve just come into your prime.”

“Well,” the old man said, struggling to stand. He shooed away the butler. “I’m fine. No, I think… I think this cold weather is best to stay out of.”

“Oh, but it’s only a little storm.”

“Don’t worry, my dear,” he said, bending down to kiss his daughter’s forehead. “I shall be up and at it when the weather turns.”

He left the room. Logan could feel his sister’s eyes on him, and when he looked up, sure enough, she was staring at him.

“What?”

“Why don’t you try and take him with you?”

“You heard him—he isn’t interested. And quite frankly, I don’t think I’d be able to keep my temper if I took him out.”

“He’s withering away. If he doesn’t go out and get some sort of exercise, he’ll likely…”

Though she didn’t say it, Logan knew she was worried about their father’s health. He had deteriorated rapidly the past year. Perhaps it would do him good to go out fishing, but Logan wasn’t interested in hearing his father lament about his mother for hours at a time. As far as he was concerned, she had forgotten about them, and it was only fair that he had done the same.

Folding the paper and placing it on the end table, he stood.

“Excuse me.”

His sister opened her mouth to argue, but he was quickly away and out of the room, eager to visit his bedchamber and admire his newly acquired piece.

Climbing the stairs, he wondered what sort of a fool would be so taken with someone that they would neglect every other aspect of their lives the way their father had done since his wife had left him. Logan had long ago sworn never to love someone so desperately, and thankfully, he had avoided such a tragic relationship thus far.

Entering his room, Logan peeled off his coat and untucked his still-damp shirt. The painting had been leaned against the far wall for his inspection, and deciding not to delay it any longer, he removed the brown paper.

Untying the twine, the paper fell away, and he was left staring at a painting that struck him with astonishment.

A woman lay on a bed of pillows, her form wrapped precariously around the waist by a stretch of yellow velvet. Her upper body was unclothed, though she was turned to the side, revealing only the side of her right breast. Her medium-dark, curly hair was pinned to the top of her head with a length of silk and a peacock feather, which matched the small fan she held at her waist.

It was a stunning piece. Brushstrokes were nearly nonexistent, and the colors were vibrant. And the detail was outstanding. The shading and the light made it look like she might come to life in his room and step out of the canvas.

She was perfection. A vision beyond compare, and yet, Logan found himself both aroused and instantly annoyed. He knew this woman, had argued with her, and had fought with himself over the physical attraction for her that he couldn’t repress.

He wanted to tell himself that he was seeing things, imagining a resemblance where none existed. Still, as he gazed into those sharp green eyes that stared back at him beneath a familiar arched brow, Logan could feel it, deep in his bones, that he knew exactly who this woman was.

“Blasted hell.”