Page 4 of Finding Faith (Seduced in Scotland #2)

W hat a devil of a thing to occur , Logan thought as he stalked his way through Harris House. What were the chances of having Faith seek shelter at his home during a storm?

Well, the probability for that was somewhat high, actually. They were neighbors, after all, and to be caught in a spring storm wasn’t unheard of in these parts. But seeing her again, after being tormented by his latest acquired painting? It was as if he were staring directly into the eyes of the subject painted in Odalisque Reclined .

Was it really her? Certainly, the resemblance was uncanny. But it didn’t seem as if it could be possible. In her bearing and personality, Faith was so unlike the alluring lady in the portrait. Surely it must be a coincidence that she and the model looked so alike. Or did he simply wish to believe that because he did not care to admit that he found the piece—the piece that looked so very much like Faith—to be unbearably tempting? Looking at it made him question all of his beliefs about Faith and himself. He was not the sort to simply succumb to a beautiful woman, even if she was his ideal in every physical way. He was an intelligent man and required substance to his attraction. Layers of depth that would unfurl like a blooming rose, and he was certain Faith didn’t possess any of that.

And beyond that, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that she would sit for a portrait like that. It was scandalous. She was innocent, regardless of how blistering she might be. There was simply no way that someone as cold and snippety as Faith had sat for such a provocative piece.

Logan returned to his room, eager to remove the clothes that were soaked through from his trip to Glencoe that morning. Dr. James Hall had been visiting his country office as he did every first of the month when he would return from Glasgow to tend to his mother. Logan had a standing appointment with the doctor to document his dark spells and continuing insomnia. But it seemed there was nothing to be done for Logan’s anxious occurrences besides living through them. Dr. Hall had suggested a dram of strong scotch at night, but alcohol was never a sure thing when it came to mitigating Logan’s anxieties. Sometimes, it would be a comfort to fall into a drunken stupor, while other times, it would only enhance the feelings of powerless misery.

It was best to simply go on as he had. Silently and alone.

He kicked off his boots and eyed the painting leaning against the wall. The mischievous glint in the model’s eye seemed to mock him as if she knew about his nervous bouts. He had stayed up late the night before, pacing the floor of his room as darkness descended around him, with only this painting as company, as Jaco preferred to sleep in the kitchens.

He took a step toward the painting and tilted his head. He wondered what she might say, having witnessed his restlessness.

“No doubt something scathing,” he mumbled, aware that his fits of panic were the crux of failures. “Especially if it were her.”

Her, of course, being Faith. The longer he gazed at the piece, the more it seemed she was smirking, as if this inanimate object could somehow acknowledge him. He wished that she would simply speak and confirm his suspicions.

Pulling a wooden chair directly before the painting, Logan sat, searching the artwork for any hint of confirmation. Her head was turned over her shoulder, showing three-quarters of her face. Though the green eyes were more flirtatious than he had ever witnessed in real life, the dark, arched brows really caught his attention. One brow was arched slightly higher than the other, just like Faith’s. While it could be understood that the model had simply lifted one brow in a gesture of amusement or seduction, Logan couldn’t shake that the artist had captured a genuine characteristic of his model. It had been one of the first things Logan had noticed about Faith, particularly because it gave off a superior air.

Sighing, he leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. How could this possibly be Faith? He frowned at the painting as his eyes traveled down the length of her curved back, the yellow velvet draped over her backside, and the long, shapely legs, one tucked under the other. Then his eye caught on something.

A spot, or rather, several spots, just between her ankle and her Achilles tendon. Squinting, Logan moved closer to the painting. Perhaps it was a speck of dirt that had managed to get on the canvas during its travel. He swiped gently with the pad of his thumb, but it would not be removed.

It was a small grouping of freckles. A birthmark.

He squinted at it as his mind began to work. Well, then. If this was an accurate depiction of the model’s skin, all he needed to do was get a glimpse of Faith’s bare ankles, and he would know for sure. But how would he do that?

Standing up, he began to ready himself for dinner. With the continuous booming of thunder overhead, he made his way down the stairs and into the dining hall, where an unlikely sight met him.

Faith and his father were dancing while his sister clapped in rhythm, grinning at the two of them. Jeanne was standing with her back toward Logan, blocking the view of the dancers as she clapped along too. It was hard to process, as he had never seen his father dance. Logan believed him too weak to even consider it. It wasn’t pretty, as they both seemed unable to avoid missteps, but they moved about the room in a circle, smiling at one another as they went.

“You are a fine dancing partner, Miss Sharpe,” his father said. “One of the best I’ve had the pleasure of knowing.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harris,” Faith said. “But I must admit, waltzes are my favorite.”

“Bravo, Papa!” Arabella said joyously. She sat in a chair and turned around from the dining room table. “I did not know you could dance.”

“Of course I can,” he said, his breath strained, causing Logan an ounce of worry. “My dancing enticed many a lady in my day.”

“Then you are woefully out of practice,” Logan said, entering the room.

Faith’s smile disappeared as her eyes met his. Jeanne turned around as his father and sister beamed.

“Isn’t Papa impressive?” Arabella said, standing up and going to him. “I shouldn’t have thought it possible.”

“What little faith you have in me,” her father said with a smile before looking back at his dance partner. “But how could I refuse Miss Sharpe’s blatant challenge?”

That perpetual brow arched a touch higher, and a torrent of unwanted attraction washed over Logan. He tried to steel his nerves.

“I did no such thing,” Faith said, a small smile on her lips. “I merely said that this country was lacking for gentlemen who are proficient dance partners. Why, I had to dance with Jeanne at a house party last summer because there were too few gentlemen.”

“It’s true,” Jeanne said. “Of course, my brothers were away at the time on a hunting trip. But thankfully, Faith is tall like myself. We were quite compatible.”

Faith smiled at her friend.

“No gentlemen? That’s preposterous,” Mr. Harris said, waving a hand at his son. “Surely my boy here has asked you to dance before?”

The joyful atmosphere dimmed slightly as Faith looked at Logan. A sense of yearning carved through him at the idea of dancing with Faith, but he ignored it.

“No,” she said softly, causing his blood to pump harder through his veins. “I’ve not had the pleasure.”

Her tone indicated that it would be anything but pleasurable to be held by Logan, and while logically he agreed, there was a part of him that wanted to prove her wrong.

“Logan doesn’t like to dance, Papa,” Arabella said. “Don’t you remember?”

“Why ever not?”

All eyes turned to Logan. A small, anxious part of him began to beat to life, and he had to take a deep breath to move past it. Inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, he donned a laissez-faire attitude.

“Because there are far more interesting things to do,” he said, moving around the table to sit.

The rest moved around the room to find their seats at his signal. Faith took the seat furthest from his left, next to his father, while Arabella and Jeanne sat on his right. Two servants came out of a door in the corner that led to the kitchen, holding silver-covered food trays.

“What could possibly be more interesting that dancing with a lovely lady?” his father asked as he leaned toward Faith. “I’ve not had that much fun in years.”

“It is a miracle that you were able to do so,” Logan said, unable to keep a condescending tone out of his voice as he spoke. “Considering you haven’t stretched your legs properly all winter.”

His father sneered at him.

“And you know everything I do in private?” he countered.

“Lord, do not tell me,” Logan murmured.

“I wish you could have attended the McTavish banquet last year, Mr. Harris,” Faith said, interrupting the two as she looked at the elderly man. A servant spooned a cream of asparagus soup into their bowls. “I should have very much enjoyed your company.”

“Ah, I was under the weather last year, I’m afraid. My old bones will not hold me like they used to.”

“That’s only because you’ve not worked them for so long,” Arabella said. “Perhaps if Miss Sharpe isn’t too put out, she might come visit from time to time.”

“I would enjoy that—”

“No.”

The definitive tone of Logan’s voice startled everyone into silence. Damn . He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Though he was often cutting to Faith, he knew he had crossed a line. Clearing his throat, he spoke.

“What I mean to say is, no doubt Miss Sharpe is very busy.”

“Not at all,” she said defiantly, her challenging emerald-eyed gaze locked on his face. “In fact, it would be my pleasure to visit Mr. Harris.” She turned back to face him. “If you will have me.”

“How could I say no to you?” he said charmingly, and Logan wished there was something more substantial on his plate to stab at, instead of soup.

Good lord . Were there ever two more annoying people? And his father should be ashamed, blatantly flirting with a woman young enough to be his daughter.

“I think it is a fine idea,” Jeanne said, taking a spoonful of soup. “It’s been so long since anyone has seen you out and about, Mr. Harris.”

“Yes, well,” he said, appearing suddenly flushed. “It cannot be helped. Age has not been kind to me, I’m afraid.”

“Well, perhaps you could accompany me around the loch one afternoon?” Faith said. “Since moving to Scotland, I’ve become quite fond of walking the countryside.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mr. Harris said, suddenly reserved. “I’ve not left the house in ages.”

“Why not?”

Though it was an innocent enough question, Logan’s steady gaze was on his father. He suspected the man was not long for this world. While it wasn’t a nice thought, it was true. Though he had managed well enough in the first years after his wife left, his father’s desire for a living seemed to diminish once Logan came of age. Arabella had said that he had been robust when Logan was away at war, but he doubted it. Ever since typhoid had nearly killed his father, it seemed the life had gone out of him.

Still, Logan didn’t wish for him to have to lie to their guests, so he interrupted.

“Is it true Graham bought you a Connemara horse?” he asked, pulling Faith’s focus to him. She nearly spoke, but he continued. “What a daft thing to do.”

Faith’s brow pinched.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re too tall for a Connemara. I’ve no doubt you look as Arabella would look riding a donkey.”

Faith glared at him.

“I’m very fond of Sweetness, thank you very much, and it was very generous of my brother-in-law to acquire her.”

“Sweetness?” Logan repeated humor in his voice. “Is that what you named it?”

“It was already named.”

“Ah, Faith, how is your brother-in-law’s honey enterprise?” Arabella interrupted, shooting Logan a tense glare. “Logan here has mentioned something about a confectionary factory in Glasgow. Is that true?”

It was, and Arabella knew it. Logan had discussed it with her multiple times as he had invested in it, but he suspected she was trying to defuse the rising tension between himself and Faith.

“Yes. I believe Graham is doing quite well,” she said as Jeanne and Arabella broke into a conversation about fashions.

“Quite well” didn’t even begin to describe the progress of Graham’s candy business. It was a blaring success so far, and Logan himself had bought into the enterprise that past winter, having a supposed talent with investments. That knack was why had had been able to afford Harris House. While the Crown had granted the land in recompense for his supposed heroics at war, he had also been given a small monetary gift. Logan had never felt right in accepting it, believing it to be blood money. He had tried to rid himself of it by investing it in several short-term loans that had miraculously all turned out to be profitable.

As dinner progressed, Logan decided to keep quiet, unable to add anything but a biting remark or saucy reply to almost everything Faith said. Why did she bother him so much? He had always told himself that his sharpness was justified by her blatant arrogance toward him, but as he watched her interact with his family and Jeanne, he wondered if he was the only one to suffer her haughtiness.

She was undoubtedly a headstrong woman with firm beliefs and a presence that demanded respect. It had grated on him at first, but upon observing her now, she seemed also charming and patient amongst his loved ones. She listened intently when another spoke, and her replies were firm and well thought out.

She seemed to know exactly who she was and what she was worth, and Logan was sure he had never met another woman like her. The ladies he had known in his youth were strong in many ways but they were also far more playful. Faith seemed almost rigid in comparison, probably due to her English upbringing, but then what about the painting? Didn’t it convey a side of her that might be far more adventurous, wild, and free than what she exhibited socially?

That is to say, if the model was indeed Faith.

His eyes traveled down her face, long neck, chest, and waist to where the rest of her body disappeared beneath the dining table. He needed to see her ankle, but how? He could simply demand it, but as his gaze lifted, he saw her glaring eyes.

Evidently, she didn’t like being looked at. Well, too bad.

“Logan,” Arabella said, noting the glances between the two. “Faith here was very impressed with your horse painting, in the parlor. The gray one?”

“Oh?” he said without curiosity.

He didn’t continue.

“Yes,” Arabella said, her tone slightly terse as she continued to try and facilitate a conversation. “In fact, she knew who painted it straight away.”

Now that was surprising. Only one other person had ever correctly named the artist of the particular piece. So, she was a student of the arts, was she? That certainly leaned in favor of the idea that the painting in his bedroom was of her. He observed Faith.

“And are you a fan of all art or just Gericault?”

“All art that is worthy,” she said smartly. “I even studied a bit myself in London. Though that was years ago and I’m afraid I was not very good at it.”

“Did you?” Jeanne asked. “What sort of things did you draw?”

“Oh, still life mostly. It’s easy when the subject cannot move, although the light does change every hour or so, changing the entire feel of the theme,” she said, a small smile coming to her lips. “Actually, I’ve just recently started a landscape of the loch that I’m rather excited about.”

“What about portraits?” Logan asked, unable to stop himself.

Jeanne gave him a questioning look as his father spoke.

“Logan has become obsessed with portraits as of late. He can’t seem to get enough of them in his collection.”

“‘Obsessed’ isn’t an accurate descriptor. I would say I’ve become interested in them. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Faith said. “Well, I have done a few portraits, but I never was very good at capturing likenesses. I’ve only managed to do a few of my family members any justice. In fact, there was one particular piece that nearly caused my friend Renee to break down into tears. Thankfully, her brother explained that it simply wasn’t my forte.”

“Her brother?” Arabella said.

“Yes. He was my art instructor when I came back to painting.”

“Came back?” Logan repeated. “Where did you go?”

The crest of Faith’s cheeks suddenly became pink and a tiny crease formed between her brows. It was strange, but Logan was intrigued by the small line. He wasn’t sure why or how, but he knew that whatever would next come out of her mouth would be a lie.

“Oh, I had taken a year off. To pursue other things.”

“Such as?” he pressed.

Faith stared him directly in the eye.

“Piano.”

“And did you have a proficiency for that?”

“No, so I came back to painting.”

“I see.”

“I’m glad,” she said sarcastically.

After a moment, he realized that their back and forth had caused the others to glance between the two with concern.

“Well,” Arabella began, unsure. “While you two are here, I insist that you see the greenhouse. It is my pride and joy. My brother very kindly commissioned it when he built this house. It spans three floors.”

“Three floors?” Jeanne said, turning in her seat. “How peculiar.”

“It is, and it holds the most amazing plants. I’m something of an amateur gardener.”

“You are being too modest, sister,” Logan said, looking around the table. “Arabella has a proverbial green thumb when it comes to exotic plants.”

“How lovely,” Faith said.

Arabella smiled.

“And as I told you before, Faith, Logan has an extensive art collection that you really must see to believe. You are welcome to view it. I would be glad to give you a tour of it, although I’m not as knowledgeable as my brother.”

Faith gave his sister a pained smile, and Logan suddenly found himself wanting to annoy their guest.

“I’d be happy to show it to you myself,” he smirked. “And Jeanne, of course, if she is interested.”

“Oh, I don’t know the difference between a Da Vinci and a, well, anything, really,” Jeanne laughed. “I’m afraid a collection such as yours would be lost on me.”

“How about you then, Miss Sharpe? What say you?”

It was a challenge, and Logan was discovering that Faith could be baited.

“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Harris.”

“Evans?” The butler stepped forward from his position near the buffet table. “Would you light the gallery for our guest?”

“Yes sir,” Evans replied, nodding to the underbutler across the room who left instantly.

Once dinner had finished, Arabella, their father, and Jeanne retired to the parlor as the storm continued to rage. Logan waited for Faith to join him at the base of the stairs as the others proceeded to their destination. To his equal amusement and annoyance, Faith took the stairs two at a time, seemingly unwilling to wait for him, even though she had no idea where she was going. In response, he took his time climbing the stairs, making her stay at the top.

However, just before he reached the landing, he stopped, his gaze fixated on the hem of her dress. Her skirts were several inches higher than the floor, and she only wore stockings to cover her legs. Frowning, he looked up to find her staring daggers at him.

“This is your sister’s dress,” she said, noting where his eyes had been. “My riding habit and shoes were soaked through. I had to borrow these.”

“It’s too short.”

“My, aren’t you’re the observant one?” she said smartly, the charm she had displayed for the others vanishing.

This Faith he knew, all bristly and sharp. He nearly countered with a biting remark, but the nagging idea that she could be the lady from the painting gave him pause. Instead, he just stared at her momentarily, watching her defensive armor falter.

“What?”

“I did not say anything.”

“No, but you’re staring at me in a way that…”

He took the final step up the stairs and stood before her, looking down into her eyes.

“In what way?” he asked, his tone more roguish than intended.

Faith took a step back, her throat bobbing like she was swallowing. Logan’s gaze transfixed on her neck, and he had to bite his tongue to expel several outrageous fantasies.

What the devil was wrong with him?

Faith shook her head after a moment and turned.

“Which way is the gallery?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Left,” he said, and she continued on her way, his eyes on her back.

Really, he didn’t understand his reaction to her. He loathed this woman, yet outlandish images kept springing to mind whenever he stared too long at her. Faith, wrapped in that yellow velvet, laid out on his bed. Faith, standing in front of his fireplace wearing only a seductive grin. Yet then she’d open her mouth to speak and all sorts of conflicting thoughts would enter his mind.

As they reached the end of the hallway, a marble archway on the right led into a vast room with a vaulted ceiling that had been engineered to hold as many glass windows as possible between the beams so that the natural light could come in. Still, as only flashes of lightning currently lit up the evening sky, dozens of standing candelabras and oil lamps lit the room. At the opposite end of the gallery stood two large French doors that opened onto a half-circle balcony overlooking the gardens. Logan often found himself out there at night, gazing into the nothingness of space as he tried to quiet his anxious mind.

Where all the rest of the house had been painted or lined with colorful wallpapers, this gallery was left stark white, with light wooden floors to allow the hundreds of paintings that hung from the walls to shine without distraction or competition.

The audible gasp from Faith gave Logan a tremendous amount of satisfaction, and he watched as she moved slowly into the room, her captivated gaze lifting to the artwork. Her mouth fell open slightly, and he found himself frozen, staring at her profile. Though the painting showed a sensual, flirtatious woman, this sight of Faith, lost in her reaction, caught him off guard. She was well and truly amazed, and he was in awe of how much he enjoyed seeing the wonderment in her expression.

“There have to be hundreds,” she whispered, more to herself than to him, but her words did shake him from his stupor, and he stepped forward.

“Eight hundred and seventy-two, in this room,” he said, following her gaze up to a huge painting. “Do you recognize it?”

Faith shook her head slowly. He knew she couldn’t believe what she saw.

“It can’t be,” she whispered, her hand reaching her chin.

Logan swallowed.

“It is.”

She continued to shake her head, unwilling to believe her own eyes.

“But it’s been in the Palace of Versailles since the eighteen thirties. It’s well documented. I’ve seen it in a book.”

“And art books are always correct?”

She swiveled around, her eyes wide.

“There is no feasible way you can have this. It must be a forgery.”

“It is by Jacques-Louis David himself. You can see his signature in the corner. Right,” he pointed to the bottom edge of the artwork, “there.”

Faith turned back to face the enormous painting.

“How on earth did you come to own The Coronation of Napoleon ? It’s a French national treasure. It is impossible to have it.”

Logan smirked, impressed by her knowledge, but he still wanted to test her more.

“Do you see Napoleon’s sisters?” he asked as Faith turned back around to observe the work. “Particularly the second in from the left?”

“Yes. The one in pink?” Faith asked before frowning. “Wait. She is wearing a pink gown.” Logan watched as Faith worked through it. She turned again. “All the sisters wore white in the original.”

“They did.”

“So, this is not the original?”

“It is not the first,” Logan said, looking back at the painting. “In 1808, an American commissioned Jacques-Louis David to make another. He did, although it took him fourteen years to complete. By that time the original commissioner had died, leaving it to his family who stored it away in their London home. They are exact copies of one another, except for that dress,” he nodded. “That was the only thing he changed.”

“Why?”

“Rumor has it that when Jacques-Louis David became the official court painter, he was tasked with painting individual portraits of Napoleon’s sisters. It’s said that he fell in love with Princess Caroline. Since there was no conceivable way for him to even approach her, he kept it a secret. But when this painting was revealed, he supposedly told his assistant that he’d made Caroline’s gown pink, so that she would stand out for everyone to see for all ages, just as she always had for him.”

Silence fell over them as Logan stared up at the artwork. It was a romantic story he had heard when he had found the piece, and though he doubted its truth, he also couldn’t deny it.

A slight sniffle emanated from his side. Turning, he saw Faith, her knuckles pressed against her forehead as she grimaced. He had never seen Faith so much as pout, let alone cry, and he wasn’t exactly sure how to respond. Worried, he lifted a hand to her elbow, but she pulled away and spun around, causing him to still. After a moment, he spoke.

“I must admit, I underestimated your love for art.”

“It’s not that,” she said softly. Lifting her head, she inhaled and exhaled deeply before turning back to face him. Her eyes were not red but watery, and he found it decidedly uncomfortable to witness her upset.

“What is it then?”

She shook her head, seeming unwilling to explain, but then she spoke.

“Painters. Artists. The whole lot of them. They’re all so eager to show the world their passion and yet… They cannot bear to live those passions in real life. They’re all cowards.”

“Cowards?”

“Yes, the lot of them,” she said, as her eyes lifted to gaze upon the painting. “They’re too afraid to experience life and so they paint it instead. But this is not real. It cannot feel, it does not yearn.” She let out a bitter huff of breath. “But supposedly he loved her?”

Logan nodded, unsure.

“It’s what I’ve been told.”

She nodded as well.

“But circumstance separated them. This,” she said, lifting her hand, “is a love letter, to a woman who never knew and to a life never shared.” She paused for a moment before dropping her hand and turning to him. “It would be heartbreaking, if it weren’t so cowardly.”

Logan watched her, astounded that she would speak so openly and eloquently about this piece. While he had never approached the matter from that point of view, he could understand her thought process.

Interpreting art was a joy of his, and neither his father nor sister ever cared to share their impressions. It was rather nice to have someone who had a different perspective.

“I never consider it before, but I suppose you’re correct. Perhaps it was all he could do, though. To let the world know that at one point, he was a man who loved.”

“Perhaps,” Faith said. “But if it were I, I would want the love of a person instead of a constant reminder of what might have been. Even if the world never knew.” She looked down, almost dejected. “But then, I am not an artist.”

For some reason, Logan didn’t like that. Nor did he appreciate how sad she seemed.

“Unfortunately, you are not able to determine that on your own,” he said. “It is often noted that painters are their own worst critics. You must show your work to people, and let the majority speak on your talents.”

Faith smiled ruefully after a moment, and Logan felt his heart expand. She had never before smiled because of something he said.

“Then I should burn all my works to avoid such criticisms. I do not paint for others. I paint for myself.”

“I would like to see your paintings.”

Faith let out an actual laugh, and Logan felt the wind go out of him.

“You, sir, will never see any of my work.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ve a houseful of masters whose talents far surpass my own,” she said, waving her arm down the length of the gallery. “And I will not be compared.”

“I would never compare you to anyone.”

Though his words were innocent enough, Faith’s smile faded. There was a heat between them, an energy that seemed to dance, not unlike the lightning that sparked outside.

“Thank you, for sharing your collection with me, Mr. Harris. But I think I should retire for the evening. It has been a trying day, and I worry that I’ve not had much rest.”

Logan was surprised at how much he didn’t like to hear that. Especially since he still hadn’t figured out how he was going to see her bare ankle, but instead, he nodded.

“Of course. Good night, Miss Sharpe.”

“Good night, Mr. Harris.”

Faith moved past him, and for a moment, Logan was sure he would reach for her, but he didn’t. He let her pass without obstruction and turned to watch her disappear into the hallway.

And now it was nighttime once more, and he was alone. Grasping his wrist with his hand behind his back, he began to walk the length of the gallery, just like he did most nights, as the storm raged on outside.