The Secret Wallflower Society - Jillian Eaton Page 0,84

open, showing a pistol resting comfortably on his hip.

“Oh,” she said softly as her heart pitched into her throat.

Following the direction of her gaze, the stranger’s grin softened into a crooked smile that was strangely reassuring. “Not to worry, love. I did not come here to hurt you.”

Her eyes flew to his face. “Just to kidnap me.”

“True,” he admitted. “But you’ll come to no harm in my care.”

For some reason, she actually believed him.

It was the fumes from the paint, she decided. They’d gone to her head. What other reason could there possibly be for trusting this man at his word?

“What is your name?” she demanded, mustering all of the courage she possessed. “Who sent you?”

“There are those claws again,” he murmured, and Percy flushed when he reached for her hand and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. “What are these little blotches on your skin? Blue, purple, and green. Like the colors of a rainbow.”

“Watercolor.” She snatched her hand away. “I prefer not to wear gloves when I paint.”

Arms behind his back, the stranger wandered over to the easel. He studied her work, his expression inscrutable, and she’d just begun to edge her way to the wooden gate in the corner of the garden when he said, “You’ve got a rare talent, love.”

Percy stilled. It shouldn’t have mattered what this ne’er-do-well thought. He’d come here to kidnap her, for goodness’ sake. But when a flower was denied sun for too long, it instinctively turned towards the nearest sense of warmth.

How many times had she secretly yearned to hear Andrew compliment her paintings? Instead he’d disparaged them at every turn, snidely calling her artwork “childish” and “embarrassing”.

“Can you not do that somewhere else?” he’d said once, when he’d entered to see she’d set up her easel in the middle of the parlor in order to paint the thunderclouds rolling in over the fields. “I wouldn’t want a guest to stumble in here and see how pitifully untalented my wife is.”

She’d put her brushes away after that. There was no joy to be found in mockery. No encouragement to be discovered in cruel taunts and cynical remarks. It wasn’t until Helena caught her absently drawing one afternoon on a scrap of paper, and then surprised her with a paintbox complete with porcelain mixing pans, fine wooden brushes tipped with marten hair, and blocks of chalk, that she took up her beloved hobby again.

Now she painted nearly every day, having discovered what she should have known all along: her art was for herself, no one else. She’d never needed Andrew’s approval. She had wanted it. And those were two very, very different things.

Still, it meant something, to receive a genuine compliment.

Even if it came from a criminal. A criminal who had shown her more kindness in five minutes than her husband had in five years.

“Do you–do you really think so?” she asked tentatively.

He looked at her over his shoulder, his amber eyes piercing in their intensity. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

Percy trembled. Who was this man? This man who dressed like a blackguard and had the arrogance of a duke. Where had he come from? What did he want? And why did she find him so attractive?

“Has my husband sent you?” She swallowed hard. “I–I know he has been trying to find me.”

“I’m afraid I cannot tell you that, love. Client confidentiality, and such. You understand.” The edge of his mouth quirked up in another grin that would have been charming if she could have forgotten about the gun underneath his coat.

Heat flamed across Percy’s countenance as self-disgust propelled her to take one step back, then another. She’d known her judgement in men was poor after Andrew had managed to fool her into falling in love with him, but she’d never known it was this bad.

Attractive? Charming?!

This man wasn’t charming or attractive, he was dangerous!

And she needed to free herself from this situation immediately.

“The only thing I understand is that you’ve come here with ill-intentions.” Forcing her hands to her hips, she lifted her chin and adopted the most imperious, duchess-y voice she could muster. “You need to leave. At once.”

But he didn’t leave.

He came closer, prowling towards her with the stealthy grace of a large, deadly predator as she stumbled away from him until she brushed up against the white picket fence that separated Helena’s property from the neighbor’s. Her gaze darted wildly from side to side, but there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. She’d been brought