Page 69 of The Dragon Laird’s Obsession

“Why do ye keep them locked in there and not displayed?”

Gordon’s gaze lowered to the carving, and when she saw his jaw tighten, her stomach sank a little because she believed he would not answer her questions.

Ailis waited a moment before she sighed. “I shouldnae have opened it,” she admitted softly. “I ken they were private.”

He was silent for so long that Ailis feared she had overstepped.

Then he set the knife upon the table beside him. “I had forgotten they were there.”

“They’re bonnie.”

He gave a faint shake of his head. “Nay.”

“They are,” she insisted. “I paint a lot, so I am a good judge of artwork. The lines are delicate yet real; the brushstrokes tell a story… It is clear that whoever that woman is meant a lot to the painter, simply from how ye were able to bring her face to life… Even the tiniest details, like that trinket, show it. Ye cared deeply for that woman.”

His jaw tightened some more, and Ailis wondered if that ever hurt him. His voice was gruff as he finally spoke. “They’re unfinished.”

“So are most worthwhile things.”

That earned her a glance. He studied her for a long moment before looking back toward the fire. “I painted them years ago. I was a lad.” His voice grew quieter. “There was little else to do in winter.”

Ailis folded her hands in her lap. “And the woman?”

Gordon swallowed. “Me mother.”

The answer settled heavily between them.

“I remember very little of her.”

His eyes remained fixed upon the flames. “The color of her hair.” He hesitated. “The way she smiled.” He paused again then said, “And her voice…” His brow furrowed slightly. “That part has nearly gone.”

Ailis’ heart squeezed painfully.

“I feared if I didnae paint what I remembered…” He let out a slow breath. “… I might lose her altogether.”

She looked toward the chest. “So that is all that remains of her in yer memory?”

“Aye. What little I could still recall.” His fingers tightened around the piece of wood. “Me uncle found me paintin’ once. He said it was a waste of time.”

Ailis frowned as he continued, and she heard the ache in every word.

“He broke the brush, and I never painted again.”

Ailis looked down at her own hands, charcoal still gathered beneath one fingernail. She could not imagine what she would do if anyone stopped her from painting or imagining.

“Me mother taught me to paint young and then me sister.” Gordon looked at her. “She said every paintin’ keeps a moment alive.” A soft smile found Ailis’ lips. “I was forever chasin’ butterflies instead of learnin’ proper embroidery.”

His mouth twitched. “I can believe that.”

She laughed quietly. “I painted trees, clouds… sheep, and even me sister. I wanted to remember her laugh.”

Ailis lifted one shoulder now as she exhaled. “I suppose we paint for the same reason.” Her eyes met his. “So that we may never forget these memories.”

“So…” she finally murmured then glanced up and caught him watching her.

Ailis felt heat burn his cheeks and nearly steal whatever coherent words she could have made.

“Perhaps paintin’ wasnae such a waste of time,” she said to him. “If it helped ye keep yer mother’s memories alive for a while, it was worth it. Yer uncle was a fool to think otherwise and a monster to try makin’ ye think that way.”