Page 46 of Cruel Dynasty

Another gust sent my hair flying again, breaking the spell. I pulled away, turning my attention back to the moors. I stared at their bleak beauty and understood why the authors had felt so inspired. “I wish I could paint these.”

“Settle for drawing?” he asked, removing a sketchbook from his pocket.

“You carry a sketchbook?” I asked in surprise.

“I still draw,” he said nonchalantly.

“Do you write?”

His expression darkened. A moment passed and he shook his head. “Not for a long time.”

The sadness in his voice made my heart ache. I didn’t dare ask him why he’d given it up. It was evident that something had forced his hand. But I couldn’t stand to see him so melancholy.

“I’ll make you a deal,” I said.

“You will? I thought we were playing by my rules today.”

“Hear me out. I’ll sketch.” I paused and took out my mobile. Swiping its screen I found the app I was looking for. “But you have to write something.”

“On your phone?”

“Write something for me, and I’ll draw something for you in your book,” I said.

His eyes narrowed but finally he tilted his head in agreement. “You are very persuasive.”

“And I don’t even need blackmail to convince you,” I said sweetly.

He grabbed my phone and handed me the sketchbook, barely hiding a wry smile. “One hour. Meet back here.”

The moors drew me away from the building, and I found myself walking toward the desolate landscape that seemed to stretch on forever. Finally I stopped and sank onto the earth. For a moment, I stared out wondering what there was to sketch. If I could paint, I would try to capture the colors: the muted grey-blue sky, the silver clouds that hung so low I felt sure I could touch them if I walked farther, and the thick, wild grass that had taken on its funeral shroud early, dying slowly as winter neared. But all I had was the sketchbook and a bit of charcoal tucked inside it.

I touched it to the paper and my hands began to move, almost as if I’d been possessed. I didn’t stop. I went through page after page, trying to capture the tiniest details around me, until a shadow fell over me. I looked up, blinking, to find Holden watching over my shoulder.

“That’s brilliant,” he murmured.

I looked at my watch and gasped. “I’m so sorry!”

Nearly two hours had passed since we’d parted near the parsonage.

“Don’t be. I’ve been watching you for an hour,” he admitted.

“Why didn’t you interrupt?” I started up and Holden bent to help me. When I was on my feet, I brushed off bits of earth from my jeans.

“I couldn't bring myself to stop you. You looked so...happy.”

I smiled, looking to the spot of flattened grass from where I’d been sitting. “I was.”

“You should draw more.” he took the sketchbook and flipped through the pages. I found myself looking over his shoulder. I’d barely been aware of what I was doing in the moment. I was surprised at what I saw now.

I’d drawn the moors and the clouds, focusing each sketch on some minute detail: a tree in the distance, a rocky crag jutting from the earth, a patch of lingering heather that refused to yield its summer beauty. The rest of each picture consisted of harsh, bold lines drawn with a confidence I couldn’t quite explain.

“I see why you love coming here,” I told him. “It’s inspiring.”

Holden’s throat slid as he studied me for a moment. His eyes undressed me, took me apart, devoured me. Finally, he tore his gaze away. “We should go. You must be hungry.”

He turned and strode away, leaving me to feel naked and vulnerable in the piercing winds of Yorkshire.

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