River Of Fire by Mary Jo Putney Page B

combat he has seen. Everything I wanted to say about that sergeant is in Kenneth's face. But you can have him first, if he's willing."
    Rebecca asked, "Are you willing, Captain?"
    Kenneth shifted uncomfortably under the twin scrutiny of fattier and daughter. These damned artists saw too much. However, he'd wanted more time with Rebecca and this opportunity was too good to pass up. "Your wish is my command, Miss Seaton."
    "Then come along to my workroom."
    "Give me a few minutes." He indicated the disordered studio. "First I must detail a maid to clean up before the spilled paint ruins the carpet and furniture."
    "Make sure whoever you send works quietly," Sir Anthony ordered. He got a tablet and pencil, then sat and began to sketch with swift, sure strokes.
    Kenneth opened the door for Rebecca. As she passed, he noticed that her knot of hair was starting to come unmoored from its pins. The silky auburn strands didn't take kindly to discipline. The tousled result made her look as if she had just emerged from a bed.
    For the hundredth time since entering Seaton House, he reminded himself to concentrate on business. He checked on the servants to see what had transpired while he was out and sent Betsy, the most careful maid, to Sir Anthony's studio. Then he went up to Rebecca's sanctum sanctorum.
    He knocked and entered when she called permission, looking around with interest. Where Sir Anthony's studio had the elegance of a drawing room, Rebecca's lair had whitewashed walls, slanted ceilings, and the casual comfort of a farmhouse kitchen. The windows that faced the street were the usual size, but large, open windows across the back wall of the house admitted a soft, even north light. An artist's light.
    And everywhere, there were paintings. Some were hung, others were unframed canvases tilted against the walls. The lavishness of image and color stunned him.
    Rebecca was curled up in a large chair, a sketchbook in her lap and a pencil in her hand. She waved at the sofa opposite. "Make yourself comfortable, Captain. Today I'll just do a few studies. I need to decide how best to portray you."
    "If we're going to be in each other's pockets every day, you really should call me Kenneth," he said as he took his seat.
    She gave him a swift smile. "Then you must call me Rebecca." The hazel of her eyes was flecked with green, giving her penetrating gaze a feline quality.
    "I've never modeled before. What should I do?"
    "For now, just relax and try not to move your head."
    As her deft fingers sketched, his gaze went to the paintings within his field of vision. Her style had some of her father's classical precision, but with a softer, more emotional quality. Many pictures portrayed women as famous figures from history and legend. Without moving his head, he could see half a dozen paintings that equaled the splendid Boadicea hanging downstairs. "Have you ever exhibited at the
Royal
Academy
?"
    "Never," she said without looking up.
    "You really should submit your work." His gaze went to a powerful Judith and Holofernes. "Show them what a woman can do."
    "I feel no need to prove that," she said coolly.
    Silence reigned for a time, broken only by the faint scratch of her pencil. After admiring the paintings within view, Kenneth's attention went to Rebecca. Her wrists were delicate, almost fragile, yet there was strength in her long, supple fingers. She was twisted sideways in her chair, which hitched her muslin gown several inches above her ankles. They were as slender and shapely as her wrists.
    Though Rebecca lacked Maria's voluptuousness, she was every bit as sensually alluring. Whenever she bent her head over her sketchbook, he got a tantalizing glimpse of her nape. The pale skin seemed almost translucent next to her richly colored tresses. He wondered what she would do if he kissed her there. Probably tell him to sit down so she could finish her sketches.
    The room seemed warmer than could be accounted for by the small coal fire. Shifting