Page 27 of A Portrait of Love

She flinched at his vulgar language and reached out, not caring what became of her sketches any longer, just not wanting him to take yet another piece of her without her permission. The ripping of paper filled the air, silencing the nearby birds.

“Bloody hell,” he yelled, suddenly giving her all the attention she wanted and more. “What the devil are you doing?” He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I’ve let go. Stop it—you’re destroying it.”

She was too furious to care and savagely crushed the sketchbook, her awkward, rough actions causing pieces of ripped paper to detach from the binding and swirl away on the breeze.

Simon grasped at two pieces that flickered quickly beyond his reach.

“Stop,” he repeated, his voice almost anguished. “You’re ruining them.”

Honoria marched back to her bag, not caring if he followed. But if he dared to touch her or her possessions she would—she would … kick him.

She yanked open her satchel and rammed the crumpled sketchbook inside, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t fasten the buckles.

A big hand landed gently on her shoulder and inexorably turned her around.

“Look at me,” he ordered. He took her chin between his calloused fingers and tilted her face until she couldn’t avoid his piercing blue gaze.

She jerked her head from his distracting grasp, blinking through tears, which only made her angrier. Why did he make her so emotional?

“Why are you so angry?” he asked.

“Because it is mine and you have no right to take my possessions,” she forced the words through gritted teeth.

“You’re right, I didn’t. I’m sorry. I promise I won’t try and look again. But you didn’t need to ruin them.”

“They are mine to ruin.”

Her words surprised a laugh out of him. “Yes, that is true. But still—”

Honey twisted away from his hand, which still rested on her shoulder, and went to stand by the boulder that was nearest the cliff’s edge, her breathing ragged, her vision strangely blurry. What was wrong with her? Why had she reacted—overreacted—in such a way? She was never so wild.

A loose strand of her hair curled and eddied in the slight breeze. She sighed and adjusted her hat, her hands smoothing and tucking as if they had eyes and minds of their own. When her hair felt restrained, she jabbed in a hatpin.

Her rough handling knocked the feather loose and it fluttered toward the cliff’s edge. She lunged to grab it, but it danced and swirled out of reach.

“I’ll get it.” Simon leapt over the rock she was leaning against.

“No, no, you mustn’t, it’s—”

He paid her no mind, instead stepping out onto the small rock ledge that hung over nothing but air.

Honey’s throat constricted as he stood on the very edge, where the feather whirled round and round, its beckoning motion luring him further and further. The toes of his boots scraped as they slid over stone. His body was angled forward, his arm outstretched—

Honey froze, unable to move, speak, breathe, or scream.

For one sickening eternal moment he hung balanced on the edge, his body hanging out in thin air. And then he lunged and she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Got it!”

Her eyes flew open to see him spinning on his heel away from the precipice, a triumphant smile on his ravaged face, his blue eyes sparkling the way they had so long ago. He grinned down at her, his smile slowly draining from his face. “What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You—You—”

He nodded encouragingly. “Yes, me. Me what?”

“You almost died.”

His eyebrows shot up, one sleek and blond, one crisscrossed with red scars. “Hardly—I just leaned over to fetch a feather.”