River Of Fire by Mary Jo Putney Read Free Book Online

if her response was straightforward grief, or if she had secret doubts about the circumstances of the death. If her father had really murdered her mother, it would be a horror almost beyond imagining.
    He took a last glance at the portrait. Seeing it made him recognize the latent sensuality in Rebecca Seaton. Unlike her mother, she rigidly suppressed that aspect of her nature. He wondered what she would look like with her glossy auburn hair cascading lushly around her piquant face and slim body…
    Damnation! He yanked the door dosed behind him. He could not afford an attraction to the prickly daughter of the man he had come to destroy. Luckily, she wasn't the flirtatious sort. Quite the contrary. Nonetheless, there was something very appealing about her.
    On the way to the back stairs that led to the kitchen and servants' hall, they passed through the main dining room. Rebecca said with delicate sarcasm, "Since secretaries are gentlemen, naturally you will share meals with my father and myself."
    It was blazingly dear that the lady thought Kenneth fit only for mucking out stables. What had Lord Bow-den said about her elopement? The fellow had been a self-proclaimed poet. Presumably that meant Miss Seaton preferred men who were weedy and wordy—if indeed the experience hadn't put her off men entirely, which seemed quite possible from her behavior.
    The painting above the sideboard interrupted his musings and brought him to an abrupt halt. Catching Rebecca's impatient glance, he said apologetically, "I'm sorry. It's hard not to become diverted. I feel as I did the first time I went to the Louvre. How can anyone eat when there is this to look at?"
    Apparently the idea that he might appreciate art surprised her, but her tone was milder when she said, "You're right—for the first week after the picture was hung, I didn't notice a single bite I ate. It's called
Charge of the Union Brigade
and it's part of a four-painting Waterloo series Father has been working on for the last year and a half. He hopes to exhibit all four pictures at the Royal Academy this year."
    The enormous canvas depicted half a dozen cavalry horses and riders racing directly toward the viewer. The lethal hooves and glittering sabers seemed ready to explode from the canvas. Kenneth suppressed a shiver. "Magnificent. Though it's not quite realistic, it certainly brings back memories of having the French cavalry thundering down on me."
    She frowned. "What do you mean, not realistic? Father arranged for troopers of the Household Cavalry to charge right at him again and again so he could get accurate sketches. A miracle he wasn't crushed beneath their hooves."
    "He's jammed the horses together until they're virtually touching. It would be impossible in battle," Kenneth explained. "But the painting would have less power if the horses were spread out more naturally. This captures the essence of what it's like to be attacked by cavalry."
    "Father always says that in painting, the illusion of reality is more important than technical accuracy." She cocked her head thoughtfully, then gestured for him to follow her into the adjoining breakfast parlor. "Here's a different kind of battle picture. Boadicea, the warrior queen, just before her final battle with the Romans. What do you think?"
    Kenneth studied the painting, which depicted a barbaric, auburn-haired woman with a spear in one hand and a raised sword in the other. Her back was arched and the wind whipped her white draperies and wolfskin cloak about her as she commanded her troops to follow her to death. She reminded him of a fierce, uncompromising Rebecca. It must be the red hair. "Though she's not a convincing warrior, as a symbol of courage and the passion for freedom she's splendid."
    "Why isn't she convincing?"
    "Too slender—it takes muscle to wield such weapons. And too unscarred. Anyone who had been fighting the Romans regularly would probably have acquired some marks of battle."
    Rebecca's gaze went from