“You’re wearing holes in my favorite rug with your pacing, Grimm. And the painter will never be able to finish this portrait if you won’t sit down,” Adrienne teased, jarring him from his melancholy reverie.
Grimm expelled a breath and ran a hand through his thick hair. Absentmindedly he fiddled with a section at his temple, twisting the strands into a plait as he continued to contemplate the sea.
“You aren’t looking for a wishing star out there, are you, Grimm?” Hawk Douglas’s black eyes danced with mirth.
“Hardly. And anytime your mischievous wife would care to tell me what curse she laid upon me with her careless wishing, I’d be happy to hear it.” Some time ago, Adrienne Douglas had wished upon a falling star, and she steadfastly refused to tell either of them what she’d wished until she was absolutely certain it had been heard and granted. The only thing she would admit was that her wish had been made on Grimm’s behalf, which unnerved him considerably. Although he didn’t consider himself a superstitious man, he’d seen enough odd occurrences in the world to know that merely because something seemed improbable certainly didn’t render it impossible.
“As would I, Grimm,” Hawk said dryly. “But she won’t tell me either.”
Adrienne laughed. “Go on with the two of you. Don’t tell me two such fearless warriors suffer a moment’s concern over a woman’s idle wish upon a star.”
“I consider nothing you do idle, Adrienne,” Hawk replied with a wry grin. “The universe does not behave in a normal fashion where you’re concerned.”
Grimm smiled faintly. It certainly didn’t. Adrienne had been tossed back in time from the twentieth century, the victim of a wicked plot to destroy the Hawk, concocted by a vindictive Fairy. Impossible things happened around Adrienne, which was why he wanted to know what bloody wish she’d made. He’d like to be prepared when all hell broke loose.
“Do sit down, Grimm,” Adrienne urged. “I want this portrait finished by Christmas at the latest, and it takes Albert months to paint from his sketches.”
“Only because my work is sheer perfection,” the painter said, miffed.
Grimm turned his back on the night and reclaimed his seat by Hawk in front of the fire. “I still doona get the point of this,” Grimm muttered. “Portraits are for lasses and children.”
Adrienne snorted. “I commission a painter to immortalize two of the most magnificent men I’ve ever laid eyes upon”—she flashed them a dazzling smile, and Grimm rolled his eyes, knowing he would do whatever the lovely Adrienne wished when she smiled like that—“and all they can do is grumble. I’ll have you know, one day you’ll thank me for doing this.”
Grimm and Hawk exchanged amused glances, then resumed the pose she insisted displayed their muscular physiques and dark good looks to their finest advantage.
“Be certain you color Grimm’s eyes as brilliantly blue as they are,” she instructed Albert.
“As if I don’t know how to paint,” he muttered. “I am the artist here. Unless, of course, you’d like to try your hand at it.”
“I thought you liked my eyes.” Hawk narrowed his black eyes at Adrienne.
“I do. I married you, didn’t I?” Adrienne teased, smiling. “Can I help it if the staff at Dalkeith, to the youngest maid of a tender twelve years, swoons over your best friend’s eyes? When I hold my sapphires up to the sunlight, they look exactly the same. They shimmer with iridescent blue fire.”
“What are mine? Puny black walnuts?”
Adrienne laughed. “Silly man, that’s how I described your heart when I first met you. And stop fidgeting, Grimm,” she chided. “Or is there some reason you want those braids at your temples in this portrait?”
Grimm froze, then slowly touched his hair in disbelief.
Hawk stared at him. “What’s on your mind, Grimm?” he asked, fascinated.
Grimm swallowed. He hadn’t even realized he’d plaited the war braids into his hair. A man wore war braids only during the blackest hours of his life—when he was mourning his lost mate or preparing for battle. So far, he’d worn them twice. What had he been thinking? Grimm stared blankly at the floor, confused, unable to vocalize his thoughts. Lately he’d been obsessed with ghosts of the past, memories he’d tossed savagely into a shallow grave years ago and buried beneath a thin sod of denials. But in his dreams the shadow corpses walked again, trailing behind them a residue of unease that clung to him throughout the day.